#i know it's so incredibly hard but please do

[scoupsakakitty]

Hii new here and love your work already!

May I request Something about Junhui

Y/n being sick during her pregnancy (if you are comfortable) and Junhui brings her with them while they filmed “In the Soop��� to keep an eye on her and unknowingly their relationship gets exposed once the episode air and she cries real bad and the group help him calm her down!

Unexpected Reveal | idol!Jun x Reader | angst, fluff

Filming In the Soop was supposed to be a peaceful getaway. A chance for the members to relax, reset, and spend quality time together away from the usual chaos of idol life.

But for Junhui, this trip had an entirely different purpose.

"You sure you’re okay with this, baobei?" (A/N: For everyone who don't know what baobei means, it means something like Darling) Jun asked softly, kneeling beside the couch where Y/N lay, bundled in a thick blanket. His hand brushed against her forehead, checking for any lingering fever. "We can still go back if it’s too much for you."

She shook her head, offering him a weak smile. "I’d rather be here with you than alone at home."

Y/N was in the early stages of her pregnancy, and it had been far from easy. Morning sickness hit her hard, exhaustion came in waves, and her body ached in ways she hadn’t expected. Jun had barely let her out of his sight, and when filming In the Soop came up, he insisted on bringing her along—secretly, of course.

The members had been incredibly supportive. Seungcheol and Jeonghan helped distract the cameras, Woozi pretended not to see Jun sneaking into Y/N’s room every night, and the younger ones took turns delivering food to her cabin so she wouldn’t have to move much.

It worked.

Or at least, they thought it did.

When the episode aired weeks later, the internet exploded.

Clips of Jun carefully adjusting a pillow in an empty room. A faint silhouette in the background of his personal vlog. The way he seemed distracted, always checking his phone.

And then, the biggest mistake of all—one of the GoPro cameras accidentally left on inside the cabin.

It wasn’t much, just a short clip of Junhui entering with a warm bowl of soup and a soft, “Baobei, you need to eat.” But it was enough.

The comments flooded in.

*Who’s in Jun’s room??? *Did he just say ‘baobei’?????? *Wait, is this why he kept disappearing during the show?! *Jun’s married?! JUN HAS A WHOLE WIFE????

The speculation spiraled out of control. Some fans celebrated, some felt betrayed, and some simply refused to believe it.

But the damage was done.

Y/N sat curled on their couch, knees pulled to her chest, as she scrolled through the endless posts. The anxiety swelled in her chest until it was unbearable, and before she could stop herself, she burst into tears.

"Y/N, hey—" Jun rushed to her side, alarmed. "Baobei, don’t cry. Please don’t cry."

“I ruined everything,” she sobbed, voice shaky. “Everyone’s talking about you. About us. What if—what if it affects your career? What if people hate you because of me?”

Jun’s heart clenched.

He gathered her into his arms, rubbing slow circles on her back as she cried into his chest. “Shh, that’s not true. You didn’t ruin anything, okay? If anything, this was my fault—I should’ve been more careful.”

The door suddenly burst open, and in came Seungcheol, followed closely by Jeonghan and Minghao.

“Is she okay?” Jeonghan asked, concern etched in his features.

“No,” Jun answered honestly, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Seungcheol crouched down in front of them, resting a gentle hand on Y/N’s knee. “Hey, don’t read the comments, okay? People will always have things to say, but they don’t know you. They don’t know how much Jun loves you, how much he’s willing to fight for you.”

Minghao sat beside her, his voice soft. “You’re not alone in this. We’re family. We’ll handle this together.”

Y/N sniffled, looking up at them. “But… what if they—”

“They won’t.” Jun cut her off firmly. “Even if they do, I don’t care. You and our baby matter more to me than any of this.”

She let out a small, choked laugh. “That was really cheesy.”

Jeonghan smirked. “He’s been watching too many dramas again.”

Laughter rippled through the room, lightening the heavy atmosphere.

Jun wiped her tears, cradling her face in his hands. “We’ll be okay, baobei. I promise.”

And looking at the warmth surrounding her, the love in Jun’s eyes, and the unwavering support of their family, Y/N finally let herself believe it.

[notlongtolove]

to be an accountant of the heart

because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. to look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (second person, no y/n)

genre: angst-ish, fight and makeup

content: established relationship fight and makeup woof woof rookie bau reader feels insecure about how much she loves spencer, worries she's too clingy, spencer reid best bf ever

word count: 5k

note: this was haunting me in my drafts for the longest time... please be nice my heart can't take it (psa guys don't ever tell ur partners that they love you more than you love them bc 5 years down the road they'll cope by writing deranged spencer reid fics like this)

a line: You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

and then it is hundreds of hours later, and you are still hunched over your flowcharts and abacus, trying to decide if you have gotten enough. This is the loneliest job in the world: to be an accountant of the heart. - tony hoagland

The English language draws a neat line between many and much. It divides the countable from the uncountable.

The word many is meant for things you can count. How many cups of coffee have you had? How many days will you be gone for? 

The word much belongs to what cannot be counted, what cannot be numbered. How much longer do we have in bed? How much did you miss me? How much do you love me? 

How much?

It’s an innately impossible question. Love, after all, is supposed to be infinite, unbound, unquantifiable. Any attempt to measure it—to reduce something so sacred to a number, a unit—is to taint it. And why would you want to do that? Why would anyone? There shouldn't be any need to measure something so inherently immeasurable. 

Deep down, you know there's no actual way to count love. You suppose this instinct to measure has always been there, to wonder if the love you received can be tallied like time. It’s buried deep, old as the child you once were. 

Still, the question begs itself. How much? How much more? How much less? If comparison is the thief of joy it’s only because it leaves you with the revelations nobody asked for, the truths nobody ever wants to see. 

Put love on a scale, wait and see—Will it balance or won’t it? 

“Glaring at the clock isn’t going to make time pass any faster,” Elle teases from two desks away, her eyes locked on the report she’s skimming.

You don’t bother hiding your sigh as you glance up from where your chin rests heavily in your palm, elbow propped against the desk. The pencil in your other hand twirls idly, betraying your impatience. “He said they landed an hour ago,” you grumble. Only the faintest trace of a pout slips through.

“Working hard or hardly working, ladies?” 

Your head perks up at that. Trust Derek Morgan to know how to make an entrance, arriving right on cue, grin wide and swagger intact. 

JJ, seated beside you and noticeably more amused by your restlessness than concerned, spins her chair around as she asks, “How was the convention boys?”

“It was great—more than great actually,” Spencer says, appearing from behind Morgan. He’s lugging a bag that seems twice as heavy as when you’d helped him pack it five days ago. “All the speakers were incredible. I got to talk with Lonnie Athens himself. He gave me a signed copy of his latest book.” His grin widens tenfold. “It’s not even out in stores yet.”

You’re halfway out of your seat, ready to pounce on Spencer the moment he sets his bag down. But instead, he offers a halfhug and a light squeeze to your shoulder. It’s understated, but it’s Spencer. Public displays of affection aren’t his thing, and you know better than to expect more. Still, five days without him makes you ache for just a little more.

“It was alright,” Morgan interjects with a casual shrug as he takes a seat at the edge of your table, narrowly missing your nth mug of coffee. “Great sandwiches though.”

“Yeah, you sure seemed interested in the sandwiches,” Spencer says dryly, the kind of tone that suggests sandwiches were not the main attraction.

Morgan smirks, unbothered. “New York, man,” he says with a grin. “New York.”

You turn your attention back to Spencer. “How’d you sleep?” you ask, your question aimed entirely at him.

“Surprisingly well, actually,” Spencer replies, “Despite the snoring.”

Morgan’s response is immediate—a light thwack to the back of Spencer’s head. “How’d he sleep? More like, how’d I sleep. Lover girl over here had him on the phone half the night.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” you shoot back, narrowing your eyes at him. But then your gaze drifts to Spencer, searching for confirmation. “Was I?”

Spencer hesitates, his lips pressing into a faintly sheepish line. “I did wake up late for one of the panels,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

“Oh, you think you had it bad? I’ve never seen someone go through so much coffee in a week,” JJ says, nodding in your direction, “She wiped out the entire stock.”

“Almost bashed her over the head with a cup of coffee myself when I had to settle for the instant stuff,” Elle chimes in. A collective shudder goes through the group. “No offence, Reid,” she adds.

“None taken,” Spencer replies smoothly, just in time to earn another smack on his arm, this time from you.

You’ve endured more than your fair share of teasing—it comes with the territory when you’re part of a team like this. You, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, three years his junior. Him, more comfortable rambling about the number of kernels on an average cob of corn than talking to any girl, let alone one with a smile like yours that could make his knees buckle. What had been an odd match to some, made perfect sense to others—Though Spencer would argue that Garcia just liked seeing him with any girl who could make him laugh the way you could, especially within three days of meeting him. It’s a feat nobody else has yet to achieve in the year you’ve been on the team. 

“Missed you,” you murmur, just loud enough for him to hear.

Spencer flushes as his lips part, maybe to respond, but Elle cuts in before he gets the chance. “Save it for later, lover girl. Some of us want to hear about those sandwiches.” 

“Oh, they really were better than last year’s,” Spencer begins, now distracted, completely oblivious to Elle’s sarcasm, “Probably because the annual reports showed an increased budget for the global initiatives.”

JJ raises an eyebrow in amused disbelief. “You read the FBI’s annual budget breakdown?”

Spencer looks genuinely surprised by the question. “You don’t?”

Chuckles echo throughout the group and though you smile faintly, it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You just can’t help it as the tally marks start to stack up in your mind. One for the way his attention is just a little too distant, his excitement seemingly aimed at everyone but you. Another for every time you wait for his gaze and it doesn’t come. He’s too absorbed in recounting a discussion about deterministic causality he’d had with a keynote speaker. 

Compared to Spencer, who was often so reserved, it was easy to feel like your emotions were too big, too eager. Dragging him, wide-eyed and stammering, up the stairs to Hotch’s office six months ago had been nothing short of a test of strength and sheer determination. You’d been the one to silence him with a gentle kiss to his knuckles, promising him that everything would be okay. You were a live wire compared to him, everyone knew that. Lover girl, they teased, though never cruelly. In the field and out of it—Clingy to a fault, always wearing your heart on your sleeve. 

Lover girl through and through, you wait patiently for Spencer to look your way. 

He doesn’t. 

“Yours or mine?” Spencer asks as you stand side by side on the curb, bags in tow. 

“Think I’ll go to mine,” you reply curtly. You don’t trust yourself to say anything else right now.

“That’s fine. I’ve got an extra day’s worth of clothes with me.”

“You can go home,” you say, cutting him off. It comes off sharper than you intended. Then, softer, as if trying to backtrack, you add, “If you want.”

He looks at you, baffled. “Why would I do that?” 

It’s not a rhetorical question, he genuinely doesn’t understand. Weekends apart have never really been your thing. 

“Because—” You cut yourself off mid-sentence. What could you even say? Because you seem so perfectly fine after 120 hours apart. Because the tally marks said so. Because the scale said so. Instead, you huff an exhale and settle for, “No reason. You look tired. Thought you’d want to go home or something.”

“Again sweetheart. Why would I do that?” he repeats, incredulous. 

You fight off a resigned sigh, though you’re sure he catches it, and pull out your phone. “I’m calling a cab,” you mumble, thumbing at the screen. “Are you coming or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll come with you,” he says, still calm but clearly confused.

“Fine.”

The ride home is quiet, save for the driver’s rambling complaints about freeway traffic at this hour. Normally, you’d be the one to humour any conversations with strangers, chiming in with polite nods and oh, reallys while Spencer watched, bemused by your ability to make small talk with anyone. But today, you’re just not in the mood, leaving poor Spencer to fend for himself.  

Which to his credit, he does—By turning the conversation into a tangent about how traffic patterns correlate with certain hours and commuter behaviour, and delving into a detailed explanation of the queueing theory. He does this till eventually, even the driver goes silent, though whether it’s out of confusion or exhaustion, you’re not quite sure. 

You can feel Spencer’s eyes on you in the silence, flicking toward you every now and then. The concern in his attention does nothing to soothe you. If anything, it only fans the flames of your irritation. When the car finally rolls to a stop outside your building, you hand the driver a $20 bill, wave off the change, and stride toward your door without another word. You’re out before Spencer can even pull his door open.

Inside, you drop your things on the couch resignedly and kick off your shoes without so much as a care. They land in a scattered heap that you don’t bother to fix. Spencer lingers behind you, ever patient.

“What do you want for dinner?” His voice is soft, tentative, as he bends down to pick up your discarded shoes, lining them neatly by the door. “We could order something. Chinese, maybe?”

Spencer knows you well—knows how your mood sours when you’re running on fumes. Particularly on days like this, when your only sustenance has been a cup of crappy coffee and a few stale crackers he’d coaxed you into eating earlier just before you left, bribing you with a quick kiss on the cheek—After checking that nobody else was in the break room, of course. 

Sullen as you are, you can recognise the offer for what it is. It’s sweet. A thoughtful acknowledgement of how well he knows you, how much he cares. He’s offering you a lifeline, a quiet invitation to let the storm pass without forcing you to name it, something you’re evidently trying not to do. 

But tonight, it feels almost patronising. It’s a spotlight on the hurt you can’t quite temper, like he’s trying to fix something you’re not yet ready to admit needs fixing.

“I can run down to the—”

“I’m not hungry.” 

You walk straight into your bedroom without another word, leaving him standing there in the doorway. You hear him exhale quietly, not quite a sigh but close. Probably one of resignation. Another tally mark falls on the scale. 

“Sweetheart,” he starts. You know he’s testing the waters, trying to find an opening. But you don’t look at him, don’t give him anything to work with. “Can we talk?” he asks, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a seat at the edge of your bed.

“Talk about what?” You’ve always been good at feigning ignorance, but the way you pull your hand away from his is anything but subtle. Spencer sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he closes his eyes briefly. He’s clearly exhausted. This is exhausting. You’re clearly exhausting. You can’t help but wonder why you always do this. 

“Was it Elle? Morgan?” he ventures cautiously. “The teasing?”

“They always tease me,” you say with a shrug, your voice dismissive. “I don’t care.”

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it.

Spencer nods slowly as he tries to piece this together. He knows you’re not usually one to let things fester. You’re never angry for long, and even when you are, you laugh it off, always quick to join in on the joke. He knows better than to profile you—it's an unspoken rule within the team and, more importantly, within your relationship. But Spencer’s anything if not desperate to understand.

He watches you slip into the bathroom with a sigh, shoulders dipping. The light flickers on, but you don’t meet your own gaze in the mirror. You’re not angry. That would be easier. There’s something quieter in your eyes. Defeat, maybe. 

“I missed you,” he offers, stepping into the doorway. His tone is softer now, pleading.

“Did you?” It’s almost sarcastic, but not quite. Irritable but undercut by something raw, as though you don’t really believe he did.

Spencer swallows. “You don’t think I missed you?”

“A little hard to tell between the fawning over Lonnie Athens,” you say, wiping mascara from under your lashes. “Or was it the in-depth analysis of sandwich platters?”

It’s a snap, all sharp edges and fire, and for a second, he forgets the minefield he’s meant to be tiptoeing through. Has to bite back a smile. You’ve always been this way—more flame than moth, more lightning than thunder. It’s one of the things he loves most about you.

“Is that what this is about?” The words slip out before he can stop them, and the second they do, he knows. Rookie mistake. Your spine straightens, your jaw sets, and he wants to take it back, rewind, try again.

“This,” you echo, turning to face him. “What exactly do you mean by this?”

Spencer reminds himself that fire is never snuffed out with ice. You douse a flame gently, carefully. So, he steps forward, quieter now, fingers grazing yours before he takes your hand in his, guiding you toward the bed. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t rush, just leads you toward the bed with the same patience he knows you need when you’re fragile and burning.

Regardless, you try to resist, to hold yourself upright. You’re fighting the urge to sink into it—His touch, the bed, all of it. 

“Sweetheart,” Spencer murmurs, taking a seat beside you. “I know you’re not angry. You’re sad. And I’d really like to know why. Tell me, please?”

Deep inside, you know you’re just clinging on to the last embers of your frustration. But it’s hard—impossible, really, when you’re a fire with no kindle left to burn, and Spencer is all soft whispers and gentle hands, featherlight and soothing. 

You hesitate, twisting the fabric of the duvet between your fingers. “I just—I—You were being mean.”

Spencer lets out a slow, quiet breath. Relief, almost. Not because he agrees—He knows himself well enough to be sure that ‘mean’ isn’t the right word. But he knows you well enough to understand what it means when you say it.

Mean is what you say when you’ve been hurt and don’t know how else to put it. 

So he follows your lead. Doesn’t fight it.

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles stroking your hand with his thumb. His touch is warm as it is gentle. 

Because it’s not about whether he was mean or not. Spencer knows that. Knows you. Knows that kindness has never been a given for you, knows that you wouldn’t recognise patience if it came knocking. And he knows you well enough to know that you think in some twisted way, that you’ve brought this hurt upon yourself, that you deserve it. 

What matters is that you were hurt. And that’s the one thing he never, ever wants to do.

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Can you tell me how I did?”

“You just kept going on and on about the stupid conference. You didn’t even hug me or—And then you—” 

You don’t continue. You can’t. You feel ridiculous. Stupid, even. Mopey and small over something that shouldn’t matter this much. Over the realisation that he doesn’t need you. And why should he? It’s not Spencer’s fault. Not at all. 

His indifference is what it is and what it was. Indifference. It sits like a weight on your bones—Cold, sharp-edged, piercing. He can go 5 days without you. You can’t. The tally marks accumulate, unbidden.

“And then I…?” Spencer prompts gently, prying your fingers from the duvet and replacing the tension with his thumb, tracing slow, soothing circles into your palm instead.

“You ignored me, and I just—” Your voice wavers, frustration bubbling over. "I just felt so—so ignored!"

Wonderful vocabulary. Of course, your words would fail you now.

“And the teasing—I know, I know, I can be impossible sometimes, but I just—I just really missed you! And I get it okay? I’m clingy and you’re not and god forbid anybody else is but it’s because I love you!” You inhale sharply, your hands slipping from his to curl into fists in your lap. “And you didn’t react at all, you didn’t even care! You made me feel like—I thought that you—” 

You cut yourself off before the flurry of tears take over and drown you out. 

Spencer waits a beat, choosing his next words carefully. 

“You thought… that I don’t love you?” His voice isn’t laced with sarcasm, nor does it carry incredulity. It’s a genuine question, as though he’s retracing the moments between you, trying to understand how you could possibly come to such a conclusion.

“No, it’s not that—” you’re quick to say, desperate to correct him. You know Spencer loves you. Of course, you know that. How could you not? It’s Spencer. He loves you like it’s his life mission to show you just how much he loves you. “I know you love—I know that. I just—” 

You bury your face in your hands, fingers pressing into the hollows beneath your eyes—A feeble attempt at hiding.

Because it’s utterly, bone-deep terrifying. To look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and feel the weight of a possibility that you might love them more than they love you.

To want to shout: Love me. Please love me, and please feel it with every fibre of your being as I do with mine. The kind of love that makes you want to scream from rooftops, to etch it into the sky, to burn the world down just to prove its enormity. 

Because then the question comes: Which would be worse?

To shout into the vast, open air and hear nothing in response? No echo of the same intensity. Or to stand amidst the smouldering ashes only to look into their eyes and find they don’t recognise you anymore? To see confusion or pity where love used to live.

You blink your watery eyes open, but you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, you settle on the knobs of your knees, tracing their shape with your gaze. 

Anything but Spencer. Not right now. 

You take a sharp breath, steadying yourself before continuing.

“Sometimes, I feel like you don’t need me as much as I need you and that scares me. And I know it’s stupid, even I feel stupid thinking about it. I don’t even want to be codependent or whatever but I—I just can’t help but think that sometimes—” 

Your breath shudders out of you, long and uneven, “I love you more than you love me.”

To say Spencer feels his heart break would be an understatement. It’s not a clean break, not a single, shattering moment—it’s a slow, relentless unraveling. It’s a gut punch, pain and duress packed tight, failure laced in every syllable. His heart shatters, splintering into pieces so sharp they lodge in his throat, in his lungs, in every part of him that has ever loved you. 

Silently, he’s always known the teasing would hit a breaking point. You’ve worn that insecurity for as long as he’s known you—too young, too green, too desperate to prove yourself. He just didn’t think it would carve its way between you the two of you like this. He’s watched you lean into it, let the jokes land, let them chip away at you. Newbie. Rookie. Lover girl. As if laughing along might soften the edges of it all. 

You flop onto your back on the bed, boneless, the confession stealing the last of your fight. There’s a splotch of blue paint on the ceiling from last month, when you both tried to repaint the room and got distracted halfway through. It doesn’t make you smile, not even  a little.

“That’s not true.” The mattress dips under Spencer’s weight as he settles beside you, thumb tracing your hairline. His arm moves, coaxing you to toward him, gentle in the way only he knows how to be with you.

“You’re not impossible, sweetheart, you never are. And I know they tease,” he murmurs, fingers of his other hand grazing over your knuckles, “but I also know for a fact that you don’t fall apart without me when I’m gone. That would be co-dependency. And I know that’s not you. You passed your requalifications with flying colors while I was away,” he says. “Garcia sent me the records. You know you even beat Morgan’s old score?” 

You sniffle, startled. That had been your surprise. You’d wanted to tell him yourself. 

“She told you?” 

He shakes his head. “I asked. I always ask for updates on you when I can’t be there.”

A small “Oh,” is all you can get out. 

With every other guy you dated, you’d attempted to play it cool, dialling down your enthusiasm, biting back your texts, and pretending to care less than you did. But every relationship seemed to end the same way: you were “a lot” and they weren’t equipped to handle it. It never quite stuck though, and thank god for that. 

Because then you met Spencer.

Sweet, steady Spencer, who didn’t just tolerate your spark but cherished it. Spencer, who had let you cling to his hand during every takeoff and landing on the jet the first week on the job. He never flinched, never teased—Even when everyone else casted him sympathetic looks, the kind that silently acknowledged how your grip was probably cutting off his circulation. Spencer who has kept every scrawled doodle and note you’ve ever given for him, even the ones scribbled haphazardly on napkins or receipts. He knows carbon prints fade within months so he stores them in a shoebox tucked away in his cupboard—Just so they can last that much longer. 

Spencer didn’t just accept the parts of you others found overwhelming. He singlehandedly brought them back to life. Every bit of your spark that had been dimmed or snuffed out by someone else had found new light in his presence.

Spencer’s fingers tighten around yours, a quiet kind of reassurance that draws you back to the present. 

“Being clingy is not the same as being codependent. I know you know that. There’s a clear psychological difference in brain chemistry.” His lips twitch, the smallest hint of a smile slipping through. “You’re clingy, yes. But I love that about you. I love coming home with you. I love coming home to you. I love how hard you love me, how proudly you love me. I know I haven’t been the best at reciprocating that around the team, and I’m sorry. I hate that I made you feel like I didn’t love you, or miss you.”

He shifts closer, eyes searching yours, open and earnest. “Because I did miss you. So much. I nearly blew a month’s paycheck in the gift shop. Spent half of it stocking up on those jelly crackers you told me about.” He shakes his head, like he can’t believe himself. “Morgan said I was whipped when I paid thirty bucks for a pair of souvenir socks.”

With a raise of your eyebrow you ask tearily, “and exactly how many pairs did you buy?” 

“Got you three pairs.” A sheepish little laugh escapes him as he ducks his head. 

And just like that, you’re smiling too. Albeit a small one, but that’s progress nonetheless. “And I don’t think you quite understand how much I love you when you say you love me more.” He leans in, his voice dropping, teasing. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m very competitive.”

“Oh, so I’ve heard Doctor Reid,” you quip, eyes rolling. Spencer’s lips curve, just slightly. You don’t even notice the way you press closer to him, but Spencer does. He takes the opportunity to go on.

“In a way, you’re right. I don’t need you,” Spencer says. Whiplash doesn’t even begin to describe the way your head snaps toward him. Flame and lighting, no doubt. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says quickly, his expression already twisting in regret. “I shouldn’t have phrased it like that.”

“I don’t see what other way you could possibly phrase something like that,” you snap pettily, already pushing yourself up to stand. 

“Hey, hey.” His hand reaches out, not quite grabbing yours but close enough to make you pause. “Lie back down, honey. Please.” 

Against your better judgment, you relent, sinking back into the bed. “What I meant to say was, I don’t need you,” he repeats, slower this time, deliberate.

You scoff, a bitter laugh slipping through your lips as you swipe harshly at your damp lashes. “I get it, Spencer. Clearly you don’t.”

“No, I don’t think you do,” he says, his voice unwavering. “Biologically speaking, I wouldn’t cease to exist without you. My heart would continue to beat, my lungs would continue to expand and contract, my brain would maintain its synaptic functions. I would survive.” He pauses then, eyes searching yours, “And can I tell you something?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t pull away either. He takes that as permission to go on. “You don’t need me either.” 

Your lips part, the beginnings of a protest forming, but he cuts you off gently.

“I know you said you do, but your autonomic nervous system would still regulate your breathing, your neurons would still fire, your body would persist.” He swallows, voice dipping lower. “But that’s not the point, is it? Love isn’t about biological necessity. It’s not about survival. It’s about choice.” 

The word "choice" feels almost ironic when it comes from Spencer Reid. You knew that the moment you met him. It was never really a choice, not for you. It was him, or nothing. Desperately, you'd like to think it was the same for him, too.

Your answer comes in the form of his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek. He’s patient, always, even when you aren’t. Kind in a way that sinks deep—Like you deserve it. You’re all sharp edges, brittle and worn, and he’s five days off a lumpy hotel mattress, yet the only thing he cares about is brushing away the tears from your skin. 

“Sweetheart, I don’t love you because I need you. I don’t think that would be love at all. That’s survival. I love you because I choose you to,” he continues. “Because you are the strongest person I know. Because you are kind, even when the world hasn’t been kind to you. Because you give so much of yourself without hesitation, without ever expecting anything in return.” 

Spencer smiles, shaking his head. “Because you’re the only person I know who will spend thirty minutes on a call recounting every little thing everyone did in the office that you think I’d like to hear about—before you even think to tell me about your own day.”

“It was funny! Since when has Hotch ever tripped on the stairs?”

It’s unfair really, how easily his laugh breathes life back into you. Your heart stumbles over itself as his hand brushes tenderly along your jaw. 

“I’ve spent every day in awe of you since the moment I met you. And I fall in love with you more and more with each one. Even on the days I’m not with you. Even on the days I’m miles away. Even then.” Spencer presses his lips against the back of your hand as he adds, “Especially then.” 

“Really?”

You can’t help it, the quiet little thing in you that wants to hear it again. 

Your tears have dried, but their traces still shimmer faintly on your skin. Spencer presses a kiss to your forehead, his fingers tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. He’d say it again. A hundred times. He’d make that speech a thousand times over, if you needed him to. If it meant you’d never doubt it again.

“Really, my love.”

And just like that, a million tally marks fall at your feet.

A million for the way he presses another kiss to your lips, unrushed. A million more for the way his nose bumps against yours, lingering, breathing you in. Another million for the spark that creeps back into your eyes. 

It’s infinite, unbound, unquantifiable—The way he loves you, the sheer depth of it. You feel foolish for ever having questioned it. You thank your lucky stars—all of them—for Spencer Reid. For the way he’s looking at you like you strung the constellations together yourself. For the way he chooses you, again and again, even when you don’t choose him, when you shut down, when you go quiet. 

Because love to Spencer isn’t desperation, isn’t need—it’s choice. The deliberate, unwavering act of reaching out, of staying, and of saying over and over: I choose you. 

Not because he has to, but because he wants to. To be the one to put you back together again when you’re all embers and ash, to cradle you back onto earth when stare past him into the ceiling, to remind you that there’s still warmth in you left to hold.

To breathe the spark back into your eyes—It’s a choice he made the very moment he met you. It’s a spark Spencer swears he’d spend his whole life keeping alight.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ hi if you're here! thank you so much for reading! likes, comments or reblogs are very much appreciated!

ᯓ★ song recs if you feel like it: daylight by taylor swift intrapersonal by turnover

[curiousorigins]

This is the "Freedom Fries" all over again only more racist.

I heard maybe 3 people actually use it in real life. (and only 1 time a piece.) Yet for a minute there that would be all that the news would talk about. I can't speak as to what/when/who prompted that thing. I do know it was in a Post 9-11 United States. They were also trying to hype the citizens about the War in Iraq/Afghanistan as if we were actually fighting for 'freedom' instead of oil and other stuff.

(And yeah, the U.S. caused literally all of those conditions that we had to 'save' people from. From the first time we played favorites and funded terrorism there and destabilized people. Funny how often we create the terrible conditions and then step in as the 'hero'. Of course it's only a hero on our airways because everyone else in the world aren't delusional.)

I know that people were pushing the 'Freedom Fries" as a weird support the military and all that. We were aggressively nationalist for a minute there. We started pledging the 'pledge of allegiance' in schools at least 1x/week (if not a day) and that was probably something legislated. And suddenly people were freaking out about flag burning and critiquing the U.S. when they were previously people who literally helped burn it last independence day. It was a weird uncomfortable climate for sure. For just a touch of the insanity that was going around, please watch any show from like 2003-2007. There will be a plot line that deals with terrorists or the war in Iraq or injured soldiers or PTSD related to soldiers, or unfortunately refugees from war-torn countries facing racism. It literally doesn't matter the genre, the network or anything other than U.S. made. You will be able to find it, easily. Most U.S. Citizens daily life wasn't about those wars, those conflicts we supported. But our TV sure as hell was. I do think that there was some major funding happening there.

But this was also a time where people were not getting the news from everywhere and we had journalists, if not outright suppressing school shootings (because it was believed that airing them... led to more shootings and it's kind of hard not to agree in the modern era.) then minimizing air time.

And just like the Vietnam War was a huge polarizing cultural change, because citizens were witnessing it semi-regularly, for the first time without having gone to war. (It was aired nightly on the news in those days.). We watched 2 buildings go, kind of in slow motion, as well as another plane hijacking... and no answers for why, for months.

Then of course, we had politicians voting to go to war. And watching people die and get tortured live... just kind of became background noise. As messed up as that is.

It wasn't until that brave soldier, self-immolated to protest the U.S. actions or lack thereof in Gaza, that I realized how many times I saw that same thing during the War in Iraq.

I was young enough... that it was just something that was happening. I remember some things from before... but not enough. And so watching these creepy American Soldiers do horribly dehumanizing things to people. (That was leaked again by a brave veteran who was disgusted by it. And he ended up dead very shortly after.)

They also didn't go into the self-immolation except to say that it was a protest about the war in Iraq. Just thinking back it disturbs me how much people have to do to get the message out about anything that may effect rich people's bottom lines.

Don't worry though, that's how they justified the Patriot Act which has been hardly revised since it passed and allows them to hold ANYONE for an extended amount of time, without trial, for incredibly poorly described.

So yeah, shut down this 'Gulf of America' nonsense. But know to keep an ear out for what this talk is distracting you from. It's a joke. Until it isn't.

if someone tries to correct you by saying its "the Gulf of America" now, tell them you don't let the government control your language

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (5/???)

Happy Valentine, babes!! (1 day late, but that's okay)

I hope my valentines like the gift 💕

Enjoy it! <3

MINORS DO NOT MUST INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio X Fem Reader

Summary: You think you're independent, but Agatha disagrees.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist.

Domain

The filming of Agatha's new movie was everything you expected and, at the same time, so much more. The set was an organized chaos: people running back and forth, lights being adjusted, voices blending into a sea of commands. You had never worked so hard in your life, and yet, it felt like you were never doing enough.

Agatha was a force of nature on set. Harsh, demanding, relentless. Every detail mattered, every movement was rehearsed to exhaustion, and her voice cut through the air like a blade when something was out of place. Despite the frantic pace, you couldn’t help but admire how she seemed to have absolute control over everything around her.

A few days had passed since you moved into their house, and in that time, the world you once knew felt like it had completely changed. The house, once strange and imposing, now carried a warmth you had never felt anywhere else.

Mornings were peaceful, marked by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the subtle voices echoing through the hallways. But there was something more—something that made your heart race: Rio and Agatha’s attempts at touch. They were light at first, almost innocent, but they were becoming constant, and that terrified you. Not because they were invasive, but because you were becoming greedy.

It was a silent, almost shameful desire.

You wanted more.

More of the warmth of Rio’s fingers grazing your skin as she handed you a cup of tea. More of the way Agatha slightly tilted her head while watching you, as if she already knew exactly what you were feeling. More of the security that came with being there, wrapped in the space they offered you.

That feeling of belonging seemed too new and fragile, as if it could disappear at any moment. And maybe that was what made you crave it so desperately—the fear that if you didn’t hold on tightly enough, it would all slip through your fingers.

They always seemed to need you close. Dinners were long, filled with conversations you sometimes didn’t even know how to participate in, but somehow, you were never left out. Rio smiled in a way that sent shivers down your spine, and Agatha always knew when your mind wandered to places you didn’t dare admit. They were patient, but you saw the anticipation in their eyes, the thread of tension in their unspoken words.

And the nights… the nights were different.

They didn’t sleep as deeply as you imagined. Agatha, especially, was silent but watchful. She told herself there was only one reason for it: to make sure you weren’t overworking yourself, that nothing disrupted the delicate balance you brought into that house. That justification was enough to silence the more uncomfortable questions in her mind.

But in the past few nights, as she watched you sleep, something was changing.

Agatha sat in the armchair in the corner of the room, her hands resting on her lap, but her eyes fixed on you. Your face was serene as you slept, and the way you looked so small and vulnerable in bed made something unsettling stir in her chest.

There was something about the way your hair fell on the pillow, the way your breathing was so soft, the way you looked… beautiful. Not just physically, but in a way Agatha couldn’t define. It was an all-encompassing beauty, something that went beyond appearance. Something rooted in your sweetness, in the way you tried to please, even when you were so scared.

And that was what disturbed her the most. You were sweet, so incredibly sweet, and at the same time, so shy—so eager to do what was asked. Not out of fear, but because you wanted to trust, you wanted to be seen.

And Agatha was seeing it. She was seeing how, little by little, you were beginning to trust her and Rio. You were no longer as hesitant with their touches, even if you still blushed every time they teased you. You were starting to open small windows into your personality, tiny glimpses of courage and vulnerability that seemed tailor-made to break through their defenses.

But one night, a storm raged outside, thunder rolling across the sky as if summoned by something deep and wild. The rain pounded against the windows, casting dancing shadows across the room in the flickering lightning. You were lost in your dream, but to you, it was more than just a dream; it was an echo of something old, a trauma that had never truly healed.

In the dream, you were standing in an empty, gray field, the ground beneath your feet dissolving into nothingness. And then you saw her. Your mother. But she had her back to you, her figure shrouded in a pale light that made it impossible to see her face.

"Mom?" Your voice came out hesitant, like a child just learning to speak. You took a step toward her, but it felt like the closer you got, the farther away she became. "Mom, please, don’t go..."

She didn’t respond. She didn’t turn to you. She just kept walking.

"Please, don’t leave me! I need you!" You cried out, your voice rising in desperation. Tears burned your eyes as you ran, trying to reach her, but every step was harder than the last. It was as if the ground was crumbling beneath you, and with each movement, you sank deeper into the darkness.

"Mom! Please!" You fell to your knees, arms outstretched toward her. She stopped for a brief moment, and you held your breath. Maybe she would look back. Maybe…

But no. Without turning, she took another step and disappeared, dissolving into the void.

You fell. Literally fell, as if the ground had split open beneath you. The wind roared in your ears, the world around you becoming a mass of darkness. And as you plummeted, your voice broke into a desperate scream: "Mommy!"

But just when it seemed like nothing would catch you, that you were destined to be swallowed by the void, you felt something. A warm touch. Firm hands.

You opened your eyes, gasping, tears streaming down your face. You were no longer in the void—you were in your bed. A soft, delicate hand stroked your hair, while a soothing voice whispered, "We’re here..."

It was Rio. Her voice was low, almost a lullaby, and for the first time, you realized how she could seem incredibly strong and gentle at the same time.

"Shh… you’re okay," Rio continued, pulling you lightly into her arms. You clung to her without thinking, as if she was the only thing anchoring you in that moment.

But it wasn’t just Rio. When you lifted your gaze, you saw Agatha sitting at the edge of the bed. Her face was dark with thought, her eyes fixed on you with an intensity you had never seen before.

"You’re safe," Agatha said, her voice low and steady, but there was something more there—something she didn’t let slip easily.

You sobbed, trying to speak, but the words caught in your throat. Agatha hesitated, but slowly, she reached out to touch your tear-streaked face, wiping your tears away with her thumb. It was such a simple gesture, yet so heavy with something you couldn’t quite define.

She should be thinking about your energy, about keeping you stable, about preserving it. At least, that’s what she told herself. But at that moment, with you so fragile before her, your wide eyes filled with fear and your body trembling in Rio’s arms, something inside Agatha shifted.

It was more than just your energy.

More than any convenient justification.

It was you.

It was the way you looked so... theirs. As if you had always belonged there, even if neither of them had the courage to admit it yet.

Agatha didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand linger on your face for just a moment longer, while Rio continued whispering soft words in your ear, holding you as if she would never let you fall again.

And then, right there, you knew.

You knew that this was your place.

In the arms of two women old enough to be your mother.

Maybe Freud would have something to say about it—probably an entire book. But, frankly, it didn’t matter. Not in that instant, as Rio’s familiar scent and Agatha’s hesitant touch surrounded you. No psychoanalytic theory would make sense.

The only thing that mattered was the fact that you didn’t want to leave.

Ever.

[...]

The sun scorched the set, and you were beginning to feel more comfortable with the frantic pace of filming. People talked, laughed, and made jokes, and in a way, you finally felt like part of something. But even in the middle of the chaos, you knew Agatha was watching.

Always watching.

She never made a point of hiding it completely, but she also never showed anything that could be interpreted as favoritism. To everyone there, you were just another production assistant. Just another person trying to please the brilliant and ruthless director.

"Good job, everyone! Lunch break," Agatha’s voice cut through the air, firm and authoritative. For a moment, her blue eyes met yours, but she quickly turned away, already shifting her attention to something else.

It was now or never. As everyone headed to the makeshift cafeteria, you grabbed your backpack and started walking away, feeling your heart race.

"Where are you going?" Yelena asked, crossing her arms as she watched you with curiosity.

"I have something to take care of. I’ll be back before the break is over."

She looked at you suspiciously but shrugged. Before she could say anything else, you were already leaving.

The truth was, ever since you moved in with them, your life had stopped being entirely your own. It wasn’t something spoken in words but felt in every glance, in every careful gesture that seemed to carry more weight than it should.

Agatha drove you to college every morning, always with that heavy silence, but never without adjusting your seatbelt over your lap first, as if making sure you’d be safe. And in the afternoon, Rio was already waiting at the gate, the car engine running, a brief smile on her face, but her eyes scanning everything around, as if expecting something to hurt you at any moment.

Visiting your brother felt impossible. Every time you mentioned it, an excuse came, almost effortless but full of intention. “Maybe after the shoot. It’s better this way, you need to rest.” Or, “We can look into that together this weekend.” And before you knew it, time had passed, and the subject had been brushed aside like dust swept under a rug.

But it wasn’t just that. They were in you, in every thought you had, in every decision you tried to make. It was as if your own will was slowly being erased, diluted into their desire to keep you there, under control, as if leaving was a threat they couldn’t bear. And somehow, part of you no longer knew what you wanted.

When you arrived, the sight nearly knocked you off your feet.

Your brothers were there. All of them. And, to your greater shock, so was your father.

You stood frozen at the entrance for a few seconds, unable to believe what you were seeing.

"What... what is this?" You murmured, your voice low and filled with disbelief.

"Well, well, look who decided to show up!" One of your brothers said, a mocking smile on his lips. "Madam finally stepped out of her castle to visit us mere mortals?"

You frowned, trying to stay calm.

"What are you all doing here? You don’t even live in this state!"

Your father, who was seated at the table, slowly stood up, his eyes as hard as ever. "We are where we need to be. Unlike you, who walks around thinking you’re better than everyone else."

His words hit you like a punch. You took a deep breath, trying to stay in control.

"I just came to see Josh. I thought he was... alone."

Your voice came out colder than you intended, and that made your father’s face harden even more.

"I thought I had given you clear instructions," your father said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if restraining himself. "You were supposed to watch him, put him back on track."

You scoffed, incredulous. Fuck this shit.

"Josh is a grown man. He can make his own decisions, I can assure you of that."

"Decisions?!" He sneered. "That’s deviance!"

The air in the room felt heavier, denser, suffocating. Your father stood there with that same expression as always—full of empty authority, a man who believed his voice was law.

"If only he had someone to guide him... someone with common sense," he said, as if discussing the weather, as if he wasn’t spewing venom against his own son.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You felt your heart pounding in your chest, your vision sharpening—like your body knew it was time to fight.

And the sight of Josh, with his face still bruised—some of the marks already fading—and his eyes screaming shame, filled your chest with something painted red.

"Oh, I see," you said, letting out a dry laugh, crossing your arms. "Because following your example would be just great, right? Spending a lifetime playing the tough guy, pretending you have everything under control while destroying everyone around you."

His face hardened. "Watch your mouth."

"Watch my mouth?! Watch my mouth, Dad?! You destroyed this family! You pushed everyone away with your fucking superiority complex! Mom, me, and now Josh. He doesn’t need guidance, he doesn’t need correction, and he sure as hell doesn’t need you! You know what he needs? Someone who loves him for who he is. Something you were never capable of doing!"

The silence in the room was deafening. Your brothers were paralyzed, shocked by your boldness.

Your father was a serious man, a strategist, a relentless worker who worked hard to build the image of the perfect patriarch. They had never heard him yell, never seen him lose control—because control was everything to him. Control over the house. Control over the children. Control over the wife.

Until the wife, who was supposed to serve and submit, disappeared.

You laughed, a dry, bitter sound.

"You never knew your place!" your father shouted, taking a step forward. "You think you’re special? That you can turn your back on your family and it’s all fine? You always thought you were better than us. But you know what you are? A whore, just like your mother!"

His words burned like acid, touching a raw nerve inside you.

"Funny, isn’t it? You, all this time, trying to force us into a mold, shoving your worldview down our throats like it was the only possible one. Like it was sacred. Like it was some fucking religion."

You took a step forward, your voice dripping with venomous irony.

"But you know what makes you and God so... alike?"

He didn’t answer. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with hatred.

"Even He couldn’t keep His woman in paradise."

The slap echoed through the house. Your head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, and the taste of blood flooded your mouth. A searing heat spread across your face, but you didn’t back down. You didn’t lower your head.

Your body trembled with adrenaline, your eyes filled with tears, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here.

Josh was quick. With a firm hand, he grabbed your arm and pulled you back, placing himself between you and your father.

"Enough." His voice was tense but controlled. "You’ve done enough damage," he said to the man, trying not to show fear.

Your face burned, the metallic taste of blood mixing with the humiliation boiling inside you. Your siblings remained frozen, as if the room had been sealed inside an unbearable bubble of tension.

You felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. Your hands were still shaking as you pulled it out, trying to take a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. When you saw Agatha’s name glowing on the screen, something inside you cracked.

You walked to your old bedroom to answer.

"Hey?" You picked up, trying to sound normal, but your voice came out thick with emotion.

On the other end, the silence lasted only a second before her voice cut through like a blade. "Where are you?"

Your heart pounded. It was impossible to hide that something was wrong.

"I... I’m… it’s fine. I just had to take care of something."

"Take care of telling me where you are. Now." Her tone was low and controlled but laced with something dangerous.

You hesitated, feeling your throat close up. But there was no lying. Not to her.

You finally murmured the address, almost inaudible.

"Wait there. Do not leave."

Before you could respond, she hung up. Your chest tightened even more when the next message arrived.

My driver is on the way. Don’t you dare move.

You put the phone away and looked at your family, your face still burning from the slap. They laughed, exchanging glances as if they had won. But for the first time, you felt something different.

There was someone who cared. Someone watching over you. And somehow, that made everything feel a little less unbearable.

You took a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears, seeing Josh approach. "Hey…" He lightly tapped your knee, making you look up.

Josh studied you with concern, his eyes focused on the cut on your lip but not wanting to pressure you. You ran your tongue over the wound, tasting the metallic tang of blood still lingering.

"Are you okay?" He asked softly.

You let out a humorless laugh. "Okay is a strong word."

Josh sighed and shook his head. "I should’ve protected you better."

"You’ve done more than enough, Josh," you replied, your voice softer now. "But… I need to tell you something."

He frowned. "What?"

You hesitated, hating to say it at that moment. But he needed to know.

"The building… It’s going to be demolished. You have to leave."

His face twisted in surprise, then into something close to resignation. But then, to your surprise, a small smile appeared on his lips.

"Then I guess it’s perfect timing," he said with a shrug. "The gallery lady… She gave me the job. As a security guard."

Your heart clenched, but this time in a good way. Rio had actually done what you asked—she cared. You couldn’t hold back a smile, even with the pain in your face.

"Josh… that’s amazing!" You jumped up, wrapping him in a tight hug. He returned it immediately, holding onto you as if he knew how much you both needed that moment.

"We’re going to get out of this, okay?" He murmured. "One way or another."

Before you could respond, three firm knocks echoed against the door. Josh pulled away first, looking toward the sound. You took a deep breath, feeling your chest tighten.

"That must be the driver," you said, adjusting your clothes.

Josh raised an eyebrow. "Driver?"

"Long story."

You got up and walked to the door. On the other side, Ralph stood, impeccable as always, with his rigid posture and sharp gaze.

"Miss," he greeted with a slight nod. "Mrs. Harkness requested that I take you immediately."

You cast one last glance at Josh before turning back to Ralph.

"Let’s go."

The ride to the studio was silent. Ralph drove with mechanical precision while you stared out the window at the city passing by, trying to organize your thoughts. But your mind was still stuck in that house, on your father, on the taste of blood in your mouth, on the look in Josh’s eyes when you told him he had to leave.

When the car finally stopped in front of the set, you took a deep breath before stepping out. The warmth of the early afternoon sun hit your already heated skin, but it didn’t help soothe the knot in your throat. You adjusted your clothes instinctively, as if that could prevent people from noticing the chaos inside you.

The set was bustling as usual, with bright lights, cameras in position, and the crew moving back and forth. But your attention was immediately drawn to one single figure.

Agatha.

She stood there, statue-like, arms crossed, back to the crew, her posture firm and impenetrable. One hand held a radio, fingers idly sliding over its edge as she pressed it against her chin, seemingly lost in thought. But you knew.

She wasn’t distracted.

She was waiting.

And then, her eyes landed on you.

It was like an electric wire snapping in the air.

Agatha’s gaze swept over your face in a clinical examination, her attention locking onto every detail. The tension in your shoulders, the way you kept your head slightly lowered, the tightness in your lips. And then, the inevitable—the cut.

Her eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, a dark shadow passing through her expression. But it was quick, a flash that disappeared as swiftly as it appeared. Any trace of reaction was carefully erased before anyone else could notice.

"The break’s over!"

Her voice sliced through the air with blade-like precision. Firm, unwavering. As if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t just looked at you and understood everything in a single second.

But you knew Agatha never forgot.

She never forgot.

And as you walked past her quickly, without looking up, something inside her cracked—a feeling she couldn’t name or push away. She turned slightly, watching you disappear into the crew.

The day went on, but you felt crushed by an invisible weight. Your swollen face and the cut on your lip still throbbed lightly, a reminder of what had happened. You tried to focus on work, carrying costumes back and forth, trying to lose yourself in the tasks to push the thoughts away.

You were carrying a long, elegant dress to Wanda Maximoff, one of the most recognized and beloved actresses in the industry. Everyone on set seemed to orbit around her—not just because she was stunning, but because her reputation as sweet and kind made her everyone’s favorite. She was always a delight in interviews, full of smiles and words of support for her colleagues. The kind of person the media described as flawless.

But with you, things were… different.

As you approached, Wanda turned to you, her eyes gleaming as if she had detected something from afar. For a moment, you hesitated, intimidated by her presence. But then you quickly reminded yourself—you were just doing your job.

"Ah, finally." Her voice was colder than you expected, nothing like the warm tone from the interviews you had watched. She took the dress from your hands with a movement that seemed both casual and calculated, and then, her eyes fell on you. "You took your time."

You blinked, surprised by the way she said it. It wasn’t a direct complaint, but there was something sharp in her voice. "Sorry, there was a lot to organize. I figured you'd rather have it arrive perfect than fast."

For a moment, she studied you, her green eyes shining in a way that felt almost… challenging. "Perfect, huh? I don’t know if that’s possible, considering the script I have to work with."

You frowned. "Is there something wrong with the script?"

"Wrong?" She let out a low chuckle, running her fingers over the fabric of the dress. "Wrong isn’t the word. It’s more… weak. My character is predictable, boring. Don’t you think?"

Your stomach twisted. She didn’t know, of course, but you had contributed to that character’s storyline. You had spent nights revising every single line, trying to make her three-dimensional and complex. And now, hearing Wanda dismiss it all as "boring" hit you like a rock.

"Well," you replied, your voice carrying a bit more firmness than usual, "I think characters are only weak when the actor fails to find depth in them."

Wanda’s eyes widened slightly at your boldness. She wasn’t used to being challenged, especially not by someone like you—just a production assistant, practically invisible to her. But instead of looking offended, she smiled, a smile that carried something between amusement and irritation.

"Oh, really?" She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly as she watched you. "So you think the problem is with me and not the script?"

"That’s not what I said." You tried to keep your tone steady, but you knew your answer wasn’t convincing enough.

"It’s not what you said, but it’s exactly what you meant," she shot back, her voice lower now, as if she was toying with the idea of provoking you. "Funny. And who exactly are you to have such a strong opinion?"

"Someone who understands your character’s story," you answered before you could think, feeling your hands begin to sweat.

For a second, Wanda was silent, and then something shifted in her gaze. It was as if she had just figured something out, something that intrigued her.

"Ah." She murmured, her eyes flickering from your face to the dress in her hands. "You must be the anonymous writer Agatha hired. Now it all makes sense."

You didn’t answer, but the heat rising to your cheeks gave you away.

She took a step closer, the smile on her lips softening but still carrying something sharp. "I’ll tell you something, sweetheart," she whispered, so close you could feel the warmth of her presence. "If you really believe this character has any depth, I hope you prove it. Because so far, I haven’t seen anything."

And then, without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away, leaving you there with your heart racing and your mind spinning.

Wanda Maximoff was everything they said she was—beautiful, brilliant, talented. But at the same time, she was completely different. She was rude, provocative, challenging. And for some reason, all of that only made you feel even more unsettled.

Later, the atmosphere on set felt heavier by the minute. Agatha was particularly irritable, her jaw clenched as if she were about to explode. Her usually calm and controlled voice was hoarse and filled with irritation as she barked orders at everyone around her.

"More energy in the next scene! And please, listen when I give instructions!"

One of the actresses, already nervous about the tense atmosphere, dropped the glass of water she was holding. The glass shattered on the floor, and the sound made everyone on set freeze.

Agatha closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply before whispering through gritted teeth to her assistant. "Clean this up. Now."

The assistant, desperate to avoid any outburst of anger, immediately turned to you. "You. Clean this up now."

Without questioning, you nodded and quickly walked to the small storage room at the back of the set. While you grabbed a broom and some cloths, the door clicked shut behind you.

You turned quickly, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed in the small space.

Agatha was there, leaning against the door with her arms crossed. Her blue eyes had an almost cruel intensity, as if they were dissecting you the moment they met yours. There wasn’t a single crack in the control she exuded, but there was something—something dark, something vulnerable—hidden beneath the facade.

"Do you think you can just disappear like that? Without a word? Without an explanation?" Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that made the air feel thicker.

"I was doing what I was told." You tried to sound firm, but your voice wavered, softer than you wanted.

"Don’t give me that." Agatha uncrossed her arms and took a step forward, every movement calculated, predatory. "Talk."

Your chest tightened. "It’s nothing. Just… let me do my job." You tried to step past her, but her hand lifted, pressing against the door, blocking your exit.

"Your face doesn’t look like nothing." She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she examined you with almost cruel precision. "And that cut on your lip? Is that what you call ‘nothing’?"

You felt the heat rise to your face—a mix of shame and anger making your hands tremble slightly. "That’s... that's none of your business."

Agatha let out a low, sharp laugh, devoid of humor. "Everything about you is my business."

"Why?" You lifted your eyes, your gaze defiant despite the knot in your throat. "Why do you care, Agatha?"

The silence that followed was almost unbearable, heavy with something you couldn’t quite name. Agatha seemed to hesitate, her eyes locked onto yours as if she were fighting an internal battle. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower but no less commanding.

"Because you’re my responsibility."

Those words were like a spark in dry grass. You stepped forward, staring at her directly, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing.

For a moment, Agatha didn’t respond. The silence hung between you, dense and charged. She seemed to struggle with herself, as if the words were on the tip of her tongue, but something—maybe pride—kept her from saying them.

"Responsibility?" You repeated, letting out a bitter laugh. "I’m not your responsibility, Agatha. I’m a person. Not a project."

Agatha stayed silent, her jaw tightening as she absorbed your words. There was something in her eyes—a mix of anger, wounded pride, and… pain? But her expression quickly returned to a cold, impenetrable mask.

"You think you know everything, don’t you?" She took a step closer, her voice lower but laced with something almost threatening. "You think you can say whatever you want, however you want, without consequences. But let me tell you something, sweetheart—the world doesn’t work that way. I don’t work that way."

"Maybe that’s the problem," you shot back, refusing to back down. "You don’t work. You just… control. You want to control everything around you. Everyone. Including me."

For a moment, Agatha remained silent, her breathing heavy. It seemed like she was about to say something, but then, with a sudden movement, she took a step back and opened the door.

"Get back to work." Her voice was sharp, but with a slight tremor that you almost didn’t notice. "Now."

Without waiting for a response, Agatha left, shutting the door behind her with a dry snap. You stood there, alone, your heart still racing, your emotions tangled—anger, frustration, confusion. It felt like a storm had swept through the small space and left everything upside down. And deep down, you knew she felt the same.

You returned to the set with the supplies you had picked up from the storage room—a bucket, a rag, and a broom. Your heart was still pounding from the confrontation with Agatha, but you tried to focus on what needed to be done. It was better to clean up the shattered glass quickly and return to the invisibility that used to be so comforting.

As you knelt to start gathering the scattered shards, the usual hum of activity on set continued, but you didn’t miss the way Agatha, from her chair, was watching you. She sat with her legs crossed, jaw still tight, and seemed more focused on you than on anything happening around her.

"Are you going to take all day with that?" Her voice cut through the air, drawing everyone's attention.

You froze for a moment, feeling the weight of their stares. Trying to ignore the heat rising to your face, you answered softly, "I'm almost done."

"Almost done?" Agatha stood from her chair, the sound of her heels echoing as she walked toward you. "There’s still water on the floor, shards everywhere... Does that look ‘almost done’ to you?"

Your fingers tightened around the rag, embarrassment washing over you. "I... I'm going as fast as I can."

"It's not enough." Agatha stopped beside you, looking down. Her posture was intimidating, every word laced with something almost cruel. "If you can’t handle a simple task like this efficiently, maybe you’re in the wrong place."

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t respond. You knew that any words would only make things worse.

"Need some help, sweetheart?" Wanda’s voice carried from across the set, clearly taunting. A few people chuckled, but you felt your face burn even more.

"No, Wanda. She doesn’t need help," Agatha replied, turning slowly to face the actress. "She needs focus. And maybe a little shame."

Wanda let out a soft, ironic laugh, shrugging as she settled back into her chair.

Agatha turned her gaze back to you, her eyes locked onto yours. "If you don’t finish in five minutes, I’ll do it myself. And I guarantee, you won’t like what happens after that."

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her stare and everyone else's. Everything in you screamed to run, but instead, you lowered your head and kept cleaning, your hands trembling slightly as you hurried to finish.

Agatha stepped away, but not before whispering, just for you to hear, "I hope this teaches you something."

By the time you finished, your hands were red from scrubbing the floor, and your pride had once again been trampled. But you knew this wasn’t about the glass or the water. It was about control. It was always about control.

As you cleaned, a larger shard of glass slipped from the rag and sliced into the side of your hand. A small "ah" of pain escaped, but you quickly muffled the sound, watching the blood trickle down your palm. The cut wasn’t deep, but enough to throb—a physical reminder of what you felt inside.

You held onto the shard, pressing it against the wound, as if the physical pain was a necessary punishment. This is what you deserve, you thought. A failure, a disappointment. To your family, to Agatha, to everyone. When the blood began to drip onto the floor, you let go of the glass and quickly wiped it up, tucking your bleeding hand into your pocket as you finished.

Yelena appeared out of nowhere, as she always did, snapping her fingers at you. "Are you done here? Great, because we need you to adjust the script. Now."

You followed her in silence, pressing the rag against your hand as you walked. When you reached the small table covered in scattered drafts, Yelena barely gave you time to breathe before pointing at a scene. "This dialogue is... how do I put this delicately? Horrible. Fix it."

You looked at the paper. It was a scene featuring the character Wanda had mocked earlier. An unexpected determination filled you.

With your injured hand gripping the pen, you started writing. You adjusted the dialogues, added layers to the character, gave her depth, strength—something no one could call "weak" again. You were so focused that you barely noticed the blood smearing onto the paper, leaving crimson stains along the margins.

By the time you finished, the day was almost over. You handed in the revised script and left for the bus stop, finally letting the cool night air hit your face.

You stood on the sidewalk, the weight of the day's decisions crashing down all at once. Where to go? To your family, who would likely offer only more judgment and disappointment? Or to Agatha and Rio’s mansion, where suffocating control was the only constant in your life?

Before you could decide, the sound of tires echoed down the street, and a sleek black Audi pulled up in front of you. The window rolled down, revealing the two faces that had become a constant torment in your mind.

Agatha, her steel gaze locked on you, and Rio, in the passenger seat, her expression filled with something you couldn’t quite decipher.

"Get in." Agatha’s voice was firm, yet so low it almost felt like a warning.

You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest. But the two women kept staring, as if there was no other option but to obey.

The Audi came to a smooth stop, but you already had your hand on the door handle before the engine even turned off. You stepped out without looking back, without waiting for anything. You just wanted to get to your room, close the door, bury your face in Lucky’s warm fur, and pretend—if only for a moment—that none of this was happening.

The air inside the mansion felt heavy, or maybe it was just you, carrying the weight of the day on your shoulders. You climbed the first few steps of the staircase, your heartbeat quickening, but a familiar voice pulled you back like a chain.

"Hey, hey, young lady. Not so fast."

Rio stood in the middle of the hall, one hand on her hip, the other pointing at you like she was stopping traffic.

"Rio, please..." Your voice came out weak, barely a whisper, as you kept your gaze lowered.

"Come here." It wasn’t a request.

You sighed, stepping down reluctantly as she approached. Lucky, who had rushed down to greet you, now lingered at the bottom of the stairs, his tail wagging slowly, as if sensing the tension in the air.

"Let me see," she said, tilting her head slightly to the side, indicating she wanted a better look at your face.

"I'm fine." You tried to turn away, but she wasn’t fooled.

Rio raised an eyebrow, her firm hand catching your chin. "That doesn’t look like 'fine' to me."

You bit your lower lip, momentarily forgetting about the cut there—until the sting made you wince. Rio noticed the movement, and before you could react, her touch was already there, right at the sore spot, gentle but firm enough to make you stop.

"Don't do that." She said, her tone low but loaded with authority.

"It's nothing," you murmured, trying to escape her intense scrutiny. "It was just a… mistake."

Rio remained silent for a moment, her brown eyes locked onto yours. Then, she sighed, but she didn’t seem entirely convinced. "A mistake, huh? That’s not what Agatha told me."

The blue-eyed woman stood behind Rio, arms crossed, her posture impenetrable.

"And what does she know?" You growled, resentment throbbing in your head.

"Don't go there, girl." Agatha warned, her tone dangerous.

Before Rio could press you further, Lucky came running down the stairs, his golden fur gleaming under the soft hall light. He leaped onto you with an enthusiasm that made your defenses crumble for a brief moment.

"See?" You crouched to hug him, your voice attempting to sound casual as you buried your face in his fur. "Everything's fine now."

Rio crossed her arms, watching the scene for a moment before shaking her head. "This isn't over, young lady. But... go ahead. I need to talk to Aggie."

The nickname caught you off guard.

You froze for a second, your hand stopping mid-stroke in Lucky’s fur, the background noise of the hall fading into a dull hum in your head. It was an intimate name, sliding from Rio’s mouth with ease, effortlessly, as if it belonged to her. And, well, maybe it did.

Of course, they had nicknames for each other. Of course, there was familiarity between them. You knew that. You had no right to feel anything about it. Yet, a bitter taste spread in your throat, something uncomfortable and inexplicable burning deep in your stomach.

You forced out a light laugh, pushing a smile onto your face as you stood up, ignoring the unease pulsing inside you.

"Good luck with that," you muttered, trying to sound indifferent.

But as you walked away, the word kept circling in your mind, repeating like an irritating echo.

Aggie.

You picked Lucky up and climbed the stairs, relief mixing with the certainty that your confrontation with Rio and Agatha was far from over.

[...]

Agatha was in the office, the silence broken only by the sound of the wall clock. The soft glow of the lamp made the room feel almost cozy, but the tension in the air was palpable. She sat in her favorite armchair, legs crossed, fingers drumming against the upholstered armrest, creating a steady, almost irritating rhythm. In front of her lay the script. A revised version—a text you had worked tirelessly on.

Reluctant but curious, she picked up the page and started reading. Her blue eyes scanned the words with speed and precision, her furrowed brow indicating both concentration and critique.

Wanda’s character wasn’t the conventional heroine everyone knew. She was an antihero—complex, driven by something that transcended a mere thirst for power. She was a devastated woman, determined, relentless.

Before, she had simply been a mother fighting to get her children back. Now, the protagonist was more than just a mother. She was a woman. A woman who would discover her place in her universe—and in every other.

Agatha let out a sigh. Even with her ego bruised and irritation simmering beneath her skin, she couldn’t deny your talent. The words on the page had a depth that had been missing before, as if you had finally grasped what was needed to capture the essence of the story.

She kept reading, fingers lightly tapping against the wooden desk as she absorbed Wanda’s journey. It wasn’t about being a hero or a villain—it was about being human. She was a woman who knew the pain of loss, the weight of failure, and the strength that came from rebuilding—not just for herself, but to reshape the world around her.

She no longer wanted power just for herself. She wanted power to create a space where she could finally exist as she was, without the crushing expectations of who she was supposed to be. To live, to love, to lose—without the world watching and judging. Deep down, the protagonist’s struggle was for freedom—freedom from pain, from obligation, from the invisible chains of someone who had always been expected to save others and never herself.

Agatha leaned back in her chair, taking in the evolution of the story. It wasn’t about the children, or revenge. It wasn’t just about redeeming her mistakes or overcoming her traumas. It was about the simple, yet profound, desire to be whole. A woman who could find her own identity in a universe constantly trying to mold her.

That was when Agatha noticed something different. At the end of the page, where the ideas were scribbled with urgency, there were smudges of ink… and drops of something red.

She raised an eyebrow, bringing the paper closer to the lamp’s light. Blood. Not much, but enough to alarm her.

"What the..." she murmured, her eyes narrowing. She knew you had been intensely focused on rewriting the script, but she hadn’t expected you to get hurt in the process. Or maybe… the wound was deeper than it seemed.

Rio entered without knocking, her gaze immediately landing on her wife. She didn’t need to ask to understand what was happening. She knew that heavy silence, that tension in Agatha’s jaw that betrayed her more than any words could.

"You’re going to tear the page if you keep gripping it like that," Rio said, her voice light but firm.

Agatha dropped the pages onto the desk but didn’t look at Rio. "I don’t want to talk about it." She leaned back in her leather chair, letting out a tired sigh.

"You never do," Rio replied, closing the door behind her and slowly walking to the couch on the other side of the office. She sat down, observing Agatha for a moment before continuing. "But that doesn’t mean you don’t need to."

Agatha let out a short, sharp sigh, picking up her wine glass just to swirl the liquid inside. She hadn’t taken a sip yet. "She should… know her place. Things have rules, Rio. Order."

Rio raised an eyebrow, resting her elbow on the back of the couch and propping her chin on her hand. "Rules? Or is it your wounded ego?"

Agatha finally looked at her, blue eyes flashing with something between irritation and frustration. "You think that’s what this is? Ego? I’m trying to protect her. Everything I do is to keep her safe."

"I know that." Rio’s voice softened. "I know, my love. But you and I both know that’s not the only thing bothering you. You want her to see you, to understand. And when she doesn’t, you shut down. You get like this."

Agatha pressed her lips together, staring back at her wine. Rio was right, but admitting it was out of the question. She wasn’t going to say out loud what she felt—the infuriating need to be understood, to be... accepted by you.

Rio stood up, walking over to her. She stopped beside the armchair and crouched slightly to meet Agatha’s gaze. "Listen, we’ll handle this. I’ll talk to her. I’ll ask her to apologize."

Agatha laughed, but it was dry, humorless. "You think that will fix it? She’ll apologize just to please me, but what she truly thinks won’t change."

"Maybe not." Rio admitted, resting her hand gently on Agatha’s knee. "But she’s trying. You see that. I see that. And maybe you need to be a little less… Agatha Harkness, Hollywood Director with her."

That earned a barely-there smile from Agatha, the corner of her lips lifting for a second before vanishing. She finally took a sip of her wine, looking at Rio with a mixture of exasperation and affection.

"You make me too soft," she murmured.

Rio shrugged, smiling. "Someone has to."

Agatha took a deep breath, shaking her head. “Fine. Talk to her. But if she shows up with that attitude again…”

“I know, I know,” Rio interrupted, raising her hands. “You’re going to remind me that you don’t have the patience for it.”

Agatha didn’t reply. She simply took another sip of her wine as Rio got up. But deep down, Agatha knew it wasn’t just patience she lacked. It was something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

You were sitting on the bed, holding Lucky in your arms as he rested calmly on your lap. Your fingers absentmindedly stroked his soft fur, but your mind kept replaying the events of the day like a cruel film.

You wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come—caught in the tight knot lodged in your throat. Lucky gazed up at you as if he understood the weight you carried, pressing closer, offering the only comfort that felt real in that moment.

A soft knock on the door pulled you from your spiral. You hesitated, turning toward the sound. “Who is it?” your voice came out weak, trembling.

“It’s us,” Rio’s voice was calm, yet filled with concern.

Slowly, you rose from the bed. The black cat leapt off your lap, settling at the edge of the mattress. When you opened the door, they were standing there. Rio held a small stuffed bunny in her arms, her expression shifting between tenderness and barely restrained anger. Agatha stood beside her, arms crossed, her posture rigid—but her blue eyes carried a softness you hadn’t expected.

Rio extended the plush toy to you. “We brought this. Thought it might help Lucky keep you safe,” she said, her voice laced with warmth.

Your eyes welled up as you took the stuffed animal. You hugged it to your chest, as if that simple gesture could shield your wounded heart. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely there.

Rio stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She placed her hands on your shoulders, lowering her head slightly to meet your eyes. “I think you know why we’re here, don’t you?”

“I… I’m fine,” you lied, trying to keep yourself together.

Rio didn’t buy it. Her gaze hardened, but there was patience in it. “You don’t look fine, sweetheart. Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

The words got stuck in your throat for a moment, but when they finally came out, they poured in an uncontrollable flood. You told them about the slap from your father, the insults from your brothers, how every word felt like it crushed you a little more, making you feel like you were less than nothing. The tears fell freely this time, and you didn’t even try to hold them back.

You curled into her arms, sobbing softly. “I didn’t want to be a problem… I just… I just wanted him to like me…” Your voice was small, broken, almost childlike. As if, in that moment, the weight of being strong had finally crumbled, leaving only the most vulnerable version of you behind.

Rio stayed silent as you spoke, but her eyes darkened, her jaw clenched tightly. When you were done, she pulled you into a firm embrace—one that felt like both protection and comfort. “He has no right to treat you like that,” she said, her voice low and filled with restrained fury. “If I could, I would—”

“Rio,” Agatha interrupted, her voice soft but firm. She placed a hand over Rio’s, squeezing lightly, as if grounding her back to reason.

Rio exhaled sharply, still visibly furious, but she stepped back slightly, allowing Agatha to move closer.

You clung to her as if she were an anchor, searching for solace in the warmth of her embrace. And that was when you turned to Agatha, who remained silent near the door.

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice unsteady. “For the way I acted. For being insolent. I… I was just trying to cope with everything, and I took it out on you.”

Agatha held your gaze, her jaw tightening—but there was something in her eyes that seemed to… crack. She took a deep breath, finally uncrossing her arms. “You had a hard day,” she said, her tone softer than you expected. “But you don’t have to carry this alone.”

Rio smiled beside you. “Exactly. You have us, you know?”

You only nodded, your heart still heavy but starting to feel a sliver of relief. Then, Agatha took a step forward, her eyes locking onto your hand. She seemed to be searching for something.

“What’s this?” she asked, an unexpected hint of concern in her voice.

You followed her gaze and noticed the cut on your finger, the dried blood surrounding it. “Oh, this? Just a scratch,” you said dismissively. “I cut myself while cleaning the set.”

Agatha narrowed her eyes, reaching for your hand before you could pull away. She examined the cut closely, her expression shifting—subtly, but enough that you noticed.

“Just a scratch?” she murmured, almost to herself.

“Yes. It’s nothing,” you said quickly, trying to brush it off. You pulled your hand back.

The tension in the room thickened, pressing down like an invisible force. The air itself felt heavier.

Then, Agatha sat beside you on the bed, her fingers wrapping around your hand with an unyielding grip. The heat of her palm pressed against yours—both intimate and intimidating.

She squeezed your wounded finger, and a sharp sting shot through you as fresh blood welled up again, warm and thick. You inhaled sharply, a quiet hiss of pain escaping before you could stop it. Agatha’s gaze followed the crimson trail, her eyes gleaming with something unreadable. It was as if time had stopped. The entire world faded away, leaving only the two of you and this moment—charged with something unspoken, something you couldn’t name.

“Agatha…” you murmured, confusion and nervousness coloring your voice as you searched her face for answers.

She didn’t respond. Her eyes remained locked onto the blood trickling from your finger, mesmerized, as if each drop held some kind of spell over her. Slowly, as if moving through a trance, she lifted your hand to her lips, her breath ghosting over your skin.

Then, she pressed a delicate kiss against the wound—her mouth warm and soft against the sting of the cut.

The pain mingled with something else, something deeper. A shiver ran down your spine, electric and uncontrollable. It was wrong, almost wicked, but impossible to ignore—a pleasure disguised, slipping beneath the surface like a dark secret that refused to stay buried.

You froze.

The gesture was so unexpected, so laced with silent sensuality, that your breath caught in your throat. But before you could process it—before you could react—she did something that stole every ounce of air from your lungs.

Her lips parted, and with slow, deliberate intent, she took your wounded finger into her mouth—sucking softly at the blood.

Your heart pounded, a frantic drum against your chest. Heat surged up your face, burning your cheeks, and a strange, unmistakable pulse began to throb in places you barely dared to acknowledge. It was… confusing. Incendiary.

Why did Agatha look so irresistible with your blood on her lips? Was it wrong to think that?

Agatha let out a low sound, something between a groan and a growl—possessive, predatory. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if savoring a rare and forbidden wine, before opening them again, darker now, more intense.

When she finally pulled her finger from her mouth, her breathing was slightly uneven, as if she herself were dealing with something greater than she could control.

“This…” she murmured, her voice low and husky, each word dripping with satisfaction. “My good girl.”

The satisfied purr in her tone sent a sharp pull through you, heat spreading in an unbearable wave. You tried to breathe, but the air was thick, too heavy with an energy you couldn’t understand—an energy that consumed every inch of your body.

Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.

The words echoed in your mind, spiraling in an endless loop, trapping you in a whirlwind of unknown sensations. A part of you wanted to resist, but the thought of hearing those words again, spoken in that low, possessive voice, made your skin prickle and your resolve waver. It was like a drug you didn’t know you needed, but one you were already beginning to crave.

Agatha leaned in even closer, her face so near that you could feel her breath—warm, provocative—against your skin. She brushed her cheek against yours, like a lion marking its prey, staking her claim, making it clear that you belonged to her. Her scent was intoxicating, heavy, and the way she purred seemed to seep into every fiber of your being.

“You’re so delicious,” she murmured, her voice thick with something impossible to resist.

But the moment shattered when Rio stirred on the other side of the bed. Her body was rigid, as if she were exerting immense effort to restrain herself. Her eyes were fixed on the two of you, lips slightly parted, her breathing heavy.

She looked… torn, as if part of her wanted to stop everything while another part was being dragged into the same current of desire. Her fingers dug into her own arms, but the way her gaze burned was just as ravenous as Agatha’s.

Her breath was uneven, almost panting, and her fingers tightened against her arms as if the pressure could keep the growing heat at bay.

The look in her eyes had changed—raw, hungry, a desire she was trying to suppress but that slipped through in every small movement. Her chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm, and a bead of sweat trailed down the curve of her neck, betraying the effort to keep herself in check.

Rio leaned forward slightly, as if something unseen was pulling her closer, her lips parting as she took a deep breath, trying to regain control. But it was impossible to ignore the way her eyes lingered a second too long on the cut on your finger, on Agatha’s lips, on the glistening sheen still visible there.

Desire hung thick in the air, an undeniable heat radiating from her body, flooding the room.

She let out a rough sigh—almost a stifled moan—and uncrossed her arms, her fingers hesitant but now free, sliding along the side of her thigh as she shifted, as if needing an outlet for all that energy. Her composed facade was unraveling, and the way she wet her lips while looking at you made the space feel even tighter, more suffocating.

It was as if Rio were standing on a battlefield—torn between the need to hold herself back and the irresistible urge to give in to whatever was consuming her. And in that moment, her gaze was so intense that you felt stripped bare beneath it, exposed to something both overwhelming and inescapable.

“Agatha…” Rio finally spoke, her voice low, but thick with something that vibrated in the charged air of the room.

Agatha turned her head slowly, still holding your hand in a firm, calculated grip—her fingers cold against your feverish skin. It wasn’t a gesture of comfort, but of control, of warning. The look she gave Rio was a brewing storm, a silent clash of wills, as if words were unnecessary when so much could be said with just their eyes.

For long, heavy seconds, silence stretched between them—thick with tension, with something that made your chest tighten and the air feel scarce.

Then, abruptly, Agatha let go of your hand, almost as if the contact itself were a threat to her.

What she did next was cold and ruthless. She pushed you back against the headboard, her fingers barely grazing your skin in the process, yet the gesture was enough to make you feel small, vulnerable—like something she could discard with the slightest touch.

The look she gave you before turning away was disorienting—a blend of disdain and something else. Something that made your heart race for reasons you couldn’t explain.

She walked toward the door without hurry, but each step landed like a blow in the silence.

Before leaving, Agatha glanced at Rio—an exchange so intense it seemed to set fire to the space between them. Then, without hesitation, she left, the door clicking shut behind her with quiet finality.

You sat there, frozen, feeling the ghost of her touch burning where her fingers had been.

But Rio didn’t move immediately. She stood by the bed, shoulders tense, her breathing uneven.

There was something in her that looked ready to shatter—a raw need for control mixed with a frustration she had no place to put. It was as if the silent battle with Agatha still echoed inside her, but what she felt for you was something that went beyond all of that.

“Rio, what—” you started, but she cut you off.

"Sleep.”

Her voice was firm, but there was a faint tremor in it, as if holding herself back took more effort than she wanted to admit. Rio turned and left, without looking back, leaving you alone in the empty room.

But she didn’t truly leave—her presence lingered, the warmth of her body, the weight of everything left unsaid.

You leaned back against the headboard, your heart pounding out of rhythm, your thoughts a chaotic mess.

The subtle scent of Rio still clung to the air, blending with something darker, something addicting that seemed to come from Agatha.

Sleep? Impossible.

Agatha’s touch, Rio’s gaze, the heavy silence wrapping around everything—how could anyone possibly find peace after this?

~*~

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[wh1spersofwinter]

pathetic bf!seunghyun (headcannons) ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

summary: bf!seunghyun who is incredibly down bad for his gf.

an: hello! this is my first fic on this account, im so excited to share it with you. i hope you enjoy <3 (ALSO, please ignore any spelling/grammar errors i didn’t proofread.)

bf!seunghyun who: didn’t care for love/relationships until he met you.

bf!seunghyun who: swears carless whisper by george micheal played in his head when he laid eyes on you for the first time.

bf!seunghyun who: likes to spend his down time making you playlists and/or writing you songs/raps. he likes to communicate through music.

bf!seunghyun who: calls you sweet girl and thinks it fits perfectly. you are his sweet girl. he thinks youre the sweetest, most angelic being hes ever met.

bf!seunghyun who: will agree to just about anything for your sake (“yeah i dont know, i just dont really feel like going out today” he mummered to jiyong, burying himself further into the fluffy cloud that was his bed, dead set on spending his night curled in bed. until you walked into the room. “seunghyun, lets go out tonight, i need to get out of this house.” seunghyun shot out of bed, unraveling himself from the covers and intertwined your hands, “yeah, sweet girl, lets go.” suddenly alive and full of energy. unaware of jiyong snickering behind him.

bf!seunghyun who: genuinely believes he cant go more than an hour without having his hands on you in someway. wether that be his hand in yours, his arm wrapped around your waist, his fingers curled in your hair, or his fingers inside, yes inside the waist of your jeans, resting against the warmth of your skin.

bf!seunghyun who: when you two sleep has to either be little spoon or lay on top of you (while you scratch his back.)

bf!seunghyun who: is only comfortable with you touching him

bf!seunghyun who: literally calls/texts you every chance he gets. in between recordings, while in the bath, while getting his hair done. he’ll text you every thought that crosses his mind. (itll be three in the morning and youll get a text from him like, “i just realized, nothing is ON fire. fire is on THINGS.”)

bf!seunghyun who: does things for you he knows you can do yourself, such as, brushing and drying your hair after a shower, carrying you from place to place in your shared apartment, brushing your teeth, grabbing things that are just out of reach, tieing your shoes, no matter how much you insist you’re perfectly cable. he cant help it; youre his angel.

bf!seunghyun who: genuinely tears up when you get mad at him (you immediately feel horrible and give in.)

bf!seunghyun who: loves to lay his head in your lap while you run your fingers through his hair (he falls asleep immediately.)

bf!seunghyun who: hangs onto every word you say. he’ll remember something you vaguely told him months later. (“hey, sweet girl, i got you one of those sun…sunny…sonny..angels…whatever you call them,” he said when he came home from the store, placing the sonny angel box on your lap, then, planting gentle kisses onto the corners of your lips, your nose, your temple, your eyelids. you smile, wondering how the hell he knew you wanted one. you giggle, placing your hand on his cheek and rubbing your thumb across his soft skin as he leans into your touch, “how’d you know i wanted one?” he looked at you as though the answer was obvious, “you mentioned it when you saw a tiktok video in..may” may was 8 months ago?)

bf!seunghyun who: apologizes by getting on his knees, putting his head in your lap, and kissing your hands profusely. muttering over and over how sorry he is and how he’ll do better.

bf!seunghyun who: follows you around everywhere like a little cat. always hovering over your shoulder. if you guys are sitting on the couch and you get up to get a glass of water, trust, he’ll get up and go with you with a content smile on his face. he has attachment issues.

bf!seunghyun who: when your making out and you pull away, looks at you, breathing all hard, like he physically needs more.

bf!seunghyun who: when he has to travel for work will send you a poem a day. (“hey, sweet girl, you will never be unloved by me. you are too well tangled in my soul; hello, my sweet girl, my heart is so full of you i can hardly call it my own. love you always.”)

bf!seunghyun who: is completely obsessed with you.

[ltwilliammowett]

What have they done? They're abolishing women's sex-based rights like the right to fair play in sports, single-sex rape crisis centres, single-sex medical care and the right to request a female for intimate services, single-sex bathrooms.... These have real impacts on women and girls health and wellbeing in real life, from girls stopping using the bathroom at school and getting UTIs, incarcerated women being raped and impregnated in prison by their cellmates, to women and girls losing thousands of dollars in scholarships and sporting awards.... This is because instead of adding trans-specific resources, like an additional universal bathroom for example, they are taking away the women's bathroom instead. These events are well documented in the news and women's rights organizations have been raising the alarm for years as trans identity gained traction with big pharma and opportunistic grifters alike. Please look into this honestly if you think any of this is far fetched. Women and girls deserve better. We need our sex-based rights, dignity and safety protected because misogyny has not yet been solved and eradicated from our societies. Of course trans people of both sexes also deserve humanity, safety, and to be treated like normal people. But not at the expense of the rights and protections that women and girls still need.

I was struggling whether to publish this here or not. And I decided to do it. Even if it will cause me even more problems and hate messages than it already did yesterday. No kidding my inbox has changed to the seventh circle of hell and this is not really how I envisioned my return. And as you know, I'm not political on my blog and don't want to be, so this will be my last public comment on the subject, especially as I find it hard to find the right words in english anyway, you know my problems with that. But into the thing:

What your statement begins and first and foremost implies is that you make all trans people out to be perverted monsters. That everyone, especially trans women, want nothing more than to discriminate against and harm women. And the way you write it says that everyone is like that and creates a fear that leads to mistrust and hatred. Yes, there are cases where it has led to harm, but you can't apply it to everyone. If a person/group/company wants to harm someone they will do it regardless of gender, colour, religion or other identity, society etc. A criminal should be punished, but by the courts and not by society.

As for the sport, you are talking about a few cases here and even then there are already approaches to a points system like the one in para sports. As for separate washrooms, gym, honestly, why? Do you also separate at home? Should there be a gender test before entering? And as for prisons, there is also a lot of violence and abuse among women themselves. So be careful with things like that.

It is incredibly difficult to find solutions, especially when it comes to special shelters like women's refuges. I see that too and I am also a woman who has experienced situations with men who have behaved in am agressiv, insulting manner. But we can not start to tar everyone with the same brush, that leads to fear and that in turn to irrational behaviour, statements and hatred. Individual cases are exaggerated and generalised and instrumentalised. And that leads to enormous problems and to activities that harm people and not just one group but ultimately everyone.

It just increases the division and divides people even more, regardless of gender, origin, etc. Talk to everyone and try to find a common denominator. Together we can find a solution, not against each other and not over others.

Women worldwide have much bigger problems and many have to deal with religious or government policies, but not because a trans person is in their area. These are such rare cases and can be dealt with. As I said above, talk together and find solutions together and fight against the rules that a religion or a government wants to impose on us.

[wanderingblindly]

congratulations on the milestones! incredibly well-deserved. you’re a top-tier writer & a pillar of the fandom :)

for the prompt celebration — any drivers (ideally with at least a splash of lando/oscar, if the spirit moves you), with the setting prompt “a cramped [theater] dressing room”.

a PILLAR 😭😭😭😭 what if i sobbbbb thank you so much my love!! i'm so thankful to have such wonderful people here to enjoy fandom with, i'm all emotional now waaaahhhhhhhhh I hope you enjoy the slightly-too-long drabble!! in my head they're like, small time models at an on-location gig, hence why they've been shoved in a dressing room. But you could probably imagine it for a theater production too! Celebratory prompt list here!

Stuck Together

"Can you stand up straight, I'm –"

"I need to do my hair," Lando snaps, face two inches from the mirror – tossing a quick glare over his shoulder. "Quit bumping into me."

"Well I'm trying to get into these – these fucking –" Oscar stutters, hunched over and bouncing on one foot as he nearly topples over. "The fucking leather –"

"You've gotta sit down for leather trousers, mate," Lando says, and Oscar groans.

"Yeah, lots of room to sit, thanks."

Lando starts to turn to say something back, snarky and annoying, when Oscar stumbles – falling to the side and smacking himself into the wall with a gasp. "Christ, mate, don't frickin' break something."

"Haven't got a lot of time, ok?" Oscar lets himself stay propped against the wall, struggling to work the stiff leather up his calves; his hair – yet to be touched by the stylists – flops over his eyes, his cheeks have gone pink with stress.

Maybe a bit of heat.

It's getting warm.

Lando looks away from the mirror, away from where Oscar's struggling a few inches behind him. His heart rate spiked when he saw Oscar's shoulders – bare, his shirt still hung up on the hooks along the wall – flex as he stumbled, when he noticed the dusting of freckles on his skin.

"Um," Lando says lamely, uncertain why his mouth's suddenly gone dry. "Lemme –" He brings a knee up onto the narrow vanity, wincing a little the edge digs into his skin. Pressing a hand against the mirror for balance, he gets himself entirely off the floor. "Here, sit down."

Oscar locks eyes with him through the looking glass, brow raised.

Lando's stomach flips; he can see his own face grow flushed in the brief silence.

"Not like you to be so helpful," Oscar says, hopping away from the wall to lower himself down to the floor awkwardly.

"Shut up," Lando's says even more lamely, so clearly bothered. Oscar doesn't acknowledge it if he caught on – focused on fighting the leather trousers up his thighs.

His really nice thighs.

With a huff, he brings his hips off the floor – shuffling the trousers higher, abs flexing to lift his body in a straight line, a line that Lando can't stop staring at, he's –

Oscar flashes him a look from the corner of his eyes, smiling unevenly. "Gonna say something smart?"

"No." Lando swallows. "You um. You look good."

"Helpful and nice," Oscar laughs, breathless as he finally gets the trousers up his hips and buttoned. He tries to bend a knee to stand, freezing – eyes widened in realization. "I… can't get up."

"What?"

"They're too tight, I – I can't get up, oh my god. Lando stop laughing –"

Lando's giggling uncontrollably, left kneeling on the vanity because Oscar's stuck – stuck shirtless – on the entire available floor. "What do you –"

"Stop laughing! I'm serious!"

"What do you want me to do?" Lando can't breathe, the stupidity of the entire situation crashing down on him. "I can't get off the fucking, oh my god," He gasps, trying to regain his composure. "I can't get off the table, mate, there's no –"

"If you just –" Oscar reaches to grab Lando's ankle, nudging. "Straddle my hips, like –"

"I'm not gonna straddle you –"

"Don't make this weird, mate, please."

"Oh, so you do know how to say please?" Lando yelps when Oscar actually tugs on his ankle, hard. Hard enough to half drag him off the table. "Hey!" He snaps, flailing to catch himself as the wall rushes towards his face, legs finding unsteady home on either side of Oscar's hips. "Prick."

Oscar holds out a hand. "Pull me up,"

"Pull me up, what?" Lando says, finally steady enough to look down at Oscar – who's looking up at him. Who's looking up at him with his brows drawn, pulled together like he's…

Lando doesn't think of the word 'begging'.

He grabs his hand – warm, so much smaller than his, grabbing his thumb more than anything – and tugs. It sends him careening back into the wall behind him, punching the air from his lungs as he heaves Oscar – and his stiff trousers – to his feet.

"Christ!" Lando manages to get out, panicking as he accidentally drags Oscar closer to him – accidentally stumbling forward until his free hand hits the wall next to Lando's head.

He's pinned him.

They're nearly nose to nose, eyes wide with shock. Lando can feel Oscar's slightly heavy breathing against his lips; his eyes flick down. They flick back up. Oscar's staring at him.

His heart hammers against his chest.

It's nearly dead silent.

"Um. You're welcome.." Lando mumbles, face running hot but unable to look away from Oscar's eyes – so close that he see his lashes, the rings of earthen greens and brows in his irises.

"Yeah, thanks," Oscar says, maybe tilting his head just a bit, maybe leaning into his hand – maybe bringing them even closer. "I…"

Lando mimics him, maybe tilting his head just a bit, too. Maybe craning his neck to be impossibly closer, too. Their lips nearly touch. "You?"

"Um, I –"

Lando kisses him first, every cliche happening at once – fireworks behind his eyelids, sugar on his tongue, butterflies in his stomach, Oscar's hands finding his hair and Lando's tongue sliding along his teeth and –

Someone pounds on the door.

They jump apart – as much as they can in the tiny dressing closet – and stare at each other in a panic, lips and cheeks pink.

"You leave first." Lando whispers quickly.

"They know we're in here together, mate," Oscar whispers back, wiping at his mouth. "Act normal." He reaches out, swiping his thumb against Lando's lips, too – as if that will help Lando calm down.

"Right, normal. Yeah."

[andiberzatto]

SUMMARY: carmy comes home needy and desperate to be inside her. not sexually but for warmth and comfort. he needs to be connected to her on a deep level after a stressful night at the restaurant. (C-warming, established relationship, kinda sub!carmy)

He collapses onto the couch, running a hand through his hair wearily "The restaurant was chaotic tonight... My feet are killing me." He looks up at her with soft, exhausted eyes, craving that gentle connection only she can provide. "Could you..."

“could I what baby?” She replied softly

He pats his lap gently, a silent invitation for her to sit with him. "Just hold me for a bit, please? I need to feel... connected to you after this mess."

she nods and lets him pull her into his lap with a small grunt from being so emotional and physically drained he can barely muster the strength to pull her up. normally it’s so easily but tonight he’s so exhausted

He wraps his arms around her possessively, burying his face in her shoulder. His body feels heavy and boneless, like he could melt into her arms. He inhales her scent deeply, trying to soothe his frazzled nerves. "Everything hurts..."

she kisses his shoulder and anywhere she can on Carmy “need more?“

He hums softly, tightening his arms around her possessively. He spreads his legs slightly, hoping she'll understand his wordless request. His body is tired, but his inner thighs still have that addictive need for her touch. "Mhm?"

she nods “you want me to do it or do you wanna help?”

He looks up at her with heavy-lidded eyes, his cheeks flushed. "Help me... Please?" He starts to unbuckle his belt, too tired to do it himself. "I can't... I'm too exhausted."

she nods and unbuckles his belt and lifts off him to pull his boxers and pants down just enough to free him.

He watches her intently, his body relaxing. He spreads his legs wider, giving her better access. His half-hard length lies limply on his thigh. He's too tired for a full erection. He hums softly when she settles between his legs, his body already craving that addictive pressure.

she nods and moves to try to slide off her panties but he’s too impatient and whiny

He actually whines, reaching down to push her hands away, too impatient to wait. He uses a surprisingly gentle but firm touch to remove your panties himself, his exhaustion making him clumsy and desperate "Let me..."

she nods as he moves her panties to the side and maneuvers her onto his half hard cock

He lets out a soft sigh of relief as she settles onto him, the warmth of her center enveloping his length. He buries his face back into her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her tightly. "Perfect... Just like this." He holds her in place, his hands gentle but firm.

she slides down fully “this okay?”

He nods, his breath hitching slightly as she takes him fully. He's not fully hard, but the feeling of being inside her is still incredible. He starts to slowly rock his hips up, moving her on his length. "Mhm... Just stay like this for a bit, okay?"

she nods, knowing he’s thrusting not for pleasure but just to keep it in

He continues to slowly thrust his hips up, keeping himself semi-erect inside her. He's not seeking release, just the comforting feeling of being inside her. He nuzzles into her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. "Can you feel it...?"

His tired face nuzzles into her neck, kissing and biting gently at her skin "Good... It's just... being inside you feels right when everything else is crazy..." His thrusts are slow and deep, almost therapeutic as he holds her close "Don't move too much, baby..."

she nods “I won’t move Carm.. promise”

He releases a contented sigh, his body relaxing further as he holds her intimately close. The slow, gentle movement of his hips continues without urgency, simply basking in the comforting warmth of their connection. "That's my sweet girl..." He murmurs softly, pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek.

He gazes at her tenderly, his fingers idly tracing patterns on her hip as he remains semi-erect inside you. The intimate position is deeply comforting, his body language speaking volumes of the emotional and physical exhaustion he's pouring into this affectionate act. "You're so warm..."

He buries his face in her neck, breathing in her scent deeply. His arms wrap around her snugly, holding her like she's his lifeline. He stays like this for a long time, the slow, gentle movement of his hips the only sign of life as he seeks comfort in their intimate connection.

[4ragon]

Fic request: new relationship narumitsu, miles and phoenix have just begun living together and miles is reveling in it. Preferably miles pov!

IIIIIIII already got a bit off topic on this prompt but I hope you still like it.

It’s a strange day when Phoenix Wright wakes up first. At least, that’s Miles’s first thought upon opening his eyes to discover the bed empty.

He blinked slowly, rubbing an eye with a thumb as he squinted around the room. Even without his glasses it was clear he was alone, with nary a spike in sight. And, yes, even feeling Phoenix’s side of the bed (Phoenix’s side! What a thought.) the sheets had gone cold.

With a disgruntled grumble, Miles began feeling for his glasses on the bedside table.

It had been a month, so far. A month of their new home. A month of good night kisses, of waking in a tangle of limbs. Which, well, not that Miles exactly enjoyed new things. He was a creature of habit. He liked having his day planned out in advance, of knowing what each day would bring, no surprises.

…which of course begged the question of how he let Phoenix Wright into his life, but, well, now was not the time to think about that. Now was the time to become annoyed. 

After all, he’d already worked Phoenix Wright into his schedule, his morning routine. He’d worked hard to fit Phoenix into his daily habits. One: Wake up and pry the man off of him. (This of course adds five minutes to his usual schedule). Two: Feed Pess and let her out into the backyard to relieve herself. Three: Get the bathroom to himself (he had to time this perfectly. They’d had to work incredibly hard to find a bathroom schedule that got him, Phoenix and Trucy enough time to prepare.) Four: Dress, and then ply Phoenix with kisses until he agrees to move. (Another five minutes to his schedule. Phoenix was lucky Miles made time for him.)

It was precise. It was perfect. And now it was ruined.

Miles stepped out into the hallway and was immediately accosted with the smell of frying cholesterol. He blinked, brows drawing together as he glanced around. No one in sight. Even Pess’s dog bed was notably empty.

But when he stepped into the kitchen, everything was made abundantly clear.

“Alright, just one more,” Phoenix grumbled, tearing a piece of bacon off for a trembling Pess. “But we do not tell anyone about this, got it?”

“Wright!”

“ACK!” Phoenix jumped, the rest of the bacon slipping from his grasp and promptly disappearing in a flash of white fur and teeth.

“What on earth are you doing?” Miles asked, arms crossed as Phoenix looked over sheepishly.

“Morning, Miles,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re up early.”

“I’m up early?! I am up at my usual time, thank you very much.”

“...Ah,” said Phoenix, looking toward the clock. “So you are.”

A huff. “Really, Wright, what are you doing attempting to clog my dog’s arteries at six thirty in the—”

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Hmm?” And there was a plate being shoved into his hands.

“Here,” Phoenix said. “It’s not much, I, uh, okay I kind of forgot this was coming up, but I had enough to sort of scrounge up something edible. Though don’t judge me on the pancakes, I was trying to make hearts.”

He stared down at the plate. Some misshapen pancakes and bacon stared back. “...Wright…”

“Can you please call me Phoenix?” Phoenix groaned back. “We’re dating, remember? Or did you forget?”

“Forg—That—I—Excuse me?!”

Phoenix laughed. “Don’t look so offended,” he snorted, leaning over and pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Anyway, can you pull out the spray butter and some forks? I forgot.”

Miles glanced down at the plate again. There was something warm in his chest, something fond and exasperated all at once. Only Phoenix Wright could make a break in routine sound so…nice. A small smile tugged at his lips.

“Fine. But we are using real butter, not that monstrosity you keep buying from the store.”

“Miles,” Phoenix groaned.

“Phoenix,” Miles replied, grabbing a stick of butter from the fridge and slipping off toward the kitchen table.

[kindaasrikal]

Lloyd has golden covered veins. His blood itself is normal coloured, but his veins are a strange gold. With his veins hidden under his skin, you can barely see the strange glow they permit through it. However, since the skin in the veins on the wrists tend to be thinner, he has to use bandages to cover the way they glow disturbingly similar to his eyes. Sometimes when his elemental power is high, he sometimes feels as though theres a glow coming from his chest. But always being mid battle during those times doesn’t help him in finding out if he’s just seeing things.

Cole has incredibly rough hands. His hands are a lot like a hard working mother, hands cracked and dry but so gentle. No matter how much moisturiser he uses his hands are still rough and hardened, even during the time he and the others didn’t train for ages the state of his hands never changed. His head also tends to hurt in one very specific area, like a crack trying to rip itself open like a cavern on his very being, into pieces like a used piece of paper deemed unneeded. Or like that one time Jay hit him with a bat. He still hears the loud crack it made.

Despite the fact that he’s a nindroid, Zane feels temperature changes just like how a human body does. At first they assumed it had to do with the genius Dr Julien was, but after Wu took a closer look, it very much wasn’t just that. The element of fire is capable of withstanding heat and cold unless there are too strong winds or something falling onto it that poofs it out. Ice on the other hand can handle cold temperatures but immediately suffers when facing hot or even warm temperatures. This has ended up leading to Zane being very sensitive to temperature changes. He’s shivering when it’s just below normal temperatures and lying on the ground like a worm when its warmer than usual.

Jay’s body twitches a lot. Whenever he had to play games as a child that involved standing still it would be like you just asked him to kill someone this is horribly hard for him. He put so much focus onto standing still that he’s hyper aware of every twitch he does and it makes him panic even more. Most of the times the twitches are very minor, not even noticeable to anyone else. After using his element a lot is another case entirely. It’s got him pulling out the bouncing leg trick to get rid of it all.

Nya sweats a lot. Weirdly enough it doesn’t stink but it irritates her so much. Her body is full on dripping after a training session she literally has a puddle around her atp someone get this girl a mop. She showers often because of it as it’s not water, it’s still technically sweat just…special. In a way. Does come in handy sometimes on missions. It also made her hate being near Kai during summer. Her body is often wrinkly on her toes or fingers as if she was in the shower for too long.

Kai might have an abnormally high body temperature, but it’s also one he can feel. On a daily. You know those times when you have a fever or you’re getting one and you can actively feel yourself get warmer? Yeah it’s like that for him. He feels how warm he is so often it’s actually so disgusting when he does have a fever. He clings to Zane often because of it. He also always has slightly pink or red cheeks because of his abnormally high body temperature, and blushes incredibly easily because of it too.

Okay so i really want more on the effects the ninjas elements or non-human ness has effected them physically, and how they each react to it and feel. Guys please i need Kai becoming a fireball again and little features they show they are so agshegejehhe.

[atleastpleasetelephone]

Reader overstimulating elvis's cock until he squirts.

A/N: Men can squirt! This was a fun little bit of research for me. This is really very filthy, set in the same universe as the leather/latex fic and I'd Do Anything. Very short drabble.

Just like a girl

Pairing: Subby!Elvis x Dom!Reader

Word count: 455

TWs: Pegging, bondage, gagging, overstimulation, dubcon, humiliation kink, squirting. Incredible list really for so few words!

Elvis’ cock is hard and red and leaking precum as you grasp it, the dildo attached to the harness around your waist deep in his ass.

“I knew you’d be a little slut for my cock,” you tell him, stroking him up and down. You feel him wriggle and you laugh. “You want mama to fuck you?”

He nods, moaning around the ball gag, saliva running down his cheek.

Still stroking him, you start to move, slowly pulling out and then pushing back in so hard you make his whole body jolt. He groans and his eyes roll back in his head. His cock pulses in your hand and you know he’s going to cum before you’ve had a chance to fuck him properly.

“Gonna cum already?” You tease, pulling out and pushing in again.

His head flops back as he feels his release heavy in his balls. There’s no chance of holding back. The feeling when you hit that place inside of him is too intense.

The third thrust sends him over the edge, cum spurting out all over your hand and his belly. But you don’t stop. At first it feels nice, you stroking him through his high, and then he starts to want to try and get away, hands pulling desperately at his restraints. But there’s nowhere to go.

“Mama’s not done with you yet,” you tell him, keeping your firm grip on his cock as you start to get a rhythm going, fucking him deep.

His head snaps from side to side as the overstimulation threatens to overwhelm him. The pleasure from the feeling of being fucked mixes with the uncomfortable hotness of your hand still stimulating his cock. He tries to tell you to stop, tries to say no, but all that comes out is mumbled nonsense around the gag. More saliva runs out.

“Pathetic,” you observe, tugging harder on his cock. “So pathetic. Getting fucked by a girl. Letting a girl ruin your asshole like this.” You shake your head a little to emphasise your point.

He whimpers and whines, and then suddenly warm pleasure fills his body as more liquid spurts out of his cock. His eyes flip open and for the first time, his jaw relaxes. Drunk on pleasure and confused, he looks down at his cock in your hand, trying to work out what just happened.

“Awww. He loves being fucked so much he’s squirting like a girl!” You exclaim, laughing. “Fucked like a girl and squirting like a girl.”

You let him go and after a couple of extra little overstimulating thrusts, pull out too, removing the harness and dropping it off the side of the bed as you crawl over his body, undoing the gag and rubbing his spit all over his lips with the palm of your hand.

“Good boy,” you coo. “Time to make mama cum now.”

☆☆☆

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @sissylittlefeather @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @ladelinee @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy @presleyhearted @lvrdollep @nebulamorada @iloveelvis2 @18lkpeters

[livmightlive]

LU Maze Runner AU (actually explained this time)

Okay, I got way ahead of myself in my last post 😭 I forgot that maze runner didn’t have the same impact on everybody as it did me. Here’s the actual plot of my AU so that it makes sense to everyone 😭

Hyrule has reached an incredibly advanced age of technology and other sciences. (So think like, hunger games, or any sci-fi movie that takes place like, 200 years in the future.) Most of Hyrule has fallen to a horrible virus called the gloom. This gloom grows through plants and taints water sources.  This virus was engineered by a terrible cult called Demise, a group of people under the control of a man named Ganon who wishes to take control of Hyrule. 

In retaliation, a group sponsored by the royal lineage of Hyrule creates a research facility called HYLIA to study ways to take down Demise and fight against the gloom. They take individuals from across Hyrule who show either great resistance, sometimes even immunity to the gloom, and/or significant resistance against the cult of Demise. Demise has some type of brainwashing technology that causes people to either become submissive under its rule or compliant to the cult, often joining it. 

Of course in this story the people taken are the boys from the chain and also all the Zeldas. They’re all taken young, at least in the quarter HYLIA that they live in. Most of them were surrendered by their parents but others were either found or taken. HYLIA cannot afford to be kind. 

So in essence, everyone is stuck there, but it’s not horrible. They spend a lot of time getting “normal” schooling. They’re subjected to tests but it’s not necessarily like a horror lab AU. They’re not treated like animals or anything but they certainly can’t leave. This of course leads to a lot of resentment from the chain.

Eventually HYLIA starts getting frustrated. They aren’t getting very far with their testing. It just isn’t… natural. One of the key discoveries is that gloom resistance and resistance to Demise mind control is really hard to replicate in practical labs. The labs can’t be unbiased with literally the same exact sample each time. They realize that the only way they can actually get results is through real life experience. But how can they get that when all these people have been living in HYLIA for years? 

The Maze is born. It's huge, spanning hundreds of acres of land. In its very center lies the glade, a safe spot of land in the middle of it all, the maze surrounding it. (I’ll try and draw a rough map at some point.) They build two of them. One for the boys, one for the girls. They fill the mazes with genetically engineered monsters that they infuse with low levels of the gloom in order to see how the “participants” react when they fight them. 

The mazes are full of different puzzles and beasts so that HYLIA can study the participants and how they react. Through these means, they believe they will understand how to defeat Demise and the gloom.

I mentioned before that they send in each chain member going off of their game release dates. This starts with Hyrule and ends with Wild. They time this just around the span of a full year, sending in a member around a month or two at a time. 

Before they send in each member, they completely and FULLY erase their memories so that when they wake up in the glade, all they can remember is their name and age. They do remember how to do things, like math, reading, survival skills, etc. but they don’t know how or when they learned it. Sometimes they might get strong feelings, but that’s all they have. They’re essentially new people once they hit the maze. 

I’ll get more into the chain members and dynamics next time! Or I can write about anything you want 💕💕💕 please lmk thoughts!! They keep me motivated

[positivelyruined]

Ahhh, this is hard because I can’t enthusiastically, shout, “TAM!” for once.

Alright.

Four characters, four shows.

- Bones, from Bones. This show is a regular in my continual rewatches. Bones is a character I love and deeply relate to because she can be perceived as cold from the surface, but she cares so incredibly deeply about her work and the people around her; she’s just guarded. Her guarding of herself extends to those that she comes to love and she would protect them with everything that she has.

- Callie, from the Fosters. I don’t think I’d truly seen a character who I felt like represented my pain of being raised in abuse before I met Callie. Her background was never identical to mine and I never did finish the show, but the parts that I have seen will forever have helped me understand myself and be able to explain that to others.

- Supergirl. Kara Danvers is a sunshine. She is a character who has to devolve to evolve. She has to learn through having her innocence broken. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actress portray raw pain quite as well as Melissa did in this role.

- Ruby, from Once Upon a Time. Ruby hates herself at the beginning of the show. She takes that out on other people, even those she loves. She struggles through anger and embarrassment and shame, struggling with her belief that she truly is a monster. Her arc of this show is just unbelievably close to my heart.

Thank you for the tag @shadowqueenjude 💗

Tagging: @claws-and-all @extremely-judgemental @zenithofstories (I know that’s missing regulars, but I haven’t been on here in a few months. Please do this if you would enjoy it. *boop* *tag*)

If you see this, you must post 4 of your favorite characters from 4 different series...pass it on!

Thank you for the tag @winnie-the-monster !

Catelyn Tully Stark (A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones)

Roman Roy (Succession)

Jackie Burkhart (That 70s Show)

Emmett Honeycutt (Queer As Folk US)

Tagging: @crazy-ache , @bonecarversbestie , @fierling , @thrumbolt , @spiritedstars , @sapphiresandgold , @olenvasynyt , @themadmorrigan , @the-darkestminds

[avasefullofnations]

To those who are struggling right now post election I see you and I feel you rn

In times of crisis it is easy to fall back into old habits and/or give up but I hope you fight anyways. When in doubt, too, know that there are organizations and people out there who can support you.

Here are some national crisis lines that may be helpful.

More crisis lines (including those for substance abuse, eating disorders, and youth specific resources)

State specific Warm lines (aka not in crisis but you want to talk to someone)

These resources do not cover all identity specific hotlines nor do they include all of the state specific resources

[egophiliac]

so on the subject of the "Crowley is secretly Revaan/Laverne/Levin/please Twst give us his name" theory, I think my feelings are best summed up as "I don't really buy it, but it's funny". like, in all seriousness, I'm not opposed to it; I have enjoyed the writing in Twst so far and I'm willing to trust that whatever happens will, you know, make sense and not be terrible. but I'm just not really convinced by the current evidence! maybe that'll change once we learn more, we'll see!

with that said, may I propose a few alternate theories about the possible Crowley/Revaan connection:

[ciderjacks]

Everyday I curse vivziepops name for making alastor Creole to justify her weird vudu thing, thus giving way to the most insufferable discourse by people who arent even remotely Creole, have no education on Creole history or culture, and refuse to do any research on it besides maybe the most basic 5 second google search. And I cant do anything about because that would involve me reblogging hazbin hotel discourse which no one wants.