#help i have an addiction to fanfiction
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Man. Everytime I open up Tumblr, I can hear my web-browser on my phone sobbing. After all, I will always doom-scroll until I come out with at least 1 SVSSS fanfiction to add to the endless amount of tabs.
Wanna guess how many tabs are open for A03 right now? That's right, 88. 34 of those are ongoing fics, which is greatly reduced since I ended up bookmarking many of them to come back to later.
What is the importance of this post? None.
Anyway. I'm weak for Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan fics fight now. Siblings? Related? Body split and now have to share space? Strangers who share a face? Shizun and Disciple? Father/Son? I'll eat all of it. Give me a confused Binghe. Confused Qingyuan? Yes, please. SY having to reveal his identity? I'm here for, especially if it causes panic.
SJ becoming furiously possessive of SY whether it's in a "You're stupid and now you're my problem" way or "Too bad, you can't leave now" way- is absolutely divine.
Put SJ in the same space as Tianlang-Jun. I wanna see what happens.
Anyway, thank you for coming to my useless little tedtalk. I appreciate you. 💖💕
#svsss#fanfiction#Heh Idonthaveaproblem#help i have an addiction to fanfiction#help i have no idea what i'm doing#SYCausingIssues#LBGSobbingSomewhere#SJDebatingHisLife#shen jiu#shen twins#original shen qingqiu#shen qingqiu#shen yuan#mxtx svsss#svsss au#useless text post#PleaseIgnoreMe
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do any of you read a fanfiction that completely alters your brain chemistry? because i do. on a daily basis.
#i have a raging fanfiction addiction help#drarry#draco malfoy#harry x draco#jegulus#ao3 fanfic#draco lucius malfoy#harry potter#wattpad#ao3feed#read on ao3#ao3 stuff#ao3 tags#ao3fic#fanfic#fanfiction#jegulus fanfiction#drarry fanfic
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i really wanna write fyodor sooo...you just get to choose who he has a convoluted toxic mess of a relationship with
like i said, i'm gonna keep doing oneshots while i work on my chaptered monstrosity so i'm gonna do polls for the ideas i have and then to loser goes into the next round and the winner gets posted and so on and so on
#i am honestly addicted to making polls now#it's so fun#and i get really overwhelmed with all the ideas i have and then i don't write anything#so having people choose actually helps#bungou stray dogs#bsd#ao3#dazai osamu#fyodor dostoevsky#nikolai gogol#fyolai#fyozai#fanfiction#polls
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Someone help me I don't know what to do with myself I made The Last of Us my newest ADHD fueled obsession completely accidently and now that it's over I need something to fill this yawning hole in me I'm like in physical pain what do I doOOOOOOOOOOOOO
#the last of us#the last of us hbo#tlou hbo#help#tlou#tlou joel#tlou ellie#like literally i am obsessed with their relationship#ive always had a thing for parent child relationships#like majority of my fandom and fanfiction addiction revolves around this trope#and like tlou came and like#its utter perfection#its like something out of the most satisfying fics ive read to date#i have FEELINGS about this show#like omg#girl help#im drowing in my feels and i feel overstimulated af rn#cause ik how this ends for Joel#someone either give me like a new fandom to moon over#or some amazing fic recs#or like#money for therapy#sob
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*Sigh*
The characters I write sigh so fucking much, man, I swear to God. They are just fucking constantly expelling carbon dioxide from their bodies. Bitches be addicted to breathing.
#it's a problem#i can't write fucking anything without a character sighing#like#i guarantee if i go through every piece of writing i have access to that i've made - each and every last one will have a sigh in it#no matter the length#motherfuckers got lungs the size of bagpipes i swear#fanfics#fanfiction#writing#characters#sighing#i have an addiction#i need help#sigh#text post
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𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 | 𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer struggles with a relapse in addiction after emily's death when he meets you, a person who wants to help everyone around.
𝐭𝐰: there's going to be a lot… all topics related to mental health issues, mentioning the death of a loved one, suicide, relapse into addiction, violence. stay safe guys 𝐚/𝐧: please, read before reading. this is the full, ridiculously long version of "with the light off" that I posted yesterday. i’ve never seen a fanfiction this long on tumblr, and i won’t lie, i'm fking insane.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 25k
Spencer Reid was a genius.
Everyone knew it; he knew it himself, though he didn’t always see himself that way. It’s not difficult to explain what a genius is. One defining trait was that his brain worked at an incredibly fast pace. Metaphorically speaking, of course. In any case, he had no trouble connecting facts and forming assumptions that later proved accurate. With the amount of knowledge he had about various situations and people, it wasn’t hard to predict the course of certain similar events. It was simply a matter of connecting the proverbial dots—that’s what the vast majority of his work entailed. The rest involved risking his own life, something he had recently experienced in a painful way.
Spencer knew hundreds of stories about people struggling with addiction. He had read just about every available resource on the subject, trying to help himself. He understood the topic from firsthand experience and was aware that relapses were entirely normal in the face of difficult life situations. Yet, once he had overcome his addiction, he never imagined— even in his darkest visions—that he would ever reach for Dilaudid again.
But that’s exactly what he did. Well, technically speaking, not yet. But it was only a matter of time—minutes, to be exact.
He was walking through the city with the drug in his coat pocket, as if it were an ordinary item, like a wallet or car keys. At the same time, he felt as though everyone was staring at him. A shiver ran through his body every time he accidentally made eye contact with someone. She knows what I’m about to do. He knows too. They all do.
He was acting like a complete paranoiac.
He had a substantial dose of Dilaudid on him and knew he’d take it the moment he was alone in his apartment. Yet, he hadn’t used it—he was still technically clean. Could he call it Schrödinger’s relapse?
He started to laugh, a bit hysterically, as he fumbled to open the door. Suddenly, the key seemed too large, or maybe the keyhole had somehow shrunk? Or perhaps his hands were simply shaking so much that he couldn’t line it up? The second option seemed far more likely, though admitting it was difficult for someone as devoted to logic as he was.
Spencer pressed his forehead against the door, taking a deep breath. He was ready to break down the damn thing…
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” came a voice behind him.
He turned around. One of his neighbors had poked her head out from the apartment across the hall—a sweet-faced elderly woman with an even kinder demeanor. Talkative and prone to asking questions. Knowing her love of sensation (she really did seem to have more energy and bravery than he, an FBI agent, did), it wasn’t all that surprising she’d stepped outside the moment she heard strange noises from the hallway.
Her question, the very presence of another person, somehow brought him back to reality.
"Just fine, Mrs. Schulz," he said, forcing a calm tone.
Standing with his back to her, he closed his eyes and took a deep, slower breath. His neighbor lingered for a moment in her doorway, and even without looking, he could imagine the suspicious look on her face. But finally, he heard the sound of her door closing—she’d let it go.
He slapped himself on the cheek, trying to snap out of it. He hadn’t been drinking—he was just coming back from a funeral—but he felt dazed, as if he were drunk. Slowly, he raised his hands again, and this time he slid the key into the lock without issue.
He didn’t even turn on the light or take off his coat; he went straight to the bedroom and tossed what could only be called a junkie’s kit onto the bed. In a plastic bag were a clean syringe and the main event.
Dilaudid.
He hadn’t wanted anything this badly in a shockingly long time. He’d promised he’d never touch it again. He’d made that promise to JJ and Gideon, but most importantly, to himself. Only when he pictured their faces and heard their voices in his mind did doubts start to creep in. He couldn’t get addicted again.
But on the other hand, did using it just this once, after all this time, really mean falling back into addiction? He knew people who had quit smoking years ago but occasionally had a cigarette—just to see if it still tasted the same. They’d end up thinking, Wow, was I really addicted to this? It’s disgusting!
It should be the same for him. He’d do it once, just this one time.
He recognized that particular thought. It was the voice of addiction.
He ran a hand over his face. He’d once gone to a support group for people struggling with addiction, sitting in the back, practically hiding, but he listened intently. That was what they talked about—how to separate his own thoughts from those of addiction. It all came down to the fact that addiction had no real power over him; it couldn’t physically force him to take the drug, only tempt and seduce him.
And he had to fight it.
He ran his hands through his hair, and then, on impulse, grabbed the bag on the bed and shoved it into the small safe in his nightstand. He kept his gun and badge there, along with his most valuable belongings. And now, also, the thing that could destroy him.
Breathing heavily, he backed out into the hallway. He couldn’t stay in the apartment. If he did, he’d give in. The problem was, he didn’t really have anywhere to go. He didn’t want to show up at JJ’s or any other team member’s door; he didn’t want to admit his moment of weakness. Besides, that day had been Emily’s funeral—everyone was too absorbed in their own grief to have to worry about him too.
The only place that came to mind was the library.
In his teenage years, it had been his only, truest friend. He’d spend hours there, loving the feeling of being surrounded by walls of books. He loved running his fingers over hardcovers, as if reading a message written in Braille. And above all, he loved to read. Was there any better escape from reality?
The next hours were spent immersed in the works of his favorite authors, pinching the back of his hand every time his thoughts wandered toward Dilaudid. A red mark appeared on his skin, and after another attempt, he began to bleed, though he didn’t even notice until he accidentally stained the page while turning it. He hurriedly set the book aside, feeling guilty for damaging it.
To make matters worse, someone appeared by his side.
"Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, you were so engrossed in your reading, but I need to close now. It’s midnight," the librarian informed him, looking every bit like the most stereotypical library worker.
Spencer looked at him pleadingly, not even knowing what he was hoping for. That the librarian would let him stay until morning? In silence, he put on his coat and headed for the library’s exit. It wasn’t a standalone building. Upon stepping out, he found himself in what looked like a hallway, with stairs leading, as far as he knew, to the laundry room, and wide-open doors to another room.
He was about to head for the actual exit when something caught his attention. A sign, like the ones warning about slippery floors. However, instead of a typical message, it had an inscription written in a handwriting resembling that of a child, with a flower replacing the dot on the letter "i."
If you feel like you can’t handle it, come in. We’ll talk, or not, if you don’t want to. But know that you’re not alone :)
He stared at the message motionless. It sounded a bit like some social campaign he would have ignored in 80% of cases. Yet, something about the simplicity of the message kept his gaze fixed.
Let’s be honest, Spencer was fucking terrified of going back to his apartment. And probably because of that, he decided to walk through those doors.
"As if I didn't have enough cleaning to do every fucking day," you muttered under your breath, moving yet another chair so you could mop the floor with the poorly wrung-out mop. A puddle formed on the old brown panels. ” I’ll be a twenty-five-year-old with the spine of a life-worn retiree. Amazing”
Even though you had been complaining for over twenty minutes, deep down you were pleased with how things had turned out. You could use this room from midnight until six in the morning and even got your own set of keys. For free. Well, not entirely. In exchange, you had to clean at the end of each day. It hosted meetings for Alcoholics Anonymous and other support groups. And anonymous chip-aholics, you thought, noticing crushed crumbs under one of the chairs.
Your earnings as a bartender and occasional office cleaner didn’t allow you to rent any space for your... let’s call it a project. However, you believed you’d rather strain your back a little and perhaps save someone’s life than spend these already sleepless nights watching shows or partying.
You couldn’t quite remember how you came up with the idea. It probably happened while reading some sprawling discussion thread on a random forum online. Reading how people argue over the best cheesecake recipe on some website was one of your favorite late-night activities (don’t be fooled by the trivial topic—the discussion included a serious threat of arson and ended at a police station). Anyway, one night, while you were browsing a forum for parents of teenagers out of boredom, you came across advice from a woman who claimed that her communication problems with her daughter ended when she started talking to her late at night, rather than in the afternoon when she got home from school.
The thought wouldn’t leave you alone. You looked into it and found that, while most support groups met in the evening, it was usually early evening. Well, that made sense—few people could dedicate their whole night to it. But you could. You’d been struggling with insomnia since college, ever since your mother passed away. After finishing your evening bar shift at eleven, you’d rush to this place, put up your homemade sign on the door, and wait. You’d catch up on sleep in the mornings. And then, repeat.
Was it exhausting? A little. Had your social life nearly vanished, with the only people you saw being your equally nocturnal roommate and the neighbor’s kid you took to daycare in the morning for a few extra dollars? Absolutely. Did it bring you satisfaction? Only one person had shown up since you started, but yes, it brought you immense satisfaction.
It might sound a bit overdramatic, but helping others was your calling.
You continued cleaning, muttering a few more curses under your breath. One earbud dangled from your ear; listening to music went against your personal code. You knew that if some desperate person rushed in after reading the sign on the door, the sight of you—the person offering them a conversation—with earbuds in might be a bit discouraging. They might think better of bothering you and back out, and you wouldn’t even notice, absorbed in the music. But you couldn’t help it—you hated silence.
So, you bent your own rules, using only one earbud.
You swung the mop in a wide arc, in perfect sync with the rhythm of the song, and couldn’t resist doing a spin. Cleaning and dancing—was there a better combination?
When you turned around, you only then noticed that someone had been watching you the entire time. Which meant they’d heard every curse word that had come out of your mouth over the past twenty minutes. And there had been... a lot. You pulled the earbud from your ear, like a teenager caught watching something they shouldn’t.
Congratulations, you idiot. Whatever’s bothering him, he’ll definitely want to talk about it with someone like you...
“Hi!" you said, in the friendliest tone you could manage. You had to somehow get rid of all those curse words from your mouth. The man didn’t respond, but you noticed his chest move, as if he was taking a deep breath. Unfortunately for him, every time the other person stayed silent, you started babbling nonsense. "Sit down if you want, and don’t worry about the wet floor. I mean, maybe worry, if you care about your teeth. I slipped here yesterday too, but luckily on my back…I can’t afford a dentist visit, do you know how much they charge now?"
"I’ve read... I’ve read the note on the door," the man said shyly, pointing his thumb behind him. Only then did you take a closer look at him. A black coat with a piece of a black shirt peeking out, matching trousers, and elegant shoes...You straightened up, still holding the mop, realizing he must be coming back from a funeral. "Can I really stay here for a moment? If so, for how long?"
The desperation in his voice tightened your chest.
"Yes, of course," you said gently, much less chaotic than before. "You can stay as long as you need."
You held back the playful remark, At least until six in the morning, because after that I’m not welcome here anymore. Humor could ease tension in tough situations, but it wasn’t always appropriate, as you had learned many times. This man didn’t look like he’d be helped by your silly jokes…
He looked, above all, lost. He must have felt that way, since his feet had led him to this place. Despite your earlier words, he didn’t move, seeming unsure of how to act.
"I…I don't have to talk to you, right? That’s what the note says…"
His stuttering didn’t seem like the result of shyness. You got the impression that his lips were refusing to cooperate, too tired to express what his still sharp mind wanted to convey.
"If you don’t want to, I’m not going to force you. But sometimes, you know, it’s better to say what’s on your mind."
It seemed like he only heard the first sentence. Completely ignoring the second, he took a seat in one of the chairs in the last row. They were arranged like pews in a church, one behind the other. Surprising, considering it was a space for support group meetings. Usually, in such places, the chairs were set up in a circle—you knew that from experience.
For a moment, you kept staring at him, fighting the urge to speak again. His appearance moved you deeply—actually, the suffering of every living person touched you. And he was definitely suffering, moving stiffly as if in constant pain, with a vacant expression on his face. But since he had decided he needed silence, you couldn’t impose yourself on him. It could have the opposite effect, driving him away rather than encouraging him to open up.
You had no choice but to return to cleaning.
Moving around the room, you tried to take steps as light as a ghost. You tucked the earbuds into your pocket. You gathered all the lost trash and items, finishing mopping the floor. From time to time, your gaze would instinctively drift toward the man. Staring wasn’t in good taste, but you couldn’t help it. He looked... intriguing?
He was definitely young, around your age or maybe a little older, but still very, very young. His skin was unnaturally pale, contrasting sharply with his black clothes. Brown hair, short but longer than most of your male friends', a bit unruly. His eyes... so much was happening in them. While the rest of him seemed cold and unmoving, those eyes were a window to all the pain inside him.
You looked into his eyes just once and knew he wouldn’t say anything more to you. You’d spend a few hours in silence— you would finish your work and take a seat in the first row, far enough so you couldn’t hear each other’s breathing, but in a position where he could see your back, remember your presence, in case he decided to speak. But that won’t happen, you thought, and you were right.
At five in the morning, the mysterious, troubled man left the room.
You stared at the door, overwhelmed by your own thoughts. Maybe you had made a mistake by respecting his request? Maybe you should have sat right next to him, taken his hands, and begged him to tell you everything? You had no idea if those few hours of silence had soothed him, or if it had been the opposite. You were afraid he might have dangerous plans for himself, but that realization came too late. You couldn’t run out after him into the street; you wouldn’t find him in the cold, December night.
All you could do was sigh, certain that you’d never see him again.
Seeing him in the doorway the next night, you thought you had fallen asleep and that it was just a dream.
But you never slept at this time.
Spencer couldn’t reasonably explain why he went back there the following night.
Or why he was heading there for the third time.
He also didn’t know why he was so surprised that Hotch had given them a few days off. After all, he had long since learned that behind his cold exterior lay a genuinely caring and understanding nature.
Maybe he was simply hoping for the quickest possible return to work, something that would occupy his mind. He’d even be willing to stay late at the office, analyzing some old, unsolved cases, and only head home in the late hours, when he’d be longing to collapse into bed.
He’d be so exhausted that he wouldn’t even think about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe. He still hadn’t gotten rid of it, for a deeply humiliating reason. He feared that if he so much as tried to open the safe, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself.In the evenings, he was gripped by an anxiety so intense that his breathing would grow shallow to the point of causing severe dizziness. He couldn’t sleep either. An irrational fear haunted him—the fear that he might simply stop breathing in his sleep. That he’d never wake up again. In a few days, maybe a week, one of his friends, let’s say Derek, would decide to check why he wasn’t showing up to work. Derek would find him still lying in bed, his skin gray and cold, his limbs stiff.
His merciless mind seemed to be conjuring these images on purpose. Imagining Morgan over his lifeless body would send him back to Emily’s funeral, making him feel that same painful tightness in his chest.
These weren’t even flashbacks. He was almost certain he was sending himself back to that moment at the cemetery deliberately, purposefully crafting these visions. He wanted to amplify his suffering, to make a possible relapse feel more justified. It felt as though he was faking his tragic state, which made him dismiss any thought of asking anyone for help. Why would he, if he didn’t deserve it?
Besides, he didn’t want to intrude on anyone else’s grief. JJ couldn’t afford to break down; she had to stay strong for her family, for little Henry. Derek had nearly lost Emily in his arms, bearing an unbearable guilt and pain—it would be cruel to burden him with more. And Hotch was still reeling from his own tragedy; Hailey had died not so long ago, and Prentiss’s death could easily reopen those old wounds. They were the ones who truly deserved these few days off. Their struggles were real; he was just an addict—a boy supposedly intelligent.
Supposedly, because if he really were, would he keep something capable of destroying him in a safe by his bed, within reach at any moment.
Because of these thoughts, he feared the night more than anything. That’s when he became weak, vulnerable to the voice of his addiction. So, spending his nights away from home felt like the only solution.
He’d already developed a sort of routine. First, he’d head to the library, usually packed with students preparing for exams. As the hours wore on, they would disappear one by one, until by closing time, he was left alone with just the one librarian in square glasses.
He’d wander out to the hallway, glancing into the next room with the same curiosity he’d felt the first time. He wondered if that girl was still there. It seemed almost unbelievable that anyone would willingly spend entire nights sitting in silence with a gloomy stranger. Didn’t she have work to get up for? Or classes. She looked like a student—the kind who’d doze off in the front row without a shred of humility, doodle strange symbols in the margins, and engage professors in conversations on topics wildly unrelated to the lecture. And, somehow, they actually responded to her.
He stepped through the door, certain he’d find her there, yet…the room was empty. A chill ran through him at the thought that maybe he’d finally lost his mind and had only imagined her. In men, the first symptoms of schizophrenia usually appeared a bit earlier, but as everyone knew, every rule had its exceptions…
Something crashed forcefully into his back.
“Damn, sorry!” said the girl, her face obscured by the enormous box she was carrying.
She leaned it against her hip so she could see who she had just bumped into. Spencer was surprised to realize that he had been waiting for what she might say. The day before, when she saw him, she had said, "Oh, Mr. Mysterious. Good to see you, I was starting to think I made you up..." That had been their only interaction that night, and he wondered if she was going to greet him with a similar line.
But she simply smiled, adjusted the box in her arms, and walked past him. Did he really feel… disappointed?
He quickly shook his head. After all, he had asked her from the very beginning if they could not talk. He spent so much time there because it was the calmest place he could imagine, not because he was looking for new friends. He didn’t need them. New friends quickly turned into real friends, then old friends, and eventually, they only left wounds.He sat in the same spot as the previous and the one before that night. During those, he barely moved, spending those hours solely on thinking—about matters both important and trivial. This time, he brought something to occupy himself, specifically a pocket edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Even though he knew the book by heart and could recite any page from memory, he still found comfort in the story. Besides, this particular edition had been a birthday gift from Emily. He opened to the first page, but then his eyes fell on the inscription she had written by hand… As he began to read it, the words of her dedication blurred with the words spoken at her funeral. His head was filled with a ringing, and he immediately closed the book and placed it back in his pocket.
So, he was left with the escape into the depths of his own mind. He knew that most people wouldn’t be able to spend so many hours just thinking, but for him, it had never been a problem. He wasn’t sure whether it was a matter of his nature or simply a matter of habit, a skill he had mastered during his lonely teenage years.
Then, he glanced briefly at the girl still there. It occurred to him for the first time, what on earth she needed that huge box for. He found her standing on tiptoe on a chair, trying to reach the corkboard hanging on the wall. Attached to it were reminders about the benefits of belonging to a support group, etc., so people who got bored during meetings could constantly remind themselves why they were actually sitting there. The girl was trying to frame the board by pinning… Christmas lights to its edges?
Given her short stature, it was quite a challenge. Sensing that her fall was only a matter of time, he stood up from his seat. He didn’t even particularly wonder why she was hanging Christmas decorations in November.
“I’ll help,” he offered.
She looked at him, first a little surprised, then almost with relief.
“I’d like to, as any altruist would, refuse your help and say that you don’t have to…but for God’s sake, please, just do it,” she said, immediately jumping off the chair and onto the floor. “I think I’ve already told you that I can’t afford a dentist, so I’d rather not take the risk.
“You mentioned it,” Reid replied, not sure what else he could add. He stopped trying to come up with any elaborate responses. Once again, he reminded himself that he hadn’t come here to make new acquaintances; he didn’t need to present himself in the best possible light. He could afford a little blissful silence and grumpiness.
She watched his actions with her arms crossed. He reached the spot where she wanted to attach the lights without much trouble.
“I know it’s not very hygienic,” she muttered, cutting a piece of tape with her teeth. “But I don’t have scissors, and as they say, you have to make do somehow.” She handed him a transparent piece, which, though almost invisible from a distance, was meant to keep the lights from falling. He accepted it without a word.
“The owner requested that I decorate this place for Christmas,” she continued. “He mentioned something about how the atmosphere positively affects most people, so it’s best to start as early as possible. But for me, it’s a bit too soon. What do you think?”
Absorbed in the task, he hadn’t heard her question. She didn’t seem bothered by it. Leaning against the wall with one arm, she clapped her hands when he finished.
“Thanks a lot, stranger. Now that I’ve used you once, maybe we should finally introduce ourselves?”
Spencer prolonged the process of getting off the chair as much as he could. For some reason, he didn’t really want to reveal his name. In a way, he liked that, entering this room, he was just a shell without characteristics, data, or past experiences.
“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she added, noticing his hesitation. “Actually, names don’t really matter. I can always just call you a stranger. You could suggest some adjectives. Think it over carefully; it’s an opportunity to be, for example, a handsome stranger…”
He couldn’t help himself and chuckled. The girl’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.
“Spencer,” he revealed, extending his hand.
She shook it, offering her own name in return. Her nails were of varying lengths, especially those on her thumbs, which didn’t even extend past the tip of her finger, as if she only bit those particular ones.
“Well, considering we’ve theoretically known each other for three days, it sounds a bit funny, but nice to meet you, Spencer. Thanks again for the help. So, let’s see if it works.”
He had planned to return immediately to his seat, but the girl spoke so quickly that he didn’t have time to pull back. Instead, he found himself standing in front of her, watching as she switched on the Christmas lights, her face showing the intensity of an inventor presenting their latest creation.
“No way,” she muttered when the lights didn’t turn on.
“Probably the batteries,” he replied.
She looked at him as if he had just said something groundbreaking.
“You know what kind we’ll need?”
“AA, the thin ones.”
“Alright, then let’s go,” she decided, moving forward with determination.
“What? Where to?”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or just referring to herself in the plural. It was... unexpected.
“To the store, across the street. I need to decorate this place if I want the owner to keep letting me do what I’m doing here. Since you’re a battery expert, you can tell me which ones to pick.”
“AA, the thinnest ones. I’m not an expert, it’s common knowledge. Haven’t you ever changed batteries on a remote?”
He hesitated a bit about leaving the room with her. However, she had already put on her jacket, a brown leather one, at least two sizes too big. Underneath, she wore a green, lace blouse with an asymmetrical cut and flared sleeves, giving it a slightly fairy-like style.
“I guess not, I don’t know. My mom was against television, and we watched it so rarely that we never had to change batteries. Or maybe she changed them herself, I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I just want company so let’s go.
If she had phrased it as a suggestion, he would probably have replied that he’d prefer to stay inside alone, if that were possible. However, she used a command, delivered so quickly that his brain didn’t even have time to process what was happening before his body moved forward.
After a moment, they crossed the street, heading toward a small, 24-hour shop on the corner. Spencer figured he might have dropped by there once before or after a visit to the library; after all, it wasn’t an entirely unfamiliar neighborhood.
Almost immediately after stepping inside, they came face-to-face with the guy behind the counter, who looked like he was counting down the hours until closing, the way prisoners count down the years left on their sentences.
“What do we need, expert?” the girl muttered to him, as if they were about to buy a part for constructing a rocket launcher, not just a couple of ordinary batteries.
Spencer asked for batteries and, after a moment’s thought, a coffee, too—the kind served in those ridiculously inconvenient cups without any sleeves, making it easy to spill and burning hot to hold. The girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, so he added, asking for one for her as well.
As they waited for their order, an incredibly awkward silence settled over them. It was odd, considering they’d spent the last two nights practically without exchanging a word. She stood with her elbow casually resting on the counter, while he kept his hands in the pockets of his brown coat. The harsh, almost clinical lighting inside revealed details about her appearance that Spencer hadn’t noticed before. For instance, her light-blonde bangs fell in a heart shape on her forehead, her eyebrows were slightly asymmetrical, and her eyes were the coldest shade of blue he’d ever seen. Or maybe it was the effect of the black eyeliner on her waterline?
Noticing his stare, she tilted her head in question, assuming he had something to ask. Caught off guard, he mirrored her gesture without knowing why. They were spared further awkwardness by the arrival of two coffees on the counter in those unfortunate cups.
“Thanks for paying,” she said as they stepped back outside. As the door closed behind them, he felt like muttering no problem but she beat him to it. “I was counting on it. I don’t have any money on me. That’s my way of saving—just never carrying cash.
A comment about how it wasn’t the wisest method came to his lips—after all, accidents happened, and sometimes having a bit of cash on hand could actually save one’s life. He was surprised, though, by his own concern and sense of responsibility toward a stranger.
As they left, she locked the door, then handed him her coffee to hold so she could unlock it again to let them back in.
“If it turned out you didn’t have a cent in that fancy coat of yours, I would’ve just stolen it,” she admitted in the same casual tone one might use to comment on the weather. Her bluntness startled him every time. “I even considered it, but then you pulled out your wallet. Hey, you’re not a cop or something, are you?” she asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow suspiciously.
“I am,” he replied automatically. Damn, he shouldn’t have said that. He’d already given her his name, and now his profession. At this rate, his anonymity would burst like a soap bubble.
From her expression, he could tell she took it as a joke.
“Oh no. Are you going to arrest me now?”
He shrugged.
“If I did, I wouldn’t have anywhere to go.”
Saying this, he felt a twinge of inner humiliation. His slightly improved mood sank back to square one, as he was reminded that he wasn’t on a casual outing with a friend—he was on a forced exile from his own apartment.
She pushed open the door and stepped through first, walking backward, facing him as she went.
“I’ll take that as a no. Although, on second thought—do you have hot water in your place?” He nodded, answering her question, clueless about where she was headed. Her comments were too unpredictable. She clapped her hands together. “That’s great! They cut ours off in the building two days ago for some maintenance work, and honestly, I’ve missed nothing more than a hot shower. So, officer, maybe you should reconsider that arrest?”
She literally pushed her wrists right under his nose. For a moment, he regretted not having handcuffs with him. He imagined the shock and amusement on her face if he actually snapped them around her wrists. He shook his head, not understanding why he was picturing that—or why, suddenly, he felt so amused. Well, at least it was a relief compared to how he had felt an hour ago.
“Well, I don’t know the procedure for a cop taking an arrested person to his own home,” he replied.
“I’ve heard they do that with the worst criminals,” she said.
“Like battery thieves?”
“Every serial killer starts somewhere.”
“I don’t know of a single case where it started with stealing batteries.”
“Well, maybe you don’t know enough about criminology?” she asked, spreading her hands.
Spencer fell silent for a moment, then simply started laughing. Not mockingly, but genuinely, like he hadn’t in... a long, long time. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t have known the true reason for his reaction. After a moment, the girl joined him, though she couldn’t know the true reason for his reaction. She tried to take the coffee from him, still holding it for her. As he was still overcome by some boyish chuckle, he flinched and accidentally brushed her pale hand. The girl didn’t even seem to notice the fleeting contact, grabbed the cup, and took a small sip of the still-hot drink. His fingers twitched, curling and stretching. He had never been a fan of physical contact, accepting it only from those closest to him. Whenever he tried to touch someone, he had an overwhelming feeling that it bothered them. Spencer considered it an incredible paradox that he worked by conducting in-depth psychological analyses of individuals, yet in his personal life, he struggled so much with understanding others' feelings.
Standing in the same spot, he watched as she approached the Christmas lights.
“Well, come on, techie. Time to change the batteries.”
She pulled him out of his thoughts. He joined her by the corkboard, this time offering her his coffee. It took him less than a minute, but when the lights blinked on, she patted him on the shoulder with such admiration, as if he had spent an entire day working on it.
It was a purely joking gesture, but somehow it still reminded him of all those pats on the back at the funeral—the last time anyone had touched him. He was really starting to hate his brain for dragging up memories like that every damn time he began to feel even a little bit better.
The girl must have noticed the slight withdrawal on his face after she touched him. He could almost see the invisible notebook in her mind, where the words never touch him again, he doesn’t want it seemed to appear. He suddenly wanted to open his mouth and explain that it had nothing to do with her, but he knew it would come out sounding pathetic.
That’s why he just sighed, like a beaten dog, wondering if taking Dilaudid that day would have allowed him to talk to her—and anyone else—with far more ease, without the heavy burden on his shoulders and the eternal tornado of painful memories storming through the depths of his mind.
“So…” the girl began after a longer pause. Her voice sounded different for a moment, stripped of its playful and cheerful tone, and Spencer almost felt as if she forced herself to bring it back. “Thanks again for your help and for unwittingly stopping me from committing theft. Oh, and for the coffee, though it’s one of the worst I’ve had in the past ten years of my life. Which is about as long as I’ve been drinking coffee at all. Anyway, if you’ve grown tired of my chatter, your lucky moment has arrived, because I need to get back to hanging the rest of the holiday decorations, cleaning the floors…”
"I can help you with all that," said Spencer’s lips—certainly not him, at least not so quickly or so confidently. That didn’t mean he disagreed, though.
She bit her lip, gently shaking her head.
“No… I don’t want you to feel obligated, like you have to help me with something. Or like you need to repay me for hanging out here. Since… let’s say I started this place, I’ve been managing everything on my own. This room is pretty small, there’s really not that much to clean. So just relax. Enjoy your book—I noticed you brought one.” She nodded toward his coat pocket, where it indeed rested. “Yeah, I stared at you for a second. Subtly, of course, so you wouldn’t notice. But don’t worry, you weren’t, like, picking your nose or anything. Not that I assumed you would. I mean, you don’t seem like the type.”
“Thank…you?”
One thing about Spencer—he often heard that he talked too much. That was just his nature. When a broad topic genuinely fascinated him, he couldn’t help diving into even the tiniest details. It always left him feeling a bit ashamed, worried that whoever he was talking to wasn’t remotely interested and was only rolling their eyes internally. For the first time in a long while, he’d met someone who made him seem like the quiet one, maybe even a bit grumpy.
The thought surprised him, but he regretted not meeting her at a different point in his life. Just a few stupid weeks ago, when Emily was still alive, and he wasn’t constantly battling the urge to soothe himself with Dilaudid. Maybe then he could have mustered more energy, started a truly engaging conversation. But now his throat was bone dry. He realized he was stuck in the belief that a part of him—the part everyone seemed to like the most—was gone, and the only way to get it back was locked in the safe by his bed.
His ears started ringing, and his own body felt like it no longer belonged to him. It was just an ordinary object with a delicate structure, cracking under the loud sound filling his ears.
The girl kept staring at him. God, he must have looked pathetic in her eyes. Was she talking to him because she wanted to, or because he came here every night and she had no other choice? He could have sworn he saw some disgust in her eyes. For the first time, he noticed that when they stood side by side in the store under such harsh lighting. It allowed her to examine him closely, and she noticed the bags under his eyes and the tired grayness of his skin. Furthermore, he spoke so little—she must have despised him.
He felt the urge to simply run out of the room, head straight back to his apartment, ignore the old neighbor on the stairs, and with trembling hands, open the safe... then it would all be over, the pain and the tension...
“Spencer?” A sound pierced the heavy dome surrounding him. His name. It was the first time she had used it, instead of some mocking label like stranger, officer, or techie “Spencer, is everything okay?”
He sank heavily into one of the chairs. It was the only way to stop himself from leaving. Not enough, he felt. Something kept urging him to stand up and go to his apartment. The apartment, the safe...
"Could you... could you say something to me?" he asked pitifully, in the voice of a beggar pleading for a piece of bread.
He had to distract himself somehow, get rid of these thoughts.
"Say something to you?" she repeated, confused.
"Anything, please. About inheritance and gene mutation, why you even come here every night, it doesn’t matter, just talk to me…"
"Okay," she said, a little feverishly, sitting down right next to him. He avoided her gaze, but briefly noticed she was looking at him with concern in her cold, blue eyes. "Okay... okay... so I'll tell you I have no clue about inheritance and genes, sorry...what was the other topic to choose? Why do I come here?"
He didn’t answer, not even realizing she had asked a question. Trembling, he listened only to her voice and her words, paying much less attention to the tone. He forced himself to listen. You’re not leaving this room, at least not until she finishes speaking. Listen. She has a nice voice, doesn't she?
"Spencer, you’ve gotten very, very pale."
"It’s okay, just talk to me. I need... to forget about something."
The girl suddenly nodded, with more readiness and understanding.
"Alright... Why do I come here? My friends, the ones who even know about this, slash one roommate and a guy from the bar, I'm not going to pretend I have a lot of friends...Anyway, they asked about it, and I told each of them a little bit of something different, but with the same general meaning. I didn’t go into details, I didn’t go into details, but I’ll tell you now, not just because you look like a dying man and I feel a bit like I’m fulfilling your last request before you drop dead on the floor. By the way, I wonder what I’d tell the police if that happened. Would you stand up for your old good friend, officer?"
His hands clenched around his knees, his head hung low, and for a long time, he had been hearing the beating of his own heart. His smile in response to the question was crooked and tired, but that didn’t change the fact that it was still a smile.
"How, when I'd be dead?"
"Oh, you like to nitpick words?"
"I just like logic. Usually."
"If I wanted to finish you off, I'd start telling you about my roommate's love life. That one's completely devoid of logic. You’d die listening to that.”
“So maybe another time? Besides, as much as I'd prefer not to die in an AA meeting room, I'd rather listen more about you."
"So listen. And breathe, deeply. You can take my hand if you want, or if it helps. Don’t you think I sound like I'm giving advice to a woman in labor? Breathe, hold my hand..."
Spencer exhaled again, followed by a burst of laughter. Her train of thought was simply exceptional, and he was genuinely curious about what would come out of her mouth next. He was beginning to forget about the Dilaudid hidden in the safe by his bed…
"Oh God, I forgot again what I was talking about, I’ll never finish telling this…" The girl groaned, pressing her hand to her forehead. "Ah, college. No, wait, something about friends. I know, why I started this place! Alright, so it all probably started in college. The need to help, not the idea. I came up with that through an internet forum and arguments about cheesecake. Anyway, at my college, we created this really small organization. It's hard to even call it that, it was just... at that time, we were all moved by a girl I shared a room with who had attempted suicide. After everything, she dropped out of college... nearly cut contact with us, and we felt the need to do something, to help someone. Young, ambitious psychology students, you know? I think it was even my idea. I was sober for the first time since the academic year began, longer than two days, and immediately started having flashes of brilliance. It was about this: late at night, when most people were contemplating suicide, we swarmed all the nearby bridges. "It sounds heroic, I know. But in reality, we intervened only two, maybe three times. I was really surprised by that, I thought it was one of the most popular methods."
"In the United States, the most common method is hanging. It accounts for 25 to 30% of cases. After that, there’s..." He felt the need to swallow. "Overdose. Especially among the young. Falls from heights or deliberate drownings are less common, but still present in the statistics."
"I'm a little concerned about your knowledge on this subject."
"I read a bit."
"Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this, as someone whose favorite book is Girl, Interrupted, but maybe it’s time for some... less... devastating reading?"
"Maybe I'll think about it. Anyway, what’s next with your... project?"
The girl rested her chin on the back of her chair, recalling where she had left off. Spencer finally straightened up, and as he became more engaged in the story she was telling, his hands stopped shaking as much.
"Well, as students go, we kind of lost our drive. They left one by one. The only thing I can say in their defense is that it was a damn cold winter, and you could have gotten hypothermia just from standing on that bridge at that hour. But I... somehow got more involved in it. My mom... passed away barely a month after I started college, completely unexpectedly. You know... or maybe you don't, I don't know what the beginning of a semester looks like in college. More parties than studying. My body had a full Mendeleev’s table inside at that time. Those nights spent on the bridges were the first sober and fully conscious ones in a long time. I liked standing there, thinking. To the drivers passing by, I might have looked like I wanted to jump myself, but I never considered it... not in that particular way. I had been dealing with insomnia for a long time, so I could come there very late. And one time... I really managed to save a man. I noticed him, and we talked for almost an hour. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest, but... after that time, he actually stepped down from the railing, hugged me, and walked away. I don’t remember what I said to him. I’m not even sure if it actually happened, maybe I made it all up?
She took a deep breath to calm herself. Spencer stared into her lost gaze, devoid of the false positivity that usually covered it. He wanted to... he couldn’t quite determine if he wanted to hug her. He wanted to do something, but he wanted it to be more than just a hollow gesture. Still, he flinched, holding himself back from wrapping his arm around her.
"I'm sure it really happened," he said, his voice quieter and hoarse. The girl was surprised by the certainty in his tone. "And that's because... maybe you don't realize it, but you're doing exactly the same thing now as you did on that bridge, just in a different place and with a different guy."
He saw her slowly blink, the weight of his words settling in. One of the most talkative women he had ever met was suddenly rendered speechless. They stared at each other in silence for a long time, her lips parting and closing a few times. He felt a strange tension, as if whatever she was about to say would determine something significant in his life.
"Is that... why you come here every night?" she asked finally. "To avoid standing on the bridge?"
Spencer hated metaphors, couldn’t stand when others used them, and struggled to create them himself. So he knew he had reached a truly strange point in his life when he found himself using one.
"I stand on it all the time, every moment."
Her fingers moved restlessly, her face momentarily expressionless. Then, she simply reached for his hand, the one farther from her.
"Nighttime is the hardest, isn't it?"
"Yes," he admitted. He kept the next sentence in his mouth for a long time, chewing on it repeatedly, questioning whether it tasted right and whether he should say it. He felt... that this request might be too much. Yet, at the same time, he was painfully desperate. For the first time, truly motivated to do it. He hesitated, licking his lips, and the girl followed the movement of his tongue, as if wondering what he was about to say. He finally decided to just say it. "I have something at home that I'm afraid I'll take. I know that when I try to get rid of it, I won’t be able to stop myself. I know I probably shouldn’t ask you this, but I can’t do it on my own... I don’t have anyone else who could do this for me..."
She looked at him with a cold seriousness.
"Are you trying to lure me to your apartment?"
"No!" he assured hastily, realizing it really did sound that way. He quickly shook his head. "You're right, you shouldn’t go to a stranger’s house, and I shouldn’t even ask you. We barely know each other..."
"I was joking," she interrupted, reaching for her jacket. "I want to help you, I really do."
"No, I’ve thought about it, and I think I can handle it on my own..."
"After what you just told me? Forget it. I’m not taking the risk that something might happen to you."
"But..."
Determination sparkled in her eyes.
"How far do you live from here?"
You were doing something incredibly stupid.
You were going to the apartment of a man you had met three days ago and knew nothing about except his name.
You were practically risking your life. You could have ended up subjected to excruciating tortures beyond anything you could imagine, then murdered and desecrated.
This was how Spencer lectured you the entire way, trying to convince you not to follow him, but it was already too late. You had made up your mind and tried not to think about the potential danger. It was incredibly difficult, thanks to the vividly detailed stories he kept sharing.
During the twenty-minute subway ride, he managed to summarize the biographies of six serial killers who targeted women just like you. He even called you someone in the highest risk group for assault and violence, to which you sarcastically muttered thank you and clamped a hand over his mouth—mainly because the woman sitting next to you looked like she was dialing emergency services.
“You know an unsettling amount about that topic too,” you remarked as the two of you covered the last stretch of the walk on foot. “You know, murderers and crimes.”
Of course, you had locked up your space, even though you’d never left it before sunrise. Night after night, you had stubbornly stayed until morning, even though, apart from Spencer, only one other person had ever shown up, and you’d spent most of the time bored out of your mind. Yet, you didn’t feel guilty about abandoning your post. After all, your intention from the start had been to help people in crisis—those who couldn’t or wouldn’t seek professional help, who needed more of a friendly, honest chat over a beer but without the beer.
Since the moment that man had first walked through your door, he had occupied your thoughts more than you wanted to admit. You had been incredibly afraid he’d spend every night silently sitting with you and then suddenly stop coming, leaving you with guilt and endless questions. Instead, he had opened up almost by accident.
Even though you knew far less about him than you wanted to, you felt a strange connection between the two of you. Mostly in the form of sleepless nights, the shared loss of someone dear (you guessed this from his attire during that first night), and likely a history with various substances.
Many people would look at him and refuse to believe he could be an addict. Well, aside from the state he was in after several sleepless nights in a row—exhausted eyes, a few days' worth of stubble, and a slouched posture—he looked quite respectable. But you had encountered enough people struggling with addiction to know that appearances were no indicator. Judging based on looks in such matters was simply harmful.
“As I mentioned, I read a bit,” he replied to your question.
You raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yeah? What, The Silence of the Lambs as a bedtime story every night?”
He chuckled but didn't press the issue further as you both reached the building where he apparently lived. He stopped, signaling for you to do the same. Above you, a streetlamp cast the only light in the starless night. Spencer was wearing a brown coat that you really liked, and a light breeze ruffled his hair.
"Maybe you should text your roommate, let her know where you're headed?" he suggested. "You know, give her the address..."
"Oh my God, Spencer..."
"I just want you to feel comfortable," he said.
You sighed and grabbed your phone, wanting to ease his worry.
"It's just common sense to do this every time you're going somewhere with someone you don't know. Or when you're coming back alone. It's not just about women."
"Now I'm starting to think you're really a cop," you muttered.
You pulled up your friend and roommate Jude's number on your phone and began typing a message.
i'm going to some weird dude's place, here's his addy. if I'm not back by noon, just know my head's probably in his fridge xoxo
Jude worked nights cleaning office buildings. She must've been slacking off because she replied almost immediately:
you little slut.
After a moment she added:
don’t let him tie you down
if worse comes to worse bite his dick off
not as hard as it sounds
“She replied that I’m being a bit irresponsible and I should be careful. She’ll call me in an hour to make sure everything’s fine.”
Spencer seemed satisfied with the response.
“Sounds like a really good friend.”
“Yeah, the best. Let’s go in.
As soon as you were at his apartment door, he noticeably tensed up. And when he turned on the light, you saw his skin pale again, just like earlier when you had been worried about his state. You didn’t look around too much. The apartment was definitely nicer than the one you shared with Jude, but it had been kept in a style from a decade ago, which immediately impressed you since you weren’t a fan of modern architecture.
“Where is it?” you asked, referring to the mysterious thing you were supposed to take from him.
Uncertainly, he opened the door to the bedroom for you. If he really intended to kill you, it probably would have happened right then. You watched as he approached a cabinet near the double bed. He opened its doors, revealing a simple safe. He typed the code so quickly that even if you had wanted to, you wouldn’t have been able to memorize it. You held your breath as he came over to you, handing you some plastic bag. You shoved it into your pocket without even looking at it.
You didn’t want him to think for even a moment that you were judging him. Besides, the moment he handed it to you, that concern no longer mattered. He could finally breathe again in his own home.
“I haven’t taken anything for a long time,” he confessed in a quiet voice. “Actually, I thought I was completely clean. But something happened recently, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t get rid of it.”
You stood in front of him, your head tilted up, the plastic bag weighing lightly in your jacket pocket, even though its contents were virtually weightless. The silence between you became intimate, and a smile of appreciation crept onto your lips.
“You’re incredibly strong.”
“I’d be strong if I hadn’t bought it.”
“Spencer, you kept it in that safe, what, for three days? You spent nights away from home so you wouldn’t think about it? You asked me to come and take it so you wouldn’t risk giving in. Think about it. So many people would’ve broken down in your place.”
You could see that he didn’t completely agree with you, but you didn’t want to push him to change his mind. You were just sharing your opinion. For a moment, you both stayed silent, his head leaning in your direction so you could hear each other clearly despite the softly spoken words. It was as if you were sharing secrets so big that even the walls couldn’t hear them.
"I hope that by taking this, you'll be able to sleep for a bit," you said, feeling a little like you were committing a sin by breaking the silence. Spencer stepped back to his usual distance.
You knew there was nothing left for you here, but somehow you couldn’t bring yourself to leave the room. You didn’t have even the slightest excuse to stay, so you sighed and glanced meaningfully at the door. His expression was unreadable, his shoulders hanging loosely by his sides.
"Well, I’m off. I’ll drop by the place for a few hours," you said. You were really about to walk out when you cursed in your mind and finally forced yourself to say what had been bothering you. "So... even though you’ve gotten rid of it, do you still plan on coming by? I mean..."
You didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
"We’ll see each other tomorrow," he assured you shortly, but firmly, which was enough for you.
You wanted to leave with a sense of mystery, but you couldn’t stop the wide smile that spread across your face. Spencer opened his mouth, probably to say something about safety and walking alone in the city late at night. You gave him a quick, caring look and disappeared through the door.
You’d been living a nocturnal life for years, aware of the dangers that the darkness held, but you’d also come to know the comforting feeling that it left behind in its embrace.
*
One might expect that after an entire afternoon at work and a sleepless night, you would collapse into bed exhausted by morning. But that never happened. Every day, you returned to your apartment in that dark green building with red fire escapes and spent two hours tackling your dreaded household chores—washing dishes or doing laundry.
You hated mornings, though you didn’t know why. Nights were loud and alive, and so were you during them. Mornings were quiet and seemed to trap you like wounded prey. They cornered you, gnawed at you, and forced you to confront... what exactly? Your own life? Your thoughts? Longing and emptiness?
One thing was certain: you wouldn’t trade your lifestyle for anything in the world.
Around eight in the morning, you would take your neighbor's son to preschool. She was a single mother, just two years older than you, earning a decent income but, as a result, constantly busy. Sometimes she left the boy with you, rewarding you generously afterward.
That was also when Jude came back from her night shift, usually dropping into bed without even greeting you. By then, you would often shut your eyes for a few hours, too—you weren’t a machine, after all, capable of functioning entirely without sleep.
And yet, you were always the first to wake up, spending an hour or two in bed with your laptop before your friend joined you, and the two of you would have breakfast. At two in the afternoon.
You spread homemade jam on your toast. Jude was obsessed with unprocessed food, and if she had the time, she’d probably bake her own bread—from flour she milled herself from grain she grew. You could easily picture her in some tiny, bygone village, growing vegetables with a scarf tied around her head—a funny image, considering she lived a thoroughly urban lifestyle and spent every weekend in a club.
“So?” she asked, walking into your small kitchen after her shower, wearing a black satin robe that revealed glimpses of her freshly pampered brown skin. Even the lack of hot water in the entire building didn’t stop her from sticking to her twenty-step skincare routine. She raised her eyebrows suggestively. “How was the night? Did you have to use your mouth?”
“If you’re referring to that advice you gave me yesterday—no, I didn’t have to.”
“Probably used it in another way,” she said with a smirk.
“Sometimes you’re as gross as teenage boys in high school.”
“Sorry,” she said, waving it off while making herself some coffee. “I’m just happy for you. Lately, you never go out, never see anyone. You spend your nights acting as a free therapist in an empty room, and when you’re not at work, you’re glued to your laptop. It’s not healthy, babe. Sometimes you’ve gotta have fun and blow off some steam. So, who’s the guy? You said he’s kind of a weirdo.”
“He kind of is,” you admitted. “But in a sweet way. We didn’t fucked by the way.”
Jude turned to you, looking utterly crushed.
“Then what the hell did you do? Play chess?”
“You immediately assumed it was a quick hookup. This is a guy I met while acting like a free therapist in an empty room,” you quoted her own words back at her, slightly sarcastic.
She was silent for a moment, arms crossed, staring at you. “Hot?”
“What does that have to do with anything—”
“Well, he must be, considering how quickly you agreed to go to his place. You know what, girl? Need any help with your ‘business’?”
You snorted with laughter, swallowing the last bite of your toast.
“Whore”
“Single young woman, I prefer”
You weren’t very talkative, your mind constantly drifting back to the events of that night. You regretted not getting Spencer’s phone number. You needed to know what happened after you left and how he was holding up, to the point that you couldn’t focus on anything else. You comforted yourself with the thought that you’d see him again that night. An intense need to learn more about him, to understand him, and a bit of concern for him lingered with you.
Jude was sipping her coffee when there was a knock at the door. You flinched, and she, stiff as a board, stopped you with a gesture of her hand.
“I have a bad feeling about this…” she muttered under her breath, nervously clutching her cup.
As if on cue, the light knock at the door turned into a loud pounding. “Jude!” a male voice shouted. “Jude, come on, let’s talk!”
Your friend hid her face in her hands as you sighed. Richard was her ex-boyfriend, and a complete psycho. They had broken up a year ago and had no contact since. Yet, every now and then, he would remember she existed and stalk her like some kind of obsessive. Then he would disappear again. You had almost gotten used to it, though you still insisted she should report it to the police. Jude, on the other hand, thought it wasn’t worth the trouble since nothing would come of it anyway.
“Pretend we’re not here,” she ordered.
You sighed again, looking at her gently. “I really think you should do something about it.”
“He’ll get bored in a week. We just have to wait. Maybe one day he’ll break his neck on those damn stairs, and we’ll be done with him.”
You couldn’t help but snort, despite the seriousness of the situation. The steepness of the stairs in your building was truly terrifying. So much so that when you went out to the club, instead of heading home in the early hours, you’d crash at some mutual friends’ place. Trying to climb those stairs drunk could end tragically.
Jude was right about one thing. Richard quickly lost interest, and after ten minutes the knocking stopped, but you didn’t leave, afraid he might be lurking somewhere in the hall. You both left the apartment together—she was heading to meet some friends, and you were off to work.
You liked the bar where you worked. The afternoon shift started quietly, mostly with a few guys stopping by on their way home from the office, chatting calmly and not causing any trouble. As night fell, the atmosphere picked up, becoming livelier. You always finished your shift just when the fun was starting to turn into chaos and arguments. As you left, you noticed the jealous looks from your coworkers, who, after months or even years, still watched some people with fear. Well, a drunk person is an unpredictable one.
You walked back to your rented room as if wings were carrying you. You were curious about what time Spencer would show up. You suspected he spent his evenings in the nearby library, which closed at midnight. You also hoped that besides him, others might show up as well.
Once inside, you started wondering if you should move the sign from the door to a more visible spot, so more people could learn about your initiative.
Spencer usually showed up right at midnight. Not waiting for him, you got to work on your usual chores. You were certain he’d appear in the doorway any moment, just like he always did—silently, like a ghost. As you scrubbed the floors, you kept turning over your shoulder, always convinced you’d see him there. But every time, there was no one. You glanced at the clock and went back to work, because what else was there to do?
You really regretted not exchanging phone numbers.
Sure, you had taken his Dilaudid, but that didn’t rule out the possibility that he might eventually crack and reach for it. That was the dark scenario that had formed in the pessimistic part of your brain, and it lingered there only for a moment. You remembered the determination and certainty in his eyes last night—he really didn’t want to return to addiction. Most likely, something had just come up. After all, not everyone can afford to stay up so many nights in a row. Work, studies, responsibilities... You realized you didn’t even know what he did for a living. There were so many questions.
Hours passed. You looked at the Christmas decorations you’d put up yesterday. Your mom had never liked Christmas, considering it an unnecessarily stressful time, but at your request, your home always drowned in lights and Santa hats. As an adult, you walked past such things in stores with your head down. Every association with your mom brought memories—positive ones, true, but sometimes the greatest joys also brought pain.
You sighed, catching yourself in those thoughts. This was exactly why you hated silence. It always led you down a path of sadness. You considered putting in your headphones when someone appeared at the door.
You straightened up with hope, but it wasn’t Spencer. Instead, it was a man in a burgundy sweater, glasses on his nose, and a touch of gray in his hair. You recognized him as the librarian, who sometimes left work when you were arriving. He greeted you in an extremely polite manner.
“I’ve noticed that sign on your door for a while now, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to come in. Do you work here?”
At first, you were disappointed it wasn’t Spencer, but that feeling was quickly replaced by a smile. Someone had finally taken an interest in your notice.
“It’s not really a job. More of a personal project. I sit here and listen to what’s weighing on people’s minds.”
The librarian turned out to be a kind, though very shy, man. You talked for a while; he made you laugh more than once, and the rest of the night didn’t seem as depressing. He unexpectedly confided in you that his retired wife was battling cancer. He must have felt the urge to get it off his chest as soon as he entered, maybe even as soon as he saw the sign. He tried to maintain composure, but inside, he was terrified of losing her. His aging hands trembled as he spoke about it, and you listened with a heavy heart.
When you returned to the apartment, you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You sat on the fire escape, your legs hanging into the dark space, until the sun rose. You heard the key turn in the lock and jumped to your feet, rushing to the door.
“Jude, Jude, Jude!” you called to your roommate. She stepped back, her exhausted mind unable to handle such an enthusiastic greeting. Without waiting for her questions, you said, “You need to find someone for me. Get their phone number, preferably. I don’t care how, I know you have your ways.”
Your roommate wiped her eyes.
“We’ll talk after I get some sleep. And after you make me breakfast. Eggs, just how I like them.”
You agreed to the arrangement. Jude had incredible stalker skills. Once, she found an online profile of a guy just by knowing what kind of watch he wore. You didn’t want to wait until the next night hoping Spencer would show up, so you decided to track him down yourself.
While Jude was sleeping, you wandered aimlessly around the apartment, eventually collapsing on the couch with the laptop on your stomach, reading through discussions on poaching forums. Why? God knows. You just couldn’t sleep.
A king’s breakfast appeared on the table: fried eggs on toast with avocado, freshly brewed coffee. Jude sighed at the sight.
“If only my future boyfriend treated me like this.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you warned, finishing off half an avocado raw. “I’m only doing this because I really need you to find someone for me.”
“Did you meet some handsome guy again?”
“It’s the same one.”
She laughed.
“You slept together and now there’s no trace of him? Sounds familiar…”
“Oh, just shut up with the toast. We didn't sleep with each other. How much longer you’re gonna eat that?
She rolled her eyes at your rushing and deliberately prolonged eating her breakfast, just to watch the vein on your forehead throb. When she finally finished, she pushed her plate aside and placed her laptop on the table instead. Cracking her knuckles like a piano virtuoso before a performance, she said:
“Alright, tell me everything about him. Every little detail—not just his name and address. Which metro line you took, what shoes he was wearing, what type of condoms he used, everything. That’s how I’ll find him.”
“Condoms?” You raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly. Give me thirty minutes.”
You started losing faith in the success of this plan, but when you shared the information with her—though not everything, to preserve at least some of his privacy—she actually went silent for half an hour, fully focused on her laptop screen. You waited, tapping your nails on the table.
“Ha! Got him!” she exclaimed, both amused and proud. “Oh, crap… did you know the guy’s a doctor?”
"What?"
Surprised, you shifted in your seat. Not that it was entirely implausible… actually, the more you thought about it, it kind of fit him. But his career path was the least of your concerns at the moment—you were looking for a way to get in touch and find out why he hadn’t shown up last night despite his promise.
“Doctor Spencer Reid,” Jude read out. “Sounds sexy. Were you two playing some kind of role-play game?”
“For heaven’s sake, Jude, I told you…”
Once again, you explained to her that you hadn’t spent the night together, but she just cackled through your entire speech.
“Fine. Whatever. You know what, you’re right—we had sex. BDSM, ropes, the whole deal. I’ll tell you all about it…”
“Okay, on second thought, I don’t want to hear this anymore.”
“So plug your ears and give me his phone number if, by some miracle, you managed to find that too.”
*
The first case they got right after Emily's death involved murders that had taken place... in another state.
They were supposed to have one more day off, but it turned out to be a child abduction case—something that simply couldn’t wait. They were called in and had to go. Unless, of course, they wanted a life on their conscience…
Spencer remained silent throughout the entire flight on the jet. He barely slept at night; after the girl left, he stared at the door for a long time, then at the empty safe where his old, despicable colleague had just been. He felt that with the disappearance of the threat, his motivation to leave the apartment or do anything had faded. He no longer viewed the place with such intense disgust, but now considered it... incredibly lonely. When she left, a silence of an unparalleled intensity settled in, causing a sharp headache. He lay down in bed, fearing it might worsen.
The news about returning to work simply terrified him. He was unable to think, at least not as intensely as usual, and after all, that had always been his role—the brain of the team. Without the ability to focus, he was useless.
In child abduction cases, the first twenty-four hours are always the most critical. Pressured by time, he stared at the case files, analyzing all the information gathered so far, and he was losing it. Inside, he was simply losing it. In the past few days, he had started to accept that due to grief and the return of his addiction's voice, he might not be as effective as usual. As a pure realist, unwilling to lean toward either extreme, he finally came to the conclusion that this state would pass. It would pass... he just had to wait.
But he couldn't afford to wait. Someone's life depended on him. A child's life.
This is how he justified it to himself. This one time, he would give in, not to satisfy some fleeting, selfish need. The reason was far more complex, morally justified, even sacred. One could say he was sacrificing himself for the greater good of the case.
"Spence," a voice pulled him out of his thoughts. He turned to see JJ with a gentle smile on her face, though it lacked much joy. "I can see you're feeling better."
He hesitated before answering. His mind was a jumble of intertwining conclusions, assumptions, and calculations related to the case he was investigating. Having been torn from his own world, he didn't quite grasp what she had said.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said that it’s clear you’re feeling better. You were really distant on the jet. I was worried."
He swallowed hard, overwhelmed by a wave of shame. If only she knew why he felt better...
Looking at her face, he felt the urge to cry, to fall to his knees and apologize to her. She shouldn’t even be worrying about him—he didn’t deserve it.
"Spencer?” she asked, worried, as he once again failed to respond.
Panic began to rise within him, the same paranoia he’d felt when returning from Emily’s funeral with Dilaudid in his pocket. Everyone knew what he’d done, they’d seen it, could read it on his face. He was as transparent as water, unable to hide anything.
And then, as if fate, weary of watching his pitiful behavior, decided to intervene, his phone rang, saving him from the situation.
"Oh, sorry JJ, this is something important," he said, even though he didn’t recognize the number.
His friend looked at him with suspicion.
Having received the call, he didn’t even have time to speak when someone on the other end beat him to it. That was enough for him to guess who was calling.
"Hello. Dr. Spencer Reid? This is the investigative department. We have a few questions for you regarding a missing woman who was last seen with you."
JJ noticed the change in his expression and surely registered how he took a few steps away so she wouldn’t hear his response.
"Very funny," he snapped. He was surprised at how pleased he felt hearing her voice. His muscles relaxed a little, like when she told him about herself at his request. "You know that the investigative department doesn’t contact suspects by phone?"
"Jerk, fool, and fun killer."
He let out a laugh so soft it sounded more like a sigh.
"You know why I’m calling, right?" she asked. He could hear her moving around the apartment, closing some doors, as if she were hiding. "I’m not going to yell at you now about why you ditched me, because it’s not exactly that you ditched me, but you kind of did. Are you keeping up?"
"Ditch me?" he repeated, surprised. "You mean... our late-night meetings?"
"No, I mean the book club where we meet every Monday."
"Something came up at work," he explained, ignoring her sarcasm. "Something really, really important, and it didn’t occur to me to let you know... Actually, I didn’t even think you’d be waiting for me."
He said it sincerely. Until now, he had thought that the girl's question during their last conversation about whether he would come was merely out of politeness, not because she actually wanted to see him.
"Of course I waited. And I was worried when you didn’t show up. You know how few people visit me, when someone finally came through that door, I dropped the mop because I thought it was you."
He fell silent, feeling a warmth in his chest. Lately, he had felt lonely, not just with his own problems but in other areas of life as well. The sadness made him think he was losing interest in things that had once brought him so much joy. Without all of that, he felt a little like a lighthouse in the sea, with nothing and no one within a few miles’ radius. On top of that, he had isolated himself a bit from his loved ones, he had to admit. It was only these late-night meetings and this phone call that made him realize he wasn’t completely alone.
By chance, he caught JJ's gaze. He wasn’t completely alone—he had friends around him—but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like he didn’t deserve them.
"Can you even talk right now, Doctor? If I’m interrupting something important, you can just say so."
"In literally one minute, I’ll have to get back to work…"
"Alright. Setting a timer for sixty seconds. Damn, I’ve already wasted like ten saying that. Never mind. Anyway, I get that something might have come up and you couldn’t make it. I’m not mad. But I’d really like to talk to you. If you get the chance, stop by. You know where."
"I’ll come by as soon as I’m back. Probably not today. I’ll call you then."
"No, don’t call," she asked. Surprised, he furrowed his brows. "Just show up. It’ll be romantic, don’t you think?"
"I hate to break it to you, but neither of us has what it takes to be a romantic," he replied gently, regretting that he was talking to her over the phone instead of face to face. It was always so hard for him to understand the intentions and meaning behind others’ words when he couldn’t see them.
"I do," she protested. "Maybe not you. You seem like the type who, when a woman asks for flowers, buys her a flycatcher."
"And what’s wrong with a flycatcher? It has an exotic and intriguing look, is a natural insecticide that helps reduce the use of chemical ones, and it’s very easy to care for. Besides, let me remind you that once you told me to take your hand and breathe, then asked if you didn’t sound like you were coaching a woman in labor. Is that your idea of romance?"
"That has nothing to do with my sense of romance. I just sometimes can’t keep my mouth shut. But honestly, flycatchers are freaking awesome. I’ve always wanted one. Still, my advice is, if you ever find yourself debating between buying a woman roses or a Venus flytrap, it’s safer to go with the roses."
"And what if I’m certain that the only woman I’d ever want to buy flowers for would prefer a Venus flytrap?"
"Deduce that yourself, Doctor."
He couldn’t help but smile. It felt strange—his cheek muscles had grown unaccustomed to that kind of effort.
"I know my sixty seconds are up," she said after a moment, her voice calmer and less chaotic. "But there’s one more thing I wanted to ask you."
"What is it?"
"How are you doing with, you know, the addiction? Was it easier for you after I took the Dilaudid from your apartment?"
The phone began to feel heavy in his hand, and the next breath was simply uncomfortable. He felt the same kind of shame as when JJ had asked if he was feeling better. The girl had been the only person he had confessed to about struggling again. His honesty on that front had made her quickly rise in the ranks of his closest people. It would have been easier to admit to her that he had relapsed. He even had a full explanation ready in his mind: he’s working on a missing child case, and had to do it to focus... He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bring himself to say it.
"Sorry, I have to go," he lied instead. "We’ll... we’ll see each other soon."
"Alright," she replied, somewhat coldly, certainly with concern. "I understand. See you soon."
He noticed that JJ had started glancing in his direction again. He hesitated, wondering if he should approach her, but he felt so bad about himself that he needed to disappear from anyone’s sight. He needed to focus on something, like the case but wasn’t sure if the fog in his mind would even allow that.
Disappearing for a moment in the bathroom might help, and at that moment, it seemed like the only solution. And maybe it should have dawned on him much earlier, but only on his way did he start wondering, where the hell did she even get his number from?
*
That same night, you were calm. You were happy that Jude managed to get his number and that he could explain everything to you, which, in turn, made you stop worrying.
You felt the same on night number two and... night number three.
But when Spencer didn’t show up for the fourth time, you began to worry.
On the fifth and sixth nights, you called.
By the seventh, you were pissed as fuck.
On the eighth day, you decided that since he couldn’t be bothered to call back, you’d stop acting like some damn wife waiting for her husband to come home from war. He was probably cheating on you. Well, not literally. Just extending the metaphor.
You still spent every night in that room, but you no longer wondered whether he’d show up or not. You just did what was expected of you. As usual, you cleaned the floors. The owner of the hall called, asking you to clean the windows on both sides as well. You couldn’t help but greatly appreciate that you were on the ground floor. The cold air that made its way inside left pleasant kisses on your cheeks. The librarian came by to say goodbye. He did this every night exactly at midnight, when his shift ended and he was heading home. Sometimes he stayed to chat, but not always in the mood for it. Lately, he was feeling better and shared with you that the treatment for his wife’s cancer was showing positive results. Overjoyed, you almost fell out of the window and asked him to deliver good news to you next time when you’re actually standing on the ground.
You had always hated silence, but then it became unbearable. Through the open windows, the sounds of cars reached you, but not enough to drown out your thoughts. After a moment of hesitation, you shoved the headphones into both ears. When you felt particularly bad, you would return, body and soul, to equally painful moments. It usually happened in chronological order, without skipping even a single detail. There would be some minor inconvenience, and suddenly you were back in the dorm, banging on the bathroom door while your roommate was carving herself up in the tub. And a second later, you were at your mother's funeral, with no other family member around to hug you. You had never needed it so much before or after.
You closed your eyes. Usually, this happened in the morning, during those hated hours, not during the beloved nights. You opened them a moment later, and in the window, your face was reflected... along with someone behind you. Scared, you jumped out in a place.
"I'm sorry," Spencer said, looking guilty. "I really shouldn't have sneaked up on you when half of you was hanging out of the window."
At first, in shock, you pulled the headphones out of your ears. You stared at him... furious. There had been no contact with him for so long, and now he appeared as if nothing had happened, looking unbelievably good, and holding in his hands...
"Is that a flycatcher?"
He seemed surprised that you were the one to ask about it first. However, he smiled and lifted the plant higher.
"That's right."
"Shove it up your ass."
He opened his mouth, but no words came out, seemingly surprised at how quickly your calm tone shifted to anger. You took a moment to examine him more closely. He was dressed neatly and meticulously in a black cardigan, the collar of a white shirt peeking out from under it, and a red tie. Over that, he wore a black coat, not a single crease visible on any of his clothes. He was freshly shaved, his hair seemed a little shorter... but his face still carried that unhealthy expression, and his eyes looked exhausted. It also seemed to you that... he'd lost weight? As if he were trying to hide what was going on inside by his outward appearance.
He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, while his fingers tightened around the pot. "Look," he began, his voice a little unsteady. "I've been going through a really rough time. Actually, it's been like this for quite a while. On top of that, work's been stressful, and then I got sick..."
You interrupted him, your arms crossed firmly across your chest. "I called," you said, your voice sharp.
“I know,” he admitted. “I saw, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to call back because... I was ashamed...”
“Ashamed that you started taking Dilaudid again,” you stated more than asked, almost certain your guess was correct. You weren’t really angry anymore, just disappointed. Not in him, or in the fact that he hadn’t been able to fight the addiction. It hurt you how much he feared admitting it.
He didn’t answer, which was confirmation.
His gaze darted away from yours as fast as his legs could carry him. You sighed and moved closer, until the only thing separating you was the flycatcher he held. Your hands rested on the soft fabric of his coat, near his elbows. Due to the difference in height, he would have to lower his head to look at you. But he stubbornly kept it straight.
"Spencer, are you afraid I'll judge you?"
A long silence.
"I know you won't," he finally replied. "You're not the kind of person who judges someone for their struggles, I know that. But it's still so hard for me to talk about it."
"Hey, remember, you don't have to explain anything to me. Or say anything now. We can focus on something else first, and whenever you're ready to talk, I'll still be here. Like every night. Unless you just dropped by for a moment?"
Spencer finally looked at you, and as he lowered his head, a few stray strands of hair fell onto his forehead. You were still holding both of his shoulders, tightening your grip slightly to reassure him.
"I've got the whole night free. We finished working on the case, and I don't have to show up at work tomorrow."
You frowned slightly.
"A case?"
"A child abduction," he explained.
Something about this didn't add up.
"I thought you were... a doctor. You know, like, hospital stuff." You could see how much that amused him. "Don't laugh at me! That's what my friend told me. I asked her to find your number, and that's the information she came across."
"I have a doctorate," he clarified, glancing at you with a small, indulgent smile. "That's why 'doctor.' I don't work in a hospital."
"And here I was already picturing you in a lab coat with a stethoscope around your neck," you groaned. "More than once, actually. No offense, but you don't look particularly sexy in white. So, what do you do, then?"
He scratched his nose, hesitating slightly before answering.
"I'm an FBI agent."
For a moment, you stared at him silently, your lips slightly parted like an idiot.
"So, you really are a cop... I was joking about that the whole time we last saw each other! That’s why you were laughing so much." Finally connecting the dots, you crossed your hands on your hips, still surprised. You let out a short laugh."A doctorate. Impressive. Now I feel embarrassed around you for dropping out of college."
Spencer's eyebrows shot up.
"I didn’t know that. Psychology, right?"
"Last year. I rarely admit it to people, to be honest. I just don’t feel like hearing, 'How could you drop out when you were so close to finishing?'"
"I'm sure you had your reasons."
"Well, I like to tell myself that. But honestly, I was just in a really bad place mentally."
"That's a reason too."
For a moment, you fell silent. You’d never felt particularly ashamed of it, but you also didn’t like delving too much into the topic. Wanting to change the subject, you brought a smile to your face and pointed to the plant in his hands.
"Is that my apology gift?"
Spencer handed you a terracotta pot with a young, elongated flycatcher inside.
"Something like this. You're not mad at me for not reaching out, are you?" He tried to make sure.
You looked at him and shook your head.
"Not anymore. I'm very easy to bribe. Shouldn't I water this?"
For the next hour, at your request, he told you about this type of plant with such tiny details that you started to wonder if it was possible for an average person to have such an extensive knowledge… on any subject. But you listened intently. First of all, he had that way of talking about things that you always admired in others. It was captivating, filled with passion. Secondly, you were about to become the "mom" of a Venus flytrap. You had to know everything about your baby to take proper care of it.
"Am I boring you?" he asked during his talk.
You shook your head, encouraging him to continue his lecture. Then Spencer asked how your past few days had been, and the conversation flowed on. Easy and pleasant, sometimes abruptly shifting from one topic to another, but then slowly returning to it. Comparing it to your first longer conversation here… you were glad to see how much he had opened up.
Carefully choosing your words, you managed to find out that work had been the trigger that led him back to taking Dilaudid. When he finally said how terrified he was that his distraction might cost the child’s life, you simply didn’t know what to say. Sitting right next to him, you just melted into his side, resting your head on his jacket and wrapping your arm around his back.
"You lost someone recently, didn't you?" you risked asking. "That must have been some kind of trigger too."
A long silence fell, during which you could easily count his breaths. Two long ones.
"She was a member of our team. And to me, like a sister.”
You were surprised when Spencer gently laughed at those words.
"I still carry it with me," he said, reaching into his coat. He pulled out a small, pocket-sized edition of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. You’d seen him with that book before. "But I just can't manage to read a single page. I'd really like to, though. I loved that book as a kid."
"I hated reading as a child," You recalled. "My mom loved it. Mostly fantasy; for my sixth birthday, she gave me all of Tolkien’s books. But I preferred the adaptations. I felt like my imagination couldn’t grasp all those beautiful images, I preferred to have them in front of me, on screen. It wasn’t until college that my roommate gave me The Bell Jar. She was obsessed with Sylvia Plath, which, now that I think about it, was incredibly unsettling. Well, you know, considering what happened later. But maybe I’m adding things in. Anyway, that’s when I fell in love with books. The ones that don’t take place in distant, magical worlds, but in gray cities or sad suburbs. About people, happy or less so, with good hearts or complete bastards, as long as they’re realistic."
"Do you have any books left from your mom?" Spencer asked, intrigued. You realized you hadn’t talked about her with anyone in a long time, and certainly not in such detail. Until now, you had considered her an intimate memory, reserved almost exclusively for you.
"I donated them to the library near our place. They’d just gather dust at mine, I don’t know if I could bring myself to reach for them. It’s not even about my dislike for fantasy… I also have two boxes of her clothes hidden in my apartment, I don’t even look at them anymore, let alone wear them. She had a wonderful style. A bit like a fairy. She was a psychologist at my high school, and everyone, literally everyone, told me they envied me for having such a mom."
"You also dress like a fairy," he said, studying you more closely. His gaze slowly traveled over you, starting from the light, ruffled blouse and ending at the heavy martens. He snorted. "Okay, like a fairy who goes to rock concerts in her free time."
"Thank you, that’s the style I’m aiming for,"
"So what’s wrong with your mom’s clothes? From what you’re saying, I gather you had quite a similar taste."
You hesitated to respond, thinking about those unopened boxes in the tiny attic of your apartment. You couldn’t even remember exactly what pieces of clothing were in them. It was just… the thought of wearing any of them for an entire day, at work or in your free time, terrified you. Your brain couldn’t separate the good memories from the destructive ones; you simply couldn’t have anything that reminded you of your mom. All the time.
You noticed Spencer was watching you. His expression was gentle, yet painfully sad.
"It never gets easier, does it?"
You realized he was talking about grief and quickly shook your head. Your words might sound incredibly pessimistic to someone who had recently lost someone.
"No. It does get easier, really," you assured him. "God, that’s probably not what you want to hear right now..."
"I want you to be honest," he asked.
"It gets easier, but it will never get easy. At least not for me. Though maybe it’s because I just haven’t confronted it yet, you know?" You laughed bitterly. "I live in constant denial, and when it gets hard, I put headphones in my ears to stop thinking. And the more time passes, the harder it is to face it.”
"So is that your advice? To accept it as soon as possible?"
"I'm not sure you can give advice on grief, Spencer. It's such an individual thing."
You saw his chest move as he sighed. You both spent some time in silence, as it seemed like you both needed it. Spencer didn’t take his eyes off the cover of Alice in Wonderland. You didn’t take your eyes off him, but your gaze wasn’t fully present, so he didn’t even notice you were staring.
You continued your conversation, and the morning arrived at an incredibly fast pace.
There was some tension accompanying the moment of goodbye, for some reason.
"I just want you to know that now, with all the work I have... I won’t be able to come here. Sometimes, sure, but not every day, no chance," he said, standing in front of you as you both got ready to leave. You threw your leather jacket over your shoulders and froze, your hands clenched tightly around the fabric. You quickly corrected yourself. What did you expect, that every night would look like this?
"I totally understand," you assured him, pretending to sound casual. "But if you need this meeting, you know where to find me. No need to announce it."
He nodded, and for a moment, silence hung between you again. You grabbed the pot with the carnivorous plant and froze, not really wanting to head toward the apartment.
"Or maybe..." Spencer started, clearly unsure of himself. "Maybe we could meet somewhere else. You know, like any other... friends. For dinner or whatever you suggest."
You pressed your lips together, feeling an even tighter knot in your stomach.
"Maybe," you said, in a very weak voice. You knew where this was heading. "But... you’re aware of what my day looks like, right? I’m busy most of the afternoon with work, then I come here for the whole night. At the moment, I’m only available in the morning..."
You didn’t have many friends, nor did you enter into long-term relationships for that very reason. Sometimes you met a fellow night owl, someone with whom you spent some good moments... but it was never forever. You never came across someone for whom the nocturnal lifestyle was a permanent state. Usually, after months or years, they decided they’d had enough of that way of life and tried to cure their insomnia. But you planned to live that way until the grave.
"There are still weekends. Though sometimes I work then too, if a tough case comes up... But let’s not think about that. I’m sure we can figure out how to make it work." You had a strange feeling that Spencer didn’t believe his own words. He swallowed with a kind of desperation. "At least from time to time, because... I really like you."
You really liked him too. But despite the fact that you deeply hoped you could stay in touch, you were aware that it wasn’t a very realistic scenario. You shook your head to stop thinking about it. You grabbed the Venus fly-trap in such a way that you could hug him goodbye. He prolonged the moment, holding you tightly with both arms, and in that gesture, there was... gratitude?
"See you then," he said, barely nodding as he did.
"Soon, I hope," you replied.
He left as you turned to lock the door. You could still feel his strong embrace around your body, and it was as if your body itself was telling you that something was missing.
It was truly a tough morning return to the apartment.
*
"One more time, what’s the name of that bar?" asked Morgan, who was behind the wheel.
The other matter concerned the murderer targeting female students, with a recurring detail being that each victim had spent the night before their death at the same bar.
“The Tipsy Cow,” Spencer repeated, without a moment’s hesitation.
He was incredibly focused because he had taken Dilaudid. The first dose after a period of abstinence always put him in quite a pleasant state. The following doses, however, brought unwanted effects. After the first one, he didn’t even sweat. When they finished working on the search for that child, he was so stressed about meeting her that he deliberately delayed the moment in order to show up clean again, as if it had never happened. Later, he admitted everything to her anyway, so all the suffering was somewhat pointless when looked at from a broader perspective.
Though he desperately wanted to maintain their relationship... day by day, it became clearer to him that it probably wasn't possible. It was all about time. After a whole day at work, he simply couldn't afford to visit her late at night. Still, he tried to drop by even for an hour. Her mere presence gave him pleasure, the simplest pleasure in the world. He valued their conversations, loved her sometimes chaotic way of speaking, and how attentively she could listen to him. These meetings also motivated him to resist his addiction.
But in the last two weeks... something always came up. December, the end of the year, was always a bit intense.
It seemed to him that she was also drifting away from him a bit. Well, for the past fourteen days and six hours, she hadn’t sent him a single picture of how her flycatcher was growing. He didn’t know if he had done something wrong or if there was some other reason. In any case, the current case was so complicated and shocking that it looked like another week without contact was ahead…
“The Tipsy Cow,” Morgan muttered, shaking his head in disdain. “That’s gonna be the bar with the worst name I’ve ever set foot in. And there have been many.”
“A party animal, huh?”
“I used to be, yeah.”
In recent weeks, Derek had been throwing himself deeper and deeper into work, making it his top priority and always staying late. It was his way of coping with Emily's death. Spencer envied him a little for that. He, on the other hand, was so drained that sometimes, with no real plan... he would scroll through job offers he kept receiving. There were plenty to choose from. But for now, he felt he couldn’t bring himself to leave, even though the thought lingered in the back of his mind.
Together, they stepped into the small bar. The colorful, shifting lights gave the space a slightly club-like vibe, but the crowd inside wasn’t overwhelming. The music wasn’t too loud, and it was easy to move around. The noisiest spot was a small group of men playing pool in the corner, loudly cheering on a brunette in a black jumpsuit.
“We need to talk to the bartenders, find out who was on shift Friday night. Honestly, it’d be best to question everyone,” Morgan said as they approached the bar, where a burly man in a black polo shirt was busy mixing a drink.
"Hey, man. We need a word with you."
He didn’t even look up at them.
"Order something or don’t. I’m not here for chit-chat..." he trailed off, his expression shifting the moment he saw the badge. "Okayyy. That changes things."
Spencer stood sideways at the bar, arms crossed over his chest. He was more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation, but his focus was sharp, ready to catch any details crucial to the investigation.
“Were you here last Friday, around 9:30 to 11:00 PM?”
The guy leaned against the bar with one arm, chewing gum as he thought about it.
“Nah, on Fridays and weekends, I usually come in later.”
“We need to know who was tending the bar then. This is serious, dude.”
“Damn, someone died?”
Their looks said it all.
At that moment, a petite bartender with light hair emerged from the back, carrying two glass bottles in her hands. Initially, she didn’t look at any of them, seeming a bit detached from her surroundings… Spencer straightened up completely.
What a damn coincidence.
The bartender addressed her by name.
“You’re here Friday nights, right?” he asked.
The girl, caught off guard, nodded, only now noticing their presence. Her eyes shifted to Morgan, who was closer to her and holding his badge up. The muscles in her face tightened slightly with unease. Her eye makeup was heavier than usual—black with a touch of shimmer in the corners.
Only then did her gaze linger—suspiciously long—on him. Her lower lip parted slightly in surprise. Spencer had no idea if he should acknowledge her. He was keenly aware of how nosy Morgan could be when it came to his personal life, and he’d never mentioned his new acquaintance to anyone on the team—or in his life, for that matter.
Swallowing hard, he felt a slight panic rise, urging him to say something.
“We need to talk to you,” he told her, his tone carefully balanced between serious and gentle.
She seemed uneasy about the FBI’s presence; he could see the stress in her piercing eyes, which hadn’t left him for a second. He felt a sharp urge to reassure her, to tell her not to worry.
“But don’t stress—it’s just a few questions,” he added, his voice softening.
When he turned his head, he noticed Morgan watching him intently. He avoided his gaze at all costs, pretending to be at ease.
“Was anyone else working with you that night?” Morgan asked.
“Peter,” she replied. “But he’s on leave right now. His girlfriend just had a baby. A boy. Not that it’s any of your business,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I’m pretty sure I have his number somewhere if you need it…”
She began hurriedly searching her pockets, tugging at the fabric of her black jeans. She was also wearing a dark purple blouse tied at the waist, with a deep lace-trimmed neckline and wide, flared sleeves that didn’t seem particularly practical for bartending.
“You can give it to us later,” Derek reassured her. “What we really need are the details. I want you to try to remember everything that happened that evening. If you can’t, because it’s too loud here… Reid, maybe you two can head to the back?”
There was a faint, sly glint in his eyes. Did he… figure it out?
Derek shifted his gaze to the gum-chewing bartender. “And I’ll have a chat with you.”
Spencer let her lead him to the small back room. He turned to close the door and, when he faced her again, noticed her raised eyebrows and the faint smile playing on her lips.
“Coming to work today, this was the last thing I expected,” she chuckled.
Spencer smiled slightly as well. “It’s been a while. You look good—like you’re sleeping better. Does your partner know we know each other, or are we sneaking around like we’re in some kind of movie?”
“He doesn’t,” he replied, quickly adding, “But of course, it’s not a secret. And the fact that we know each other has no impact on the investigation. By the way… I really like your blouse.”
She raised her arms, showing off the flared sleeves, clearly pleased he’d noticed.
“Guess where I got it,” she said, and without waiting for his attempt, revealed, “It’s my mom’s”
He clearly remembered their conversation on the topic, so he tilted his head with a smile.
“I’m glad you finally pushed through,” he said quietly. He, too, had something to share. “As for me… a few days ago, I started reading Alice in Wonderland. I’m not sure if you remember…”
“The edition you got from your friend? Of course, I remember. That’s good news. Are you feeling better?”
He scratched his nose, unsure of what to say. It had been hard for him to identify his state lately; things were stable, maybe even better, if not for the fact that he had gone back to taking Dilaudid.
“And how’s Steven?” he asked, referring to the flycatcher they had named together some time ago.
“He’s good. The kid I sometimes look after stuck his fingers inside recently, and she bit him. I got a little scared that his mom might sue, but it turns out she doesn’t hurt people,” she said, but then straightened up suddenly. “Wait, here we are chatting, and I think you were supposed to be questioning me.”
Spencer immediately caught himself.
“Yeah, right. So, I’d like you to close your eyes, okay?”
She followed his instructions, responding to his quiet and focused tone. He needed her to recall everything that had happened that evening, to bring back any memories that could help them catch the unsub. As her eyelids lowered, she took a step closer. Suddenly, the room seemed even smaller than it was, as if the walls were trying to pull them together, closing in. Spencer lowered his voice further, causing her face to twitch slightly.
The last time they had been this close, they had accidentally found themselves too near. Her gaze had dropped to his lips, she sighed, and kissed him. He had been caught off guard, unsure of what to say, and she... acted like nothing had happened. He felt the gradual distance between them, and it bothered him more than he cared to admit. He didn't even allow himself to acknowledge how often he thought about that kiss. In fact, it had been the only thing on his mind since they entered this room and stood face-to-face once again. At the same time, her expression and behavior suggested as if nothing had ever happened. She always had a more relaxed attitude toward touch than he did, but the kiss must have meant something to her, especially since she had initiated it, right?
Not knowing what the hell he was doing, he brought his head closer to hers. He didn’t touch her, just froze in place, very close to her face. She had already said everything she knew, he’d gathered some valuable information, but still, she didn’t open her eyes. Was she aware of how close he’d gotten? Could she feel his presence right next to her?
He had no intention of getting closer to her; they were both at work. It was just… he’d been overcome by temptation and was curious about her reaction. But he quickly withdrew and cleared his throat quietly.
“That’s it. You can open your eyes,” he issued the final command. He knew it looked awkward, scratching the back of his neck, but he couldn’t help it. “Thanks a lot for your help. I think this could be important for the investigation.”
“I hope so,” she said, sadly. “They were… innocent girls. I can’t believe this man just comes here so casually now.”
“You never know what the other person is hiding,” he remarked, feeling a sudden tightening of concern in his chest. They had already left the back room and were approaching the bar where Morgan was still talking to the bartender. He slowed his pace. “Be careful when you walk alone at night, okay?”
“Am I in danger?” Worry flashed across her face.
“From this particular killer? Well… you’re not his type. But he’s not the only person with bad intentions in the world. Just be careful, please.”
She nodded, looking him in the eyes.
“For the first time, I’m glad I’m not anyone’s type,” she added after a moment, breaking the seriousness of the situation. Spencer held back a chuckle. Morgan glanced their way briefly. “Goodbye, agent.”
“Goodbye,” he replied with a short grunt. He wanted to ask if they would see each other again soon, but he knew it was highly unlikely, especially while they were focused on their work.
He never thought any relationship he had with a woman would be tested by something as mundane as differing daily rhythms. Still, he intended to hold on to the hope that it might work. Maybe something would change soon?
A sly grin tugged at Morgan’s lips as they walked back to the car.
“She caught your eye, didn’t she?” he teased.
Spencer looked at him, feigning pity.
“I’m a professional. I don’t get distracted at work.”
“Should I remind you how…”
The faint, really faint trace of a blush on Spencer's cheeks prompted Morgan to burst into laughter.
*
The owner of the room across from the library called, asking that you not come that night. Apparently, there was a meeting planned that would stretch into the early hours.
You had become so accustomed to your routine that, when you returned to your apartment from the bar, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Jude was getting ready for work; you exchanged just a few words before she left. So, you laid down on the couch with your laptop on your stomach, unbuttoning your pants for comfort as you lazily read a book review online.
Your gaze kept drifting between the screen and the flycatcher sitting on the coffee table
Earlier, you had thought about Spencer a lot, but more out of concern or curiosity. Since your encounter at the bar, however, those thoughts had shifted in another direction. He was literally occupying more space in your mind. At random moments, you even found yourself catching his scent—the same one you had noticed when he was so close.
You kissed him because you wanted to. Simple explanation. If it were up to you, you would have gone even further. But you knew that wouldn’t be good for either of you. You were already starting to grow attached, and it hurt to realize how little future you could see in your potential relationship. Potential relationship. You were imagining too much.
You closed your laptop with a resigned sigh and got off the couch. Jude was at work, Spencer was probably either working or already in bed, and the rest of your friends might not appreciate you suddenly reaching out after months of silence. But just because you were alone didn’t mean you couldn’t have fun on your own, right? You hadn’t gone out in ages. You were in the mood to dance, to have some fun, to meet someone new—a wild girl or guy for just one night, then forget about them completely. You needed that. Lately, there had been so much tension inside you.
So, you spent an hour in front of the mirror, touching up your makeup and thinking about which shoes would go best with your black mini dress. It wasn’t just any black dress—that would be boring. This one had short sleeves, exposed shoulders, and a subtle, astronomical pattern with a delicate sheen.
You left the apartment barefoot, holding your heels in your hand. The stairs in your building were too steep to navigate in those shoes. On the way, you threw a jacket over your shoulders, heading to a club you and Jude had been to before, where you both loved the atmosphere. It was there that you met a group of five friends who pulled you into their circle even though they didn’t know you, and the whole night felt like it lasted only a minute. Jude still kept in touch with a few of them. You were hoping for a similar adventure.
You didn’t drink much when you went out alone for safety reasons. You quickly found yourself lost in the rhythm of the club’s music, dancing with strangers and clearing your mind in the midst of the chaos. Hours passed, and someone tried to kiss you, pulling you into a tight embrace, but you couldn’t feel it. It didn’t bring you any pleasure, yet you had a twisted feeling that it would’ve been different if it had been someone else…
You stepped outside to get some fresh air. Your cheeks were likely flushed from both the dancing and the stuffy atmosphere inside.
The phone rang. Jude?
"Hey, girl," she said, her voice clearly worried. "Are you home?"
"I went out to the city," you replied, feeling uneasy. "Is something wrong?"
"No, nothing... it's just that the neighbor called me saying Richard is hanging around our door again. Be careful, okay? You know, you never know what might go through his head. And we don't even know if he's sober. At this hour, probably not."
You clenched your lips. The December chill hurt like knives, it was almost three in the morning, and you hadn’t planned on staying out until dawn. From the start, you intended to head back early, maybe relax in front of the TV for a bit, and perhaps even try to sleep, since nothing else seemed more appealing. Of course, you weren’t angry at Jude; it wasn’t her fault that her ex turned out to be a psycho.
"Thanks for telling me. Don’t worry, I’m not going back to the apartment for now."
Your roommate hung up, as she had to return to work. You stood there facing a dilemma. Should you go back to the club? You felt too drained to dance, and sitting alone in a corner seemed incredibly boring.
Maybe it was that one drink you had, but your legs seemed to take you in a certain direction.
You weren’t sure if Spencer was even home. But if you had nothing else to do, why not check? A short walk. You were a little desperate, after all, you didn’t have anywhere else to go. That’s how you justified it. You were going to him because you had no other option.
He opened the door, dressed in a wrinkled shirt, trousers, and a tie loosely hanging around his neck. His hair was in disarray, and you felt an urge to run your fingers through it and style it the way you wanted, but it would’ve been awkward.
"Hey. Am I interrupting?"
Surprised, Spencer shook his head.
"No... Actually, I was asleep."
"In those clothes?"
"I fell asleep while reading..." he explained, trailing off when he noticed your appearance. To put it modestly, you looked incredibly hot. For a long moment, his gaze lingered on your dress, visible beneath the open jacket and ending high on your thigh. "Very... nice dress. Is it... is it your mom's too?"
You chuckled.
"Can you imagine my mom, a school psychologist, in a dress covering half her ass?"
Embarrassed, Spencer raised his hands in apology and also chuckled softly.
"Sorry, I'm still half-asleep. Anyway... is there something wrong that you're here?"
"My mentally unstable ex-boyfriend of my roommate is lurking under our apartment.” You confessed bluntly “I'm a little scared to go back, and... I didn't know where else I could go."
It seemed like he was suddenly waking up quickly. He swung the door wide open, letting you in.
"Of course, come in. Is he dangerous?"
"He shows up every now and then and then disappears. It's like a lottery. Jude doesn't want to ever see him again, so we just pretend we're not here when it happens."
The inside looked just as you remembered. The lights were off everywhere except the bedroom, where he was probably reading. You allowed yourself to take off your uncomfortable shoes and set them by the door.
"Why don't you report it to the police?" His forehead furrowed with concern.
"Jude doesn't want to. And I don't want to do anything against her will. But I swear, if this happens again, I'll convince her. Or I'll do it myself."
"You should," he said, and suddenly a silence fell between you.
You weren't sure how to act. You'd barged in on him in the middle of the night, pulling him from his sleep. Not to mention, you hadn't seen each other since that conversation at the bar.
"Let me take your jacket," he said after a moment, as if remembering how to behave when hosting a guest.
You slowly took it off, revealing the full dress. Spencer momentarily let his gaze linger on it, but then he caught himself and turned away to hang your jacket. The glance didn't embarrass you in the slightest; if anything, you expected to catch him looking.
"Sorry if I woke you," you said, realizing you should probably apologize. It was only then that you began to feel a little awkward about the situation.
"You don't have to apologize. It's not your fault. And I'm glad I can help," he said, and once again, silence settled between you. Spencer placed his hand on his forehead as he realized you were still standing in the hallway. "Sorry, it's been a long time since anyone's visited, and I don't even know how to act... Do you want something to drink, or need anything?"
"I’m fine," you assured him, walking behind him into the living room. "I don't want you to act like I'm some important guest, Spencer. Or like you need to serve me."
"But you are an important guest," he replied.
A warm, gentle smile appeared on your lips.
"What were you reading?" you asked, leaning your lower back against the kitchen island, the two rooms connected as one. You glanced around the cozy interior, in soft, almost warm hues, where the darkness of the night blended with the orange light of the lamp. "Let me guess, some spine-chilling thriller?"
"I have spine-chilling thrillers every day at work," he snorted. "I was reading... Emma. Jane Austen."
Your eyebrows shot up.
"You fell asleep reading classic literature on a Friday night? Spencer Reid, what kind of man are you?"
"In a good way or a bad way?"
He stood across from you, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. Your eyes lingered on the first few undone buttons of his shirt.
"Of course, in a good way. Why would I judge someone for reading?"
"I don’t know," he shrugged. "Some people think it’s boring. And weird, especially on a Friday night. And what about you? What were you doing before your roommate’s ex showed up?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes as he nodded meaningfully toward your outfit. "Were you reading too?"
You lifted your chin high.
"Exactly. I was reading my favorite Shakespearean drama in my favorite dress. And those incredibly comfortable shoes I left by your door."
"That goes without saying."
"I definitely wasn’t at any club."
"I wouldn’t even suspect you of that."
"I was doing what any God-fearing virgin would do," you said, bursting into laughter at the absurdity. "Alright, alright. I’m getting carried away. Now I actually feel like reading something. But nothing too classic—I don’t have the brainpower for it. Do you happen to have any romance novels?"
I'm afraid not."
"Really? You have more books in your home than the library in my hometown, and not a single romance? I’m not talking about dark erotica or anything—just something subtle. Friends to lovers, polite sex..."
Spencer choked on a laugh.
"Sorry, but are you drunk?"
You were just horny.
"Not a drop of alcohol has touched my lips. I'm just hyperactive. That’s what the night does to me."
"Yeah, I can see that."
"So? Aren't you hiding any sinful books in there?"
He rolled his eyes, clearly amused rather than annoyed by your persistence.
"You're welcome to look," he offered, gesturing toward one of the shelves. "But I’m not promising you’ll find anything like that."
"But if I do, you owe me a drink."
“And if it turns out I’m right, then what?”
You bit your lip, pondering.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“You know, I won’t enter a bet unless I know what I get in return.”
“And what do you want?”
“A dinner together,” he replied without hesitation. “Or breakfast, if you prefer.”
“Deal,” you answered just as quickly. You weren’t worried about regretting it—your blood was buzzing too much for that.
He extended his hand for you to shake on it, sealing the deal. Instead of letting go, you held onto his fingers firmly and tugged him toward the bookshelf. He stood so close as you examined the books one by one, taking some out to inspect their covers to see if they suggested any hint of romance. When they didn’t, he let out a short laugh, his breath brushing against your neck and sending a shiver down your spine. You didn’t let it show.
“Spencer…” you started after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “It counts if the book has a romantic subplot, right?”
“No, it doesn’t count! We agreed on a romance. A full-fledged, contemporary one.”
“We didn’t say contemporary.”
“I assumed it was implied since I mentioned owning Jane Austen books. Pride and Prejudice is a romance, among other things…”
“Ha! So you do have one. I won!” You raised your hands high in victory.
“…But it’s also a social and domestic novel. Doesn’t count.”
You poked him in the chest with your finger. “You don’t know how to lose.”
He glanced at the spot where you touched him, clearly trying not to smile.
“Maybe I just care a lot about that dinner,” he admitted boldly.
You didn’t know what to say. You tried to look at him confidently, but it was hard to think and maintain eye contact with him at the same time.
“Or breakfast,” you murmured.
“Or breakfast,” he agreed. Realizing how close he was standing, he instinctively stepped back half a pace. “So, are you ready to admit my victory?”
You shot him a defiant look.
“Not a chance. I haven’t even checked all the books yet. I’m only about three-quarters through. Who knows what kind of BDSM might be lurking in the last quarter?”
“Seriously?” he asked with a sigh. “Okay, just look at me. Do I seem like the kind of guy who reads stuff like that?”
“Honestly, you look like the kind of guy who reads encyclopedias. But the one thing I know about people is that appearances can be deceiving. Still waters run deep.”
He shook his head in disbelief.
“You’re as stubborn as they come.”
“Maybe I just really want that drink,” you teased.
“I can make you one,” he offered unexpectedly.
“Seriously?” The suggestion caught you off guard.
Spencer shrugged casually.
“I don’t drink much, but some friends gave me a few bottles for my birthday.”
You hesitated, considering.
“I’m not really in the mood,” you admitted. You felt good, even without alcohol. “But I do have another request… Do you happen to have something I could change into? I won’t lie, this isn’t the most comfortable dress… though it’s absolutely stunning.”
He smiled softly.
"You’re right. And yes, I’ll find something for you to change into. Just… it’ll be something of mine."
Following him into the bedroom, you let out a small chuckle.
"You know, I didn’t expect you to have a closet full of women’s clothes. Plus, in my size. Although, who knows what girls leave behind at your place. It’s a tactic, you know? You leave a sock at a guy’s place to have an excuse to come back. Unless you didn’t like it, then you have to accept losing the sock."
He didn’t say anything, opening the wardrobe to find something appropriate for you. You’d been in his bedroom before and didn’t feel the need to look around; nothing had changed inside.
"Do you do this often?" he asked, inspecting a t-shirt. "Use the sock strategy?"
"No," you replied, shrugging. "I’m too straightforward for that. If I like it, I just go back and say 'Let’s do it again' Or I don’t leave at all. I’m a bit of a parasite too."
He chuckled at the comparison and finally handed you some clothes. You didn’t really look at them; you just needed something looser, something you hadn’t danced in for hours at the club.
"You know where the bathroom is, right?"
You confirmed and were about to head in that direction when you stopped.
"Wait," you said, turning back toward him. But then, you turned again, facing him with your back. "The zipper on the dress," you explained, pulling your hair to the front. "I could manage it myself, but I don’t want to risk breaking it. Could you…?"
"Y-yeah," he agreed after a moment, stepping closer.
He stood just behind you, reaching for the top of your back. Before he pulled the zipper down, there was a moment where he simply paused, unmoving. Your knees suddenly trembled, almost impatiently. Then, he tugged at the zipper, unfastening the dress, and the coolness and freedom teased your skin.
You could have said thank you and headed to the bathroom, but you didn’t. Something kept your body rooted in place, right there next to him, feeling the pads of his fingers on the lower part of your dress.
Even his breath, louder and irregular.
When you began to, slightly disappointed, assume that he wouldn’t do anything more, his lips found a spot on your neck, kissing it slowly. You inhaled deeply, your head instinctively tilting back, giving him more access, as if you had been waiting for just that. He stopped for a longer time in this specific place, pressing on it harder, as you barely hold a groan.
Your breath was given a free rollercoaster ride.
You reached your hand back, wrapping it around his head and pulling him closer to you. You felt him sigh directly into your skin, leaving another two hungry kisses on an exposed skin on your shoulder. God, why were you still wearing that dress?
You abruptly stopped, turning around and almost hitting the top of your head against his jaw. You didn't care about it, and the thought of apologizing never crossed your mind, just simply pushed him, planting a strong kiss right on his lips.
The clothes he gave you slipped from your hand and fell to the floor, but neither of you were concerned about it, as you were both too absorbed to care. You pushed him again, this time onto the bed, on which he sat, surprised by your suddenness. You saw red marks creeping onto the parts of the neck exposed by the undone shirt.
"Spencer, Spencer, Spencer," you said, shaking your head in a mock reprimand. He tilted his head to the side, unsure of where you were going with this, his fingers impatiently brushing your waist on both sides. "You lied to me."
Your hands grabbed his face, positioning just under his jaw and lifting it upward so you could find his lips right against yours.
“I lied to you?”
"“That's right. You said you don't read romances. But tell me, how does someone who doesn't do that know such practices?”
“Practices?” he repeated again, surprised."
His gaze was focused solely on your lips to which he tried to get closer, but you hadn't allowed him to yet.
"This whole unbuttoning of the dress. And then, the neck”
With your index finger, you traced along the skin on his neck
“Did you like it?” he asked, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. He removed one hand from your waist and took your hand, the one you had been playing with.
“Did I like it?” you scoffed with a genuine laugh.“I’m like half naked now. Answer that for yourself”
Undressing was the element you hated the most. You became impatient and couldn't understand why your clothes couldn't just disappear from you, instead of threatening to burn your already overheated skin. Spencer didn't help, so slow in his movements. You had a feeling he was doing it on purpose. He probably enjoyed watching you struggle to untangle yourself from the dress. He waited a minute before helping you, effortlessly pulling it over your head.
Maybe slow wasn't the most accurate description.The way he touched his body wasn’t slow. It was like rationing a treat, breaking it into small pieces and savoring them one by one. Meanwhile, it gazed straight into your mouth, shouting, eat me!
It required incredible self-control and composure, but it resulted in something more than just pleasure. When he found himself right between your legs, his lips touching gently every single inch of your thigh and refusing to go further despite your pleas, you compared him to the previous guys you slept with. With them, on the other hand, you had to tell them to slow down, to do everything more carefully, and not to focus solely on their own needs.
“Does it feel right?” He asked, briefly lifting his gaze, his hands gripping your thighs.
Your back arched, probably enough of an answer, but you confirmed it with a soft moan.
"I'd rather you said it out loud. Does it feel right?"
"That's edging on sadism, do you realize that?" you whimpered, trying to release the tension by pulling at his hair.
He stopped again.
"Please, do it again."
It wasn't something he had to beg for.
The rest went similarly. You liked how his confidence and courage grew, but you also went wild when, at certain moments, the same gentle and sometimes awkward Spencer returned. It was a perfectly balanced mix.
"Can you talk to me more?" he asked over time, once he was already inside you. "I want to know how you feel about all of this." After those words, your forehead twitched slightly as you felt the onset of pain. "Does it hurt?"
"No," you whispered, accompanied by a faintly tired exhale.”A little. But it's normal I just didn't have sex for a while”
"No, it shouldn't hurt you. Do you want to stop?"
"Just... give me a moment."
He slowed down, almost stopping. You took a breath,pressing your forehead to his. You stayed like that for a moment, neither of you in a hurry. After all, where to? Outside, the night still reigned, long and patient, winter’s grip holding steady. You liked having his face so close to yours, joining them together and not speaking. For the first time, you could truly say that you enjoyed the silence.
You had always considered silence overwhelming, incapable of calming the chaos that arose in your mind. You preferred moments of wildness, loud sounds, and fast pace, but it was in that silence, which fell then, that you found a peace filled with intimacy.
You wrapped your arms tighter around his neck.
"It's okay, I'm ready."
After everything, you simply lay facing each other, tangled in one another. Actually, you didn’t like that expression "after everything." After everything—after what exactly? Sex wasn’t just about the physical act; it also included the long moment before and the even more significant one after. It was precisely that moment after which revealed the true you both. How much you cared for each other and how much you meant to each other beyond the bed. That was often missing in one-night stands; the perspective of quickly disappearing from each other's lives and being forgotten somehow intensified selfishness in people.
Lying there, you played with the hair on his forehead.
"You know, they say this is the moment when people are the most honest with each other."
"Do you want to squeeze a few secrets out of me?" he asked.
"Just one," you said mysteriously, turning onto your back. Before that, you noticed his eyebrows furrow.
He propped himself up on his elbow to look at you again.
"Which one?"
You pretended to hesitate before answering. You tried with all your might to keep the smile from appearing on your face, betraying you.
"I'm afraid that even now, you won't be honest with me."
"I'm starting to get worried."
"I'll tell you, but you have to promise to tell the truth. Give me your pinky."
"What?"
"A pinky promise, you fool."
“O-okay”
Clearly surprised, he did what you asked.
"Now tell me the truth. You got any romance books at your place you're too embarrassed to admit to?"
He rolled his eyes.
"I'll find them," you teased. "I’ll get up right now and find them."
You pretended to get up, but he pulled you closer, preventing you from moving.
"You're not going anywhere."
*
You fell asleep.
Asleep. At night.
Completely normal for any other person, but for you...? The shock made your heart beat faster, painfully colliding with your chest. The blanket slid off your shoulders as you sat up.
Spencer sighed in his sleep, the kind of breath that often heralds waking, but not this time. He was still deep in slumber, lying on his stomach, his face turned toward you. Falling asleep next to each other after sex had always seemed a bit... cliché to you. Pulled straight from the movies. It looked pleasant on screen and spared the viewer the awkward scene of putting on clothes that had been scattered across the floor in a frenzy of passion just moments earlier. In reality, who had time for that?
For you, someone who had been struggling with sleep issues for years, it was usually just lying in bed next to a guy sleeping soundly, feeling bored. A sign it was time to get up and leave.
You’d planned to spend the night at Spencer’s place from the start. Well, maybe not specifically in the same bed, but as his... guest. Because of Richard, of course. So when he fell asleep mid-conversation, you didn’t have many options on where to go. Besides, you didn’t want to leave. It was nice lying next to him; his face looked so innocent in sleep. You had thought about quietly grabbing a book or reaching for one of the ones in the bedroom, but that would probably wake him up. So you rested your head back on the pillow and watched him. At some point, without realizing it, your eyelids grew heavy.
It was a very early hour, or so the clock on the nightstand claimed. It felt unreal to you. Usually, at this time, you were sitting in an empty room, waiting for some lonely soul desperate for a conversation to walk in.
For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, For weeks, you had been the perfect example of a situationship. The kind where you both almost openly wanted each other, but something held you back from truly committing. For you, it was fear and doubts about your vastly different lifestyles. You could try and give it a chance, but... it would hurt if it didn’t work out. You’d lose a friend and confidant. A man who had come to you at his lowest point and decided to trust you, making you feel special. Someone who understood you, made you laugh, and had even given you a Venus flytrap. On top of that, he had an excellent taste in books, an incredible intellect, and, to be completely fair, was very good in bed.
Well, running away wasn’t an option anymore. You knew that when Spencer woke up, you’d have two choices: pretend nothing happened again, or have a conversation. You were both adults, so it was only reasonable to expect you’d choose the latter
You knew you wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again. It was an anomaly, one that wouldn’t repeat itself. Still, you wanted to let him sleep peacefully, feeling guilty for disrupting his night by barging into his apartment. Before finding a comfortable position by his side, ready to lie there for an hour or two, you glanced one last time at the clock—and something caught your attention.
“Spencer,” you said softly, not wanting to wake him too abruptly. It didn’t work, so you gently shook his bare shoulder. “Spencer, your phone.”
It must have been silent, but you could clearly see an incoming call displayed on the screen.
At the word phone, he reacted as if it were a blaring alarm. He bolted upright, still half-asleep, and pressed the device to his ear.
“Hotch?” he asked, his voice rough and groggy, sounding almost like a cough. He listened to the person on the other end, rubbing his face with one hand to wake himself up, then sighing heavily as he ran that same hand through his hair.
"I’ll be there in an hour," he said, his tone laced with clear reluctance but also an undeniable sense of duty. When the call ended, he turned to you over his shoulder. The expression on his face softened.
"Hey," he said gently.
"A new case?" you guessed, trying not to let it show how much you didn’t want him to leave. After all, it was what it was—his work was far more needed by the world than by you in bed.
"We’ve been working on it for a while, and there’s been some kind of breakthrough... I’m really sorry. I feel bad, leaving like this,"
"Spencer, I understand. It must be something important. Go, and don’t worry about me. I’ll get myself together and head back home soon..."
"And what about your roommate’s ex?" he interrupted, giving a slight shake of his head. "You don’t know if he’s gone yet. You shouldn’t be going back alone."
"It’s Richard. He’s a very impatient motherfucker. He’s probably already gone," you replied.
"You don’t know that."
"So, what are you going to do?" you scoffed. "Take me there by the hand?"
Spencer was silent for a moment, looking at you as if the answer was obvious.
"Just stay here,"
His suggestion made you raise an eyebrow. Spencer shrugged.
“Well, what? It’s barely five in the morning. I don’t want to kick you out this early just because I got a call from work.”
"Kick me out?" you chuckled, causing him to look at you with a slightly puzzled expression. At the same time, he was heading toward the wardrobe, realizing he didn’t have much time and should start getting dressed. "If you call this kicking someone out, then I don’t even have a word for how other guys behave. By the way, could you hand me, I don’t know, a sweater or something?"
The apartment had a pleasant temperature, but you still had an overwhelming urge to wrap yourself in something warm and soft. The only piece of clothing you had with you was a short-sleeved dress. And a jacket, but that didn’t really count.
"In that case..." Spencer began, rummaging through the clothes in his wardrobe, his brow slightly furrowed as if he were seriously contemplating his choice. He didn’t seem amused by your earlier joke—in fact, he looked surprisingly focused.
His fingers finally stopped on one of the hangers. He pulled something out and turned toward you with a faint smile.
"I'm tremendously proud that I don't fall into the category of those other guys. You like purple, right?" he added, holding up a sweater in a deep plum shade.
"I meant just any piece of clothing. But yes, I do like purple," you said, stretching your hands out in front of you, encouraging him to toss you the sweater.
Instead of throwing it, he stepped closer to you. At first, you didn’t understand what he was doing, especially when he stopped right in front of you, still holding the sweater in his hands.
It dawned on you a moment later, and you burst into laughter, raising your arms up so he could slide it over your head. The sweater draped over your body, proving to be slightly oversized. The V-shaped neckline awkwardly settled on your shoulder, slipping down and leaving it exposed.
Spencer, almost mechanically and with focus, slid his hands under the fabric to free your hair that was tangled beneath it. After probably half the night in the club and the second half spent in bed, it probably resembled a huge mess of hay, but you weren’t particularly concerned about it. It only just occurred to you that he had to leave soon, and knowing his work and the constant impossibility of syncing your schedules, you might not see each other again until the next few days.
"I’d like to talk to you," Spencer suddenly said, almost as if he had to force the words out, quietly taking a breath. "About all of this. About us. We don’t really have time for it now, but as soon as I get back, I’ll make sure to meet you. No matter what time it is or how tired I am, okay?"
You wanted to comment on the last part of his words, the bit about being tired, assuring him that you weren’t asking for that from him, but something in his gaze stopped you. It was funny how his eyes were both sleepy and lively at the same time. His dark iris blended with his dilated pupil, the boundary between them fading, making them almost hypnotic.
"So, are you staying here?" he asked.
A delicate smile passed over your face.
"I see this means a lot to you. Aren’t you afraid I’ll start digging through your books?" "All of them are at your disposal," he reassured, also lifting the corners of his mouth slightly.
However, suddenly his expression darkened, as if some spell had been cast, taking away all his confidence. For a long moment, he stayed silent, and you tilted your head in confusion.
"Can... can I kiss you?" he finally asked.
"Do I need to remind you that we already slept together?"
"Well..."
Whatever he was about to say, you simply cupped his neck with your hand, pulling him closer. A sweet, shallow, slightly long —a typical farewell kiss.
He had already mostly dressed, with only the task of crouching down by the nightstand left, to open the safe inside. You knew he kept his gun and badge there. You tried not to look in his direction while he entered the code, just as common decency dictated looking away when someone unlocks their phone. But still, you noticed how his fingers trembled slightly.
When he left, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. If you were anyone else, you would’ve hidden under the blanket, absorbing the scent of both of you, sinking into an incredibly peaceful sleep. However, you were aware that wouldn’t happen. You pulled a pillow under your head, lost in thought, haunted by some strange unease.
You spent a long time simply wandering around the apartment, unable to help the fact that you were one of those people who got bored quickly. Jude had just returned, you thought, as the clock struck eight. The main trait of her ex was unpredictability, but even he followed certain patterns and routines in life. He didn’t show up that early because he knew she was still asleep. He preferred to knock on the door at noon and bother her during her free time.
You started getting ready before you even made a decision. First, you made the bed, then undressed again to slip back into the dress. On top, you put Spencer’s sweater, for some unknown reason not wanting to part with it. Was this some sort of reversed sock strategy? Were you taking his clothes instead of leaving them behind?
An impulse shot through your body as you stood by the door. Not even knowing what you were doing, you simply returned to the bedroom, falling to your knees in front of the, as it turned out, unopened safe.
Spencer hadn’t emptied it completely. Inside was a dose of Dilaudid, the reason his hands had been trembling earlier.
An unexpected wave of guilt hit you with force. Recently, you hadn’t brought up the topic with him at all, assuming that if he needed to talk about it and was ready to, he would bring it up himself. But that’s not how people in addiction found themselves. They could deny it to the very end, doing anything to avoid seeking help.
You wiped your face with your hand. Should you even confront him about it when you saw him again? Well, the answer was probably yes, but the real question was how.
You came up with the idea of perhaps arranging a night in your room across from the library. That place had an oddly polite way of encouraging people to be honest, without making them feel like information was being extracted from them forcefully. You had been considering this on your way back. The heels were rubbing your feet, and after the night in the club, you had a few blisters. Before entering the building where you lived, you simply took them off, not wanting to risk your life on those steep stairs. Jude had sprained her wrist on them once, and thank God it was just her wrist.
Completely lost in your thoughts, in their aggressive waterfall, you didn’t even notice someone sitting right by the door to your apartment, leaning against it with their back. You jumped in surprise when Richard sprang to his feet.
Shit.
"Hey!" he exclaimed, clearly happy to see you. You cautiously stepped back a step, likely balancing on the edge of the stairs. You didn’t turn around, nervously glancing at the man. "Hey, do you remember me? You're Jude's roommate, right? You definitely remember me."
"I remember," you admitted uncertainty, holding yourself back from taking another step backward. Richard always had that dangerously unpredictable energy. One moment, he could circle around his girlfriend like an attention-hungry kitten, and the next, he’d be throwing plates in the kitchen. Although, theoretically, he had no reason to hurt you, you preferred to remain... cautious.
"That's great. Listen, could you let me in for just a second? I need to talk to her."
You didn’t know what to say, how to act. Of course, letting him in was out of the question; you wouldn’t do that to your friend. However, you knew that as soon as you opened the door, he’d take advantage of the opportunity and force his way inside. You could step back… the real question was whether he would let you.
"Come on..." he pleaded, trying to make a puppy-dog face, which looked downright comical on his stern face. "Please, she doesn’t want to see me. I just want to talk, to make things right. I’ve changed, really. I don’t know what she told you about me, but half of it probably wasn’t even true. Please."
Seeing that you still weren’t moving, his features suddenly hardened.
"Just open the door."
You didn’t respond.
"Where’s your key?"
He probably guessed it was in your jacket pocket, and suddenly reached for you.
"Move away, right now!" you hissed, pushing his hand away.
He grabbed your wrist so tightly that a strangled cry of pain escaped you.
You started struggling. You tried to push him away as he rummaged through your pockets one by one, still gripping your hand tightly, preventing you from escaping. A few times, you struck him with a clenched fist, shouting loudly, hoping to wake Jude or one of the neighbors.
Your attempts at defense were in vain. No one came. Richard finally found the key, and once he got what he wanted, he shoved you aside with a scoff.
You didn’t even have a chance to try to regain your balance.
It happened so quickly that you didn’t even manage to close your eyes, fooling yourself into thinking it might protect you from the pain to come. During the struggle with Richard, you dropped the shoes you were holding, your bare feet slipping off the edge of the step. Your body followed, limp, like a rag doll. In that moment, you wished you were one. Without bones, the sound of them cracking filling your ears.
Without limbs, vulnerable to breaks.
Without real eyes, still covered in the remnants of party makeup.
Beautiful, cold, and empty, as they started to fill with fog.
Forced to look in the direction your neck had twisted.
Dead.
tagging: @lillaberry @nightfullofparadox @issy25 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @reidmarieprentiss @miriamnox @bloodredrubyrose
i'm so grateful for how many of you wanted to read it all <3
#criminal minds fanfic#spencer reid x reader#criminal minds#spencer reid#spencer reid criminal minds#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x oc#aaron hotchner#criminal mind#derek morgan#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fic#criminal minds angst#criminal minds fanfiction#spencer reid angst#doctor spencer reid#dr spencer reid
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TWST Boys General HC’s!
Just some HCs for the TWST boys. No real theme to them or anything, and it’s mostly self-indulgent. Some characters will have much more than others, but I made sure everyone has at least one (You can clearly see what my favorite dorm and characters are lol-). Mostly fluff, but I’ll state before the headcanon if it’s angst, or if there’s a trigger warning, in red. Requests are open if anyone wants :) All writing under the cut!
Heartslabyul:
Riddle Rosehearts -
Gets very tense about things being dirty because he grew up in a really sterile environment with his mom. Sometimes, he gets worked up over something and cleans to calm down, it’s probably one of his healthier behaviors even if he has to work on not getting tense when it isn’t perfect.
His favorite sweets are obviously strawberry tarts, but in second place is red velvet cake or cupcakes. He likes the color and thinks it tastes like chocolate.
He likes trying all of the sweets Trey makes, and sometimes does taste tests like he’s judging them in a bake show. He lines them up, tries each of them, and thinks about what he likes and dislikes about each.
Also, he got a hedgehog plushie from Trey, and since his overblot, he has slept with it every night as a form of comfort.
Angst, Trigger Warning for EDs - Yeah, this one is pretty self-explanatory. Considering his devil of an almond mom and how thin he looks, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had one.
Trey Clover -
He’s a huge stress baker. He panics about the Prefect and Aduece duo being in trouble and suddenly the fridge is full of various baked goods.
All of the Heartslabyul first years call him dad, but only a few to his face. Those few are Ace and Deuce, who started it.
Trey loves trying out new recipes, and he wants to publish his own recipe book one day.
Cater Diamond -
Cater loves spicy food, which is canon, but my headcanon is that he makes his own spice blends to use on his food.
Cater and Trey used to have weekly cooking/baking nights when they were roommates. Cater would cook something, and then Trey would bake something. They’d eat together and watch a movie in their dorm room.
Angst - I subscribe to the theory that Cater was the housewarden before Riddle. Headcanon that now he thinks that Riddle’s overblot was his fault. Cater wasn’t able to help out his underclassmen when this started, since he was too weak to be able to win, and after he lost Riddle spiraled even harder down the road of a tyrant.
Ace Trapolla -
Ace genuinely loves the hedgehogs but hates taking care of them because he can’t say no to giving them treats, and then Riddle gets mad. He’s gotten much better at hiding it when he does, though. (Riddle’s just gotten better at not getting mad about)
He loves reading those really bad romance novels where you have to pause every few pages to figure out what just happened and why. He has a secret account he used to write fanfiction on but stopped after his brother found out and teased him over it.
Deuce Spade -
He calls his mom every day at the same time. He does not let anything stop him and Ace likes to stand next to him and make fake moaning sounds to annoy him.
Angst, trigger warning for recovering addiction - Deuce used to be a delinquent, and so he did some bad stuff. He’s currently recovering from some kind of addiction, although he’s doing much better now. He has weekly meetings with Riddle about it, who uses the knowledge his mother made him learn about it to help him. They bond over not wanting to disappoint their mothers and how they want to get good grades to make them proud, even if it’s healthy for Duece but unhealthy for Riddle.
Savanaclaw:
Leona Kingscholar -
His favorite place to nap is the botanical gardens because it’s warm and sunny, like a cat.
Back when they were kids, Falena/Farena(Eng. Vs Jap. name) used to braid his hair. They used to put in little beads and things for fun.
Agnst - When they were kids they were super close, but then Farena and Leona grew apart because Leona didn’t want to ‘hold his brother back’ after getting to know what everyone thought of him. Farena still calls him every week to try and talk, even back when Checka was a baby/toddler. Leona would never admit it but he listens to every voicemail that gets sent.
Ruggie Bucchi -
His favorite kind of donuts are the lemon-flavored ones. He likes that they're tangy and not as blindingly sweet. In second place is blueberry, and third is jelly-filled.
Ruggie had been pushed to babysit Checka for Leona, and they went to a fast food place together. Ruggie taught Checka how to dine and dash. (And then came back with Leona who paid for their meals)
Jack Howl -
He does a morning run every day and then has a big breakfast. He sees it as the most important meal of the day and never skips it, no matter what. He started doing it with the Prefect so that way he could make sure they were eating well/enough, and now all the first years meet up for breakfast on the weekends. Grim+Prefect bring tuna, Epel brings apple juice or pie, the ADuece Duo brings whatever Trey has left over, Sebek brings some fae dish made with normal ingredients so they can try it, Ortho brings various ingredients and Jack cooks whatever Ortho brings.
Octavinelle:
Azul Ashengrotto -
Angst, Trigger Warning for EDs - Azul has really bad eating disorder tendencies. Like, ‘Well, I had a singular chocolate so now I can’t eat dinner’ bad. He’s working on stopping it, but right now he can’t do much about it. However, the one thing that often works is Jade’s mushroom dishes. Jade started looking for them and told Azul that they were healthy, so now they’re his safe food. Floyd wishes it was anything else at this point, he's so sick of mushrooms, but he'll let Jade cook them for Azul even if Floyd doesn't touch them.
Jade Leech -
Jade doesn’t have a favorite mushroom because he feels like if he picks one that makes the others less special. He had one for like a week when he first came to NRC, but felt so guilty he stopped liking it more than the others. (It was Amanita phalloides/the death cap mushroom)
Floyd Leech -
Floyd thinks really hard about what nicknames to give people. He tries to get something that matches them, and who they are based on what he knows (Ex; Ace is often ‘crabby’, Kalim has a ‘fluffy’ personality like a sea otter, etc.) The exceptions are the Prefect and Riddle, who he just saw and went “Yeah. Shrimpy and Goldfishie. Shrimp posture and red hair. That’s what they are.” He doesn’t give nicknames to Azul and Jade because he believes that they’re both so interesting they could never be categorized as anything but their name.
Scarabia:
Kalim Al-Asim -
Kalim loves jewelry and wearing it. He often gives it as gifts to Jamil, and it’s why he has so many golden accessories all over. Kalim proves the gold, but Jamil is often the one who picks out the design.
Since Jamil’s overblot, Kalim’s started learning how to do stuff on his own. So far, he can (mostly) clean a window and (kind of) cook! Specifically, he’s learned how to cook pasta and add seasonings to soup. Not the best, but he’s trying.
Jamil Viper -
Jamil has so many snake things because of his last name and he hates it just because he's so sick of them at this point. He often trades gifts with Najma, so he ends up with a bunch of star-themed things as well. On his bedframe back home, he’s got little glowing star stickers.
Pomefiore:
Vil Schoenheit -
He used to buy up a bunch of these Neige necklaces that were super breakable, and whenever he got mad, he would throw them at the wall until he calmed down. Then he cleans up and thinks about what happened and how he feels. Although, it’s a surprisingly healthy way of getting his anger out, especially considering the more violent nature of throwing the necklaces.
Rook Hunt -
Rook has a ‘secret’ fanfiction account that he uses to write fanfics of Vil and Neige, sometimes together as friends and sometimes. Everything is oddly on point and both fandoms hotly debate what it means when he has a certain character bring up an event he never expanded upon and they never mentioned. His fics even have their fics written about them, including his “OCs” who are actually just his other classmates who aren’t as well known.
Epel Felmeir -
Epel secretly loves to bake but never did it pre-NRC because it wasn’t “manly enough” of a hobby. Now that Vil’s worried about excess sugar causing breakouts and stuff, though, he does it much more often out of spite. (Ironically, Vil thinks it’s great because Epel’s expressing himself naturally and not trying to conform to being manly or not)
Ignihyde:
Idia Shroud -
He likes to play the TWST version of the Sims and Stardew Valley and gets really into modding them. He likes to make characters of all of his favorite people and then talk to them. They’re hyper-realistic to how they act and look too, to the point where it’s either really creepy or romantic depending on how you look at it.
Ortho Shroud -
Angst - Ortho likes to listen to music and look at art because they’re the only things that he can’t automatically compute. He can do a math problem in seconds, but he’ll never be able to have the human ability to connect to art on an emotional level, so he consumes as much as he can in hopes of finding a way to experience it.
Diasonia:
Malleus Dracona -
He has a dragon horde, but instead of gold, which he already has a tone of and doesn’t care for, it’s full of grotesques, pictures of gargoyles, and various gifts from his friends and father. He tried to go to sleep on it back when he was little, but nearly crushed some stuff, so Lilia decided to knit him a big blanket to use instead. Later on, Silver and Sebek also pitched in, then the Prefect, and so now Malleus has a horde and a pile of snuggly things to sleep on.
Lilia Vanrouge -
He calls the prefect ‘beastie’, which I am unsure of if this is canon or not. It could just be a very popular headcanon I’ve seen.
I think it’s canon but not explicitly stated so I’ll state it as a headcanon; Lilia was in a polyamorous relationship with both Raverne and Meleanor. I ship it very hard and I need to say it.
Silver “Vanrouge” -
My main headcanon is that he listed Lilia as his father on all school documents. Not legal guardian, but father. He did tell Lilia, but Malleus saw and did the same thing afterward.
Sebek Zigvolt -
Sebek has a diary that he often writes in, and by often I mean almost every night. Surprisingly, most of it isn’t about Malleus, but rather his everyday life and school. He talks about his friends, and how classes are going, and even occasionally praises his various classmates for small things. It might seem out of character, but it’s just a place for him to vent the feelings that he has that he doesn’t want to talk about to others.
Ramshackle:
Grim -
Grim loves tuna, which is canon, but it’s not his actual favorite fish in terms of taste. It’s just that tuna was the only thing that the Prefect ever got for him ever since he first requested it because he was in the mood. The fact that they cared so much to get him his “favorite” after he requested it turned tuna into his favorite.
RSA+NBC:
Che’nya -
Che’nya always makes sure to take really good care of his teeth and is very proud of his smile. He thinks it makes him look adorable, and it does.
Neige Leblanche -
Neige loves sewing and knitting, he thinks that it’s so much fun to make cute things. He’s worn them out, and often posts about them online. He doesn’t have enough free time to make his own patterns, but he hopes to be able to get good enough to do so one day.
Neige likes acting, but he loves singing and dancing. He doesn’t get to do it as often because he mostly acts, but it’s his favorite thing to do. SDC was so much fun for him, he really wanted to get to perform and meet all of the performers from different schools.
Because Snow White’s voice is so high-pitched, I HC him as a tenor by nature, although he taught himself to sing much higher notes, maybe even those of a normal soprano. (A tenor is the higher, often male voice in most choirs and a soprano is the higher, often female voice- It’s a bad explanation but it basically means he’s got a higher vocal range/voice than some of the other characters when he sings.)
Bittersweet - Neige is just as much of a cinnamon roll offline as he is online. He donates a bunch to charity, and considering his backstory, I think that most of it goes to orphaned or helpless children like him, who don’t have an adult around to take care of them. He hopes to make sure that no children have to go into the workforce young like he did to support the dwarves and himself, even if he knows that it’s not realistic.
Angst - Neige never wanted to go into acting but had to because he was good at it and he couldn’t find any other well-paying jobs for children, so he could support himself and his seven friends. He loves his job, yes, but sometimes he wishes that he could’ve been a normal teen doing his school’s plays or community theater rather than worrying about having to stay on top of trends and stuff.
Rollo Flamme -
Already mentioned this in a previous post, but Rollo is an all-or-nothing kind of guy when it comes to crushes, but it’s a bit more than that. In almost everything, he puts either all of his time and energy into it or he just doesn’t care. Friendships, schoolwork, relationships, even little things like chores, he does it all or he doesn’t do it.
Other Event/Side Characters:
Checka Kingscholar -
Checka loves visiting his uncle, so much so that he spends at least a weekend at NRC a month. It’s his favorite part of the month, and he loves that Leona will give him treats and find some time to play with him. (Leona clears his entire schedule for the weekends Checka comes out even though he’d never admit it)
Najma Viper -
I think Kalim has a canonic cousin based on Jasmine, so I HC Najma as being her handmaiden. Kind of like Dalia to Jasmine in the live-action Aladin.
#riddle rosehearts#riddle rosehearts x reader#trey clover#trey clover x reader#cater diamond#cater diamond x reader#ace trappola#ace trapolla x reader#duece spade#duece spade x reader#leona kingscholar#leona kingsholar x reader#ruggie bucchi#ruggie bucci x reader#jack howl#jack howl x reader#azul ashengrotto#azul x reader#jade leech#jade leech x reader#floyd leech#floyd leech x reader#kalim al asim#kalim x reader#jamil viper#jamil x reader#vil schoenheit#vil x reader#rook hunt#rook hunt x reader
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Freelancer!
More headcanons (ft. Gavin) under the cut!
^ and a Pinterest board bc I have a problem
- Hux calls them Skipper
- Matching heart hip tattoos w/ my Gav design & dyed the tips of their hair pink to match as well teehee
- Can get pretty nasty academic burnout and bouts of executive dysfunction
- Boba shop employee
- A dancer! Has a tiktok where they post choreo clips to and throwing it down to whatever songs are trending
- Big softy. So!! Cuddly!! World cold and harsh, Freelancer’s arms so warm and safe
- Gay awakening was Danny Phantom
- Chronic “lol” user while texting, and it gets on Damien’s nerves because nothing is even “lol” worthy about making dinner plans so STOP ENDING YOUR SENTENCES WITH LOL WHATS SO FUNNY BRO
- Filipino 🇵🇭
- Spicy foods = best foods. If their organs aren’t melting from the inside out then what’s the point??
- Pokémon sweat tbh
- Dr. Pepper addict
- Coffee hater, but they’ll drink it anyway if they’re desperate enough. They call it “dirty bean water” which both confuses and delights Gavin immensely
- Gave Gav a pair of cat ear headphones for the holidays, but they lowkey like how they look on him a lil too much so… that’s a pandora’s box situation for another day
- So many stupid and silly bumper stickers on their car (“Please don’t watch me park, I have performance anxiety”, “I break for roly-pollies”, etc.)
- Their favorite book genre is fanfiction on AO3
- Thus, shamelessly, they get some of their best ideas of how to rock Gavin’s world from smut fics
- Calls Gavin “playboy” when they’re being suggestive ;)
- Half of their paycheck would go to DoorDash if they got their way
- Has that natural aura where everyone can’t really help but crush on them a bit
- Lets Gavin change out their dexcom <3
- Has a collection of fun tape and/or transmitter stickers for said dexcom
- California born and raised
- If there is a DAMN rowing crew, they’re on it. Was quite exceptional on their high school team
- Can surprisingly be an efficient morning person (unless there’s a pretty incubus curled up at their side, then you’re playing by Cat Rules. Can’t move until the cat does first)
- Scared of heights, you’ll never find their ass on an airplane
vibe check Miles and take a peek at their pin board
#this is my favorite listener design so far <3#Whistler’s Listeners#redacted audio#redacted asmr#redactedverse#redacted fanart#redacted fandom#redacted art#redacted freelancer#redacted damn crew#redacted listener#listener characters#redacted headcanons#sincerelywhistler
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AMATO AMAR PERDONA
notes: the title is taken from The Divine Comedy, Canto 5(second circle) of Inferno. Initially this was an idea I wanted to include in my other fanfiction, so I guess this can be considered as a bonus.
Priest Leon S. Kennedy x female reader | 18+ MDNI. smut, female reader, light religious themes, Leon is a priest, blowjob, blasphemy kink, improper use of confessional booth, snowball kiss, semi public sex.
tags: @sprawberry
After years of fighting B.O.W, he finally sets on something calm, helping and saving people without risking his own life, but as time passes by, a bitter realization hits Leon harder than he expected; that not everyone was born for this. Maybe it is adrenaline addiction or without noticing he had found comfort in his misery at that time, but he is grateful that the routine incorporated easily into one’s life as deeds accumulate, overshadowing any thoughts about changing his life again and he didn’t have any other way other than focusing on the work.
The church is old and is not located in the best place, which tends to have windy weather. He suspected those are reasons why the building doesn’t have a lot of visitors, not like people are deeply religious nowadays either. Sometimes it feels like walls are thinner than paper, the wind brushes and whispers sweet, quiet nothings, barely audible to human ears while Leon prepares for his tasks or just lollygags during his free time. It has been said that airy currents can bring many unwanted things; pebbles, the leaves during the autumn season and the smells that disclose people’s secrets. He could never have expected it to bring a woman into his life, making it more colorful than any light arrays coming from the glass-stained windows in his church. From a small spark, a Great flame has risen.
The only thing he needed to do was to help you with your husband’s funeral, but he fucked this up. Really fucked up all this, his mind was repeating multiple times that it was his job to console you, he should have put down your little advances, but he couldn’t, deep down the urge to delve into something prohibited was stronger. The conflict between his morality and passion had died down in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Your appearance was like a quick bullet going through his routine and destroying it, adding the thrill that consumed the guilt he was supposed to feel. Little touches of your fingers, while no one is looking, quickly have moved to more intimate encounters, indulging in each other’s body on the altar, under the eyes of Jesus.
Some days, even the confessional booth was filled with your voice, telling him your desires and how much you want him to fuck your brains out of your head, to make you a dumb slut in front of the son of God and there has never been a trace of shame in your words. A long time ago he deduced a devil would sound like you; with a sweet-sweet intonation describing, in the holy place and not trying to hide all details, how his cock would fill nicely your pussy. Leon’s mind didn’t help much in those cases either. It has always vividly recalled how good your moans echo against the walls of the church. Either there is no need to imagine anything he hasn’t already done in this building, every cranny has heard and the All-seeing eye has witnessed you indulging in the temptation of each other’s body. The gentle love transforms into a deadly sin, but it is better to suffer in hell together, than alone.
His cock was already hard, tucked out, stroking it with his hand while his blue eyes are set on your knelt state. He tugs your hair, pulling you closer to his aching length, pushing it against your lips. They almost envelop its head, the soft and plush skin of them on it, he keeps tracing and brushing his tip, smearing a little bit of his already leaking precum but not letting you go any further. Almost all day passed without even a light touch which is too much for him, a man like him can have a quick good time, and teasing himself was a bad decision.
“Daddy Kennedy, that’s not polite to make a lady wait” Your tongue peeks out to lick away the bitter substance on your lips, teeth bite down slightly on the lower skin after tongue retreated. His grip on your hair tightened, cracking out a smile and pushing your head closer now.
“It is ‘Father Kennedy’” his correction leaves his mouth quickly, leading to a light slap on your lips with his cock as a silent command to open your mouth. “and I still didn’t hear any holy words from this mouth”
You loll out the tongue, feeling him dragging his leaking head against the exposed wet surface, smearing and filling your tastebuds with the bitterness of his precum, which makes more saliva pool in your mouth. The man in front of you not only teases himself but you too.
“What do we say?” He inquires breathlessly, his blue orbs almost shining from intensity and heat in the dimly lightened booth. He slaps his cock on your tongue inducing a soft wet sound to escape when it connects with the flesh.
“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and corrupted your man.” Your eyes keep the contact with Leon’s as the prayer leaves your mouth quickly, something you have already repeated a billion times and he is already familiar with those words, not his first time to hear from one’s lips and it wouldn’t be the last time. This is so boring in the end, repenting feverly about something you can’t help but spit on. So why not alter it? Punishment is much more tempting than forgiveness. Your lips ghost on his aching cock, movements of your tongue brush more against the tip, flicking ‘accidentally’ at it and leaving him to covet for more. “Alas, I don’t detest all my sins cause the pain of hell is more alluring than the pleasures of heaven”
“Do I need to teach you everything?” Leon’s voice breaks the silence with a rough tone after you alter the prayer. You wish he would strike you, but he doesn’t. His attention shifts, watching a string of saliva dripping along his flesh from the tip of your tongue. Your eyes are on his face, meeting his gaze and not wavering. “Don’t you have any shame in that body of yours? Carrying on your whoring so openly in front of me” There is a silence, but even with the lack of his order you can grasp what he wants right now; the grip on your hair lessens, letting you be more free in your actions. “But be not afraid, my dove, this don’t disgust me, I am here to absolve you from your sins”
You don’t need to be ordered around to know what he implies. His body shudders when your lips embrace his cock in the wet and warm sensations around him, your hand slides down with your mouth along the length until you reach the base. Leon doesn’t notice how his own palm returns its grip on your hair, his hips buck up pushing you deeper to get more from your mouth already. A greedy bastard you would call him. Deep inside guilt tries to crawl out, but your mouth around him let this bullshit disappear and focus on how your tongue flicks against the head, playing with the sensitive spot under the tip, while your hand keeps pumping along the flesh, spreading the dripping saliva with every stroke. The acolyte corrupted by a widow, he should be drowning in guilt and beg for forgiveness of the Lord, but the sight of you in between his legs reminds him that God can’t give a blowjob in the confessional booth, maybe is that what’s tempting.
“Forgive me Father for I have sinned, my last confession was a year ago” Leon’s ears catch another woman’s voice, pulling him out of overflowing pleasure. This can’t be you, your mouth is busy with his cock and for a brief moment, he felt his blood hitch in his veins, at this hour usually there are no visitors, but seems this isn’t your lucky day. Your head halts its movements, keeping his cock in your warm and wet mouth, looking at him with a clear surprise. An idea sparkles in your mind, and you try to move more, to push his buttons and see him struggle cause of your doings, but his hand prevents this by giving a quick tap on the back of your head; ‘Don’t move’. A quiet sob before a trembling voice speaks up again. “I accuse myself of adultery, I have been eyeing and lusting for the man who isn’t my husband, God, I-…I am so sorry”
O the irony of the situation having someone confess the sin of lust while you are kneeling in between his legs. His hand grips harder your hair to tilt your head better so the tip rubs against the soft and velvet of your cheek, stretching it and he can feel your drool roll down, staining his pants. Leon takes a brief peek at the shadowed figure in the grilled window, trying to recollect himself. Shaky breath leaves his lips, listening to a woman’s words fill the space, his blue eyes dart down to your messy frame; trying to swallow your saliva. Leon can’t keep still himself, his hips start rolling into your mouth, enjoying the wetness of your tongue brushing along his sliding length. The pleasure makes it too hard to stay still, making him greedier for more. Your tongue flicks on his tip every time his cock moves back and forth slowly, leading his head rests against the wooden wall behind him, his half-lidded gaze keeps eye contact with you.
“Have you given into the temptation?” Leon asks. His voice feels so sensual to your ears, but they aren’t addressed to you. The poor woman whispers something, but you don’t catch her words cause your attention is mostly on the dick in your mouth.
His cock slides further, the tip rubs against the back of the throat provoking it to squeeze and tighten around him nicely and you try not to gag, not to sink too deep but your efforts are useless. His grip holds you well as he pushes you lower, highlighting his control over you right now. Drool drips more, its excess gathering at the corners of your mouth. There can be heard some noises coming from you, sending pleasant vibrations over every nerve of his body, but those wet sounds get muffled by his own heavy voice and shaky voice, trying to control it and not to get caught. This wouldn’t do anything good for his reputation.
“I can hear you rue your sin… my child, so…” he swallows hard, pausing to admire your messy state; eyes are watered, some tears roll down and your cheeks are stained with mascara, your face starts to get redder and the lack of oxygen makes you feel lightheaded, holding your breath to not mess with your gag reflex. “God is… All-forgiving..” Another heavy sigh leaves his mouth, trying to control his voice and not to groan as you swallow the excess saliva, provoking another jolt of pleasure running through his body. The warmth and how you struggle made him almost choke on the moan and forget what he was saying. If not for that lady, he would be already face fucking you without any obstacles. He swallows hard again, his tone is lower now, but there is an audible shakiness. “Repent your sins and pray to be shielded” A pause, staring at you with a darkened and burned gaze. “By the temptation of the devil… my child“
He knows well who is the devil here. His voice almost breaks in a high-pitched tone at the end of the sentence, when he rolled his hips into you, again to grind his tip into the back of your throat, his leaking tip from precum fills your taste buds again and you swallow some of the salivas, making tight walls clench around him, almost begging to cum. Personally, Leon doesn’t have the patience to keep that visitor any longer here, it gets much harder to keep his voice steady and right now his own pleasure is much more important than one’s problem. And he is nothing but a man. Hearing a mumble of prayer on the other side of the booth. His grip lessens on your hair, giving you control of your movements. You pull back, letting air to reach your lungs finally. Your lips create a strand of saliva between his dick and your glistening and swollen lips, inhaling greedily for air, while his mouth is covered by palm, trying to not groan which threatens to crawl out from his lips cause of the messy sight in front of him. His struggle is like an addiction, you can’t stay away from him right now, your lips return to pepper his cock with kisses, making him twitch in the hot air of narrow space and you sink down with your mouth, sucking on the tip while hand returns to pump his length, watching him struggling not to moan. Too bad he got lucky, the other voice ceased to exist, leaving him with you.
“That’s how you pray, sweet dove” Leon teases, the corners of his lip tugging up into a smirk. You hum, sending another wave of pleasure. Another flick and he feels his balls tighten, his cock throbbing in your mouth and his fingers return to your hair, taking control of your movements back into his hands. “Such a good little thing, fuck…” Leon mumbles, feeling beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He chases the rising pleasure in his body, his hips bucking to meet your face. Deepening thrusts, his head grinds against your throat. Another low moan escapes his lips. “Sucking so well, God made you for this, right?”
All he can see is your messy face, sloppily taking him so well, Leon is so focused on you and your mouth, his orgasm approaches quicker than he expected. His body shudders and with the last thrust his cock throbs for the last time and spurts out a load of cum, filling your mouth. His legs feel numb, and with a heavy gaze he is watching your mouth fill with his fluid so well. Leon’s mind is still under the influence of his orgasm and the post-nut clarity doesn’t hit him, so he doesn’t register how you get up so quickly, your hand lays on his stubbled cheek to pull him into a kiss. Mouth opened kiss. Your tongue doesn’t shy to intrude into his mouth, sloppily kissing him and passing the warm, slightly sticky, and salty substance into his mouth. His own cum. His taste. It fills his mouth and a moan crawls out against your lips. He pulled you tightly against his body, kissing you back harder, tongue probing and sliding against each other, playing and mixing his cum with your salivas. His Adam’s apple bobs and he swallowed it, the devil cocktail, feeling hot underneath his collar. Leon pulls back from a kiss, a string of fluids connects your lips, and if there was more time, he would fuck you on some of the wooden pews or better, on the altar. Alas, all he can do right now is to reach for your mouth to trace along the swollen and wet flesh of your lower lip. Not like his are better right now, he can still taste himself on the tip of his tongue.
“The god has freed you from your sins” he whispers, still panting heavily and his gaze is intently observing you with a deep, burning desire.
“Amen, Father” you respond.
#leon kennedy x reader#leon kennedy x you#leon s kennedy x reader#leon kennedy smut#leon s kennedy#resident evil x reader#leon s kennedy x you#death island leon#resident evil smut#leon kennedy fanfic
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My most favourite Overlord Husk AU fanfictions (last update 28/9/2024)
I am no expert in writing, just a regular fangirl whose brain is constantly occupied by HuskerDust. I like these fics purely based on the kicks I get out of reading reading them. HuskerDust fanfiction is my drug now :))))
All of this start commonly with Husk winning Angel's soul in a game against Valentino, the two eventually got involved romantically but ...
Blue Is Not Your Colour by Shienkha (competed)
It is rare to see Husk as deeply flawed, an addict to his poison (gambling) as much as Angel to sex. Both fell victims to their addiction, ultimately ruined their chance at happiness. In the end, Husk lost his soul to Alastor and Angel went back to Valentino. Husk realized only then that he loved Angel. The two finally reunited at the Hazbin Hotel, connecting the story to the canon.
“And a spade,” he whispered to himself as he headed out, slipping the ring to his chest pocket, “to symbolise how far I would have gone for you.”
As far as it would have taken to keep you happy.
Or, in the absence of it…
… as safe as one can be in Hell.
This is absolutely the best fic in my opinion.
2. Loved You Like Religion by cokedupdicksuckinghoe (completed)
This is as beautiful as the song after which the fic is titled.
Angel killed Valentino to save Husk. Husk was oblivious to his feeling until Angel seduced him with "Why Don't You Do Right". In the end, Husk prepared to throw everything away for Angel.
"He was devoted to Angel; he loved him like religion."
3. To A Player Everything Is A Game by Tat_Tat (completed)
A bundle of domestic bliss. This fic is my guilty pleasure. Whenever I came across a traumatic HuskerDust fic, I come back to this to save myself from the anxiety.
4. Call Your Bluff by @razzapplemagic
Angel relapsed and went back to Valentino after being 'rejected' by Husk. He later worked through his traumas, left Valentino on his own while befriending Vaggie during Extermination Day. As of the latest update, Angel came back to the casino and reconciled with Husk. The two began dating and Angel prepared to face Valentino once more.
5. Wicked Old Soul by BunnyBight (completed)
Husk put Angel in therapy with Charlie. Angel didn't appreciate Husk making decision for him and concealing his status as the Gambling Overlord. Angel was wooed by a charismatic lion who was hired by Vox to kidnap him. Husk came to the rescue. Angel and Husk, following their language roller coaster confession of love, signed a new contract which shared Husk's soul and all souls he owned with Angel. Angel became a new overlord with intriguing powers :))) The power couple now took on the Vees and played match making for Arackniss.
6. Someone You Can Bet On by Shigariope
Angel begged Husk to play a game with Valentino for his soul. Husk not only won Angel's soul, he also put a ring on his finger to safeguard his Overlord image. I look forward to see how their marriage of convenience progresses :)))
7. House of Cards by abookomaps
Valentino tortures Angel with angelic weapon. Husk proved Angel's worth by betting that Angel can make in one day what Valentino made in a month.
8. But you've got company by mamini2000 (completed)
Angel thought Husk was just an bartender then they fell in love.
9. Mine NOW Val by Rocher1893
Angel filled in for Husk's lounge singer. Husk devised a plan to help him get away from Valentino.
10. When the King Cat finds his Spider by Blahaj_Enjoyer
Husk demanded Angel's soul as collateral for his trade deal with Valentino. Valentino can film at Husk's casino, while he got Angel as new employee. It is precisely because Husk didn't technically own Angel's soul yet that I want to see how this story progresses.
11. Consequences by Bigredboi (completed)
To protect Angel, Husk killed Valentino and the Sin of Greed, becoming the new Sin.
12. First Breath by huskapologist
As of the latest update, Husk and Angel were plagued by nightmares and I by cliffhanger :))
13. Casino of love by @artwaterfall
A slow burn bliss following Angel's path to recovery from his pasts trauma and insecurity. If you are looking for Husk falling in love listening to Angel singing New side of me, this is the best description there is. If I didn't already have a significant other, I would have fallen in love with the spider myself just by reading that chapter, and I had the goosebump to prove it. This story is a treat that I look forward to every week.
14. I Can Only Blame Myself by InkPhoenix
Angel ran away from Valentino and collapsed before an extermination. He was saved by Husk and now had to deal with new disability and the possibility of being sent back to Valentino.
15. Sober to Death by BrainRotgoBrrrrr
Angel beat Husk at poker and he decided to buy him off Valentino. Alastor was eyeing Husk's soul.
16. Luck Be A Lady Tonight by Basic_Witch
Valentino used Angel to spy on Husk. Meanwhile, Husk taught Angel how to play cards and valued his business ideas.
17. The Gambler by @5carecr0w
Angel's appearance somehow brought luck to Husk's game with Alastor, saving him from losing his soul. Angel became his new lucky charm.
18. Him & His Libertine Principles by @thiccspices
Alastor enlisted Husk to make a bet against Valentino. Husk found Angel pathetic.
19. Cat’s Eye Casino by Lunatic_caramelle
Absolute bliss :)) As of the latest update, Husk was attacked by Val's men and injured. Angel took care of him while he healed and they grew closer.
20. Fates Gamble (two traumatized gay men rediscover love) by Chaosfrog
As of the latest update, the Vees had hidden cameras installed throughout the casino, giving Vox's control over machines and tables there. 'Whatever will befall my favourite couple?', I asked while waiting for updates every day :)))
21. High Stakes by dreamnplay (completed)
Husk wanted Angel to work the floor on a 10-hour shift per day. Angel thought he want him to f*ck customers for 10 hours a day. Read this and you will wonder when they will start communicate openly and honestly.
22. My Kingdom for The Soul of an Angel by meg_a_dork (completed)
Absolute domestic bliss with shopping, cooking, cuddling and everything. Angel proposed to Husk first :))) They got married and had cake 🍰
23. Ace of my Heart by Karmawillcollect (completed)
Angel beat Husk at poker and he bought him off Valentino. Guilty pleasure smut ensues :)))
24. My Atlantis by Satan_Has_A_Wife (completed)
Husk was bad at feeling, thinking Angel only loved him because he owned his soul and had been half-decent to him. Angel got Husk all hot and bothered seeing him with a gun. Cherri approved of Husk.
25. I Don’t Want The World But I’ll Take This City by highfemmeicequeen
Husk wanted a relationship to which Angel said 'no soul, no relationship'. Husk eventually tore off the contract and they began dating. Things were peaceful with Angel now running his own club until Alastor visited Husk's casino.
26. Stardust in Your Eyes by @jackmischief
Husk entertained Valentino's request for a game of poker in an attempt to win and kick him down a notch. Angel was all too eager to help Husk cheat.
27. No Rest for the Wicked by @camelliea
It's been over 20 years since Angel was freed from Valentino yet the moth's shadow was still looming over his relationship with Husk. Husk made alliance with Alastor to destroy the Vees.
28. Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend by @purple-hyacynths
The two started of on hostile term. Angel was being a brat because of self-loathing.
29. House of Cards by Transparent_Existence (completed)
Angel and Husk are getting closer and one of Husk trusted employee can't have that.
30. High Rolling at the Grand Casino by Turntechgodliness (AmberzillaRex)
Angel became new lounge singer at Husk's casino.
31. Loaded Dice by Tat_Tat (completed)
Husk is a corrupted overlord using Angel to gain leverage against his father.
32. Facing Down the King of Cards by LevySutcliffe (completed)
Husk won Angel in a gamble with Vox and Val for Alastor's soul. Yes, Alastor made a deal with Husk and temporarily gave his soul to him and is now staff at the casino. Angel becomes Husk's fashion designer with workshop of his own. Husk is looking for the boy he fell in love with in life. Little do they know Angel is that boy.
33. Double or Nothing by HoneycombSweetness
Husk died during the battle against the exorcists and went back to the past where he was still an Overlord.
34. Call me when you want, call me when you need by Spades (bumblingbees)
Husk won a night with Angel instead of his soul and continues buying his service for months. He eventually fell in love with Angel but the latter wasn't convinced an Overlord could ever love a wh*re.
35. Lucky Bastard by @poppyfieldart
Angel flirted with the sweet bartender at Lucky Bastard without knowing he was the Casino Overlord. Husk found Angel more beautiful than the paintings on the ceiling of his casino's bathroom.
36. Where our Paths Cross by Imnotgoingtotheairport
Husk met Angel when they were alive and Angel was the cause of Husk's death. Now as an Overlord, Husk was determined to obtain Angel's soul by winning a bet with Valentino on who would kill the most exorcists on Extermination Day.
37. Rock Bottom Overlord by @cloudwatcher-1
Husk fell to rock bottom, losing all of his casinos and was left with nothing but a dive bar. After winning Angel's soul, he was ready to make it up the top again.
38. Tail feathers, wings and webs by Glitchy_Micro99
Angel caught Husk's eyes at a club and he had to have this spider.
39. Heartstrings and Broken Wings by AngelDust88, Mercury_Rises (completed)
Husk's burst of jealousy resulted in dire consequence.
40. Too Sweet For Me by ItsMaryK
Husk freed Angel's soul because he didn't know what to do with it. Now he doubted whether it was a wise decision.
41. Cinderella by Aroadtotomorow
Angel won a business deal for Valentino in a game against Husk. Husk felt something for the first time in years following his defeat at the hand of the spider.
42. The House Edge by vixensheart (completed)
Angel found friendship in Husk and he dared to hope for something more.
43. Cashing In My Bad Luck by @froggierboy
Husk and Angel formed a fragile friendship amidst Hell's dangerous politics and Overlords' jealous fits.
44. Second Chances by celi_brry
Angel's escaped Vox and Valentino's clutch only to land in the Gambling Overlord's garden.
45. The Gambler a Drunk, The Pornstar his Whore by JDValen
Valentino sent Angel to the casino to get dirt on Husk, but all Angel wanted to do was to drink with the Overlord.
46. Every Little Lie Gives Me Butterflies by partdemon (partcat)
Husk offered Angel a place by his side as his right hand man, a “I scratch your back, you scratch mine” sort of thing.
47. A Little Closer to the Edge by @naromoreau
Angel helped Husk in a flight without knowing who he was. In return, Husk got Angel a two-month holiday away from Valentino.
48. Fake Atlantis by Miya_Eulik
Husk won Angel from Valentino in a poker game. They have a good time until Husk gambled everything, including Angel, away to Alastor. Alastor, having little use for Angel, sent him away and he had no choice but to return to Valentino. Seventeen years later, Angel met Husk again at the hotel.
49. Royal flush straight into your heart by Miya_Eulik
Husk won Angel's soul in a pocker game against Valentino. Neither of them have any idea that this new arrangement would bring into their lives this wonderful thing called love.
50. California Sober by starry_eyed_serpent
Angel ran into Husk after killing Valentino.
51. Sometimes Worse is Better by @nambeeshi and urlocalwerewolfboyfriend
Overlord Husk but what if he was a jackass who got not only Angel's but the Vees' souls as well.
52. Can Never Be Yours by demonofangstandhumor (completed)
Husk enjoyed Angel's company at their monthly arrangement which ended in a heated talk. This is a little teaser for a Huskerdust Overlord AU the author is working on.
53. Something To Live For Tomorrow by thinksleep (completed)
After being killed by an exterminator while trying to defend the hotel and his friends, Husk wakes up 10 years prior still an overlord. Having been on the other side of the chain, he would play his hand differently this time while working on winning Angel’s contract off Valentino.
54. Lucky Charm by Cheshires_Riddles
Husk gets thrown into the past and decides he is going to do things right this time.
55. Enemies and Angels: An Overlord Husk AU by rainbowpandas
An overlord down to his last casino meets a porn star who might be able to help him turn his luck around. Despite the constant chaos and conflict in the Pentagram City streets, business turns to friendship and then maybe something more.
The list is to be updated.
#hazbin hotel#huskerdust#hazbin husk#angel dust#hazbin angel dust#angel dust x husk#hazbin hotel husk#overlord husk
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I am a simple woman.
If I see SVSSS content, I will like, I will follow, and I will open another tab to read every fanfiction recommendation. (Even though I shouldn't with my 64 open tabs right now. 27 of which are ongoing ff as I patiently wait for more chapters to be released.)
That's not all though.
I'm considering getting back into writing some fanfiction for my current addiction. I have a few ideas, but I would love to hear your favorite ship, crackship, headcanons and so forth!
I'm heavily debating on a few fic ideas:
SY and SJ shenanigans : Disciples? Estranged Siblings? (LBH Sobbing in the bg)
SY as a rogue cultivator, successfully avoiding LBH for most of the plot. (Switch between LBH and SY pov?)
Modern SVSSS, College!! (SJ the prettiest and pettiest of college professors, he doesn't get paid enough for this. Why is his student flirting with him? Why is his student flirting with his brother? SJ might consider homicide as justifiable.)
Modern SVSSS, SY and SQH wake up from their strange dream. Find out Cucumber and Airplane know each other in rl. Ensue chaotic best friend behavior. (In the bg cue, MBJ and LBH handling this with nothing but poise and grace. I'm lying. They're doing the exact opposite. Don't worry, I'm not a monster. LBH and MBJ find their wives, eventually, probably.)
Modern Cultivators! SY and SJ didn't think they would ever run into an actual demon, demons are rare these days. They often face ghosts and spirits. Cue SY accidently waking up a good old Blackened/Sealed Lou Bing-ge. Cue (dun dun duhhh) chaos.
Demon SY? Cultivator SY? Dunno yet, SY in the Abyss. (I read an unfinished fic about SY in the abyss, and I'm obsessed with the idea of SY just absolutely trying to get LBG to speedrun the Abyss, and LBG deciding "Nuh. I'm staying here, with you". I was also considering entire Abyss ancient civilizations because I'm unhinged, and the idea of what used to be sprawling demonic kingdoms in the abyss is beautiful.)
Have you ever accidently married the emperor of the 3 realms? SY did. Now, SJ has to ask YQ for help to save his brother. (Subsequently: You ever accidently end up with a husband? LBG was surprised, too, but he has a system, a way these things work. Just because SY is a man doesn't change anything. LBH now has to make sure his frail husband doesn't die and doesn't get kidnapped by pesky cultivators.) Three povs???? SJ (trying to save his brother and getting pettier by the minute), LBG (thwarting SJ's plans, spying on his husband, general court affiar), SY (fangirling over everything, getting himself into trouble, falling into every wife plot under the sun).
These are just some ideas, some of my favorites that I've been clinging to. Free game, take em, write em if you want. The more fanfiction and content we have, the better!
I've rambled. Oh god. Lemme know your favorite, I'll probably boost it to the front of my list.
#mxtx svsss#svsss#help i have an addiction to fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#shen qingqiu#shen yuan#lou binghe#crack fic#rambles#help i have no idea what i'm doing#back into the void i go
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Ik you’re still in the process of making lore but I have have Steve - Fidds questions!
1. What is Pyramid Steve getting out of making these deals? Is he helping Bill with his Weirdmageddon stuff? Is he stealing things from his Victims other than what’s given (like slowly taking all their money and savings/their life force/whatever he uses for currency) to pay his alimony? Or is he just doing this because he likes doing HUMAN THINGS as a HUMAN MAN and it’s FUN and a BUSINESS and TOTALLY DIFFERENT from sitting around on his laptop playing the sims all day so he doesn’t need to deal with his OWN issues (like his divorce)?
2. Is he helpful with little things *at first* to make sure his ‘customers’ trust him to deal with more and more stuff? Like at first he comes to Fidds when it’s been a month since he last did laundry because he was too scared to go down to the laundry room and Steve tells him he has a Magic Product to Help with Anxiety! Then Fidds feels all floaty and calm and out of it. Next thing Fidds knows, his laundry is clean, folded and, put away, AND he even washed and redid his bedsheets! And he took a shower and is wearing fresh clothes! Wow! He just barely remembers any of it, like trying to remember a dream, but who cares! The Product is Working! Yay! And it’s a very easy slope from that to Fidds thinking “I’ve been ghosting Emma-May (who’s upset with me) for a week now and my hands shake thinking about it, I need to use Product and call her to work things out! OH NO Apparently I sounded like a weird British man trying to do a southern accent the whole conversation and now she thinks I’m taking drugs! And is MORE upset with me! I need to call her and fix things! Which I can only do with the help of Product! My life is crumbling around me.”
3. Please work the plastic bag of DvDs Steve carries around and pet centipede into this au. This isn’t a question this is a request. And the fact he eats copper wires! Does he make the humans he controls also eat Copper Wires? Does he make the humans buy or steal copper wires for him so he can eat them?
4. Uh. What do you imagine being hypnotized feels like to Fidds (the first few times before he starts going brain dead)? I’m guessing it’s not just blacking out if victims get addicted to the *feeling* of being hypnotized as well as getting addicted to the ability to step out of their life for a bit.
5. Does Fidds already being pretty into the ‘beginnings of permanent brain damage’ stage of memory gun use have any affect on Steve’s ability to hypnotize/control Fidds? Since he’s basically controlling Fidds from his laptop, the main hardware he’s running his program on being janked up could have some effect on how well Stiddlepord ‘runs’.
6. What do the ‘side effects’ of Product start to look/feel like in the victims? Like we know what the memory gun’s side effects look like in action because of that supercut of Fidds decent. And can partial brain function eventually be recovered like with the memory gun? Or is Pyramid Steve eventually just puppeting a corpse until it starts to decompose?
7. Uhhhhh. Can I write fanfiction. Of this au.
Anyway this ask is way too long, I know, but if I write fanfiction on this I want it to be lore accurate and not just my own thing, and it’s such a cool au!!! I crave more!! More of the unstable divorced man ‘possessing’ the other unstable divorced man!! Amazing!!
HELLO HELLO! Thank you for being so interested in this silly AU!! Okay I'm going to sit down and properly think about all of this!
Fun fact! If Ford refers Bill as My Muse, Fidds refers Steve as My Elixir ;)
What is Pyramid Steve getting out of making these deals?
As opposed to Bill and his love for physical pain, Steve craves mental and emotional misery. Like a parasite feeding off the psychological pain they are experiencing, that's why his aim is to ruin their lives even more, kicking his customers when they are already down.
Bill and Steve are not allies. In fact Bill HATES Steve's guts. They are aware of each other, Fidds is not aware that Ford has Bill, Ford is not aware that Fidds has Steve, but they both know something is off about the other.
Hypnotized Fiddlesteve would change the maths of the Portal blueprints that Possessed Billford spent hours making the day before, hilarity ensues ❤️
2. Is he helpful at first?
You put it perfectly into words! If the Memory Gun was a metaphor for Alcohol, Steve is straight up a metaphor for Drugs. Sure, it can work at first, makes you feel productive, fills you with energy, eases your worries and is a distraction. But how long does that take before things start getting out of hand? First week, Steve helps you with EVERYTHING. He finishes all of Fidds' tasks in less than a day, Ford praises Fidds' efficiency, Fidds is literally on cloud nine! He needs to call that weird guy again. He needs to keep this going. But then as time goes on, things get a bit weird, the maths aren't adding up, things are tense between Ford and him and he doesn't know why, uh oh, he needs help! He needs His Elixir. He will make everything right. (Spoiler: things start to go downhill from there)
3. Does he make the humans he controls also eat Copper Wires?
A picture is worth a thousand words ;)
4. What do you imagine being hypnotized feels like to Fidds (the first few times before he starts going brain dead)?
I think he does black out sometimes when Steve takes over without any warning, but when Fidds willingly reaches out to Steve I'm guessing it feels like when Mable ate that expired candy. Just pure vibes!
5. Does Fidds already being pretty into the ‘beginnings of permanent brain damage’ stage of memory gun use have any affect on Steve’s ability to hypnotize/control Fidds?
It just made everything easier! You see, Steve's perfect customers are those who are "weak-minded". Hypnosis wouldn't work on those who are strong-willed. It would just wear off after some brief time, or they would just turn down Steve's offerings. That's why Fidds is so easy to manipulate. In fact, Steve's hypnosis will end up causing even more brain damage to the victim in the long run. Fidds' brain will begin to atrophy and his nervous system will start to collapse.
6. What do the ‘side effects’ of Product start to look/feel like in the victims?
While not under hypnosis, the victim can experience: Brain Atrophy, photosensitivity, seizures, increased paranoia, hallucinations, weight loss, isolation (Steve would push away everyone), drowsiness, random twitches, memory issues, inability to perform everyday tasks and decisions... I'm currently designing Old Man Fiddlesteve and it's making me so unbelievably sad by just staring at him...
Can partial brain function eventually be recovered like with the memory gun? Or is Pyramid Steve eventually just puppeting a corpse until it starts to decompose?
Both! There are two ways to stop Hypnosis: the victim's mind becomes somehow "strong" enough to get rid of hypnosis, or Steve could just let that victim free because it reached a point in life in which everything is already so messed up that it hit rock bottom, becoming brain-dead and not useful.
If you get rid of hypnosis in the early stage, it's easier to regain control of your life. If, like Fidds, you've been under hypnosis for decades, it would take A REALLY INTENSE treatment to regain AT MOST 45% of the original brain potential. Since it was a coping mechanism stronger and more aggressive than the Memory Gun, your brain will suffer so many side effects and the atrophy can only heal until a certain point. Fidds can't catch a break in any AU I fear...
7. Can I write fanfiction. Of this au.
YESS i'd love to read it!! My "lore-accurate" tip is to just follow the canon, but with Fidds hiding Steve from Ford the same way he hid the memory gun from him. (The memory gun is still part of this AU tee-hee). Just four divas having intense beef with each other. Fiddlesteve was the perfect excuse to come up with more Fiddauthor toxic angst :>
As you can see I will try to share some of his lore by using Computer entries (and Journal entries to show Ford's POV) but you can just take creative liberties since everything is a huge WIP, or you can DM me your thoughts! <3
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WIP Wolverine x femReader 18+
“God, do you ever suck on anything other than Wade’s dick and cheap cigars?”
He leaned in close to your ear and growled,
“Ya lookin to find out Princess?”
x Deadpool kinda eventually lmfaoooo
FemY/n is mid 20’s - early 30’s
Tw for depression and like drug use mentions ig
🌶️🫵
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Hello 👋 This is the first fanfic that I have written in over 10 years the brain rot is so unbelievably real for wolverine and deadpool rn
its a little embarrassing tbh lmfaoo
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I’m not really sure how to tag this tbh. I’ve never posted on tumblr. . It’s a little spicy and will get more interesting later. I just wanted to toss this small part out for readers to test the waters. Anyway um I’m not experienced writing y/n pov so please be nice.
Your friend, Wade Wilson, couldn’t take no for an answer. You knew that and yet you still had the audacity to tell him ‘no’ three times tonight. And about thirty minutes after you ignored his last phone call there he was, practically knocking down your door. It wasn’t like he couldn’t actually kick in your door, he was just being polite.
The apartment buzzer went off. You sat up from your position on the couch, hoping he’d just give up and leave if you didn’t acknowledge him. Like a stray cat. Or a crackhead.
“Knock knock~” you heard his voice through the door. “I smell Hot Pockets and sadness I know you’re in there”
Gripping the arm of the sofa you waited hoping he’d have the common courtesy fuck off .You heard the door knob rattle. Dumbass.
With a click of the lock, your door swung open revealing Wade, grinning as he shoved his Baby Knife back into his coat.
“Wade, what the fuck? I told you-“
He clapped his hands loudly, interrupting you.
“Let’s go Funshine Bear, the nights young and I’m not going anywhere without you” Wade marched past you, straight to your bedroom humming to himself.
“You look awful by the way, we’ll fix you up though.” He clicked his tongue and crooked a finger in your direction. You huffed angrily, sliding off the couch to follow him.
You stopped in the doorway, almost refusing to step inside. He was elbows deep in your closet drawers, throwing clothes onto your bed, muttering his disapproval at every item he tossed.
You crossed your arms as you watched him.
“Do you have anything that doesn’t look like you took it from the Walmart dumpster?” He pulled a drawer out from the dresser and dumped it on the floor. “You know the one I’m talking about, right? Where all the coke addicted bronies go to have a bone sess before band practice.”
You crossed your arms as you watched him. “Wade, I’m not in the mood to go out.”
You heard him sigh, but continued to riffle through your things.
“That’s nonsense, the plot can’t continue with out you. Annnd we made these plans last week.”
He peeked at you from behind the open closet door. “I’m a little worried about you. You aren’t your chipper self lately”
“I’m just tired” You replied dismissively.
It wasn’t like Wade hasn’t been trying to cheer you up in his own way. For the last few weeks he’d text you obscure and quite frankly disturbing memes at 3 AM. Excitedly offer you drugs that he’s pilfered from the his blind roommate- (he knows you don’t do drugs, he just wanted to brag about stealing coke from Blind Al)
He’s also been sending you the strangest X-Men fan fiction. (His favorites were ‘old man yaoi’ including Professor Xavier and Magneto) Usually you eat that kind of stuff up, finding it funny that you knew some of the people that the fanfiction was written about, like a private joke between you and Deadpool. But worst thing he’s done has beencalling you almost every day and attempting to make plans with you, but you always seem to cancel last minute. So yeah, he has been trying. It just.. didn’t help.
Your eyes flickered to your wall of photos next to the closet door. Pictures of your closest friends and family. Their arms around you laughing, smiling. Pictures of trips and silly outings that meant the world to you. You felt so much guilt and regret looking at them.
Depression was a bitch. It was like a rabid dog that wouldn’t let you get back on your feet. You felt it gnawing at you, causing you to lose interest in everyone and everything. You felt alone. Your eyes fell back to Wade, you watched your friend hard at work trying to match your shoes with a dress he had found. He was clueless. You couldn’t tell him any of this though, it would just make him worry more.
There was someone you did want to talk to though. To tell everything to. Someone that you had grown so close to the last few months.
You missed Logan.
This realization caused your face to heat and anxiety weld up in your chest. You balled your hands into fits thinking about that arrogant jerk. You’ve tried to be a friend to Wolverine. After all this wasn’t his reality. He was your timeline’s replacement. (Idk you should go watch the movie. I’m not explaining it.) and for a while, you thought you were friends.
Lately, if he wasn’t drunk and depressingly moody, he was angry and a massive dick.
“Y/N? Look a little pink at the cheeks are you feeling OK?” Wade was now standing less than a foot from you, his brows furrowed. You hadn’t noticed him move.
Snapping back from your thoughts by Wades voice, you ran hands over your face as you turn towards the attached bathroom.
“Dude, I told you I’m just not feeling good-” You stepped into the bathroom and turned on the faucet “I don’t wanna hang out with-“
“Logan?”
“Your friends.” You finished. You felt your face flush deeper at his name being mentioned.
“That’s what I said” Wade followed you to the bathroom, but thankfully didn’t come in. He stood outside while you closed the door.
“Trust me honey, I know he’s the embodiment of a sentient happiness starved cactus whose father never loved him but-“
You groaned, trying to avoid Wades ramblings you turned the water on full blast, drowning out the remainder of his sentence. You splashed water on your face and ran a comb through your hair. You heard Wade continue talking, almost to himself while also sounding like he was talking to someone else in the room as well. Someone you couldn’t see. He did that often. It was creepy.
You swung the door open frowning.
“-sometimes he stabs me through the face to shut me up, but I know he does it because he’s not good with words.”
Wade smile faded when he saw your face.
“It’s kinda hot”
“I don’t want to talk about it Wade.” You sat down onto your bed with a huff despite the pile of clothes and plastic hangers. You stared at your hands. You felt the overwhelming weight of your anxiety in your chest and stomach. Maybe you should go out. Maybe he won’t show up tonight. Maybe-
“You look like you wanna talk about it Friendo.”
Wade joined you by dramatically pushing all the clothes off the bed, making an even bigger mess of your room. He flopped down onto your bed stomach first, propping himself up by his elbows. He kicked his feet and smiled at you.
“I’m all ears.”
“I don’t know how to start” You admitted.
“Start with an ‘I feel’ statement”
Another sigh escaped your mouth. How did you feel? It felt complicated. You met him a few months ago. At first he was rude and closed off. Then he slowly began to open up, sure you still bickered and fought like cats, but it had playful undertones. (‘Sexy undertones’ Wade had joked) When he was being genuine and open, it felt like you could talk to him for hours. Though he never spoke for too long, he would to listen to you earnestly. Up until a few weeks ago, that is.
“I feel like Logan hates me. I feel like he would rather huff paint thinner than have a decent conversation with me.”
Wade laughed. “Well that’s not true, I can’t get him to huff anything.”
You shot him a look.
“Listen, I invite Mr. Grumpy out every time. But he’s too busy sulking to get fucked up with us. He would rather get drunk and pass out in the floor of the apartment. He probably won’t even show up.” Wade gave you a reassuring look.
“If he does you’re gonna be there with me. We’ll leave if you feel uncomfortable at all.”
He rolled over and sat up, putting an arm around you.
“I’ve just noticed your mood lately I need you to know that I love you.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze. “-and I miss getting fucked up with you.”
“Will you stab him for me if he’s mean?”
“Of course. I always have Baby Knife on me.”
“Fine. Let me get ready”
He jumped off the bed excitedly.
You pushed Wade out the door to get dressed, pausing in the doorway. “Wade?”
“Yes Friendo?” He turned on his heel
“I love you too bud”
He squealed as you closed the door.
~~~
You never understood why Wade wouldn’t just buy a car. He makes decent money (he doesn’t) and could probably afford a nice one. (He couldn’t) At one point you recall him having a weird hyperfixation with the Honda Odyssey (he fucked Wolverine in one) (allegedly)
Instead, you were climbing into the back of a dirty beat up taxi cab that his friend, Dopinder, drove for a living. At least you didn’t have to walk. Dopinder was a sweet guy, if not a little unhinged every once in a while.
“You look quite beautiful tonight Miss Y/N” He complimented you as you settled in the back seat. You smiled at him, appreciating the comment. Wade had picked out your dress and you felt a little exposed and out of your element in it. It wasn’t anything crazy, just a slick black dress with a low neck line. The dress was short, ending a little above the knee. The problem was the slit up the side. You wanted to wear tights under the outfit but Wade insisted on fishnets. ‘You look like a goth baddie’ he had assured you, ‘Like a Hot Topic clearance rack version of Morticia Addams.’
Wade hopped in the front and immediately started to flip through the radio channels. Dopinder usually had on pleasant sounding Indian pop music but Wade settled on some heavily censored 90’s hip hop.
The drive was rocky. Wade, who almost never kept his hands to himself, would grab poor Dopinder while dancing along to the music causing the cab to swerve. A lot.
Having made it to the bar in one piece, you quickly scrambled out of the back, thanking the young man for the ride.
Wade waited for you at the door.
~~~
The bar was loud and dark. One of those typical bars you see in movies, filled with moving bodies and cigarette smoke. Music pumped through the speakers with some people lingering near the bar while others swayed on the dance floor. Wade bounced through the crowd pulling you along towards the bar, where his group of friends took up half the bar area. You scanned the crowd nervously. No Logan. Your muscles relaxed, and you moved with a little more energy.
Wade greeted his friends with various enthusiastic greetings and crude gestures. You smiled in greeting and waved at a friend you recognized but sat down on a stool next to where Wade stood, him blocking you from most of the other bar patrons. There was a part of you that was a little disappointed that Logan wasn’t here. It made sense if he didn’t show up here, this bar was honestly more like a club, upbeat and energetic. He’s used to dark depressing dive bars, places you can drink yourself into a coma and not be bothered. But the few times he had shown up here you had thought that he enjoyed your company, for a little while at least. During times when the others were off doing dubious shit somewhere, he’d sit with you at the bar. You even managed to get him to dance with you once. That all changed recently. Something happened that caused him to be distant and often rude for seemingly no reason.
Everyone seems to be so happy to see Wade and he, them. You didn’t really know why you were here. It already felt overwhelming. You used to love coming here. Drinking and dancing, playing pool badly and belting out shitty country music karaoke with everyone. Lately, things have felt different. You’ve lost interest in a lot of the things you use to enjoy, spending your days just working and rotting in your apartment. This was too much.
Wade touched your shoulder causing you to jump.
“Hey we’re off to play some darts you in?”
You smiled at your friend. “You really wouldn’t want me to play, you’d end up as the dart board.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time Sweetheart” Wade laughed, “we’ll be over there if you change your mind.” He made a heart with his hands and turned toward the group already making their way to the play area.
You sat quietly at the counter with a glass of something sweet and strong. You wanted to feel a buzz but you needed it to taste good. Your eyes scanned the crowd, people watching. You watched people dance and sway to the newest Kesha song blaring through the speakers. You witnessed a near fight over a pool game. You heard Wade’s laughter from across the room, his friends echoing along. You felt alone. It was your fault you told yourself. If you wanted to feel better you would’ve gotten up and joined your friends. But here you sat, being miserable on purpose.
“Hey beautiful, mind if I joined you?” Your head snapped up meeting the face of someone you didn’t recognize. He was good looking, in a vanilla frat boy kinda way. With his backwards hat, sleeveless tank, skinny jeans and all.
But he smiled like a wolf.
“I’m sorry.” You tried to smile politely, but you had a twinge of anxiety growing in your chest. “I’m not really in the mood for company”
The man smiled motioning to the bartender for a drink. “Can’t I just buy you a drink? “
“Really, I’m fine” You turned back to your drink, your eyes unfocused, hoping that if you just ignored him he’d leave. Your gut flipped when you heard him pull out the stool next to you. He wasn’t leaving.
“Come on babe, I can show you a good time”
“She said she ain’t looking for company bub.” A low voice growled behind you. A beer bottle came down heavily in between you and the creep. Your eyes trailed the hairy but beautifully sculpted arm to its owner, though you already knew who it belonged to. Logan. Even in this lighting you could see his rugged face. His hair was styled in its iconic cat ear shape. His beard was trimmed nicely combined with his thick muttonchops. His eyes were a little hazy but beautiful and dark. You met those eyes for a brief moment, he smirked at you before his gaze flickered to the other man.
“Well?” He rumbled, barring his teeth.
“Naw, I was here first grandpa, you fuck off.” The frat guy stood up straight, trying to look intimidating.
“Trust me” Logan chuckled. He straightened cracking his knuckles before raising his fists and extending three razor sharp Adamantium claws from each hand.
“You don’t want none of this”
~~~
“You didn’t have to do that” you looked down at your glass avoiding Logan’s gaze. You heard him land heavily in the bar stool next to you. He tapped the counter signaling the bartender who was very clearly avoiding your side of the bar.
“I wasn’t going to have some limp dick creeping on you.”
“I was handling it”
“You didn’t seem like you were handling anything Princess.” He scoffed.
You shot him a look. He smirked as he chugged his remaining beer, you couldn’t help watch his throat bob as he drank. He finished and loudly set the bottle down. He met your eyes and you looked away feeling your face heat violently.
“You thirsty princess?” He asked as the bartender set down two shots of something before scurrying away. He slid one glass your way.
“No thank you. I have my own drink”
You pushed the glass back his way. He eyed your almost empty cocktail and shrugged.
“Suit yourself” he took the glasses and knocked back both shots simultaneously slamming the glasses back down. After a few moments of silence, where you clearly felt Logan eyeing you the entire time, you sighed.
“I didn’t think I’d see you tonight Logan.” You admitted. Another beer had appeared in front of him, he took a swig. He eyed you, his eyes slowly trailing from your face down your body. They rested at the slit in your dress, exposing most of your fishnet covered thigh. You felt a ping in your lower belly, causing you to cross your legs uncomfortably. His eyes followed to movement. He licked his lips and met your eyes again smirking.
“Why didja miss me?”
You looked down at the growing piles of shredded napkins you had been anxiously ripping apart.
“Yes” you said at last. There was no point in lying. You did miss him. Even seeing him now, clearly drinking away his problems, you couldn’t help but feel glad he was there with you. You were glad he scared away that creep, despite his now passive aggressive demeanor. You met his eyes again.
He snorted and tipped the beer to his lips.“You’re a fucking liar”
You felt your gut squeeze with anger. Why was he treating you this way? You didn’t ask him to step in to a play hero. You didn’t ask him for anything. You just wanted to get out of your shitty apartment for one goddamn night. You balled your fists and spun to face him fully.
“What. The. Fuck.” You clenched your teeth annunciating each word bitterly. “Is. YOUR PROBLEM”
“My PROBLEM,” he practically spat the word,
”is that I have to deal with your moody ass attracting the eye of every fucking creep in this place when you very fucking clearly don’t want to be here.”
You threw your hands up angrily and gestured around the bar.
“I didn’t want to deal with any of this Logan. I just wanted to go out with my FRIENDS, which I used to think you were one. I don’t fucking know what prick you had up your ass lately, but you sure as hell don’t act like you like me. WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”
He was silent for a moment, studying your face, making it turn even redder. Then he laughed. He shook his head laughing and sloppily chugged his second beer.
You had enough. You needed to get away from him. You shoved yourself back, tipping the stool over in the process.
“Come find me when you figure out what you want.” You turned to leave. You made it a few steps before you heard Logan’s voice call mockingly.
“Nice dress by the way”
You didn’t turn to look at him.
“Fuck you, Logan”
~~~
You ran your hands under cold water, leaning over the sink you splashed the water into your face and sighed. You looked into your mirrored face. This was a disaster.
Maybe if you just stayed in the bathroom you can avoid everyone until Wade was ready to leave. You felt bad that you ran off instead of finding him. You would’ve felt safe with Wade.
Your head was swimming, from the alcohol or the interaction with Logan you couldn’t tell.
The speaker above you crackled playing the opening notes to ‘Dirty Diana’, a favorite of yours. A banger Wade would say.
Without warning the door sung open and Logan stumbled in.
“You’re in the wrong bathroom you drunk asshole” you snapped. His eyes met yours from a brief moment before he swayed slightly and took a step forward.
He pushed past you wordlessly and began kicking open the bathroom stalls. They were all empty.
“Dude get out” You gripped the sink behind you, watching Logan warily. You knew deep down he wouldn’t hurt you but you obviously didn’t want him in here with you. He turned to you, taking a step forward.
”I needed to talk to you”
“Yeah, you could have waited til I got out of the ladies room??”
“No.” he growled before in one swift movement he was in front of you, his arms on either side of the sink trapping you between them. Your breath came out in a shudder and your knees wobbled. This honestly was a thing out of a fantasy, something that you were embarrassed to admit you’ve thought about. You had been fighting your feelings for this big stupid man, stuck between thoughts of friendship and lust. God, he wasn’t helping with the latter.
“Logan”
“I’m sorry” he said looking as remorseful as he could under the circumstances.
“What did you need to talk about that couldn’t wait Lo?” You swallowed, gently lifting your hand and placing it on his chest, pushing lightly. His hands moved to your legs keeping you from pushing him further.
“Ya told me to find you when I figured out what I wanted”
“Yeah” You scoffed. “Enlighten me”
~~~
“I want you”
Logan leaned over you, his hands sliding up your thighs to rest on your hips. His fingers dug in lightly, the movement making your legs feel like jelly. You gripped his shoulders to steady yourself. He was so firm and warm under your hands.
His face was inches from yours, his expression unreadable in the low lighting. You smelled the smoke and alcohol on his breath.
“God, do you ever suck on anything other than Wade’s dick and cheap cigars?”
He leaned in close to your ear and growled,
“Ya looking to find out princess?”
You felt a ping of desire sink into your lower belly as his hand moved from your waist.
Shivers went down your spine as his hands slid up your torso coming to a stop right below your breasts. One of his thumbs brushed upwards lightly, teasingly.
You sucked in a breath as he lowered his face to your neck and brushed a kiss to the sensitive skin. His facial hair tickling your jaw.
“Logan, you’re drunk.” You croaked out, pulling away slightly, your hands sliding from his shoulders. He moved with you.
You felt his lips brush your skin again, another kiss, before his thumb slid upward against your breast. Fuck. The wet heat between your legs was unbearable. You needed some sort of friction. You definitely noticed the pressure from his pants pressed against your stomach. So close, you just needed anything. You bucked your hips against his, almost involuntarily, causing a rumble to escape his throat. His thumb stroked again.
“That’s a good girl” His head bobbed lower dragging his tongue down as he kissed your neck. You could feel him smile as he sucked the skin of your collar bone in a way that would definitely leave a mark. Holy Hell. What was happening.
You were sick of your neck getting all the attention as you reached up to take his face in your hand. He practically melted at your touch, his breath hitching as you stroked his cheek with your thumb. You wanted him, needed his mouth on yours. You pulled his face up, a little roughly, to meet your gaze. You thought you heard him let out a little surprised chuckle from the movement. His eyes were half lidded as he met yours. He was drunk, and you realized, so were you. You leaned in, your lips feather light against his-
You jumped at Wade’s voice from the other side of the door, calling for you.
Shit. You dropped your hand away from his face.
Logan growled, low and angry. He abruptly took his hot hands from your body and leaned his head to your ear, you felt his lips against your skin.
“Some other time then, darlin’.” He pulled away from you swaying slightly, before grabbing his beer from the counter and yanking open the bathroom door.
~~~
Anyway, thanks for reading. I guess I don’t know if this is any good and I will be posting the rest on Ao3 eventually
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The Empathy Boon (Dead by Daylight fanfiction idea).
Grrrr! I have too many stories to focus on right now. I can't keep writing new stuff, so I'm hoping that at least sharing this idea and kinda getting it out of my head will help. I apologize. The multiple writing personality disorder is real with me 🫠
Summary: The Entity has given you such a phenomenal ability during trials that both killers and survivors consider you a "god/goddess". And that is the ability to share empathy with the killers. They are drawn to your power. The emotions in which you make them feel are addictive- so addictive that they try seeking you out after trials. But, unfortunately, outside of trials you are simply an ordinary person.
Explanation: Basically this reader's appearance changes when they set up their boon in a trial. Their hair turns white, their eyes glow bright blue, and their clothes transform into a pretty dress. It's understandable why the killers wouldn't recognize them outside of trials.
The reader
This reader is traumatized in many different ways, and that is why the Entity gave them their special power. Outside of trials, they are very ordinary, suffer from ptsd, nightmares, touch starvation, social anxiety, grief and insecurities. The fact that the killers simply pass them by in search for the empathy "god/goddess" hurts their heart because it's not them they that want, it's their power. The reader is also very gentle, wise, and kind.
The killers
I'd like to use a killer that I don't use very often. Ji-woon. I want him to accidentally find out about the reader's secret. Pinhead and Pyramid Head will also know their secret just because they're, you know, weirdo demons. As Ji-woon shows the reader around the killer camp, other killers grow fond of them. But what happens if anyone else finds out that this ordinary reader is actually the phenomenal empathy "god/goddess"?
The point of this story is to drive the cruelty of idealism and expectation. Some people expect more than they should, and that can hurt when you fail at being what they want you to be. The disappointment and rejection is soul crushing. It can even induce suicidal thoughts and self destruction. In this case, the killers are in love with this beautiful, perfect, glowing, powerful person who is actually just a normal human with problems and quirks and imperfections.
Phew, I got it out. I think I'm okay now. Thank you for listening to me blab about my ridiculous ideas! If I can get a couple stories updated, I'd like to turn this idea into a fic. All the love to you, my dears!
#dead by daylight#reader insert#story idea#ji woon hak x reader#pyramid head x reader#pinhead x reader
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Recently I delved into the depths of my docs to find the first fanfiction I wrote for ACOTAR that never saw the light of day.
Obviously it's horrible writing, but I like the premise and since I am addicted to piling more projects on top of my scheldule I rewrote the first chapter and redid the plot for it.
Originally these events take place a year or two after the war with Hybern, and everything is the exact same EXCEPT for somethin Tamlin is doing.
I changed it so that this is a fic of what would have happened if Tamlin didn't give over that drop of power to bring Rhysand back.
Anyway, here's there rewritten chapter. Tell me if you guys like it!
“Be happy Feyre.”
The words nearly tumbled out of his mouth. The carefully loving words that wrapped like ivy around his throat, choking him, those last cords of love that had twisted into something else. That had made him soft for her. He had offered his heart like ripe fruit on a silver platter for her to take and now look at where he stood.
Bloodied, gore and guts clinging to his armour like a second layer of skin, mud caked on his legs and arms. Hair a mess, dirty and disgusting. His people, his armies, whom he had gone to his knees to earn the trust of them back, after she twisted their minds, undid their memories, stared in every personal thought to create a new story for all of them. One that fit her narrative.
The damage she had caused, the things she had taken. What she had done, what she had cost not just them but all of Pryhtian. Destroying the Courts she had saved not even a year ago.
Now, on her knees, holding the man who had assaulted her night after night after night whilst she vomited, cried and danced and laughed, and been drugged. She screamed his name whilst she cling to his lifeless form.
The good for nothing bastard Lord was finally dead. Tamlin should have breathed a sigh of relief.
Instead every High Lord stood around awkwardly, as one after the other they had willingly handed over their magic despite what this man had done to them. Despite how much they all hated him. They did it for his grief-stricken mate who screamed for them to help. To bring him back the same way she had come back.
But he was dead for what he had done. Giving over power to remake the Cauldron, the mother had taken his very soul with the magic, the price paid to put the world back together.
Truly, who were they to defy her?
Tamlin stood up straight, when Feyre stared up at him, eyes filled with tears as she saw his stone-cold face.
“Please,” She screamed, “Please I’ll do anything!”
Green eyes cut from her to the other Lords. None made eye-contact with him. All looking elsewhere, anywhere, the grey-red clouds above, the torn battlefield layered with bodies on decaying bodies, the rivers running red with blood. Some of them, no doubt reminded of Amarantha’s reign of terror by the bloodshed, looked to the muddy ground.
But none dared look in his eye, all knew what she had done to him. Her reasons for doing so. They also all knew what he had done to her.
But staring down at her now, thinking back on all of it.
Thinking back on the slander of Court, the destruction of his people. The lying, the scheming, the pure hatred.
Then there was one final thought that struck true.
What would they have all done if it had been him dead on the floor and not Rhysand?
The image of his bloodied mother, his dead brothers, even as cruel as they were, flashed before his eyes.
“No.” He said. Standing tall and true, “I will not hand over my magic.”
“You fucking monster!” A girl with gold streaked blonde hair lunged at him from out of nowhere. Morrigan.
She didn’t get far, from where she was knees deep in the mud. A flash of gold and a short-sudden scream from her. She was pinned to the floor with golden threads. Not painful, but certainly startling, and no doubt humiliating.
Tamlin couldn’t find it in himself to care.
Feyre stared up at him. Her wet blue eyes boring into his own with a deep-cut grief that would have broken him just a few weeks ago.
Now.
Now all he felt was mild pity, and a distant sadness, for the girl who had been killed under the mountain and never brought back.
“Who's to say the real Rhysand would even return?” Tamlin said, voice mockingly kind, “When the first time we brought a human back, she was not the same at all?”
Feyre’s saddened eyes turned wrathful, her beautiful face twisting into a deadly scowl. All that hatred, focused solely on him.
“You were what led me to my death! And now you refuse to even help him!” She screamed, the pain and grief tearing through her, along with the emptiness of where her mating bond used to be no doubt fueling her rage.
“You led yourself to your death as did he.” Tamlin said, perfectly calm and stoic. She wouldn’t get a rise out of him. Not anymore.
Tamlin looked to the others, “Think about all that male has done to us. Think of what his mate has brought down upon our lands. And maybe rethink tossing your magic carelessly at whatever dead corpse lays before you.”
“He is not a corpse!” Feyre shrieked. Her cries and screams becoming distant. Vague. As weariness bore heavy on him. For the mortal, the living, unfortunately exhaustion was a natural occurrence.
Tamlin’s eyes went down to Rhysand. Least he’ll never be exhausted again.
The thought was cruel, and maybe he was a horrible man for feeling relief. Staring into that lifeless face, knowing he was dead forever. Gone. Bound to never bring him misfortune again.
“You are a heartless male.” A seething voice said somewhere near him. Tamlin looked towards where a limping Illyrian with blue siphons hissed, looking like he wanted to tear the High Lord to shreds but his own limitations and injuries prevented it.
A cold, humourless smile broke out on his face. The Spring Lord looked down upon Feyre.
“Give him your own magic.” He said, tilting his head, “Why don’t you hand over those drops of power you claim to make yourself so, so powerful?”
She was silent, as tears continued to stream down her face, he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “Oh right, you can’t.”
He would leave after this and never see her face again, he hoped, but he didn’t bite his tongue to prevent the final blow, “Our magic is the only thing holding you together. You claim yourself so powerful. Above the rest of us entirely. The self-proclaimed High Lady of the Night Court, equal to the most powerful in all the Earth. But you really aren’t. You need our magic to survive.”
Tamlin looked back at Rhysand, and didn’t hide the relief on his face, “You can’t bring him back without us.”
The Nightmare was gone. Now all that was left was the cleanup.
Feyre screamed, whether it was an insult, her hatred or simply incoherent, he didn’t know. He winnowed away. Back to Spring.
It was time for a cleanup.
And he had plans to make things right in his Court. In Prythian in its entirety.
***
I probably will not continue this fic since I have so much I need to write already, but I think its fun to go back and reflect on my old ideas and rewrite to compare to how my form was before and how it is now.
#acotar#tamlin#pro tamlin#anti rhysand#anti ic#pro spring court#critical feyre archeron#acotar au#acotar headcanons#fanfiction#acotar fanfic#acotar fanfiction#fanfiction writer
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His Inheritance: Chapter 29
Part 29: There for the Taking
Series Masterlist
Words: 7.8k
Pairing: Mobster Steve Rogers x Mobster daughter reader
Warnings: References to mob crime families, strong language, physical violence, character death. (No this isn't a carryover from Chapter 28) This is a dark fic. Please read responsibly.
Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but archiveofourown and tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission.
Summary: For @alexakeyloveloki. Your father is the head of one of the most powerful crime families in Boston but he’s protected you from that life. In your quiet home outside the city, you’ve been cared for and protected. When the desires of a more powerful man with the will to dominate bursts into your life, all your illusions are shattered as he comes to claim what is his.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Steve had just wrapped up his meeting with Murdock when someone knocked at his study door.
“Thank you, Matt,” Steve told him. “My driver will take you wherever you want to go.”
Murdock finished stowing his items away in his briefcase, rising from the chair with the help of his walking stick. His new consigliere paused.
“Thank you,” Matt said. “Good luck on everything.”
His lawyer opened the door to let himself out, Luca allowed him to pass before peering in. And Steve could tell from the look on the cook’s face that something was off.
“Boss, we have a situation,” Luca said. “I’ll see Murdock out first.”
“Thank you,” Steve muttered.
Steve stayed in his chair, tired. He had only spent one night away from his wife, and he hadn’t slept. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was the hurt on her face when he told her they’d continue their marriage when her birth control shot was no longer in effect.
It had been a shitty way to handle the situation and he knew that. He let anger conquer his head. He tried to justify it to himself with the idea that isolating her in their bedroom would keep her safe. At least until their plans with the families were complete. Once that was done, it would be him trying to earn her forgiveness. Trying to earn his way back into his own bed.
The sooner they could deal with Barnes and the other families, the sooner he could mend things with her.
For fuck’s sake, they had to. Steve shook his head.
Women had been an addiction of his to this point in his life. A love-hate relationship. Steve loved the beauty of women, their softness, their smiles. He loved them dressed up so he could show them off, one conquest after another. Sex was his fix, the best way to get high and out from under all the things that plagued him in day-to-day life. Steve was always up for it. Any time of the day, anywhere.
Like any addiction, like alcohol or drugs, there was a dark side. The women were a problem with their needs for validation and ownership. If they tried to hold onto him, he walked. If they tried to manipulate him, he ran. And considering who he was, there wasn’t a damn thing any of them could do about it.
When he decided to marry, his wife had everything he could have hoped for in his position. Young and naïve, sheltered. She had an innocent beauty, ballerina delicate. And for his dark world, she had a bonafide motherfucking pedigree. Steve would be the envy of every man, not just for his position but for his beautiful young bride, the daughter of the man who led before him. And behind closed doors, he’d teach her to please him…
How had it come to this?
A man could learn to live without alcohol, without a drug. It wasn’t easy but it could be done. His wife was neither of those things. Living without her now was like trying to live without air or water. It scared him and that fear pricked at his anger, made him lash out at her.
The fact that he couldn’t control her, couldn’t even contain her, made him want her even more.
Luca’s heavy tread let Steve know he’d returned, closing the door behind him. The edge of desperation on his man’s face brought his focus back to the present.
“What’s up?” Steve asked, watching Luca drop heavily into the chair his lawyer just occupied.
“Look, Nat got a call from Clint,” Luca said slowly. “Said we’ve been ratted out.”
Steve knew he wouldn’t like what Luca had to say but he didn’t think it would be that bad. “What?”
“Clint called Nat and told her we been ratted out,” Luca said again. “Told her to get your wife and go to the sewing room. They’re both up there.”
Steve’s mind spun. He checked his phone and saw he had nothing from Clint.
“He hasn’t tried to call me,” Steve said.
“Nat said things didn’t sound so good on his end. We don’t have a location on him.”
It wasn’t going well at all for Clint to go so far as to ask Nat to go to the hiding place his father set up years ago and take his wife with her.
Steve had always hated being hidden in there with his mother and sister. He felt small, helpless. The last time he’d been fourteen years old. Once they got past the feds, Steve had complained to his father about being put there. He’d loudly told his father he could have helped. His father had given him a solid beating for that outburst. His father had taken his pride down a peg or two that day.
Now that he was older, he understood why his father had placed them there when the situation called for it. His father had come from a place where he wanted to protect what was most valuable to him.
They didn’t know where Clint was. They supposedly had a rat. And his sister and his wife were in the sewing room. Nat would stay there just like Clint wanted her to.
His wife? Steve just knew she would hate it. He knew she’d be bristling before long just like he used to. Probably for the same reasons.
“Think Barnes got to Clint?” Steve asked.
“Nah,” Luca replied. “he’d let them kill him before he’d bring Nat into things in any way.”
That rang true.
“But he said Barnes knows everything now. That we’re all in danger,” Luca went on. “He didn’t say who.”
“He wouldn’t tell Nat,” Steve said, trying to wrap his mind around this turn of events. “It protects her… Where’s everyone else?”
“We’ve been trying to reach Dyson but he ain’t answering any of us,” Luca explained.
“Even my wife?” Steve had to ask.
“You have her phone,” Luca pointed out. “He ain’t answering Nat’s phone.”
That wasn’t a good sign.
“Scott’s fine. He’s on his way here.”
His cook left someone out. “Neal?”
“I don’t know,” Luca told him, his expression grim.
“You think Neal is our rat?” Steve asked.
“Your wife does,” Luca told him.
The tap at the door stopped their conversation. Luca rose and went to the door, opening it to find Scott. Steve motioned him in, Luca closing the door.
“Scott, I have a question for you,” Steve said as his men took seats across from him. “What happened that day when I brought my sister home? Specifically, what happened between Banner and my wife?”
Scott blew out an exhale, nodding. He explained that he caught Mrs. Rogers before she went down to confront the angry lawyer and tried to send her back to her room, to let him handle it. When Scott explained that she wouldn’t agree to that, Steve nodded. It was what he expected.
“I told her to stay behind me,” Scott told them. “But she really didn’t do that either. Banner came in yelling about you taking his wife. He blamed you. He blamed Mrs. Rogers. He turned a scary shade of red. Right before you came in, he reared back like…”
“Like?” Steve asked.
“Like he was going to hit her,” Scott finished. “Like he was going to hit Mrs. Rogers. I pulled her back, but it wouldn’t have been enough. Belova came out of nowhere and blocked him, got him under control.”
Scott’s story matched his wife’s so far. Steve felt his anger rise.
“And Neal? What was he doing?” Steve wanted to know.
So did Luca, he was staring Scott down hard.
Scott shook his head. “He didn’t try to protect her, boss.”
Scrubbing a hand over his beard, Steve looked at Luca. ‘What are your thoughts?”
“Dyson beat the bejesus out of him right here in this office,” Luca said.
“Because he threatened Belova,” Steve reminded him.
“You ever known Dyson to beat the shit out of someone as a warning?” Luca said. “I’ve known Dyson a long time. I’ve seen him warn people lots of times. But not like that. He has a problem with Neal just like your wife and Belova has a problem with him. If they think he’s the rat, yeah, so do I.”
“Scott?” Steve asked.
Scott nodded. “Neal doesn’t talk to me. I just know I didn’t like how he acted that day with Mrs. Rogers. I don’t like how he treats Yelena either. I could never tell if it was because he didn’t like her or he didn’t like her because of her loyalty to your wife.”
Neal had been a loyal soldier to Steve, someone he trusted. Neal had even saved his life. How could it be that everyone else in his house didn’t trust him? How?
Jesus.
“If Clint is right and we’ve been ratted out,” Steve told them, “We have to call everything off. If Neal is our rat, Barnes and whoever is working with him knows exactly what we’re planning. Fuck.”
Rising from his chair, Steve began pacing. “Dyson is supposed to be going with Neal to deal with Hansen. I thought by sending them together, they could mend fences. Bond over taking care of shit. And it would prove Neal isn’t a liability. Now… hell, Neal might kill Dyson himself for that beating. If he hasn’t already. We have to find Dyson, now.”
“Unless we have reason to believe otherwise, we have to assume Dyson will meet Neal as planned,” Luca said. “And that’s not long from now. We need to be there before Neal is.”
“Luca, I need you to dial back orders. If Barnes knows any of this, our people are walking into a trap. I need you to talk to everyone. Personally. Call it off.”
“You got it, boss,” Luca said.
“Luca, I want a small goddamn army around this house,” Steve instructed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Luca said.
“See if anyone knows anything about Clint,” Steve went on. “I want a status on him ASAP. Scott help Luca.”
Both men nodded.
“Otherwise, my sister will lose her fucking mind.” Steve thought of her in the sewing room with his wife.
Luca and Scott left his study to do his bidding. Steve went to the bar behind his desk, poured himself a scotch. He needed it for what was coming next. Pulling open his desk drawer, he fished out his wife’s phone.
Once he finished his drink, Steve headed up the stairs, passing his bedroom. When he reached the linen closet, the façade that hid the sewing room, he took a deep breath. Quietly as he could, he opened the door, pushed the button that opened the door to the hidden room within.
Nat was huddled on the bench looking miserable, physically and emotionally. Her green eyes filled with tears when she rushed to him. Steve caught his sister in his arms, hugging her tightly. She was cold, shaking.
His wife? She sat on the floor under the window, eyeing him warily.
One thing his wife wasn’t? Afraid. No, she wasn’t showing any fear.
Easing his sister back onto the bench, Steve smoothed a hand over her red hair. “Nat, I’m going to have Luca bring some blankets and a space heater up here with your dinner, okay? You’re freezing.”
Nat wasn’t letting him go. “Is Clint on his way home?”
Steve met her gaze squarely. “We’ll find him. I promise.”
Nat didn’t look convinced, but she sat back down on the bench, her hands wringing. Steve walked over to his wife, held out his hand. She took it, allowing him to help her off the floor.
“I’m going to talk to my wife for just a moment out here, okay?” Steve asked carefully.
Nat nodded. His wife followed him through the linen closet and out into the hall.
“We need to talk,” Steve said slowly, trying to keep his tone even.
“I’d like to help you, Steve,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “But we don’t resume our marriage until 29 days from now, so…”
“I know, I know,” he said. “Everything’s so fucked right now between me and you. And we will deal with that.”
“Yes, we will,” she said, way too calm standing before him.
“But right now, we have to deal with the threat to this family,” Steve told her as he would one of his men. “Were you with Nat when Clint called?”
She frowned. “No, I was locked in my room.”
“Nat came and got you,” he said. “What exactly did she tell you about that phone call?”
Surprise flashed across her beautiful face for just a second. “She said that Clint told her we had been ratted out. That Barnes knew everything and that placed us all in danger. He told her to come get me and to bring me to this room as soon as she got off the phone. And she did just that.”
“He didn’t tell her anything else?” Steve asked.
She shook her head. “I wanted to see if she had left anything out or could tell me if she heard anything in the background. She’s too upset about the fact that he’s in danger. She’s barely holding herself together right now… Have you heard from Clint? Or Dyson?”
“No,” he said simply. “Luca’s doing his damnedest to find anything on either of them.” Speaking of Luca… “You have Nat’s phone. That’s how you got Luca.”
“Yes,” she told him. “It was obvious you hadn’t heard from Clint if you were still meeting with your lawyer.”
“You didn’t call me,” he had to say it.
Her chin tipped up in challenge. “If I had known what to expect from you, I would have.”
Steve earned that. “Is there anything else you know, Sweetheart? Anything at all?”
Oh, she did. He knew that look.
“What?” he asked.
“It involves Yelena,” she said, holding his gaze.
“This is not the time to bargain with me—”
“Oh, I’m not bargaining for anything,” she informed him, anger hardening her expression. “Yelena will be back where she belongs when this is over. She’s loyal to me and it was out of that loyalty that she told Clint where he could find Banner.”
“Excuse me?” Banner was supposed to be gone. Long gone, off to the west coast.
“He was still here,” she told him. “On Stark’s turf. He needed to be dealt with and Clint deserved a go at him.”
The way his wife spoke, the fire in her eyes. It mirrored the anger he was struggling to keep down right now.
“Think about it,” she said. “Yelena gave him that information. Then he calls Nat, tells her we’ve been ratted out and Barnes knows everything. We’re all in danger.”
Steve stared her down. “You think Banner is the rat?”
She shook her head. “Banner’s involved, but he’s not the rat. He didn’t know what you had planned for tonight. And he had no access to that information unless it was from the rat who did. But he was still here. Banner was hoping for something, and it wasn’t Nat.”
She had a point. Banner had sworn to Steve he’d be gone.
“You think Stark is involved?” Steve pressed.
“No,” she said. “I don’t really know him. But from the impression I got, he wouldn’t be that stupid.”
It was his thought exactly about Tony Stark. Jesus. Who was this woman he married?
“Barnes?” She shrugged. “Well, that remains to be seen.”
“You’ve talked to Belova,” he said.
“And she is on her way to the location she gave Clint,” she explained.
“Alone?”
“No, she’s with friends,” his wife explained.
“What friends?”
“All I know is that they are friends of Dyson,” she said. “And if he trusts them, and she trusts them, then so do I.”
Not a hint of doubt or hesitation. His wife stood toe to toe with him, talking about the dangers of his world with authority.
“But we have no idea where Dyson is.” Now her expression softened. The smallest trace of fear in her eyes. “I tried to call him from Nat’s phone, Luca called. There’s no answer. He’s supposed to be going with Neal to deal with Hansen. Steve, we have to find him.”
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Steve nodded. “We do. We really do… Dyson didn’t take it well that I pushed Belova out.”
“I’ll bet he didn’t,” she said bitterly.
“You got in his head about Neal,” Steve told her. “Neal said something about Belova Dyson really didn’t like. He beat the shit out of him last night, right there in my office.”
Steve saw the flash of excitement in her eyes at that. Just as quickly, it diminished.
“Jesus, Steve. Dyson’s walking into a trap between Hansen and Neal.” His wife shook her head, her teeth tugging at her lower lip nervously. “He’s dead if we don’t do something.”
Steve knew she could be right. If Neal was who she thought he was.
“You really think Neal is the rat here?” he asked.
“I know he is, Steve.”
It was then he realized something. The conviction, the certainty in her voice? It was all too familiar.
It all very much reminded him of her father. Every bit of it. And her father had been a hell of a leader in his time. He would never have found himself in the shit situation Steve let himself fall into.
Could he put aside who he thought Neal was? Did he have a choice?
Pulling her phone out of the pocket of his slacks, he handed it to her. “Try to call Dyson. One last try before I start making hard decisions.”
She took the phone without hesitation, hitting Dyson’s number with haste and putting the speaker on so he could hear. It only rang once before someone answered.
“Hi there, Princess,” Hansen drawled.
Fucking Hansen?
Steve tried to grab the phone, but his wife pulled it away, putting a finger to her lips. A signal for him to be quiet.
How was he supposed to be quiet when the slimy bastard had his mentor?
Why was the fucker calling his wife ‘Princess?’
“Are you there?” Hansen taunted.
“I’m here,” his wife said finally, taking a deep breath.
“Nothing to say?”
“Why are you answering Dyson’s phone?” she demanded.
“Dyson’s a little occupied at the moment,” Hansen went on in.
“He’s alive?” she asked.
“For now.”
“Is Neal with you?”
Hansen laughed at that. It was the moment Steve realized his wife was right.
“They’re working through a few things,” Hansen said casually. “It’s going well.”
“I want to speak Dyson,” she told him. “Now.”
“Think I’m lying to you, Princess?”
“Now, Hansen,” she said with more force.
Hansen’s sigh was loud and there was the sound of movement. Another voice mumbled in the background, Steve thought it was Neal. Then they heard Hansen say, “she wants to talk to you.”
“Hey,” Dyson said, sounding out of breath.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” Dyson said slowly. “Don’t you worry yourself about me.”
“You know better than that,” she said. “But I need you to come home.”
There was a loud crash and the sound of Dyson’s yell. His wife gazed up at him wide-eyed. Now she was afraid. Steve wanted to grab the phone, but it was better for Hansen to think she was alone.
“You want Dyson back home?” Hansen’s tone was a little impatient. “Let’s talk.”
Her eyes were still on her husband. Steve nodded.
“Okay.”
“I’ll give him back to you, but I want something in return,” Hansen said.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“You know what I want,” Hansen told her. “You.”
The thought that the ruthless bastard wanted his wife so badly had Steve choking on his fury.
She snorted. “And what do you think is going to happen? You’re going to show up with Dyson and Steve will make a trade?”
“Steve’s running out of time,” Hansen told her. “If he was the man you deserve, I wouldn’t have his top lieutenant, would I? I wouldn’t be so easily able to reach his wife. Steve can’t hold his own family together, much less lead the other families. When he falls, have you thought about what that means for you?”
It was all Steve could do not to start ranting at the arrogant fucker. Especially as he watched worry creep into his wife’s expression.
“How would it happen?” she asked.
“No!” Dyson yelled in the background. “Don’t you even think about—”
A sharp crack cut off the rest of what Dyson was about to say.
“Please don’t hurt him,” his wife whispered.
“You can stop it,” Hansen told her.
She looked to Steve, big eyes filled with so much emotion.
In his head, Steve narrowed down his choices. The fact that Hansen had Dyson, cut down his options. Neal was with them, confirming his wife’s suspicions. Neal would have told them all their plans. Fuck. Neal knew lots of things about Steve, how he ran the family.
If something happened to Dyson, and he had to admit at the moment that it was a very real possibility, the family would survive it. They already appeared to be struggling and that was Barnes’ intention, he knew. Losing Dyson would make them look even weaker. Blood in the water to put doubt in the minds of Odinson, Stark, and Wilson.
If something happened to Dyson, his wife might not survive. Especially with Hansen making her believe she could personally save the only father she really had. Hansen’s cruelty forced his hand. If Steve denied her now, he’d lose her.
With a fear shooting through his heart he’d never known, he nodded. His wife’s eyes widened in surprise.
“How will it happen?” she asked Hansen again, not missing a beat.
Hansen muttered his instructions in his wife’s ear. Steve didn’t catch most of it, gripped by the seriousness of the situation. Hating that he had no other choice. Hating the risk that he could lose both his wife and Dyson.
“I’ll see you soon, Princess” was all Hansen said when he ended the call.
And just like that, leading the families wasn’t the most important thing to Steve. Leading his family, having everyone’s respect didn’t matter. Not nearly as much as the man they held hostage or the woman he loved, watching him with the phone clutched in her trembling hands.
“Steve, what are we going to do?” she asked, sounding as scared as she looked.
Wrapping his arms around his wife, Steve pulled her close. She trembled in his hold, and he knew she was afraid, but she was brave. Steve was proud of her for that.
“He said I needed to be there, at his house, within the hour,” she told him. “Or they’ll kill Dyson.”
“I know,” he said low by her ear. “So we need to move fast.”
Moving past her, Steve went to the sewing room, leaning down to kiss his sister’s forehead. “I’m taking my wife with me,” he said. “Stay here and stay hidden even though I’m going to do my best to keep the fighting away from here.”
Nodding, she said, “Be careful.”
“We will,” he told her. “Luca will still be here if you need him.”
His wife hugged her quickly. “We’ll be home soon. With Clint.”
Steve just hoped his wife was right.
***
Your heart raced as Luca and Scott arrived at Steve’s office, closing the door behind them. Both of them looked startled to see you.
“What’s up boss?” Luca was still staring at you. “I’ve got the men setting up around the house.”
“We’ve had a complication,” Steve told them. “It’s Dyson. Hansen has him.”
Scott’s mouth dropped open. Luca scowled at Steve. “How the fuck did that happen?”
“With Neal’s help,” Steve said calmly. Glancing back at you, he blew out an exhale. “My wife was right.”
You couldn’t even enjoy being right. Not with someone you loved in danger.
Leaning against his desk with his heavy arms across his chest, Steve looked deep in thought.
“Barnes found out just in time that we were going to hit him and hit him hard,” Steve said. “We were going to strike his turf, his holdings. Hansen. By now, he knows we figured out we were betrayed. He’s going to do one of two things. He’s going to try to hit us here, which we’re ready for and he would know that… Or he’s going sit tight and see what our next move is.”
Luca shook his head. “Barnes ain’t going to do shit right now. If he’s smart.”
Steve nodded. Scott looked as lost as you felt.
“Why not?” Scott asked.
“We can’t prove the hits on us were Barnes,” Luca explained. “We know they were, but we can’t prove it. Then there’s the other three families. They swore allegiance to Steve. If they find out Barnes is knifing Steve in the back, they’ll rally to our side. But if Barnes can get in their heads, make it look like Steve is paranoid and weak…”
From the beginning, Barnes’ plan was to prove Steve was unfit to lead the families. You remembered the first time you met him in the kitchen, the bitterness of his tone when he spoke to Steve. The belief that he should have been leader of the families – Barnes not Steve.
“Barnes can’t just fight Steve for leadership?” you had to ask, wanting to learn.
“No,” Luca told you. “He doesn’t have the muscle.”
“Why did Barnes have Hansen grab Dyson?” Scott shook his head. “If what you say is true, that move doesn’t make a lot of sense. No one is closer to Steve than him.”
“I don’t think that was Barnes’ idea,” Steve said. “We’d planned for Neal and Dyson to go deal with Hansen. And Hansen has it coming for attacking this house and trying to get his hands on my wife.”
“But Neal and Hansen grabbed Dyson instead,” Scott said. “How is that going to play out?”
“Dyson beat the shit out of Neal right here in this office,” Luca explained. “It’s perfect really. Neal claims he’s having problems with this family and Dyson beat him like a dog. So he defected, telling Barnes things to earn a place over there. Offing Dyson would be seen as just a little bit of payback between two soldiers. That’s how that plays out.”
You swallowed hard. It was all plausible. Complete bullshit and terrifying, but plausible.
“How do we get Dyson back?” Scott asked them.
“He wants to trade for him,” you told Scott. “He’ll let Dyson go if I agree to take his place.”
Scott’s mouth dropped open again. “What?���
“Hansen called my wife. He doesn’t know I was listening. He thinks he’s scaring her into doing what he wants.” Both Luca and Scott looked to Steve. Steve cut you a glance. “I really don’t like this either but that was his condition. And we have just under an hour to decide what we’re going to do.”
“Fuck,” Luca said. “That would start a war. Barnes can’t go around snatching someone else’s wife. The families would never accept that.”
“I don’t think that’s Barnes’ idea either,” Steve replied. “Not his style. But very much Hansen’s.”
“Hansen wants your wife?” Scott shook his head. “Then what? That would start a war between the families for sure.”
“I don’t think Hansen intends on sticking around for the outcome,” Steve said. “He likely thinks he can grab her and go.”
Your heart raced in your chest. You knew Steve wasn’t seriously considering the trade. That meant coming up with a plan where Steve kept you and got Dyson back too. No matter the plan, it was dangerous.
“You up for this?” Luca asked you in a calm voice.
For Dyson? “Yes, I am,” you told them with no hesitation.
Luca grinned. “Okay then. We need an airtight plan because whether or not he can get his hands on Mrs. Rogers, he’s not planning on leaving Dyson alive.”
What?
“Agreed,” Steve said.
“And we have some friends here to help,” Luca went on. “Friends with skills that are perfect for this.”
“The ones Yelena is with?” you asked.
“I know how you feel about Belova,” Steve said, “but she’s not that experienced.”
“The ones with her are,” Luca told them. “There are five of them and all but Aisha were fucking special forces.”
“Maybe so, but I’m not trusting just anyone with her,” Steve told them.
“Well, you can’t go,” Luca pointed out.
“What?” Steve asked.
“You can’t go,” Luca reiterated. “Hansen thinks she’s sneaking out to come make the trade. They see you and they’ll know it’s a trap.”
Color rose from Steve’s collar, darkened his face.
“You have to be here, and you know this,” Luca told him.
“I’m supposed to just send my wife to Hansen’s knowing I might never see her again?” Steve was getting more upset by the second. “Entrust her to people I don’t know?”
Luca put his hands on his hips. “Or we could keep her here. Sacrifice Dyson.”
“No!” you shouted. It wasn’t an option.
“That’s where we are,” Luca told him. “But we can make this work. I’ll call Clay right now, okay?”
After a moment, Steve nodded. “Give us a minute, okay?”
Luca and Scott left you alone with Steve. And Steve looked like he himself was facing the gallows.
Yeah, you were scared. But you had to try and save Dyson. From Hansen. From Neal.
“This is all on me,” Steve said, more serious than you’d ever seen him. “I want you to realize this. Yeah, I lost my temper about that incident, but it doesn’t seem so important now. And now I know Neal was the rat. He instigated all of it.”
Sliding a hand over your cheek, he gazed into your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“We’ll talk about it when Dyson and I get home,” you told him.
You were shaking but you were holding up. You could do this.
“If Dyson trusts the ones Luca is talking about,” Steve said, “then I will too.”
“I trust Yelena too,” you told him. “And she will be reinstated when we get back.”
Steve nodded. “But I fucking hate this. This is exactly the sort of thing I wanted to avoid. I’m going to lose my mind until this is over. Until you’re back here.”
Now he’d have an idea what you went through. The play of anger and fear in his expression kept you from enjoying it.
“I need you to promise me something. I know how you feel about Dyson and Yelena. I know you love them. But if things look to be going wrong or you don’t see a way to get everyone out, you get out of there. Even if it means you’re the only one who gets out. Even if it means you have to leave them behind.”
You just stared at him.
“Hansen wants you,” Steve reminded you. “He’s not going to harm you. Remember that.”
Leaning in, he kissed your lips. A seeking kiss, gentle and slow, almost as if he were asking permission. You answered it, a kiss to remind yourself that Steve wasn’t all bad. You still cared about him.
The desperation in his kiss grew. You could taste it. Steve was kissing you like it was goodbye. You didn’t miss the slight tremor in his hand on your face.
“Come back to me,” Steve whispered against your lips. “Please.”
Easing back, you gaze up at him. “I will. And we have a lot to talk about when I do.”
Both of you smiled at that. Your usual marital fighting seemed like a happy memory next to this.
“I love you,” Steve whispered.
“I love you,” you whispered back, just in case you didn’t see him again.
And just maybe you meant it. The way your heart squeezed in your chest made you wonder…
***
You scrambled down the road like a scared little runaway, trying to play the part as Luca had explained it to you. The sun was going down and according to your phone, you had just under 20 minutes to reach Hansen’s house.
A small SUV pulled up next to you as you walked. Your Uber. When the driver asked if you were Mrs. Rogers, you nodded, climbed in the back.
The driver’s blue-eyed gaze met yours in the rearview mirror. He was a bigger guy with spiky blond hair and round glasses. He smiled before turning his attention to the road ahead.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
It was a strange question.
“I’m… fine,” you told him.
He nodded, driving along.
“I’m Jensen,” he explained. “Dyson’s a good friend.”
That got your attention. “Are you one of the friends Yelena’s been staying with?”
“Yeah,” he explained. “She’s going to be there with us. We’ve got a plan. We’ll do everything we can to get you and Dyson back home shortly.”
“Thank you,” you told him. “Thank you for helping us.”
“Hey,” Jensen said. “Dyson’s helped us out a couple of times. We owe him.”
It was good to know that they cared about getting Dyson out safely as much as you did.
“We’ll be there in about ten minutes,” he explained. “I’ll pull up and you just hop out, okay? I’ll stash the car and take up my position.”
“Okay,” you told him.
“You’ll need to leave your piece in here with me,” he went on.
“What?”
“Your gun,” Jensen said. “Put it in the duffel bag back there. It’s my stuff. I’ll make sure you get it back.”
You’d almost forgotten about it honestly, pulling it free of your jeans. “Why can’t I take it?”
He smiled. “Yelena said you shot him once.”
“I did.” You were proud of that. Having the gun made you feel a little safer.
“There are too many things that could go wrong here,” he said. “I promise I’ll get it back to you.”
You nodded, knowing you had no choice but to trust these people. Dyson trusted them…
Unzipping the bag, you made sure the safety was on and carefully put your gun in. There was another handgun in there among some other ordinary looking belongings. A keyring caught your eye. On it was a small picture of Jensen with a pretty woman and the cutest little girl. On the other side the words “Best Buy” were engraved into the pewter.
“Is this picture your family?” you asked, zipping the bag again.
“Yeah,” he said with a wide smile. “My fiancée and our daughter Charlie.”
“They are beautiful,” you told him.
“Thank you. We have a baby on the way,” he told you. “I’m trying to get her to the altar before he or she gets here though.”
“Let’s make sure that happens,” you told him with conviction.
Jensen nodded.
“Is there anything else I need to know going in?” you asked him.
“Just be yourself,” Jensen told you. “You have friends. Remember that. You’ll know me and Yelena anyway. Dyson. Follow our lead. We’ll get you home.”
Five minutes later, Jensen dropped you off in front of an older house. It was an isolated location with no neighbors in sight anyway. You did just what Jensen told you and hopped out, not looking back at him. You weren’t taking your eyes off the impressive house before you.
You walked along the stone path leading to the front door. Just off to the side of the house you saw Dyson’s Cadillac, Neal’s SUV. It was surreal and you struggled to keep your knees from knocking.
Neal was the asshole you believed him to be. He sold all of you out. He sold you out.
But the worst thing he did was try to take Dyson from you. You focused on him.
Dyson was yours. Your caretaker. Your friend. Your father.
It would be a cold day in hell when you let Neal or Hansen take him away from you.
Before your foot hit the first step, the front door of that house opened. Hansen.
Well, you didn’t want your audience to be disappointed. You took your time climbing the steps, your back straight, your chin up. When you stepped on the porch, only then did you meet his gaze. You gazed at the huge beast of a man as if he bored you. As if he were beneath you.
Hansen didn’t appear to be moving from the doorway to let you in. He grinned at you.
Then you stopped.
“Planning to pat me down and check for weapons?” you asked him.
“Do you want me to?” he asked, his grin widening.
You rolled your eyes. “Take me to Dyson. Now.”
Hansen stepped back, motioning you in with his hand. You walked by him, into a living room with a high ceiling and elegant furnishings. Nothing out of place in the opulent room.
Well, just one thing that didn’t belong there. A tiny purse, its purple leather standing out on the sand-colored upholstery. Why did Hansen have that?
You kept walking until you reached the kitchen. You met Dyson’s gaze first. He was bound to the chair, his face bloody and bruised. He was gagged. The steel in his gaze gave you courage. Told you without words that he trusted you.
Neal stood up from another chair at the kitchen table and he didn’t look much better. The only difference was Neal’s wounds had little time to scab over, to set in. You grinned at Neal.
“You look beaten down. How does it feel?” you asked him.
“Fuck you,” Neal spat, taking a menacing step closer to you.
You didn’t move.
“That’s some big talk for someone whose husband locked her in her room for disobeying him,” Neal said, cutting a glance at Hansen who stood behind you.
Hansen chuckled. “You couldn’t handle her any better than Rogers could.”
You flinched when you felt his hand at your lower back. Not a barely there, tentative touch. No, it was possessive. When it moved lower, you moved before he could touch your ass. You glared up at the bastard, hoping he couldn’t tell you were fucking terrified on the inside.
“The only one allowed to handle me at all is my husband,” you told him, raising your chin. “Now, Dyson goes back home. With me.”
Hansen’s grin didn’t subside. “That wasn’t the deal, princess. It’s a trade. Him for you. The only terms I’ll accept.”
“If you know me so well, you know I have no intention of ever making a trade,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
Hansen cocked a brow at you. “Then what are your intentions? Your husband doesn’t know you’re here not that he ever knows what you’re doing.”
You tried your best to look bored. It was true. But having the enemy reference the fact that you didn’t appear to respect your own husband made you pause. You didn’t like it.
“Belova isn’t here to protect you,” Hansen went on. “You don’t appear to be armed. You don’t have a lot of options.”
Yelena was somewhere close. You hoped.
“We’re wasting time here,” Neal told him, his usually annoying self. You froze when he pulled out his gun, a Glock like yours, and pointed it at the back of Dyson’s head. “She goes to Barnes, we get rid of Dad here, and head over there to finish this. Rogers’ camp is in chaos right now. Let’s hit them while they’re weak.”
“You son-of-a-bitch.” You glared at him. “Steve thought so much of you. I couldn’t convince him otherwise. And this is what you’re doing?”
“It is.” Neal’s finger twitched around the trigger. Your heart raced in fear as Dyson’s gaze met yours, his gaze calm, like he was willing you to hang on. “Once we get rid of your husband, Barnes gets you and for that, he’s going to help me start my own family. I won’t be a soldier anymore. I’ll get everything I ever wanted.”
“Barnes?” You laughed humorlessly at that. “And you believed him?”
The man’s gaze moved from Dyson to you.
“That worked out so well for Banner,” you taunted him.
The gun in Neal’s hand lowered, wavered. Good. You were drawing his attention away from Dyson…
Before you could blink, Hansen pulled a gun and shot Neal in the face. Bone, brains, and gore splattered Dyson in his chair as your ears rang from the shot. Neal just dropped to the floor.
Now you were afraid. From the apprehension you read in Dyson’s gaze now, he was too.
Hansen tucked his gun away as casually as he might a phone or his wallet. He turned what he must have thought was a charming smile on you.
“Does this mean I’m not going to Barnes?” you had to ask. “Was anything he said true?”
“It was true,” he told you. “Barnes has everything carefully planned out. And he can have your husband, But he’s not getting you. That was never part of my plan.”
“How does that work with him being your boss?” you wanted to know. “Or are you betraying him the same way Neal was betraying Steve?”
That grin widened behind his mustache. “That’s just the way this little world of ours works. You’re either born into a family like you and Rogers or you make your own way like Neal here. But you’ve got to be smarter than that.”
“So where does that leave us?” You moved closer to Dyson, not turning your back on Hansen. He could have shot Dyson just as easily.
“You already know the answer to that,” Hansen told you, his gaze shifting from Dyson back to you. “A trade. You can send him home right now. But you’re mine.”
You rolled your eyes. But inside, your fear was escalating. You remember the horrible things Yelena told you. What Hansen did to her. She was brave and fierce, more so than you. You didn’t want to consider what the asshole had planned for you.
You knew Dyson’s friends were with her. But Yelena herself? She was terrified of him, and she was right to feel that way.
Could Jensen get you out then?
Here’s hoping.
“Fine,” you told him. “Let him go. The trade isn’t complete until I have absolute proof that he’s back home.”
“Fine,” Hansen repeated slowly. The look he cut you told you he didn’t quite buy your performance. Pulling a knife from his pocket, he used it to cut through Dyson’s bonds, allowing him to pull the gag away himself.
Dyson eyed you warily. “Don’t do this,” he said calmly. “Whatever it is you think you’re doing, please don’t.”
Before you could say anything, Hansen blew out an exhale, looking more annoyed than anything. When he turned to look behind him, you saw the man standing there. He was tall as Steve with broad shoulders. The man was a little older with threads of white in his dark hair, in his beard. His grin gave him a very roguish charm.
“Oh, I think it’s a pretty good plan,” the man said, his voice deep whiskey. “We’re going to have to change it up though. We’re here to take Dyson and Mrs. Rogers back home.”
“That doesn’t work for me, Clay,” Hansen told him. “Now, I’m going to kill you. Then I kill Dyson. Then I’m taking Mrs. Rogers with me. And then we call it a day.”
From behind the man he called Clay, you saw Jensen step out. Your heart swelled to see Yelena, her concerned gaze on you. Both held handguns, assessing the situation. Yelena looked so small next to the two dangerous men.
Without looking, Hansen reached for his gun. A bullet hit the floor at his feet, had him jumping slightly in alarm before moving to put his hands back up and in view.
Yelena’s expression was pure rage.
“Hey, Lena,” Hansen crooned. “Miss me?”
You shook your head at her. Don’t answer him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
You inched closer to Dyson until you put yourself between him and Hansen. Yelena’s eyes widened on you. But you knew what you were doing. You weren’t about to let Hansen kill Dyson.
Hansen’s laugh didn’t appear to phase the trio in front of you, but it chilled your blood. “I’m not exactly alone here,” he told all of you.
A tap at the kitchen window behind you got your attention. An armed soldier in body armor was holding an assault rifle outside, his eyes cold as he gazed at you. Two more soldiers crept up the hallway from the opposite direction to the kitchen, also armed with rifles.
Clay eyed them warily as your fear escalated. What happened now?
“They aren’t alone either,” a familiar voice said from behind Jensen and Yelena.
Tears pricked the backs of your eyes to see your husband making his way into the room, his gaze on you. He didn’t stop until he reached you. The expression he wore scared you because you’d never seen that before. It was terrifying. Only the emotion in his blue eyes revealed the relief he appeared to be feeling at reaching you.
You couldn’t help it. You ran to Steve’s side, wrapping your arms around his waist, clinging to him.
“Ballsy,” Hansen told him. “Let me guess. You’ve got this place surrounded.”
Steve’s nod was curt. “We’re done here.”
The smile faded from Hansen’s face. His gaze moved over you as you clung to your husband. It was covetous, angry.
“I say when we’re done here,” Hansen said coldly.
All you saw was the large hand that pulled the handgun out, pointing at Dyson who still sat in the chair where he’d been sitting the entire time. You saw the bastard’s finger at the trigger. Fast as you could move, you jumped in front of Dyson’s chair just as the shot rang out.
The room spun around you violently, as hands grabbed you. Dyson’s. Your husband’s. You saw your blood splatter the front of Dyson’s shirt and tie, more gore on top of Neal’s, as he watched in horror. It felt like someone punched you in the shoulder really, really hard.
There was a blur of activity in that moment all around you, but you weren’t aware of anything but the pain that was starting to come on and the sound of your husband dropping to his knees behind you. Crimson bloomed at the front of his white dress shirt and his hand flew to his chest as he went down.
Yes, you’d been shot.
But fear and guilt choked you to realize your husband took the brunt of it.
“Steve!” you screamed.
PS: Just on my fic posts, I’m adding a tip function. In honor of the kitty we just lost in February, I’m donating everything to our local animal shelter. Tips are not, will never be, and have never been expected. But if you feel so inclined, thank you. 🙏
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