#i know youre not supposed to act like that

[hungharrington]

show-time

request: i cannot stop thinking about asking steve if he ever got himself off to you before you got together. he’d be so blushy and sheepish about it but man it’d be fun to watch him squirm 🤤

2.1k words, established relationship, masturbation (steve), gn!reader, MDNI this entire blog is 18+

It’s a universally awkward experience to have a sex-scene come on in a movie. Unless one’s watching it alone, of course.

You are not. Cuddled in behind you, cushioning you against his chest, Steve lounges, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Sure, in terms of awkwardness-rankings, watching this with your boyfriend who you also have sex with isn’t as bad as, like, watching with parents.

But still. You kinda can’t tell if you should be watching or averting your eyes — and you don’t want to peek over your shoulder to figure out what Steve’s doing.

The man in the film grunts, his hand in his pants jerking furiously, his eyes fixed on a polaroid of the film’s love interest.

You squint—surely this is stretching the truth a bit?

Yeah, yeah, guys jerk off, you know that - this isn’t your first day on earth.

You just didn’t think it would be like, romantic style. People in movies kiss in the rain and run through airports, so they’re hardly known for being grounded in reality.

The man in the film groans lewdly and you feel Steve shift slightly behind you, his fingers looped around your middle twitching.

Did he-? When you-? You suppose you’ve never really thought about it.

You’re asking before you can second guess yourself.

“Did you do this?”

Steve’s attention switches idly from the screen to you as you crane your neck to look back at him. His brows pinch together.

“Did I do what?” He asks, doting brown eyes searching your face.

You fluster a bit. This is certainly moving you up through the awkwardness rankings. But now it’s in your head —now you’ve said it — you can’t turn back.

The thought of it blazes hotly through your mind.

Steve, all those months ago, still just crushing on you, but never quite making a move. He’d told you, whispered his secret, when you’d finally gotten the nerve to ask him to be your boyfriend officially, that he’d been sweet on you far longer than you knew.

But the image of it is what has you interested. You imagine Steve, his fist stuffed into his tight jeans, working himself over and biting his fist to hide his moans, at the mere thought of you.

You’d had plenty of long, late night conversations on the phone before officially getting together.

The thought of if he’d ever touched himself while you talked, none the wiser on the other end, wanders into your mind — and your stomach clenches hotly at the thought.

Clearing your throat, you tip your head towards the screen.

“Like, before we got together?”

It takes Steve another glance at the screen to realise what you’re asking. A simmering, pink colour crawls up his neck and in a moment, you go from feeling awkward to feeling downright devious.

Steve clears his throat, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth from the screen to your face. “Uh, I- I mean, why do you ask?”

A coy smile curls at your mouth. “I wanna know how accurate it is.”

Steve stares down at you, the pink now creeping up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears. God, he looks delectable like this.

Is this how he looked when he did it too? Blushy and embarrassed to commit such a filthy act thinking of someone that wasn’t his? A hot buzz drizzles through your core, fringed with endearment.

Steve licks his lips nervously. His hands on your stomach stiffen and then relax. The film plays on in the background. His expression shifts towards something sheepish.

“It’s — I, uh, well, yes.” He stammers. “It’s accurate, yes.”

“How many times?”

Steve’s eyes narrow, but his face gets redder. “What is this, an interrogation now?”

You giggle, drinking in his evidently embarrassed state. The confirmation of him doing it solidifies the perfect image of him in your mind, your own film-scene imagining Steve in the same position as the character on screen. In real life, Steve moves his hand to tug at the collar of his shirt.

“I’m just… enjoying the idea of it.” You muse.

“Uh huh,” Steve says, tongue jammed into the side of his cheek. “Not just—” He fumbles for his words. “Just enjoying seeing me, I don’t know, like—”

His words trail off and his head tips back with a groan, exposing the delicious expanse of his throat. It begs you for kisses and love bites. He moves both hands up to cover his face.

You wait til he pulls them away to nod. “Absolutely, baby. Watching you squirm is far more interesting than this film.”

In the background, the man on screen gives a pornographic shout as he finishes in his pants. Steve manages to turn redder, even if he keeps his eyes fixed on you.

“But I’m just,” You huff and pout. “Put out, I guess. You did all that for me and I didn’t even get to see it.”

At the exact same time, you watch as Steve’s pupils dilate, blowing out in obvious lust, and something pressed against your back thickens up.

Steve, to his credit, only makes one strained noise which he immediately smothers with a cough. You feel his hips twitch beneath you and make a quick decision, confidence built on the sweltering heat of Steve’s face.

You push forward and up, then quickly turn, slotting your knees across either side of Steve’s thighs, perching atop them nicely.

You’re not outright in his lap—there’s room between the two of you for what you hope will happen.

It takes Steve another long moment to catch your drift.

“Wait, you want-?” He inhales sharply. You can see the twitch of his cock through his loose sweatpants. “To see?”

“To watch,” You clarify, smiling almost mischievously. “Yeah.”

Then just to check, “Is that okay?”

Steve’s breath shudders out of him but he’s nodding before the question is completely out of your mouth.

“H-Here?” He checks. You nod, resting your hands atop your thighs to show you don’t plan on using them. Steve’s hungry eyes scan you up and down, the tent in his pants pitching up in arousal.

“Just show me how you did it,” You murmur, words on the side of sultry. Your own excitement, that faint thrum of pleasure, has already started to pool low in your gut.

“Yeah, but I normally don’t have an audience for it,” Steve mumbles, his left-hand reaching for the drawstrings of his sweats.

They come undone with a simple tug. Steve stretches the elastic out a bit and then slips his hand in.

You know the moment his large hand settles around his cock from the flutter of his lashes, the soft groan that curls out his throat, rough and sweet all at once.

This… This is new. You usually don’t get such a focused look at Steve’s pleasure, at the little shifts in his expression, too wrapped up in your own pleasure to pay proper attention. Getting this much detail sends a delicious throb between your thighs. You hardly want to blink.

Steve’s hand moves slow to begin with, slow, gentle strokes to get himself properly warmed up.

After a moment, he draws his hand back and some part of you worries he’s too weirded out now. But he only brings it up, to his mouth, and you realise what he’s doing.

Quickly stealing his hand, Steve’s eyes widen as you let spit drop from your lips and pool in his palm. Another soft, jagged noise drags from his throat.

“Jesus Christ,” He murmurs, more to himself. “This is not what it’s like when it’s just me, this is, like, ten fucking times hotter.”

His hand sneaks back into his sweatpants but this time when he grips his cock, the reaction this time is immediate.

Steve moans, louder this time, his eyes crushing closed and his hand starts moving faster. With the help of your spit, it doesn’t take long before you can hear it, the slick sounds of him fucking his cock desperately.

His head tips back against the couch and a piece of hair flops over, into his eyes.

You reach out and brush it to the side and Steve’s eyes crease open at the same time a whine threads through his moans.

“Fuck,” He grunts. He sinks in teeth into his bottom lip, his eyes desperately roaming your face. “Fuck, baby, you’re so pretty.”

“That what you thought bout?”

You’re impressed with yourself for the cool, calm demeanour you’re portraying. Steve nods, the motion a little wild, his hand still making those lewd, wet noises.

“Uh huh,” His voice shakes a little. “Just, fuck, dunno, like, your face and-uh-what y-you’d sound like.”

Your eyes glitter with interest, ego raring at the devotion your boyfriend is spilling out.

“What I’d sound like?”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve stammers, his breathing heavy. “Like, doing this.”

Now that’s a picture; Steve jerking off to the thought of you, hot and bothered with your hand between your thighs. You give a breathy gasp without meaning to.

Steve hears it, groaning louder as he quickens his pace. You sort of want to reach forward and ruck up his shirt, so you can see the glorious clench of his stomach as he rolls his hips up into his warm hand.

“Can I see more?” You ask tentatively. “Please?”

This time, it’s more like a whimper that creeps out of Steve’s throat.

“Oh my god,” Steve mumbles through a stilted moan. “Jesus Christ. Yeah, yeah, of course.”

He swallows heavily, his free hand reaching down to push at his waistband. You help, lifting up to help tug the fabric out of the way.

Obstructions removed, your mouth salivates. Steve’s cock is pretty — and it looks that much more enticing when it’s worked up, pink and the tip of it leaking all over his hand.

Steve’s a fucking vision. His head still lolled back, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. His throat, dotted with moles, crawling with pinkness. His big, veiny hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it steadily.

You think about how much you’d like the lick the trail of hair on his tummy, down, down, down.

“You seem close,” You say and it earns you a reedy whimper in response. “Is it- does it normally happen this fast?”

“Are you kidding me?” Steve whispers back. His eyes are closed and after a moment, you realise he’s trying to keep himself from cumming too quickly, even as his hand doesn’t slow. “I—ngh— n-normally don’t have such good, ah, material. My imagination is— is not this good.”

You’re equal parts flattered and flustered, heat twinging in your gut.

“Can— can I?” Steve whimpers out suddenly.

The question nearly throws you. You almost say Can you what? when the meaning of it douses you in fire.

He’s asking permission.

Oh, that does something to you.

“Yeah, Stevie,” You say, voice lilting closer to a coo. “I wanna see it, please.”

Something shifts in his motions, changing gear as Steve’s hand suddenly starts moving in smaller, tighter strokes, just over the head of his cock. His head tucks forward, his eyes scrunched closed, and he’s whimpers out, “thank you, thank you, thank you.”

It only takes a few seconds, the whine in Steve’s voice pitching higher and higher, until something gives.

His hips take over, something desperate and primal shoving them up, his thrusts rapid and frantic. His hand doesn’t stop moving, not even as his cock starts to leak out ropes of cum, shooting out enough to cover the back of his knuckles. It joins your spit to rub slick against his cock.

He keens pitifully. For one long minute, you listen to Steve’s breathy whines get softer and softer, watch his desperate thrusts abate til an overstimulated shiver wracks through his body. Then, and only then, does he collapse back, sinking into the couch.

He’s a bit ruined, truthfully.

And you’ve soaked through your panties.

“You’re welcome,” You croak, throat dry. His hair is back in his eyes and lean forward, tenderly brushing it out of the way. You leave your hand there, cupping the side of his face, and Steve leans into it, still panting.

“What?” He asks.

“You were thanking me,” You point out cheekily.

Steve’s face plunges back to that scarlet colour you’re beginning to adore most ardently. He turns his face further to hide away in the palm of your hands.

“Shut up,” He mumbles.

“So you don’t wanna do that again?” You tease.

Steve pulls back and eyes you. “Now, hang on, I didn’t say that…”

[5sospenguinqueen]

Please, Please, Please | Max Verstappen x Singer! Reader

Summary:  What do you do when your ex-girlfriend moves on with another guy? Become needy and pathetic. But, when the guy brings you to tears, Max knows it's his time to save you from further heartbreak.

Warnings: barry keogan (i couldn't find any other men with her that worked), swearing, toxic relationships, pathetic max 

Requested: yes by many of you on the previous part 

Faceclaim: Sabrina Carpenter (she was used on the last one and yes, she's used a lot but I stole her song and her job so I'm also stealing her face)

F1 Masterlist

prev. || next.

part 4 will be the last part so it may seem a bit rushed but i didn’t plan anything else. sorry! these just seem to be getting worse as well, so i’m also sorry about that 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

maxverstappen1 just posted

liked by danielricciardo, liamlawson30 and others

maxverstappen1 a good effort from the team to start on the front row tomorrow 💪 let’s keep pushing tomorrow 🇺🇸

6,633 comments 

user1 twitter is claiming that max and kelly broke up

user2 okay but i actually can’t function until i know if max is free from kelly once more

user3 max please tell us if you and kelly have broken up

user4 i need max and kelly to be done forever this time 

user5 is it true that you broke up with kelly?

→ maxverstappen1 yes. now can we focus on the race

→ user6 @/yn_ln this means you can give him another chance 

→ user7 why would she want to after he ran back to kelly

(comments have been limited) 

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_ln just posted

liked by mclaren, actorbf and others

yn_ln surprise! if you have any questions, you can refer to my new single please, please, please 💋

13,850 comments 

user8 the two of them are so cute 

jennaortega i’ll give you all the kisses 

→ user9 i wouldn’t. not with all the men she goes through

→ oscarpiastri whoa now, there’s no need for that 

user10 don’t get me wrong. i’m loving all the new music. but my heart can’t handle all the new layers to this drama 

landonorris okay, little miss hollywood. that music video just proved you’d never do well in a film 

→ yn_ln oi, i act better than you do, mr hilton 

→ hilton we’d be happy to have you both

user11 ew, so she went from a hot motorsport driver to a subpar actor?

user12 wait, what? this wasn’t supposed to happen. she’s gone off script. max is single now, they were meant to be getting back together 

→ user13 she’s not his back-up plan. plus she’s way out of his league 

user14 don’t you think you might be putting strain on her new relationship? i doubt her new guy likes to see everyone preferring the old guy 

→ user15 hopefully that means he’ll leave and we can get her and max back

user16 has anyone checked on max?

(comments have been turned off)

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

yn_ln just posted

liked by charles_leclerc, verstappencom and others

yn_ln how to lose a cake in 10 minutes 

16,334 comments 

alexandrasaintmleux the most beautiful birthday girl 

→ francisca.cgomes this dress is going to live rent free in my head 

→ yn_ln thank you for letting me show you both twenty different dresses

→ alexandrasaintmleux just wish you were taller so we could steal some of them 

→ yn_ln can’t believe you’d do this to me on the day of my birth 

→ oscarpiastri technically your birthday is tomorrow. this was just your birthday party

→ yn_ln thin fucking ice, piastri

user1 guys guys guys. verstappencom liked this. i repeat verstappencom liked this

→ user2 okay but that’s not max

→ user1 but it’s an advocate for max so 

landonorris dicaprio wouldn’t want you anyway. you’re too short

→ yn_ln i’ll make my boyfriend fight you 

→ landonorris i’m not scared of your polly pocket boyfriend

→ mclaren you can’t say stuff like this publicly, lan

→ user3 i swear none of them actually like her boyfriend 

→ user4 showing their support for max. he’s the only person who matches her beauty 

user5 no but the hand in the dress is somehow cute and hot 

→ user6 not with that guy. it should be max 

redbullracing happy birthday to our favourite popstar

replies

user7 what do you mean she had to pay for her own birthday meal on her birthday because her boyfriend wouldn’t

→ user8 not even wouldn’t but flat out refused 

→ user9 streets are saying it’s because he’s broke. not exactly like he’s raking in the job offers 

user10 so this man is lucky enough to get a chance with THE y/n l/n, then he refuses to pay for her dinner, and then he yells at her?? all on her birthday???

→ user11 he’s punching above his weight and clearly that angers him

→ user12 especially with the way she looked in that yellow sparkly dress today 

user13 someone clearly isn’t very smart. she writes a song for him - the first one she’s written recently that isn’t about max - and he does exactly what the song asks him not to do 

→ user14 how dare he try to embarrass our queen by yelling at her in front of so many people

→ user15 i’m starting to question if our girl does have good judgement. how could two men do this to her? 

→ user16 definitely doesn’t have good taste

user17 the audacity to yell at her in a restaurant of people, and then continue to do so after you were asked to leave because you were yelling at her

user18 and if i said i saw max verstappen pass them in the street, stop and turn, and start defending her, then what?

→ user18 he was literally yelling at this man whilst holding a crying y/n behind him, and rubbing her arm soothingly 

→ user19 we’d say you’re full of shit and have no tangible proof 

→ user20 this could be true because he was hanging out with charles and some of the drivers. and i just know alex sm got on the phone to her boyf and begged him to send the love of y/n’s life to save her

→ user19 pics or it didn’t happen

maxverstappen1 posted a new story yn_ln posted a new story

landonorris replied to maxverstappen1 i recognise the birthday girl's dress

landonorris replied to yn_ln who’s the 3rd person 👀 → wait why wasn’t I invited

━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━

requests open

tag list

@omgsuperstarg @seonghwaexile @evie-119 @alejandrablacklupin @nina-or-anna-or-nora @shelbyteller @raynetargaryan2 @astroniii @raizelchrysanderoctavius @azuramicah @seasonswinter @chaoswithus @casey1-2007 @chemiru @strengthandstay @ivanag1rl@anayaverse @formulaal @ellelabelle @yara011 @callsignwidow @freyathehuntress @floweringlee @isagrace22 @sunny44 @lottalove4evelyn @danielshoe @paucubarsisimp @monacosprince @stereading @hoeforsirius @anilovessadbooks @armystay89 @cassofheartsss

sorry if i missed anyone. it wouldn't let me tag some of y'all

[oopsiedaisydeer]

ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴍɪᴛʜꜱ

…𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘢

fluff, kissing, tiktok trend, established relationship, soft!matt but he won't admit it, goofy, idiots in love

requested by @applecidersturniolo !

word count - 700ish

You’re sitting cross-legged on Matt’s bed, holding your phone up for him to see. He’s half-sprawled out next to you, scrolling through his own phone like he’s not that interested, but you can tell he is.

“Do you wanna do this trend with me?” you ask, nudging his arm.

Matt glances over, barely lifting his head. “What trend?”

You flip your phone around, pressing play on the 500 Days of Summer audio. He watches, brows furrowing slightly as it plays. Then, the couple on the screen lunge at each other, kissing so hard they fall out of frame.

Matt’s eyes flick back to you, unreadable for a second. Then, he snorts. “Wait. So we just say the lines and then, like… violently make out?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “It’s romantic, Matt.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s fighting back a grin now, still acting like he’s above it. “And we have to disappear out of frame?”

“Yes.”

Matt exhales through his nose, staring at you like he’s already regretting agreeing to this. But then he sets his phone down, stretches his arms over his head, and mutters, “Alright. Let’s make some cinema.”

Take one.

The camera is propped up, slightly off-center, the lighting warm and dim. You try to keep a straight face, turning toward him.

“I love The Smiths.”

Matt stares at you blankly.

“Matt,” you whisper, nudging his leg.

He blinks. “Oh, wait. Sorry?”

You dissolve into laughter, covering your mouth. “You’re supposed to say it, not actually be confused.”

Matt groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, okay. Again.”

Take two.

“I love The Smiths.”

“Sorry?”

“I said—”

Before you can even finish, Matt lunges at you. No warning, no hesitation, just full-on crashes into you, completely messing up the timing. You yelp, hands flying up to steady yourself as you both fall out of frame way too soon, almost falling off the bed as you knock the phone also.

The camera catches nothing but the ceiling and a blur of movement.

Silence.

Matt groans, “That was terrible.”

You’re already wheezing, clutching your stomach. “Matt, we looked insane.”

He smiles at you, kissing you anyway before flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Maybe we are.”

Take three.

This time, you’re focused. You inhale, make sure Matt is actually ready.

“I love The Smiths.”

“Sorry?”

“I said—I love The Smiths.”

And then, perfectly on cue, you both lean in, slow at first—teasing, just the briefest brush of lips, the softest press before you feel the heat of Matt’s breath.

And then, without warning, Matt pulls you in harder, a bit desperate, the kiss deepening immediately. His hands find their way to your hair, tugging you closer as his lips move against yours with a softness that surprises you.

You gasp against his mouth, hands gripping the front of his shirt, and for a second, it feels like it’s just the two of you in this quiet room. The kiss is hungry now, full of little moments that have led up to this, a little bit of teasing, a little bit of need, the world fading away as the kiss intensifies, pulling you off the edge of the bed in the process.

As you both fall, tangled in each other, you end up just out of frame, your bodies twisting as you kiss with the kind of urgency that makes everything feel perfect.

The last shot is just the empty bed, a lamp flickering softly in the background. You shuffle in Matt’s grasp, trying to get closer as he continues kissing you, pulling you even further into him.

When he finally pulls away, breathless, his forehead rests against yours for just a moment before he pulls back slightly, a small smile curling at his lips.

"Was that too much?"

And obviously, when you post it, the comments explode.

“They practiced this. I know they practiced this.” “This is EXACTLY how the trend is supposed to be done.” “Matt looking at her. Stop im so single” “The way he’s definitely watching this back 50 times.”

And Matt? He acts chill, like he doesn’t care that much, but later, when you glance at his phone, you catch a glimpse of the video playing again.

Just once. Maybe twice.

credits to rose for the dividers !! @bernardsbendystraws

a/n: some more fluff even though i am anti-fluff this kinda made me smile jsdkhfksjh

taglist: @blushsturns @sturnslutz @snoopychris @sturnshood @sturns-mermaid @chrissweetheart @cowboylikenat @sturnsrecordfaves @camzeecorner @sturniolo101 @courta13 @sweetshuga

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 22 - every word

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language, angst, sorry this is more fic i had to get it out

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

you had just settled down for the evening, having spent the day with kie you were feeling happy and ready to unwind for bed, until you heard a knock on your door.

a wave of panic rushed over you, as the knocking only increased in desperation.

you got up and looked out the window, just to see:

rafe.

what the fuck was he doing here.

you stood there, frozen in your position with your heart hammering in your chest.

another knock. louder this time.

“y/n, please open the door.”

your fingers twitched at your sides, reaching for the door knob.

how fucking dare he show up here after everything?

you yanked the door open so fast he took a step back, eyes widening slightly at your appearance.

you looked good, and from the way his gaze flickered over you, you knew he saw it too.

“what the fuck do you want, rafe?”

his jaw tensed, hands clenching into fists at his sides. “y/n." he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his messy hair. “can we just—can we talk? please?”

“talk?” you scoffed, crossing your arms. "now you want to talk? after you've seen me doing good?"

rafe’s eyes darkened, his whole body tensing. “y/n, it’s not what you think.”

you shook your head, letting out a laugh. “it never is, is it?”

his jaw twitched, struggling to keep his composure. he wasn't expecting you to be angry. “that picture—”

“don’t.” you held up a hand. “i don’t want to hear it.”

he stepped closer, his voice dropping. “it’s not what it looked like.”

you let out a sharp breath, forcing yourself to meet his sad gaze. “you think that changes anything?” your voice wavered, but you steadied it. “you didn’t call, rafe. you didn’t text. not once.”

his lips parted like he wanted to argue, "you broke up with me. what was i supposed to do?"

“you let me sit in that heartbreak alone,” you whispered, voice laced with so much anger it nearly scared you. “you didn't even try. and then i wake up to you kissing another girl?"

rafe shook his head quickly. “i was drunk, y/n-"

“no.” you clenched your jaw, gripping the door like it was the only thing keeping you steady. “let me finish. you don’t get to show up here and act like you give a shit. you don't get to release this fucking song like it'll win me back."

his eyes searched yours, something breaking in his expression. “i do give a shit,” he said, voice softer now, almost desperate. “i still- that song, i meant every word.”

“no.” you stepped back, “i don’t want to hear it.” tears threatening to spill. "you didn't even fight for me." you whispered.

rafe's heart dropped at that, he took another step forward, his voice, desperate. “y/n, please. i messed up. i know i did. but you have to believe me, that song, that was real. we were real. everything you think happened, didn't happen. i only ever wanted you, only ever loved you. fuck, still love you.”

your chest ached, like he was physically pulling at the wound he left in you. part of you wanted to believe it. but another part, the part that still felt the sting of betrayal, the part that had spent weeks crying over him, knew better.

“i don’t care.” the lie tasted bitter on your tongue.

his face fell those words punching him in the stomach. “yes, you do.”

you swallowed, you couldn't look at him. “you let me go.”

his lips parted, but no words came out. he tried to step closer, take your hand in his. you almost let him.

tears started to well up in rafe's eyes, and the sight made you want to break.

"why did you kiss her rafe? did i mean that little?" you questioned, voice shaking.

"no y/n, that isn't it." he started.

"then what is it?"

"i was so drunk."

"i know you were, i've already told you that isn't an excuse." anger burning inside you again.

"no y/n, i kissed her because-" his breath catching in his throat.

"spit it out rafe." your frustration rising.

"i thought it was you."

and just like that, the anger disappeared.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: i'm not done breaking your hearts just yet

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation@chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover@yesshewrites1@amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley@sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @wtfdudesblog @voidangxls @jjmaybankmylovee @munsoncultedits @emmiesummers @darlingstarkey @sassyvillaintrophy  @pogueprincesa @stylestarkey @sodapopwaldor @hannaa20002000 @stelleduarte @davinashifts333

[keigo-birdies]

That meeting (if you could even call it that) was definitely scripted. It was designed to try and make Trump and Vance look tough but they just looked like petulant school yard bullies on the world stage. All it did was show even more how incompetent and weak they truly are.

There has never been a plan from the trump regime to help in the war in Ukraine. Putin is using trump to get what he wants because trump and all his loyalists are Russian assests. The plan is for Ukraine to just roll over and let Russia conquer them so that it will lead the way to Poland and other European countries to be attacked by Russia. Putin is trump's friend, but trump is not putin's friend. He just considers trump useful for the time being. Once trump is no longer of any use, putin will dump him. Because one thing is true, putin and trump are alike, in that they will use whoever they can to get what they want and then throw them under the bus when they are no longer of any use.

Russia is the new WW2 Germany for our generation. Putin wants more power and the only way to do that is to destabilize their biggest adversary, the US. And they've done that with the help of their Russian spy/asset, trump. Unfortunately, we with common sense warned our fellow Americans about this and every other thing we knew would happen but no one listened. His supporters and moderates still voted for him and many other eligible voters just couldn't be bothered to vote.

As a US citizen, I would like to apologize to Zelensky and the Ukrainian people. I know my words might not mean much, but I HAVE AND WILL ALWAYS STAND WITH THE UKRAINIAN PEOPLE as they fight tooth and nail to protect their country from a tyrannical Russia. You and your president are true heroes. Zelensky is what a true leader is supposed to look and act like. Even though your country is at war, it's good to know that Ukraine is lead by a great president. I'm jealous that you guys have a legitimate leader and not a petulant child like we do.

And I know there are many others here in the US who will continue to support and stand with Ukraine as well. Sending love and strength to Ukraine 🇺🇦💙💛

So this was a pre-planned (and likely paid for by the Kremlin) show: to invite Zelenskyy, scold him like a kindergartener in front of the press, present him with an unreasonable "deal" - an ultimatum - knowing full well he will refuse it (as anyone in this position would). And then tell the world: "Look, our mighty Orange King could've ended this horrible war in a day, but this poorly-dressed, warmongering, ungrateful twat just doesn't want peace! It's not our fault, we did what we could!"

The show is so cheap, so transparent, yet still effective for so many brainless people.

[thatsmistertoyou]

maybe a hot take idk

look I know many people are upset about the pricing/fee situation of the TIT livestream (me included, I was pissed as hell that I got a large surprise fee), and I hope everything gets sorted out. I’m proud of the phandom for being loud and demanding fairness from the platform. you will not get shit past us.

I understand that. however, I completely disagree with some opinions I’ve seen (mainly on twitter but whatever) that charging for the stream at all is greedy, especially for people who have already paid to see the show. this is a weird take imo because this stream is supposed to be an opportunity for people who didn’t get to go to see it with an audience as a communal experience. but if you already spent money and don’t want to spend more, don’t!

and I don’t know anything about anything but based on the very little information dnp have provided about the cost of touring, I really don’t think they have the option to just do the stream for free. this is just my opinion, but based on how dan said he lost money touring WAD, i would not be surprised if the livestream paid for the rights he needed to release it for free on YouTube (and the extremely important rights to play All Star in the credits). just because he wrote and performed it doesn’t mean he owned it. it would not surprise me at all if the profits from the stream don’t go to dnp only.

and also, Things Cost Money, including livestreams. I think the platform has really showed their ass, but if we remove them from the equation for a second - everyone who put on TIT, including Dan and Phil, deserve to be compensated for their work. I don’t expect them to bleed money into this project forever just because it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I’m sure they’re doing just fine financially, but they are not and never have asked anyone to take food off their table to support them.

I actually find it really disheartening to see just how many people were like, legitimately, personally angry with dnp before they had even had a chance to respond to our concerns. I’ve been around long enough to remember when they announced TABINOF, there was an uproar about how they were sellouts because they were writing a book just like every other youtuber, making a shitty cashgrab when they had nothing to say. in the 2 days before we knew what the book would even be about, the Discourse had never been more annoying or mean spirited.

and it made me wonder, what are yall doing here if you assume the worst like that? have you just been waiting for the masks to slip? are you appalled that they participate in the heinous capitalistic act of selling their labor like everyone else? have your years of support not earned a little bit of grace when there’s a miscommunication?

I’m not saying approach everything like ‘they’ve never done anything wrong once in their whole lives and never will’, but the vitriol that seems to come out at minor fuck ups is alarming. some of yall do not like them and it shows. (I am looking directly at twitter dot com now)

I find that attitude really sad. after the TABINOF drama, I promised myself I’d never lose sleep over phandom nonsense again, so I’m going to bed, just had to get some thoughts out there. 💙

[reidsmanuscript]

Sweet echoes of the past

Summary: When the gentle hand of the past becomes the present, it tightens around the ADA's throat, forcing the hidden faces of darkness into the light. Pairing: Spencer reid x lawyer!reader Genre: HURT/comfort wc: 19k! (i know it's long but its a retribution for the wait time) TW: cm canon violence, FEMALE RAGE, kidnapping, discuss of child trafficking and abuse, discuss of domestic violence, vertigo, discuss of drugs and reader's past (talked in part III) gets disclosure! A/N: i support women's rights and women's wrongs. it's supposed to be jesus reid through the whole chapter but i didn't find a pic that would match. not proofread yet. part I - part II - part III - part IV - masterlist

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

As the elevator doors slid open, you stepped into the hallway of your apartment complex, exhaustion settling deep in your bones from the lack of sleep over the past few nights.

It had been months since you helped Morgan in Chicago. The determination you had shown—sometimes unnecessarily—and the disclosure of your past to gain Morgan’s trust had made you the BAU’s preferred unofficial legal advisor. Whenever they needed legal assistance—whether it was a warrant, a last-minute consult, or navigating bureaucratic red tape—you were the first person they called. It was never official, never written down anywhere, but the weight of it still lingered, pressing against your already demanding workload.

You weren’t complaining, though—you loved to help. And you would never admit that maybe, just maybe, Reid’s presence was a factor in your willingness to do so.

Ever since that conversation on the jet—the one that had been abruptly cut short when Hotch interrupted—you hadn’t tried to continue it. You had left the seat in front of him, and going back felt… strange. Too obvious? Too desperate? What if he didn’t want to talk? So you didn’t.

Which was incredibly frustrating, because you would have listened to him for hours. Every thought, every opinion, every ridiculous fact he might throw your way.

Still, in that time, you had learned a few things about him. He was brilliant—almost impossibly so. You had overheard him ramble, though never to you, about the most fascinating things: statistical probabilities, obscure historical events, literary references that seemed to live at the tip of his tongue. His mind was like an endless black hole of knowledge, and the more you listened, the more you wanted to be the one he shared it all with. The more you wanted to crawl inside his head and understand everything about him—the books he read, the things he liked, his favorite foods, his favorite things in general. Everything. Anything.

But the more time you spent with him—with the BAU in the middle—the heavier the guilt sat in your stomach. Someone like him, someone that brilliant, wouldn’t turn to drugs because he thought it would be fun or relaxing. Something must have happened. Something bad. And instead of reaching out, instead of trying to talk to him like a normal person, you had freaked out. You had gotten mad. You had acted on impulse—flushing his drugs, shoving a card with a number into his hands without even checking if he understood what it meant.

You had been a monster.

And you didn’t know if there was any way to fix it. 

Anyway… you tried not to go down that road too often. Your impulsiveness wasn’t entirely your fault—though if Dr. Fitzgerald were here, she'd make sure you took responsibility for your actions.

Still, Reid didn’t seem to hate you or anything. If anything, he was almost… friendly. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he was wary of you—of what you could do, of what you could become.

You definitely needed a bath. A long one.

One that would take your mind off him, off your spiraling self-doubt.

Though, if you were being honest with yourself, you’d probably just end up thinking about the major case that had landed on your desk months ago.

At first, it seemed like a straightforward prostitution case—three men arrested for running a ring. But things took a darker turn when financial records revealed suspicious transactions, and lists of names and ages were hidden under the guise of real estate properties.

On paper, they appeared to be children and teenagers. But no bodies were found. None of the rescued individuals were underage, and every single one of them insisted they hadn’t been forced into anything.

You had call transcripts connecting D.C. to Virginia, Maryland, and even Baltimore, but they weren’t enough to prove people were being trafficked and sold. You didn’t even have a confirmed transportation route. With the evidence you had, the harshest sentence you could secure was 20 years—at best.

That wasn’t good enough.

You and Austin had been working non-stop, digging for anything that could reopen the case. The police had committed a dumb mistake, totally unintentional, and blamed it on a rookie officer. 

You weren’t so sure.

The trial date was still a month and a half away, and if you didn’t find enough evidence to charge them under RICO, you’d be forced to fight for every minor charge you could throw at them.

It was a high-profile case. You knew that. Your boss knew that. Your very proud—but slightly concerned—parents knew that. Soon, the press would probably know that too.

Did the pressure affect you? Maybe. It added weight to your shoulders, sure, but nothing compared to the pressure you put on yourself.

As you reached your door and unlocked it, the usual sense of ease and relaxation never came. Your body knew it wasn’t safe yet.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. Coincidence. Paranoia. Your mind playing tricks on you after digging too deep into something dangerous.

But then, the little things started adding up.

The unsettling feeling of being watched, the man you were almost certain had followed you during your morning run. Papers on your desk shifted just enough to make you second-guess yourself. A black car parked across the street, there one day, gone the next—then back again.

You were methodical. Filed the complaints, knowing full well they'd be ignored. But you did it anyway. It was something to fall back on—a formality, a way to say you tried.

But nothing prepared you for this.

The moment you stepped inside, something felt wrong.

The silence, thicker than usual. The stillness in the air as if it were holding its breath.

Something incredible happens to the brain after it experiences trauma. The amygdala heightens the sensibility to danger helping recognize and avoid potentially harmful situations in the future. It can also enhance emotional resilience—some people develop a stronger sense of intuition, quicker reaction times, and a greater ability to read social cues.

Your bag hit the rack. Your coat slipped off your shoulders, but you didn’t move—didn’t breathe—until you saw it.

A piece of candy. Then another. And another.

Everywhere.

Scattered across the floor, the counters, the table—spilling from the cabinets, tumbling from the couch, everywhere.

Your skin prickled. Your stomach twisted. You didn't want to follow the trail, but your feet moved anyway, step by step, against every instinct screaming at you to turn around.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Crinkling wrappers, glinting under the dim light.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Your breath came shallow. The air felt thick. Too sweet. Sickly.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You followed it into the kitchen. More candy.

Piled high, spilling over the edges of the counter, the table, the chairs. The sheer amount of it—obscene, suffocating, grotesque. Like a tide that had rushed in and drowned the room in sugar-coated horror.

Your fingers twitched. Your jaw clenched.

A candy wrapper crinkled. Your body jerked—but you hadn’t moved. Had you?

You looked down. Your hand. Your fingers, clenched so tightly around something that the foil had crushed against your palm.

Your heart lurched. You didn’t pick anything up.

You swallowed, throat dry. Then you saw it. Amidst the mess, perched at the very top of an overflowing heap.

A folded note.

The candy was pressing in, the sweet artificial scent clogging your throat.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You reached out.

A breath shuddered out of you. Your vision blurred. The room felt smaller, pressing in, squeezing, pulling you back—back to the days when candy was more than just candy. When it meant something else. Something worse.

Your knees locked. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You weren’t breathing. You couldn’t breathe.

The paper crinkled between your fingers as you unfolded it.

Miss me, sugarcube?

—Dr. C.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The night was settling over the city as the bullpen slowly emptied. The BAU had just wrapped up a case in Louisiana, and exhaustion lingered in the air, each agent buried in their own work.

Spencer wasn’t paying much attention until Morgan’s phone rang.

“What's up, Woody?”

That caught his ear. They usually called you. Not the other way around.

A flicker of jealousy sparked—irrational, unwanted, but there. Morgan had the privilege of calling you by your nickname, not just your name, like it was second nature. Like it meant something.

But that flicker died the second Morgan’s posture shifted.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's going on? You have to bre—”

Whoever was on the other end cut him off. Morgan sat up straighter, his brow furrowing.

Spencer felt his pulse tick up.

Morgan nodded sharply, already reaching for his jacket. “I'll be there in ten. Is she okay?”

The words hit like a hammer to the chest. You.

Something was wrong.

Reid was on his feet before he even realized it, trailing Morgan as he grabbed Prentiss’s arm on the way out.

“What happened?” he demanded, voice tighter than he intended.

Morgan didn’t answer right away. He was moving too fast.

That only made the knot in Reid’s stomach tighten.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Morgan's knocking on your door was frantic, sharp raps against the wood that barely left room for a pause. Behind him, Prentiss and Reid stood tense, their eyes flicking toward the door, waiting.

Inside, Austin peered through the peephole before unlocking it, swinging the door open without hesitation.

“I got her to take a shower,” he said, stepping aside to let them in. His voice was steady, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him.

The apartment felt wrong.

Reid stepped inside, his gaze immediately scanning the space. The lights were on, but there was an eerie stillness, a weight hanging in the air. The scent of something sharp—maybe soap, maybe something harsher—lingered.

Morgan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “What the hell happened?”

Austin’s lips pressed into a thin line. He looked toward the hallway, where the faint sound of running water could be heard. “Someone broke in during the day”. 

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the kitchen. In the middle of the aisle sat a large garbage bag, its top loosely tied. Austin pulled it open, revealing an unsettling sight—piles of candy, an overwhelming amount. He reached inside, pulled out a small card, and handed it to Morgan.

“This was scattered all over the place,” Austin said, nodding toward the bag. “And this was left with it.”

Morgan’s eyes scanned the card, his expression darkening. He turned it over, glancing at Austin, waiting for an explanation.

Austin’s voice was steady but clipped. “Dr. C,” he said, the name alone carrying weight. “It stands for Dr. Calloway.”

Morgan frowned. “Who is that?”

“He was my foster father.”

Spencer turned at the sound of your voice. You stood in the doorway, wrapped in a long, fluffy white robe, your damp hair clinging to your shoulders. The only skin visible was the curve of your neck, the length of your forearms, and a glimpse of your legs beneath the hem. You clutched the robe tightly against your chest, as if trying to shield yourself—not just from the cold, but from the lingering presence of what had invaded your space.

“He used to give those… a lot of them, before and after he—” Your voice stuttered, catching on the words, unable to finish. 

Spencer’s gaze flickered to the kitchen, then back to you, the weight of your words settling heavily. Then, he noticed it—the raw redness of your skin. Even from across the room, he could see the angry patches where you had scrubbed too hard, as if trying to wash away something that wouldn’t come off.

You cleared your throat as best as you could. “What did the cameras show?” Your voice was low, raspy, as if it hurt to speak.

Spencer barely registered the words. All he could focus on was your eyes—wide, searching, and for the first time, so… small. The sharp edges of your presence were still there, but instead of the formidable woman he knew, you looked like a child—a scared one, cornered with no way out.

Austin sighed, his expression unreadable as he chose his words carefully. “The staff said the cameras haven’t been working for about a week.”

Something in you snapped.

“What do you mean they aren’t working?” Your voice rose, trembling with anger. “This place brags about its security system!” You whirled toward the door, fists clenched. “I’m gonna sue them for negligence and breach of contract! They’re going to—”

Austin moved fast, already anticipating your reaction. He caught you before you could storm out, arms locking around your waist as he turned you away from the door.

“You are not going out.” His grip was firm but steady as he spun you to face him, hands settling on your shoulders. His voice softened, but his words struck hard. “You’re losing focus. You’re losing perspective. You’re losing energy.”

It was a mantra he told you every time you were being too impulsive, too reckless, lashing out without thinking. His voice grounded you when you were ready to burn everything down.

You refused to look up—to meet the gazes of Reid, Morgan, or Prentiss. You could already picture their expressions. Judgment at your impulsiveness. Pity at your situation.

You didn’t know which was worse.

“Woody I understand this is a lot for you right now” Aside from Austin, Morgan was the only aware—partially—of what it meant that note. “We can help catch whoever did this okay? We'll take this to the rest of the team.”

You nodded, not being sure if that's what you really wanted. “I-” You couldn't help but stutter while swallowing the knot on your throat you forced yourself to. “He's supposed to be in prison now”

Prentiss began scanning the apartment, checking the corners with a trained eye. She ran a gloved hand over the door frame, inspecting the lock closely before crouching near the handle. “No visible signs of forced entry,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Morgan asked carefully, “Is there any chance he got out?”

The thought of someone like him—a monster—walking free through the streets made you sick. “I’m not sure. His sentence was 20 years, but the charges didn’t exclude parole opportunities.”

“Did they break anything else?” Reid asked, his gaze shifting to the shattered glass on the floor.

You shifted your weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other, at the full display of your anger, shaking your head. “No, I—um… that was me.” He didn’t miss the note of shame in your voice as you spoke. 

“Have you noticed someone following you or watching you, maybe?” Prentiss asked carefully from the entry door. 

You nodded, exhaling shakily. “Yeah, um… on my morning runs and outside the courtroom sometimes. There’s a folder in my desk.”

Without waiting, you walked in toward your office. As they entered, they took in the mess from the case you were working—registers in the floor, files and records pinned in a corkboard, a stark contrast to the rest of your apartment. The mess in here felt intentional, like the chaos inside your head had spilled into the space.

You dropped to your knees in front of the desk, pulling open the bottom drawer. Then, instead of rifling through it, you gripped both sides and yanked it out entirely, setting it aside.

Their eyes followed your movements as you reached down, pressing your fingers against the smooth wood floor until you found what you were looking for. A red folder, hidden beneath the drawer, its worn edges marked with a single sticker that read Austin.

You stood slowly, gripping it tightly before handing it over. “I have copies of every complaint I’ve made over the last couple of months… it’s all in here in case—”

The thought of you leaving proof in case something happened to you made Spencer’s chest tighten. His fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before he opened the folder.

Inside, neatly stacked yet slightly worn from being handled, were copies of official complaints, incident reports, and personal notes. Dates, locations, descriptions of suspicious figures—some written hastily, others with meticulous detail. 

Before he could say anything, Morgan spoke up. “Do you know if they took anything from here?”

You shook your head. “It looks normal, and if they did take something, I have copies of everything in my office.” You paused for a moment, thinking. “Did you find anything at the hospital?” you asked, turning to Austin.

He shook his head. “They insisted on a warrant, but a nurse said she could help me if I came back tonight.”

A sigh of exhaustion left your lips as Morgan glanced between the two of you. “Then why don’t you just get a warrant?” he asked, his tone laced with confusion.

The question made you tense up.

You and Austin exchanged a wary look before you answered carefully. “We’re conducting an investigation that has to stay off the record.”

“What do you mean ‘has to stay’?” Reid asked, his brows knitting together.

“It’s a case I’m prosecuting, but we think it’s bigger than what’s on paper, and we can’t prove it yet,” you explained, crossing your arms as you stood. “Weeks ago, some evidence was ‘mislabeled’—sat in storage for weeks before anyone realized. The police chalked it up to a clerical mistake, and now they’re insisting on closing it.”

Morgan exhaled sharply, glancing at Austin. “And you think someone did it on purpose?”

Austin nodded. “There’s too many coincidences. Too many people trying to shut this down.”

Morgan nodded in understanding. “Tomorrow, we’ll tell the rest of the team about this. It’d be best if you didn’t go out much—stay indoors as much as possible.”

You shook your head immediately, running a hand over your forehead. “I can’t. I have to go to work tomorrow. I have a trial.” Your voice was firm, unwavering. You weren’t about to let someone else control your life. Not again.

Reid, who had been silent up until now, felt his mind start running the numbers. He calculated the probabilities of something happening to you if you insisted on going to work—factoring in everything they knew. Your stalker’s escalation pattern, his growing confidence, geographical profiling probabilities based on your work location. The percentage of workplace homicides committed by known aggressors versus strangers. The statistical likelihood of an abduction attempt in broad daylight versus early morning or late evening.

The numbers weren’t in your favor.

The higher the risk, the tighter the knot in his stomach became. Rationally, he knew he couldn’t control your choices, but emotionally, the thought of you walking straight into danger made his pulse quicken.

He swallowed and called your name softly. “It’s too dangerous for you.”

“If he’s watching and I don’t go to work, he’ll think he’s in control.” You met Reid’s gaze, and for a moment, the numbers ceased to matter. The statistics, the probabilities—none of it held weight against the quiet determination in your voice. You weren’t demanding, just asking. Asking to hold onto some semblance of control over your own reality.

Austin, who had promised long ago to stand by your side, spoke up. “The courtroom and the D.A.’s office are always packed with officers. Plus, if we escort her, he’ll see us and maybe back off.”

Or get even angrier, Reid thought. The probability of escalation was high—too high—but when he looked at you, at the way you squared your tense shoulders despite the fear you were barely keeping at bay, he knew you already understood the risk. You were scared, that much was obvious. But you refused to let that fear dictate your actions. And maybe that terrified him more than any statistic ever could.

Prentiss re-entered the room, her gloved hands brushing against the doorframe. “The lock wasn’t forced, but the scratches on the latch suggest someone picked it.” She gestured toward the window. “And there are faint scuff marks on the sill, like someone checked it as a secondary entry point.”

You nodded. "So it's not safe for me to stay here, is it?" Even if it was, you weren’t sure you’d ever feel safe here again.

Morgan, Reid, and Prentiss exchanged hesitant glances. Eventually, Morgan let out a deep breath, looking at you with concern. "We can set up surveillance outside, keep a close watch. But you need to think about what you want, too. If you don’t feel safe here, we’ll figure something out."

You hesitated for a moment, feeling the weight of the uncertainty pressing down on you. Spencer could see it in your eyes, and it ached him to realize that you didn’t feel safe in your own home. 

Austin noticed the hesitation too and, without another word, made the decision for you. “Fix a bag with what you need. If you forget something, we can come back together, you are staying at my place.” he said, his voice steady and firm.

You nodded slowly, the practicality of the suggestion grounding you, but the knot in your stomach tightened. The idea of leaving felt like a step further into something you couldn’t control, but at least it was a step toward safety—toward some semblance of normalcy.

As you turned toward your bedroom, you felt a flicker of gratitude for Austin’s unwavering presence. Spencer’s gaze followed you, his concern etched deep into his features, but he remained silent, understanding that you needed space to process it all.

As they were walking out of your office, something caught Reid’s attention—a small yellow post-it note buried among the clutter. The handwriting was nearly indecipherable, but the quote stood out:

"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's."

He recognized it instantly—Dostoevsky.

Almost reaching your bedroom, you suddenly froze. A realization hit you like a punch to the gut. Someone had been sending you baskets of candy and chocolate for months—always without a card. You had dismissed it every time, taking them to the park to share with the kids. The kids.

“Austin!” you called out, horror tightening your throat.

He was by your side in an instant. “What? What is it?”

“The c-candy… we have to—”

“I’m getting rid of all of it, don’t worry,” he said, grabbing your trembling hands.

“No! You don’t understand.” You shook your head frantically. “You have to test them. See if they were spiked or something.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes, and he nodded, his grip on your hands tightening.

“I’ll call your dad, tell him to get them tested first thing in the morning,” he reassured you.

"Tested how? Why?" Spencer asked, his sharp gaze flicking between you and Austin, picking up on every detail—the stiffness in your posture, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to curl into fists. The horror in your eyes.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You should have had an answer, a perfectly structured explanation. But your mind wasn’t cooperating. The words tangled, stuck somewhere between logic and memory. If you said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real, then—

Austin moved, getting you into your bedroom before you could even try to force something out.

"Sit down," he said, his voice softer now but edged with quiet urgency. "Take a breath, and when you feel ready, pack a bag."

He stepped out, finally giving you a moment of silence. Outside, he joined Morgan and Prentiss, their conversation hushed but focused as they mapped out their next move.

Ten minutes later, they had a plan—Austin would relay all necessary information about you to Garcia and JJ. But Spencer wasn’t listening. Not really. His mind was elsewhere, caught on you and how you were holding up. He didn’t want to intrude, not while Morgan and Prentiss were deep in discussion, but his gaze kept drifting to your door.

Slowly, he approached, noticing it was slightly ajar. The dim light from inside spilled into the hallway, offering him a glimpse of your space—neat, controlled, yet somehow fragile. He hesitated, then knocked softly, calling your name.

No answer.

A flicker of unease tightened his chest. He knew you needed space, but silence had never felt so heavy. Pushing past his hesitation, he stepped inside.

You were curled up on the window seat, dressed in loose black sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. The window was half-open, a faint cold breeze stirring the fabric of the curtains, cooling your senses down. Your back was turned to him, your hand moving absently over the soft fur of a gray cat curled against your thigh.

Reid hesitated, watching you for a moment. There was something fragile about the way you sat there, staring out at the night. The weight of the evening still clung to you, but the cat’s quiet presence seemed to ground you—if only just.

He took a careful step forward. “Hey,” he said gently.

He startled you, making you jump clumsily in the seat. The sudden movement spooked the stray cat perched on the windowsill, its fur bristling as it let out a sharp hiss. In its panic, it lashed out, claws swiping against the back of your hand before bolting.

You flinched, instinctively pulling your hand close to your chest as the cat leapt from the ledge and disappeared into the night. A bright line of red was already forming where its claws had caught you.

“I’m sorry, I—” he started, but you quickly cut him off.

“It’s okay. I didn’t hear you coming.” Your voice was quiet but gentle, like you didn’t want him to feel bad for it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, unsure of what to say—unsure of how to reach you through whatever you were going through. Finally, he settled on the only thing that came to mind. “What’s its name?”

That earned him a small, tired smile, and for a brief moment, he thought he might have done something right. “Um—he sorta came with the place,” you admitted, glancing back at the empty windowsill. “I just call him Stray.”

Spencer’s brows furrowed slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You named a stray cat ‘Stray’?” His voice held a hint of humor, soft but genuine.

You couldn’t help but feel a warmth spread in your chest at the sound of it. “Yeah…” you replied with a lighter tone. “He owns up to his name.” You raised your right hand a little, showing him the long scratch on the back of it, as if to prove it.

He pressed his lips together, rocking back and forth on his feet nervously. “Sorry again,” he muttered, his voice soft.

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s fine, he just got scared.” You glanced back toward the window where the cat was tentatively returning. You placed your hand a few inches away from him, watching as the stray slowly approached. It only took a second before he leaned against your hand, purring softly and licking the scratch he had done, as if he felt guilty and was apologizing.

“He’s been coming around since I first moved in years ago,” you said, your voice gentle as you scratched the back of the cat’s ears, causing it to purr louder. “It took me an entire year, some food, and a lot of scratches and patience to get him this comfortable.”

You smiled a little at the softness of the moment, but the warmth faded just as quickly as it came. The reality of it all crashed back down on you—this place you called home had been invaded, your sense of security stolen. Again.

“I have to move out right?” the thought of leaving Stray alone and without food pained you. 

Spencer saw the shift in your expression at his nod, the way your shoulders sagged and your eyes darkened with exhaustion. He hated that look on your face, hated the weight of it. Desperate to pull you away from the spiraling thoughts, he let his gaze sweep across the room, searching for something—anything—to get you out of it. 

“Did you go to Harvard?” Reid asked, his eyes landing on a framed picture sitting on the bookshelf.

In the photo, a younger version of you stood between your parents, your diploma in hand. Your mother held a crimson banner with the university’s name in gold, while your father wore a red sweater emblazoned with a bold yellow ‘H.’

“Yeah. Law school. Though I look awful in those pictures,” you admitted.

You were 18 in them, and in your opinion, it wasn’t your best moment. The smudge eyeliner and dark clothes—an attempt to make yourself look unapproachable—clashed awkwardly with the family-intended picture. Besides, college wasn’t exactly a time you looked back on fondly.

Thankfully, you had outgrown the phase of needing to prove yourself. Sort of.

Reid, however, thought you looked pretty. Despite the heavy makeup that aged you, he could still see the youth in your features—the sharp intelligence in your eyes, the quiet determination. He wanted to ask more. At what age had you graduated high school? How had your teenage years in college been? Were they anything like his—lonely, spent buried in books?

You stood from the window seat, moving to zip up the bag you had packed for the next few days at Austin’s. Your gaze flickered to the closet, pausing briefly on the dress hanging behind the door.

Prentiss knocked lightly before stepping in with a small smile. “Ready to go?” Her eyes landed on the dress. “Oh, that’s fancy.”

It was. The dark purple silk draped elegantly, the halter top flattering yet professional, the long skirt flowing with just the right amount of sophistication. You and your mom had picked it out together for an important dinner—she had insisted you needed something that made you feel beautiful.

You exhaled, brushing a hand over the fabric. “Yeah… It was for a work dinner. But I guess I finally found the perfect excuse not to go.”

You grabbed the bag and walked out of the room, Spencer and Prentiss leading the way. With one last glance over your shoulder, you reached for the light switch, casting the space into darkness before quietly closing the door behind you.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Walking into the bullpen of the BAU felt like stepping into a pressure chamber—every glance, every hushed conversation carrying the weight of unspoken questions. You weren’t just another visitor; you were the case. The reason for the extra tension in the air. 

Morgan led the way, having picked you and Austin up for security reasons—Austin’s bike wasn’t exactly the safest option. The briefing room felt suffocating, the air thick with unspoken concern. You tried to ignore the warmth creeping up your back, the telltale sign of exhaustion clawing at you. Sleep had been scarce last night, and the extra-bitter coffee in your hand was doing little to keep you grounded.

Everyone was already there when the three of you arrived. Their eyes flicked toward you, subtle yet piercing, like they could see right through you. You hated this feeling—vulnerability wrapping itself around you like a second skin. Have you ever walked into a room and felt like a lamb walking straight to the slaughter? You swallowed the knot in your throat and forced out the proper good mornings, your voice steadier than you expected.

Some habits never leave you. Like the art of avoiding physical touch—something you’d perfected in your teenage years. Always keeping your hands full, whether with books, files, or a cup of coffee. A strategic shield, paired with an apologetic smile when someone offered their hand, as if to say, Oh, I’d shake, but my hands are full. Sorry. Every movement calculated, arbitrarily staged, yet second nature by now.

And yes you could perfectly just say no to a simple handshake but playing against the rules wouldn't have gotten you anywhere. 

You stayed at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, trying to avoid the pitying looks from the team. JJ began explaining how, over the last few months, you had been stalked—someone had followed your routine, watching your every move.

Images appeared on the screen, displaying your apartment filled with candy. Your stomach twisted at the sight, and you quickly averted your eyes, staring out toward the bullpen instead. JJ continued, explaining how the situation was even more concerning given that your personal address wasn’t listed in any public records—precautions you had taken after past incidents.

“There was a note left behind,” she said, pressing a button to reveal a close-up of the paper on the screen. The message was short but chilling.

“‘Dr. C.’” JJ read aloud. “It stands for Doctor Calloway.”

Garcia chimed in, her voice devoid of its usual warmth. “Doctor Dean Calloway is a convicted felon. Over twenty years ago, he and his wife, Michelle Calloway, ran a foster home. He was sentenced to 30 years in prison for child neglect and public assistance fraud in Wallens Ridge State Prison.” 

The picture of him on the TV makes your legs go weak. His cold, piercing eyes—the same ones that had once looked at you with a twisted, possessive kind of love—make you feel like you want to rip your skin off, just to escape the memory of them.

Hotch frowned at the pictures. “And what’s the significance of the candy?”

You cleared your throat, knowing this was an important detail you had to clarify. “Calloway was—is—a child molester.”

The silence that settled over the room was suffocating, pressing down on your chest like a weight.

“He used to call me like that and drug me on the nights he—” Your voice wavered, threatening to crack, but you forced yourself to continue. “I never knew how or with what. All I know is that he made me eat thousands of those, maybe to hide the taste of whatever he was using.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of their eyes pressing against you, seeing through the cracks you tried so hard to keep together.

“His license was revoked after his conviction,” you added, your tone carefully measured, though your hands clenched at your sides, wanting to stop the trembling. “And I never had enough proof to go after him.”

A heavy silence followed, the air thick with unspoken thoughts. The team exchanged glances—understanding, anger, maybe even guilt for not realizing sooner. You weren’t sure which was worse.

Hotch was the first to break the silence. His voice was steady but edged with something close to anger. “If he’s been sending you these messages, then he’s either out or has someone on the outside working for him.”

Reid shifted on his seat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. “Calloway was sentenced to thirty years. Even with good behavior, he shouldn’t be out yet.”

Garcia’s fingers flew over her keyboard, her usual warmth replaced by urgency. “Apparently, Wallens Ridge had a fault in their security system three days ago, making it really easy for a whole lot of very bad people to escape.”

“Three days ago?” Morgan’s voice was incredulous. “The stalking’s been going on for almost two months. Why didn’t we hear about this sooner?”

“They say they’re not sure who specifically got out,” Garcia responded, her fingers pausing over the keys. “The place is huge, so they’re still updating the fugitives list.”

“I never told anyone about the candy,” you said, your voice thick with the weight of the revelation. “He’s the only one who could’ve known about that.” Your mind raced, trying to piece together any possible logical explanation.

“Unless he has someone on the outside, someone who’s been following you,” Rossi suggested, and his words made your skin feel clammy. 

“Or there are two different stalkers,” Austin added, his gaze focused on you. “It wouldn’t be the first time a case backfired, especially if people have been watching you for other reasons.”

“So, we’re talking about two UnSubs?” Prentiss asked, her brow furrowing in thought.

You nodded slowly, the weight of the situation sinking in deeper. “It’s a high-stakes case. A lot of powerful people are expecting it to be closed and moved to trial as soon as possible. If something goes wrong…” You trailed off, feeling the invisible pressure of it all.

Hotch looked at you, his gaze intense and almost protective. “What kind of case is it?.”

You placed the file down on the table, your fingers brushing over it as you tried to keep your voice steady, but the weight of everything pressing down on you made it hard. You could feel the room’s tension shift, everyone leaning in, focused on your every word.

“The police investigated what on paper are prostitution houses,” you continued, your tone serious, “leading to the arrest of four men—two of them were real estate agents as a cover-up.” You paused for a moment, glancing at the file again, then at the faces of your team, your voice steadying as you pressed on. “All the victims we managed to rescue are adults who claim they weren’t being exploited. But when I went to check the financial records of these real estate agents, I found a ton of transactions tied to a series of properties they owned. The weird part? It was incredibly difficult to get access to the catalogue of properties, and none of them have a real, tangible address.” 

"At first, I didn’t think much of it, but then I realized—each property is actually a person they’re selling. It’s a human catalogue disguised as real estate listings." You knew you probably sounded crazy, but recognizing patterns and hidden meanings had always been how you survived.

"If a property is listed for rent, it’s prostitution. If it’s for sale only, it’s trafficking. A single-story house means the victim is a minor, while two or more floors likely indicate an adult. A garage means it’s a girl, no garage means it’s a boy. I think a porch signifies plastic surgery. And the descriptions of the walls and floors? They match the victim’s physical characteristics."

You laid out the pictures from the folder across the table, arranging them with a methodical precision. "These are the rescued victims. All of them are adults, former prostitutes, found in houses packed with bedrooms."

Then, you placed photos of houses and their corresponding descriptions beneath each victim’s picture. "Look at this one. Dark skin, dark eyes. And this house? Walnut floors, two stories, only available for rent, and it has a garage." You tapped the listing with growing certainty. "They aren’t selling homes. They’re selling people."

The team exchanged looks, some curious, others frowning with concern. Morgan was the first to speak. "How certain are you about this?"

"About 80%. Finding consistent leads has been really difficult," you explained, trying to keep your voice steady.

Hotch leaned forward, his expression sharp. "What does the DA say about all of this?"

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “She… doesn’t know. She’s planning her retirement and wants me to run for her position so I can ‘follow her legacy.’ She thinks this case could secure my election—and she’ll be telling everyone that at the Annual Winter Gala for the District Attorney’s office tonight,” you explained carefully. “If I find proof that the case has crossed state lines, it would automatically fall under the Department of Justice’s jurisdiction, leaving our office completely out of it.”

“Let us help,” Emily stated firmly.

Hotch nodded in agreement. “Garcia can look into this further to see if she uncovers anything else. Meanwhile, the rest of us will split up. JJ, Rossi, and Prentiss will focus on finding Calloway, profiling where he could be hiding, and the other half will stay with you, just in case.”

You hesitated but didn't decline knowing it was the best shot you had. 

“And it would be better if you stayed home,” Hotch said tentatively.

“Absolutely not,” you snapped, barely holding back the venom in your voice. “I have cases to handle and a trial in two hours—I can’t just sit around doing nothing.”

He nodded as if he already knew your answer, but still insisted that you not go to the Gala. You didn’t complain; you barely wanted to go anyway.

The thought of staying home, of locking yourself inside like some helpless prey, made your stomach churn. You weren’t a child anymore, weren’t that drugged, defenseless girl he could control. If Calloway showed up, you wouldn’t freeze. You wouldn’t run.

No, you’d put him down like the rabid animal he was.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Going through sexual abuse leaves a deep, lingering sense of desperation. Last night, you scrubbed your skin with everything you had, trying to erase the phantom touch of ghost hands. It never worked, though. The sensation stayed, haunting you no matter how hard you tried to wash it away.

Being a survivor also carries a heavy burden of guilt. You knew, logically, it wasn’t your fault—what happened to you wasn’t something you could control. But the aftermath, the side effects of being drugged nearly every night, still clung to you, refusing to let you forget.

The familiar hallways of the DA’s office offered a fleeting sense of normalcy, a place where you could breathe a little deeper without your chest aching so badly. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Fresh from the courtroom, you felt like you finally had some semblance of control over your life—at least for a little while, without the suffocating presence of a stalker lurking in the shadows. Morgan and Reid had been accompanying you all day, which was both mildly embarrassing and infuriating. The idea of people thinking you needed babysitters made your skin crawl.

On the other hand, Spencer couldn’t have been more eager to stay by your side. He hated the circumstances, hated the way you refused to meet his or Morgan’s gaze, but more than anything, he hated the way your hands trembled—no matter how hard you squeezed them together or tried to hide it. He wanted to reach out, to take your hands in his, to offer you something—anything—to anchor you.

He couldn’t even begin to imagine what it was like to have your past dissected and laid bare on a table for everyone to see. If just hearing you say Calloway had drugged you had made his stomach twist with sickness, he couldn’t fathom what it had done to you. So if you couldn’t look at him, he understood. He just wished he could hold you instead.

Watching you in court had been mesmerizing. Then again, everything about you captivated him.

Almost at your office, a sharp voice cut through the hallway. “Counselor!”

Spencer immediately tensed, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Morgan’s hand instinctively move to his holster.

You turned at the sound, already bracing yourself and recognizing the voice from Defense Attorney Bennet. Just the sight of him made your stomach tighten, and the way your jaw tensed and your nose twitched slightly—a near-wince before you masked it—didn’t go unnoticed by Reid.

Bennet strolled toward you with his usual smugness, and you barely resisted the urge to take a step back.

“No deal.” Your voice was flat, dismissive. His client had been arrested for attempted murder—of his own wife, in front of their children. The woman had come to you, fear in her eyes, begging you to make sure he wouldn’t get out and try to hurt her again.

Bennet didn’t seem fazed. “I'm not looking for one. My client isn't guilty.,” he said smoothly, as if that was enough to make you care. 

You exhaled sharply through your nose, the corners of your lips threatening to curl in distaste. “Your client belongs in a pine box... but I will settle for an 8-by-10 cell where he can rot until he dies.”

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Ms. Woodvale. He was under a lot of stress due to his demanding workload, which caused him anxiety and insomnia," he says smoothly, as if that excuse isn’t absolutely ridiculous.

You catch a glimpse of Morgan and Reid stepping into your office. Exhaling sharply, already fed up, you fix him with a cold stare. "I have anxiety and insomnia. I don’t go around shooting people."

You turned on your heel and got inside your office, you shut the door with more force than necessary. “I’m sorry for th—” A yawn caught you off guard, cutting off your words as you let your forehead rest against the cool surface of the door. 

"Do you want some coffee?" Spencer offered, his voice so gentle that, for a moment, your shoulders eased ever so slightly.

"Uh—yeah, thank you," you said, watching as he moved toward the small table where the machine sat. Then, quickly, before he could pour, you added, "No sugar, please."

The thought of sweetness on your tongue made your stomach twist. On a normal day, you couldn't stand it. But today? Today, when the fact that Calloway was still out there felt like a breath against the back of your neck? You weren’t willing to find out how you’d react.

Across the room, Spencer nodded, his fingers brushing over the sugar packets before he left them untouched. He finally understood. The incident in Chicago, the way you had recoiled, the way you'd run. He clung to every fragment of insight he could gather from you, anything that wasn’t in a file.

Caleb, Molly’s temporary replacement, entered your office without knocking, looking harried—like he’d just remembered something important, or more likely, forgotten something crucial—Caleb nearly tripped over himself as he spotted you.

"Miss Woodvale," he started, already sounding defensive, "I was just about to—"

You didn’t have the patience. With a sigh, you reached into your bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper, pressing it into his hands.

"I need two things, and I need them before midnight," you said, your tone clipped. "First, look up any prior convictions for Daniel Rogers—everything, even sealed records if you can access them. Second, type up a subpoena for the evidence request I noted down."

Caleb blinked at the paper, then back at you. "A subpoena? Like… now?"

You leveled him with a stare. "Yes, Caleb. Now. Before I have to argue in court for evidence I should already have."

"Right! Right. On it." He gripped the paper like it might disappear from his hands.

"Caleb," you added before he could rush off. He turned back, looking hopeful.

"Sign it under my name before filing. Properly."

"Of course! Totally on it."

You watched him scurry away and exhaled sharply. You should’ve just done it yourself.

Spencer handed you the cup of coffee, and the brief touch of his fingers against yours sent a small tingle through your skin—just enough to take the edge off, to let you breathe a little easier.

"Where's your usual girl?" Morgan asked, nodding toward the door.

"Molly's on maternity leave. She’s got three weeks left." You sighed. Three weeks with someone incompetent felt like thirty years.

Morgan’s phone buzzed, and he stepped out to take the call, leaving you alone with Reid. Ignoring the nerves creeping up your spine at the thought, you turned and made your way to the back of your office. As you pushed the door open, the room beyond was revealed—a chaotic mess, not unlike the study in your apartment.

He followed you inside, and for the first time, the sight of the mess actually embarrassed you. You shifted uncomfortably. “Sorry for the mess.”

“Don’t worry,” he said with a soft smile, his eyes scanning the board. His brows furrowed. “Why is the map unmarked?”

“I—uh—” You took a sip of your coffee, stalling. Admitting this felt ridiculous. “I’m not very good with directions. Or maps in general… I was going to ask Austin for help, but I always forget.” You hated how left and right sometimes blended together in your head, how frustrating and embarrassing it was.

“Let me do it,” he offered.

Your first instinct was to refuse, but he stepped closer before you could protest. “I do the geographical profiles for the BAU. I’m good at reading maps.”

Something about the way he looked at you—puppy eyes, long hair framing his face—made it hard to say no. Or maybe it was just him. And you couldn’t say no to him.

"Those are the directions," you gesture toward the board just as your phone rings. Seeing Austin’s name on the screen, you pick up.

"Good news, Woody. The candy wasn’t spiked, and I doubt the rest of the baskets were either."

A weight you didn’t realize you were holding in your chest suddenly lifts. The thought of someone twisting something as simple as sharing candy—something that once brought you comfort—into a potential nightmare had been unbearable.

You exhale, murmuring a thank you as Austin reassures you they’ll catch him. When you hang up and relay the news to Spencer, he gives you a small smile, his focus still on the map. Then, as he places a thumbtack, something clicks in his mind. 

"How did you get the lab to run the test that fast?" he asks, glancing over at you. The average turnaround time for something like that would usually be at least a couple of days, even for a small lab.

You shrug. "My dad’s a chemist. He runs a lab, so... it wasn’t hard to get him to push a few tests through."

The irony isn’t lost on you—how your birth parents had also run a lab, except theirs was a meth lab. And now, you’d been raised by someone who ran a legitimate one. Fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Another piece of you gets stored forever, engraved in Spencer’s mind, and the way you’re being so… casual with him makes his chest warm.

“I’m sorry you can’t go to that party tonight.”

“Oh, it’s fine, really. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to get pampered around by my boss, making promises on my behalf.” You lean against the wall.

“Yeah, social environments aren’t my thing either,” he says, placing the last thumbtack on the map. “So, you don’t want to be the DA?”

You take a second to think. “I know it’s a big position, and it would be great for my career. My boss is always saying the tabloids would go crazy—she can already see the headlines with my name on it. And I know it opens a lot of doors, but…” You trail off. “It comes with things I don’t want to do, like playing politics. I’m not interested in that. I’d barely even step foot in a courtroom, and I want to help people. Bring closure. Maybe even some peace, if I can.”

Spencer watches you as you speak with such passion. For a moment, your eyes don’t look as haunted. Your words seem to carry a weight he’s never seen before, and the strand of hair falling over your face is so tempting for him to tuck behind your ear. It’s as if a magnetic force is pulling him closer. 

He smiles at you, opening his mouth to respond, but his phone rings. “I got something for you about our secret mission,” says Garcia on the other line when he picks up and puts her on speaker.

“So, I tracked the license plate from the arrested man. Stumbled upon something—two of them always went periodically to a location where there are no cameras around. It’s pretty far, almost at the border with Maryland,” Garcia continues.

“Is there anything over there?” you ask, feeling a slight sense of urgency.

“It’s a pretty abandoned area, but from a street view program, apparently, there’s a warehouse over the Cicero street,” she replies. “I sent you the location.”

Spencer thanks her, but before he hangs up, Garcia adds, “Rossi picked up Morgan from there. A street camera caught someone who looks like Calloway near the Capitol.”

Your breath catches in your chest for a moment as the weight of her words sink in. You exhale slowly, Spencer hangs up and you speak urgently. “We have to go check that warehouse.”

You see hesitation in his eyes “Please?

He nods, but the hesitation doesn’t leave his eyes. He doesn’t want to go alone without the team, but something shifts when he notices the tremor in your hand. It was slightly worse than before, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he decided not to mention it, knowing that pushing you away now wouldn't help.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Arriving at the warehouse, you felt anticipation creeping through your bones, an almost electric tension settling in your chest. You were close—so close that whatever detail had been slipping through your fingers had to be right in front of you.

The aged wooden floor groaned beneath your boots, the sound swallowed by the vast emptiness of the space. Dust floated in the slanted beams of light filtering through broken windows, and the air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal.

If Spencer cursed, he would have done it the moment you didn’t wait for him to clear the area first. Instead, he sprinted to your side, his breath sharp as he yanked his gun from his holster, his fingers tightening around the grip.

The place had two floors, surrounded by nothing but dry, brittle trees. Looking back, you wished you could say you had been cautious, but the events of the day had started to numb your judgment. There was no hesitation when the door didn’t budge—you shoved your shoulder against it without a second thought.

Spencer inhaled sharply behind you, his voice cutting through the stagnant air.

He called your name as a warning, his tone edged with unease. And if you had time for waiting you would've picked on the hint of fear in his voice. 

The door gave in, and you stepped inside immediately. The interior was somehow worse than the outside—humidity clung to the rotting wood, the scent of decay thick in the air. The space was lined with tiny bedrooms, each one filled with small beds. The sight made your stomach turn. You didn’t need to imagine what had happened here; the walls practically whispered it.

“You go check upstairs, I’ll check here,” you said, already moving.

“We should wait for backup.” Spencer's voice was firm, his grip on his gun tightening.

"This place is abandoned," you countered, dismissing his concern before he could argue further. He sent Garcia a quick message as you moved through the rooms quickly—most were the same, two beds, a small closet, nothing significant.

Until the last room.

It was different. A desk sat by a small, cracked window, standing out among the neglect. You crossed the room immediately, opening every drawer, rifling through them with practiced efficiency. But there wasn’t much. Loose papers. A few pens. Dust coating the insides.

Then, just as you were about to move on—something.

Tucked in the very back of the bottom drawer. A flash drive.

Your fingers barely brushed against it when— crack.

A footstep. A snap of dry wood behind you.

Your pulse slammed into overdrive. Every muscle tensed, locking you in place for a fraction of a second—just long enough to see a blue shadow move between the trees, fast, deliberate. They had something in their hand. They took something from the desk.

And then your body moved before your mind could catch up. You bolted.

The cold air burned your throat as you tore through the doorway, barely registering Spencer shouting your name behind you. The forest was a blur—branches whipping past, the earth uneven beneath your feet, every instinct screaming at you to keep going, keep your eyes locked on the figure ahead. 

Then it hit.

A wave of vertigo crashed into you like a freight train when you were jumping off a rock.

The world lurched.

Trees stretched and twisted, the ground tilting violently beneath you. Your stomach turned, and suddenly there was no up, no down—just a sickening pull as your balance shattered.

Your foot slipped.

You didn’t fall so much as collapse, legs giving out as the world spun in a dizzying, nauseating spiral. Your shoulder slammed into the dirt first, then your head, the impact ringing through your skull like a gunshot making you groan in frustration and dizziness. 

Distantly, you could still hear Spencer yelling. His voice was closer now, urgent, frantic.

You tried to push yourself up, but the world wouldn’t stop moving. The trees swayed, the ground rolled beneath you, and the sickening weight of disorientation kept you pinned where you fell.

The sirens screamed in the distance, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat, loud and erratic in your ears. The earth tilted beneath you as you tried to push yourself up, twigs and dirt digging into your scraped palms. 

Right now, Spencer could only see himself in you—that reckless, desperate version of himself from two years ago. The one who told JJ they didn’t have time to wait. The one who ended up at the mercy of Tobias Hankel. Right now, those magnets—the ones that should have drawn you together—were mirroring instead. And magnets that mirror don’t attract. They repel.

The nausea surged again, your stomach twisting violently as you heard Spencer’s footsteps closing in.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

His voice, along with some police sirens, cut through the ringing in your ears, sharp and edged with frustration, but you could barely focus on it. The ground felt unsteady beneath you, as if the earth itself was shifting. You blinked hard, trying to ground yourself, but the pressure in your skull only worsened.

Spencer didn’t notice—didn’t see the way your fingers dug into the dirt just to keep yourself upright. All he saw was a reckless choice, the same mistake he had made, playing out all over again. And it terrified him.

"I almost had him!" you shot back, breathless, the words slurring slightly as the world swayed again when you stood up again.

"You ran off alone!" His voice cracked, raw with frustration. “You have no idea of the hundred things that can happen when you go alone in the field! You are not even an agent or a police officer!”

The words hit like a whip, laced with something deeper than anger—fear. But your head was spinning too much to fire back. The ringing in your ears pulsed in and out like waves crashing over you, swallowing his words before you could fully process them.

You thought you saw another figure moving toward you—just a flicker of motion in your blurred vision, a shadow against the trees. The ringing in your ears drowned out everything else, making Spencer’s voice feel distant, like he was speaking through water.

“Woody!”

Morgan’s voice cut through the static, sharp and urgent. You barely registered the moment he reached you—his presence was solid, grounding—but the nausea clawed at your stomach, threatening to pull you under again.

“Someone—a blue jacket was—” you tried, but the words barely scraped past your throat, your breathing uneven, shallow. You forced yourself to stay upright, to push through the dizziness, but Morgan’s hands were already on you, steadying, his gaze scanning your face with concern.

“They… they took something from the house. I don’t kn—” Your voice broke off as another wave of vertigo surged through you.

Morgan’s grip tightened, firm but not harsh. “You don’t look good, Woody. Sit down before you fall down.” He guided you down against a tree with your knees to your chest. 

“I’m fine, it’s just—this vertigo shit, I—” The lie barely made it past your lips before the ground tilted violently beneath you. You staggered, your vision swam, and this time—there was nothing you could do to stop it. You swallowed hard, but it did nothing to stop the nausea clawing up your throat. “I—I just need a second.”

As if he snapped off his frustration. Spencer crouched down in front of you, eyes scanning your face, his own panic shifting into something else. “Just take a deep breathe,” he said, and now it wasn’t frustration in his voice—it was realization. 

You blinked at him, but the edges of your vision were still blurry. You hated this. Hated feeling weak in front of him, hated that your body had betrayed you at the worst possible moment.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, even as another wave of vertigo made you squeeze your eyes shut.

Spencer wasn’t buying it. And suddenly, he felt so much shame over how he hadn't even helped you out because he’d been so caught up in his own fear, his own anger, that he hadn’t even seen you struggling.

And that scared him just as much as watching you run into danger alone.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Once again in the BAU bullpen, you had finally recovered from the vertigo, knowing it was brought on by stress and anxiety.

While you had been struggling, the rest of the team had sprinted through the woods, searching for the person you saw. JJ was the one who found a crumpled, half-burned document about 50 meters away from the house. As for the figure in the blue jacket—there was still no trace.

The files contained lists of properties, and they were marked with prices. For the looks of it, you sensed they could indicate age or maybe height but you didn't get much opportunity to look into it. As for the flash drive, Garcia had taken it to analyze. 

They had told you that the one man they caught on a street camera thinking it was Calloway was just a false alarm, meaning he was still free, you hated feeling like a prey again.

Austin was crouched in front of your chair, watching you carefully.

"I'm fine. And we both know it’s just because my body doesn’t handle stress well," you muttered, taking a sip of the gatorade he handed you. You were no stranger to vertigo and dizziness—episodes that had come and gone over the years—but this one felt different. More intense, more unsettling. A doctor had once told you, years ago, that it could be a lingering side effect from drug abuse.

"Just eat," he said, opening a paper bag and setting it beside you.

You sighed, grabbing the sandwich but leaving the small cardboard box inside. Breaking the sandwich in half, you offered him a piece, but he shook his head. Rolling your eyes, you spun your desk chair to face JJ instead.

"Want half my sandwich? I’m not going to finish it."

She frowned slightly but quickly answered, "Oh, thank you." Taking a bite, her eyes widened. "Oh my god, this is really good," she said, covering her mouth as she chewed.

Smiling, you took a bite yourself. "My mom’s a chef. She likes to send me food sometimes, and since she knows I like sharing, she always sends extra."

JJ hummed in approval before handing a piece to Prentiss, who had the same reaction. 

Just then, Hotch entered the room with Garcia and Spencer behind him. Garcia grabbed the remote and turned on the TV showing the FBI logo.

“My lovely ducks this flash drive was cripting nightmare. But! as your dear tech colorful genius I got it.” She pressed a button, and a series of documents filled the screen—spreadsheets, names, locations, and timestamps. She took a deep breath before speaking.

"Okay, so this flash drive? A goldmine of incriminating evidence," she said, her tone more serious than usual. "We’re talking organized trafficking orders—detailed lists of victims, complete with coded identifiers, transaction dates, and destinations. But that’s not all."

She clicked to another file, and a map appeared. "These are transport routes—highways, backroads, even rest stops marked as exchange points. Whoever put this together is meticulous. And then, there are these."

Another document popped up. It was a list of addresses.

"Safe houses," Garcia continued. "Not just in DC—there’s here in Virginia, Maryland, Baltimore and a few in Pennsylvania. Meaning, this isn’t some local operation. It’s an entire network."

The room fell silent as everyone processed the weight of what she had just revealed.

The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow exhale as you sank back into the chair. You and Austin exchanged a glance, both of you silently acknowledging the weight of what was in front of you—the information you had been chasing for weeks was finally right there.

In retrospect, it seemed almost absurd—how just three men were possibly going to be convicted for minor felonies, while they and so many others were responsible for running and ruining God knows how many lives.

Hotch’s voice was firm. “We’ll give this to the Head of the Domestic Trafficking Task Force, Andi Swan, to continue with the investigation. They will be communicating with the Department of Justice.”

You nodded slightly, processing the weight of the situation you had been unknowingly tangled in. Austin’s voice cut through your thoughts. “You have to go to the gala for an alibi.”

He was right, and you knew it. Not attending such an important event, coupled with the fact that the office was losing an important case while FBI agents had been seen talking to you, could easily make you a target—marked as a 'snitch.' The irony stung, especially when all you’d been trying to do was uncover the truth.

You turned to face the team. “What about Calloway and the other threats?”

Garcia’s expression softened as she responded. “Wallens Ridge has cleared 75% of the area. They haven’t ruled him out as a fugitive yet.” Her voice took on a pitying tone, one you didn’t want to acknowledge but knew was meant to protect you.

“We’ll protect you,” Morgan added, his voice steady. “The gala will be crowded with security. We’ll drive you there and back, and by tomorrow, we’ll continue to look for him. You’ll be safe.”

You nodded, knowing the smart decision was to attend the gala and put on a convincing smile. Austin had told you it was 6 p.m., giving you two hours to get home and be ready by 8.

Hotch assigned Rossi, JJ, and Garcia to keep tracking Calloway, while Morgan and Prentiss would drive you to the event.

Once the team had their tasks, you stood, picking up the brown paper bag before heading toward Spencer’s desk. You placed it on top, glancing toward Garcia’s office, where you’d just seen him disappear. It was a terrible excuse for an apology—‘Sorry for being impulsive and reckless. Here’s a sweet treat.’ But words had never been your strong suit, especially when it came to your feelings.

Time had a cruel way of shifting things. Over two years ago, you had stood in front of another desk, clutching an identical paper bag—only back then, it hadn’t been an apology. It had been his drugs. And you had thrown them away.

Austin was waiting for you. You caught a glimpse of Prentiss flipping through files and swallowed your nerves. You never knew if your difficulty making friends came from feeling like a freak or simply not knowing how to connect.

You hesitated before calling her name. “Uh—could you help me? Maybe? I know you probably have more important things to do, so—”

Prentiss looked up, offering a friendly smile. “No, it’s okay. What do you need help with?”

You shifted awkwardly. “Getting ready? I—I don’t really know how. I mean, I can dress myself, obviously, but—”You exhaled, frustrated at your own fumbling. “I barely know how to do any of that ‘pampering’ stuff.”

Prentiss smirked, grabbing her coat. “Oh, you came to the right person. I’m a diplomat’s daughter—I was practically trained in this.”

You blinked at her, surprised by how quickly she jumped in to help.

She gestured toward the elevator. “Come on. Let’s make you look like you belong at this gala.”

Trying not to seem too eager, you followed her. Before stepping in, she quickly told Morgan she’d be driving you and Austin.

A few minutes later Spencer finally emerged from Garcia’s office, barely escaping yet another lecture about overthinking things. His eyes landed on his desk—and the familiar brown paper bag sitting atop it.

Inside was a small cardboard box. And in it—a piece of chocolate cake. 

A flicker of guilt settled in his chest as he stared at the cake. Had he really made you feel like you needed to apologize?

Maybe he felt it even more acutely after taking a bite—sweet, rich, and undeniably good. The kind of thing that made him wonder if he even deserved it. 

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

You glance at the reflection in the mirror, taking in the clean, elegant look. The dress falls delicately, the long strips cascading down your back—so stunning, so unlike what you’d usually wear.

“You look good. Don’t overthink it,” Austin’s voice comes from behind you.

“Thanks,” you reply, offering him a faint smile, but it comes out more like a thin line.

Emily had done a great job polishing you up. She even revived the black nail polish you thought was long gone since your college days, using some remover drops. Your hair was styled in an updo, the final touch to a look that felt like someone else entirely.

“Here you go” she says, handing you the long black coat, giving your makeup a final check. It felt strangely nice to feel this... pretty. You knew without her help, you wouldn’t have pulled it off. To be honest, you liked pretty things. You liked makeup, but you just didn’t know how to do it right. And you wanted to have girlfriends, though you weren’t sure what you’d talk about with them. But that didn’t matter, and Emily seemed nice enough to not mind.

“The car’s downstairs. Morgan and Reid will be taking you” she adds. Right. Reid. You nod as you slip the coat on, trying to ignore the unease creeping up on you.

The thought of Reid seeing you like this, this version of yourself that was so different from the usual, made you squirm.

Would he think you looked good? Pretty, even? Why did you care about his opinion? Maybe because you cared about what he thought in general. Maybe because having his attention, even for just five seconds, felt like something sacred. Why would someone with such an incredible mind waste more than five seconds on someone like you?

You didn’t know which thought haunted you the most: the sense of insecurity that came with the fact someone had broken into your place, erasing the feeling of home and comfort you’d hoped for while getting ready, or the look in Spencer’s eyes—the one that made you feel like you’d been stupid.

The elevator doors opened, revealing the lobby, and in front of the glass entrance doors of your apartment complex stood the familiar black SUV. Your stomach churned with nerves.

Spencer’s breath hitched when he saw you, the way the dress fit you so perfectly, so timelessly elegant. If someone had told him you were a duchess or from some aristocratic family, he would have believed them. The way you carried yourself—controlled yet poised, with your head held high and your back straight—was enhanced by the silk of the dress, giving you an almost regal presence.

He got out of the car to help you in, and the rush of warmth that flooded your face instantly banished the winter’s cold. You smiled awkwardly at him, unsure of what to say.

The low whistle from Morgan saved you.

“Lookin’ good, mama,” he said, flashing that charming smile of his.

You smiled back at him, relieved, before turning to say goodbye to Prentiss. Spencer gently helped you into the car, making sure the dress didn’t get caught or ruined in the process. You felt the tingle of his hand lingering where it had touched yours, and you couldn’t shake the electric pulse it left behind. 

Slipping into the back seat, you settled in with Austin in the front, relaying the venue’s address to Morgan. Spencer sat beside you, trying to keep his composure. He had to be extra careful not to stumble as the scent of your perfume hit him, wrapping around him like an intoxicating mist. It was all he could do to focus on anything else, the smell of it swirling in his senses and pulling him into a dizzy state he could easily get lost in. 

Throughout the ride, you stared out the window, mentally preparing yourself for the event ahead. You knew you had to play the part—professional, charming, decisive, almost regal if you wanted to make an impression. The problem was, you didn’t want to win that way. You didn’t want to play the political game that came with it.

Looking at Morgan was a reminder that Calloway was out there, and you could let him throw you off. But then your gaze shifted to Reid, and the tightness in your chest made you stutter for a second. His presence had that effect on you, unsettling yet magnetic in the most infuriating yet addicting way.

Your phone rang, pulling you out of your thoughts. You rummaged through your purse and saw it was your office number, making you frown as you picked it up.

“Hello?” you answered doubtfully, everyone was supposed to be at the venue or on their way there by now.

“Miss Woodvale!” Caleb’s voice came through, making you fight the impulse to roll your eyes. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid there’s been a problem.”

You sighed, bracing yourself. Caleb was pretty useless as an assistant, and you could already feel the frustration bubbling up. “What’s happened now?”

“It’s the subpoena for the evidence in the Rogers case, the one about the gun,” he said, his voice tinged with panic. “The judge declined it, and I... I’m not sure what to do about it. The paperwork was filed wrong, and—”

You cut him off before he could ramble further. “Is it the one I gave you a draft on how to do it exactly?”

Yes! I typed but—I don't know something must have gone wrong and I’m at the office right now and I-” You sigh knowing you had made a mistake in asking him to handle such an important thing like a physical evidence paperwork. 

Knowing it was pretty urgent and could jeopardize the case, you decided to take care of it in the moment “I’ll handle it.” You ended the call, already plotting the quickest way to fix this.

You glanced at the others in the car, a sudden sense of urgency creeping over you. The event felt like it had slipped from your mind for a moment, but the reality of your job brought you back into focus.

“Is everything okay?” asked Spencer, with a concerned look on his face.

You nod slowly “Yeah just…” you said, turning to Austin and Morgan. “Can we please make a stop in the office for a second? There was a problem and I’ve got to go fix it.”

Morgan glanced at you, eyebrows raised. “You sure? We’re almost there”

“It’s on the way, just some paperwork issue that I don't want to escalate” you said, your tone firm. “I’ll be quick. I promise”

Morgan nods and turns towards your office. A couple minutes later you are in front of the office, stepping out of the car. Spencer, followed quietly behind you. His voice was low, but there was concern in it. “I’ll come with you”

You just nodded, knowing that convincing him you’ll be fine was a waste of time. As you walked toward the courthouse, your mind raced through possible solutions to fix Caleb’s mistake, not wanting to think of the effect Spencer’s presence by your side had on you, and how the silence between you two was almost suffocating over the unsaid feelings.

Spencer cleared his throat. “You look beautiful,” he said, offering a sincere smile. He wanted to say more—wanted to apologize—but the words tangled inside him, unsure of how to make it right.

The compliment caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily defenseless. You felt the warmth of a genuine smile tug at your lips, and Spencer’s chest tightened at the sight of it.

“Thank you,” you said softly, meaning it.

Spencer exhaled, deciding to take the chance. “About what happened in the warehouse, I—”

A sharp gasp from Caleb cut him off.

“Counselor! I’m so sorry—I completely forgot the gala was tonight!” Caleb’s voice was frantic as he adjusted his glasses, guilt written all over his face. “I wanted to apologize. I know you trusted me with this, and I—”

“Just give me the files and let’s fix this,” you interrupted, already feeling the weight of the situation pressing down on you.

Before anything else could be said, Spencer’s phone rang with Garcia’s name in it.

He picked up immediately, but something was off. The call crackled, her voice cutting in and out, fragmented in a way that sent a prickle of unease down his spine.

“Garcia? You’re breaking up—what’s going on?”

As you, Caleb, and Spencer stepped into your office, the static grew worse. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, but Penelope’s words were barely making it through.

“Ca—way… Welle—ridge…” The interference distorted Garcia’s words, making it impossible to understand what she was saying.

“What? Garcia, I can’t hear you,” Spencer said, pressing his hand over the other ear to block out the noise.

Your assistant glanced up. “There’s better reception downstairs at night.”

Spencer gave a quick nod and stepped out of your office, heading toward the lower level. By the time he got there, the call had already dropped. With a sigh, he immediately tried calling Garcia back as he got further and further from you. 

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Upstairs, Caleb handed you more files, his usual carefree expression in place. As you took them, your eyes flicked to the dirt under his nails, and you fought the instinctive wince of disgust.

“I gave you notes on how to do this. Did you check them?”

You really didn’t want to lecture a man who was two years older than you and a bit taller, but at this point, it felt unavoidable.

What felt even more ridiculous, though, was how he managed to mess up every task you gave him.

Caleb scratched the back of his head, looking sheepish. “I mean… sort of? I figured it was just a formality thing, so I—”

“This isn’t even from the Rogers case, Caleb,” you interrupted, exasperation seeping into your voice as you handed the file back to him. You didn’t even try to mask your frustration.

“Oh! Right—sorry!” He fumbled through his stack of papers before hastily picking up another document and handing it over.

You sighed, taking it from him, already dreading what mistake you’d find next.

He disappeared down the hall, leaving you staring at the stack of files, irritation simmering under your skin. With a sigh, you scanned it carefully, your frustration shifting into confusion. There was nothing wrong with it. No technical error, no missing information—just a perfectly valid request.

Frowning, with your back towards the door, the file still in hand, rereading it just to be sure.

“Caleb, I don’t think thi—”

You never got to finish the sentence.

A sharp, jarring thud struck the back of your head, and the world lurched sideways. A burst of pain shot through your skull, white-hot and disorienting. The file slipped from your fingers, papers scattering across the floor as your vision blurred.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

Morgan’s phone buzzes sharply against the desk, the name Garcia flashing across the screen. He barely has time to press accept before her voice spills through the line, fast, frantic.

“Morgan, this is weird—really, really weird—I don’t understand how th—”

He straightens, instincts flaring. “What’s going on? You caught Calloway?” With a flick of his thumb, he puts the call on speaker so Austin can hear too.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end, then Garcia’s voice—urgent, almost breathless.

“Morgan I called Reid first but his phone it’s not working, Wallens Ridge just called. Calloway never left the facility.”

The blood in their veins turned to ice at the thought of it. If it wasn’t Calloway—the only one who knew about such a macabre detail—then who? Who else could possibly know?

They both bolted out of the car. Who even had your address? It had to be someone trusted. Someone close. Someone you had let too close.

　　　　  　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　

A blinding explosion of pain cracked through your skull, turning the world sideways. The room twisted, floor tilting beneath you as your knees buckled. The taste of copper flooded your mouth.

Hands—rough, too strong—grabbed at you, yanking you forward before you could catch yourself. Your body slammed into something solid. A wall? A desk? It didn’t matter. The impact rattled through your bones, sending shockwaves down your spine.

Panic surged through the haze. You tried to move—tried to fight—but the dizziness slowed your limbs, making everything feel sluggish. You wanted to scream for help, for someone, anyone, for Spencer, to come help you, but the spinning world had stolen your words.

Your fingers clawed for anything—something—to defend yourself. Your vision swam, but you felt it: the sharp edge of something on the desk. A pen? A letter opener?

Your hand closed around it.

But Caleb was faster.

A crushing grip seized your wrist, twisting, forcing your fingers open. The object clattered to the floor. He shoved you back—hard. Your shoulder slammed into the wall, pain blooming through muscle and bone. The air left your lungs in a choked gasp.

You had to move. Had to run. Had to— A sharp sting. Cold flooded your veins.

Your body locked, every nerve screaming in protest as the drug hit.

No. No. No.

You thrashed, arms flailing weakly, but your strength was already draining, slipping away like water through your fingers. Your vision blurred at the edges, dark spots creeping in.

Caleb yanked you by the arm, dragging you across the floor. The wood scraped against your skin, tearing at you as you kicked weakly. Your fingers clawed at the ground, desperate for an anchor. You dug your nails into the floor, hanging on, fighting to the last.

A white-hot burst of pain exploded through your hand as your index’s fingernail caught on a splintered groove in the floorboards—and ripped clean off.

A strangled cry wrenched from your throat. The agony barely registered before the blackness swallowed you whole.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

They were too late.

Your office was a disaster—papers scattered, the desk chair overturned, a letter opener lying abandoned on the floor. The air felt wrong, thick with something unsaid, something violent. But it wasn’t until Spencer’s gaze dropped that his stomach lurched.

A fingernail. Lodged between the wooden floorboards.

His breath hitched, nausea creeping up his throat, but there was no time to process it. Austin was already moving, frantic, his eyes darting toward the hallway. He knew there were cameras out there—but not in here. Whoever had taken you had known exactly how to stay hidden.

Morgan and Austin had sprinted up the stairs the second Garcia’s call came through, barely stopping when they saw Spencer frozen near the entrance. The silence in the office was suffocating. There was no one else here. Everyone was at the gala.

Spencer was supposed to be watching you. Supposed to make sure nothing happened. And yet—he had failed. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating, as Morgan barked into his phone, demanding that Garcia access the security cameras, cursing when the signal started to fail.

That’s when he heard the soft creak of a door.

He turned just in time to see Caleb stepping out of the bathroom, his face and hands damp, water still clinging to his skin.

Something wasn’t right.

“Where is she?” Austin’s voice cut through the air like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

Caleb blinked, frowning. “Where’s who?”

The nonchalance sent a cold chill through Spencer’s body.

Morgan wasn’t wasting time. He tore through your office, yanking open drawers, rifling through papers, looking for any sign of where you’d gone, but there was nothing. Austin was shouting your name now, advancing on Caleb, his voice rising with barely contained rage.

Then—Morgan cursed. Low. Cold. Spencer turned just as Morgan reached into Caleb’s desk and pulled something out. A signal jammer.

That was why his phone hadn’t worked.

That was why Morgan’s call had cut out.

You were gone.

And they had walked straight into it.

Austin was the first to react. In a blur of movement, he grabbed Caleb by the collar of his blue jacket and slammed him against the wall with enough force to make the drywall tremble.

Someone close. Someone who knew the building well enough to avoid the cameras. Someone who knew you—your schedule, your address.

Austin’s grip tightened. His voice was razor-sharp. “What have you done to her?”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His face paled. “I—I swear, I didn’t w-want t—”

Austin didn’t let him finish. He slammed him back again, harder. “Where is she?” His voice was low, lethal, vibrating with fury.

Morgan was calling Garcia again, his voice tense in the background, but Austin barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed to the man in front of him—the only lead to where you were.

“They—they threatened me,” Caleb stammered, hands raised in surrender. “My family—I’m sorry, I—”

Austin didn’t care. He shoved him harder against the wall. “Where. Is. She?”

Caleb’s breath came in ragged gasps, terror widening his eyes. His voice cracked as he stammered, “I—I don’t know—they just gave me the needle, and they took her through the back door.”

Morgan was already moving, heading toward the back of the building in search of any trace of you.

Austin didn’t budge. His grip on Caleb’s jacket tightened, his knuckles white. “What did you give her?” His voice was sharp, edged with something raw and dangerous. When Caleb hesitated, Austin snapped. “I’ll kill you with my own hands—what did you give her?!”

You had been drugged.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years of sobriety—stolen in an instant.

The thought sent fire through Austin’s veins. His chest heaved with barely contained rage, but before he could lose himself in it, Spencer’s voice cut through the chaos.

Spencer’s gaze locked onto Caleb’s blue jacket, his mind racing. Then, he caught it—the dirt under Caleb’s nails. His stomach twisted.

The warehouse.

Caleb had been there. He was the one you saw. The one you spoke to in your office—where he could have easily eavesdropped.

You had been watched. You had a target on your back for far longer than any of them had realized.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The air smelled of damp wood and rusted metal, creeping through your nostrils as your vision swam in and out of focus. Slowly, you began to regain awareness of your body and surroundings. A harsh light flickered overhead, blurring your senses, and a sharp pain on the side of your head made you wince.

Your hands were bound tightly behind your back, the rope digging into your skin, and the searing pain made it almost impossible to ignore. A sound, sharp and unsettling, reached your ears—the click of someone’s tongue. It was enough to snap you from your fading consciousness. You fought to stay awake, but your body felt like it was on fire, an unnatural heat that made your skin crawl. Despite the whistle of the wind coming from somewhere in the room, that warmth felt suffocating, as if it were dragging you deeper into memories—or perhaps the lack of them. Blurry flashes, distorted sounds, and a gnawing sense of wrongness churned in your mind, making you want to destroy anything within reach.

Then came the steps, heavy and deliberate, each footfall resonating through the creaking wood beneath.

“This one used to be one of my favorites, you know?” A low, cold voice slithered through the air.

Something about it... felt familiar. Your mind, clouded by pain and fear, tried to place the voice, but it wouldn’t come. It wasn’t Calloway, you knew that tone—there was no forgetting in the one that had whispered awful things to you in the dark, its pitch a disgusting echo in your ear.

Your mouth was dry, coated with a thick, cottony feeling that made it hard to speak. "Who... are you?" Your voice came out barely a whisper, weak and fragile—closer to breathless than you would’ve liked.

He hummed as he approached, the light casting long shadows over his grey and black hair, his dark clothes blending into the ominous surroundings. His presence was suffocating, strong and undeniable. He squatted down in front of you, the light revealing his sharp features and a long, crooked nose that seemed to sharpen his sinister presence.

"It doesn’t matter who I am, sugar," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with malice. "What matters is how close you've been sticking your nose in my business."

Another wave of sharp pain surged through your skull, confusing your thoughts as you tried to place the familiar face before you. But it was like trying to grab smoke—elusive, slippery.

He stood, his footsteps heavy as he moved behind you, his presence darkening the space.

"A friend of mine gave me some tips about what to do with you," he continued, his tone cold and casual, as if discussing something mundane.

You felt a jolt as his hands grasped your arm, and instinctively, you tried to squirm away, but his grip tightened like iron.

"Although," he mused, his voice taking on a sickening quality, "he preferred you docile. I’d rather have you... more awake." His words made you feel sick, each one like poison dripping into your ears.

The needle slid deeper, it's cold metal scraping against your skin, and you could feel the fluid entering your bloodstream—too quickly, too forcefully. Panic surged within you, clawing at your chest, suffocating you. You fought against it, trying to tear your arm away, but his grip was unyielding.

The world began to spin. The adrenaline hit you fast, a hot wave of electricity zipping through your veins, making your heart race and your breath catch in your throat. Your mind was a fog, thoughts slipping in and out like water running through your fingers.

"You feel that?" He whispered close to your ear, his voice smooth, almost coaxing, like a predator with its prey. "The rush. It's all just a little push, and you'll be awake for everything. For all the things that are coming."

The blurry edges of your vision started to sharpen, your breath coming in short, rapid gasps, your chest heaving with every painful inhale. Each breath felt like a battle, the world spinning around you as the adrenaline pulsed through your veins, burning you from the inside out.

Behind you, you heard him laugh—a harsh, cruel sound that sent ice through your veins. But it wasn't the laugh that made you shudder; it was the anger underneath it.

"If only Dean could see how big his sweet girl has grown," he spat, his voice thick with venom, dripping with something darker than just anger. "He was a good associate, knew exactly how and when to prescribe pills for our little business."

The words were like poison, each one meant to wound, to remind you of the twisted connections. You could feel your pulse racing from the adrenaline, your body on edge as the drug coursed through you, making your heart hammer and your vision swim.

"He's rotting in prison now," he continued, his tone laced with twisted satisfaction. His hand grabbed a fistful of your hair, jerking your head back so roughly that a sharp gasp of pain ripped from you.

But it didn’t stop you. The adrenaline only fueled the fire in your veins, making the anger burn hotter. You gritted your teeth, trying to focus, your throat raw and dry. "Same place you'll go when they catch you," you spat, voice hoarse but unwavering, as the rage swelled inside you.

He chuckled darkly, the sound grating against your ears, before the cold, hard press of metal settled against your temple. The weapon’s chill did nothing to cool the heat that roared inside of you, only making your body tremble with a surge of fury.

“Don’t be so sure of it, sweetheart,” he taunted, leaning in closer, his breath hot and rancid against your skin. “You and that friend of yours have been causing me a lot of trouble.”

Your chest heaved, but this time, the adrenaline wasn’t clouding your thoughts—it was sharpening them, feeding the fury that burned in your veins. Austin. His words only made the fire inside you grow.

“You’re the little bitch who runs that human catalogue? The whorehouse we searched?” you hissed, every word dripping with venom.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your blood boil. “Whorehouse? Is that how you call orphanages now?” His twisted smile spread across his face when he saw the flicker of confusion in your eyes.

A sharp sting ripped through the right side of your cheek as he slapped you hard, the pain jolting through your skull. Orphanages? You tried to focus, trying to make sense of his words, but the anger only surged more violently within you.

He laughed harder, the sound reverberating through the cold air. “I thought they called them foster homes now. You’re one to know, aren’t you, sweetheart?” His voice dripped with mockery, savoring the way his words landed, knowing exactly how to twist the knife.

He circled around you like a predator, his steps slow and deliberate, inspecting the room. “Like I said, this one was one of my favorites.” His words were casual, but they carried a weight that made your stomach turn.

Through the sharp blur of your vision, you turned your head, your eyes darting to the right. The trees outside were bare, dry branches silhouetted against the bright moon. Recognition hit you like a blow to the chest, and your heart sank. You were in the warehouse you and Spencer had searched earlier.

The memory hit you like a freight train—rows of tiny beds, abandoned, empty, each one a reminder of the lives stolen and shattered. The thought of those children, trapped in that hell, sickened you, making every inch of your skin crawl with the need to escape.

A low, guttural groan escaped your lips, fury burning in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You fought against the ropes binding your wrists, the adrenaline sharpening your senses, making everything feel raw. "I’m going to kill you," you snarled through clenched teeth, barely able to contain the rage. The thought of being in that place again, again, after everything you'd been through... it made your entire body tremble with fury.

“Where’s Calloway’s little girl? His sugarcube? The one he refused to sell after seeing her so tiny and beautiful in that hospital bed?” He taunted, pulling a piece of candy from his pocket. “He told me you loved these. Didn’t you like my special delivery? He used to give you these and you’d just love them.”

His words hit like a sledgehammer. The memories flooded back—sharp and violent, dragging you into the past. You could almost feel the sticky sweetness coating your tongue again, the bitterness mixing with the sugar, and the suffocating control of it all.

Calloway used to feed you those damn candies—piles of them—whether you wanted them or not. He would shove them in your mouth, watching you as you had no choice but to swallow, his sick pleasure in the power he had over you written all over his face. He reveled in your discomfort, in your helplessness, in your inability to escape.

Once, you’d tried to hide some of the candy, just a few pieces, to give to the other kids in the foster home. Maybe it would make them smile, maybe it would give them a little relief from their own nightmare. But Calloway had caught you. He’d punished you for it—made you pay the price for defying him.

You never tried to hide the candy again.

The sickening memory made your stomach churn, bile rising in your throat. The pain of the past felt so close now—too close, threatening to overwhelm you. The heat of adrenaline still surged through you, but it didn’t dull the disgust, the rage.

“I have proof of your sick business,” you spat, your voice rough and dripping with fury. “Every escape route, the safehouse, the money transactions—everything. And you’ll go to the most disgusting 2x2 cell I can find in this world and rot there, going crazy in isolation.”

He hummed, his gaze cold and calculating as he slowly pointed the gun at your forehead, steady between your brows. You stared him down, defiant, refusing to let him see even a hint of fear.

“You think that’s going to save you?” His voice was a low murmur, twisted with mockery. 

His grip tightened on the gun, and for a brief moment, the world narrowed down to the cold, unforgiving barrel pointing against your forehead. You could feel his anger radiating off him, a palpable heat, but it only fueled your own defiance. His words were venomous, designed to rattle you, but you stood strong.

“You’re going to die here, sweetheart. You’ve been a thorn in my side for too long. All your little threats, all your big talk? It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll put so many bullets in your head, God wouldn’t even recognize you.” He sneered, the words dripping with malice.

You rested your head against the cold steel, the metal biting into your skin, but you didn’t flinch. In that moment, the sensation was almost soothing, like the clarity that comes when everything else fades away, leaving you focused. Focused on one thing.

“I don’t believe in God,” you said, your voice low and steady, despite the terror churning in your chest. "Go ahead and shoot. See if that stops me from haunting you from the grave."

His finger moved over the trigger, just a whisper away from pulling it. The sound of quick footsteps approaching was the only thing that stopped him.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The BAU stepped out of the SUV with precision, their movements sharp and efficient. Spencer felt his chest tighten beneath the bulletproof vest, adrenaline buzzing through his veins.

After your kidnapping, they had brought Caleb in for questioning. He had confessed to aiding people who had threatened him and his family, revealing that he had given them your personal address. He had been sent to retrieve documents from the same warehouse where you'd been taken, but he panicked and dropped them before JJ could reach him.

The threats had been traced to a man named Graham Sullivan, a former doctor who no longer practiced. He traveled frequently, never staying in one place for long. Garcia had tracked his rented car through its online GPS, leading them straight to the warehouse.

Spencer could only hope they weren’t too late. Again.

Hotch directed the team to surround the house, already briefing them on the structure. He and Morgan led the breach, kicking the door down and clearing every room with practiced efficiency.

"FBI! Put the gun down!" Morgan’s voice rang out from the last room.

Reid rushed in behind Hotch, his heart pounding. His eyes landed on you—sitting in a chair, wrists raw and red from the restraints tied behind your back. Across from you, Sullivan stood with a gun aimed directly at you.

Sullivan’s grip on the gun was steady, his finger hovering over the trigger. His eyes flicked between the agents and you, calculating his next move.

Reid could feel the pulse in his throat, pounding, deafening. He tightened his grip on his own gun, but his hands were steady—years of fieldwork had trained them to be.

“Graham,” Hotch’s voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a blade. “There’s no way out of this. Put the gun down.”

Graham’s presence triggered something in your memory—distant, almost dreamlike, but unmistakable. The image of Uncle Gram flashed before you, an echo of Calloway’s manipulation. You could almost hear his voice, coaxing you to greet him every time he visited, making you act like everything was normal. But it never was. After his visits, the house always felt emptier, the silence heavier, as if another group of children had been “adopted,” leaving behind only their absence.

Graham moved to fire, but Hotch was faster. He saw the threat in his eyes before Graham could make a move, and with practiced precision, he shot him in the leg. Graham crumpled to the floor, dropping the gun as he went down, clutching his leg above the knee. Spencer immediately rushed to undo your restraints, but you didn’t follow him. Your eyes were fixed on something else. You weren’t looking at Graham, or even at Spencer. 

All you saw was the gun in the corner. All you felt was the burn of your newly freed hands. All you wanted was revenge.

Before anyone could stop you, you lunged for the gun, fingers closing around the grip. Adrenaline surged through your veins, your breath ragged as you turned the weapon on Graham.

He was on his knees, bleeding, vulnerable.

Morgan called your name, but you didn’t hear him. Your eyes were locked onto Graham’s.

Your right hand trembled slightly, the raw, nailless finger resting over the trigger. It pulsed—as if calling you to pull it.

The sirens in your head were deafening, drowning out Morgan and Hotch as they tried to reach you.

“Where’s your God now?” you spat, voice sharp and shaking with rage. “Because He sure as hell wasn’t in that house.”

Your entire body trembled, but not with fear. Not with hesitation. With something darker, something primal, something that had lived inside you for years, clawing at the walls of your ribs, screaming to be let out. And now—now that monster had a name, a face, and he was kneeling right in front of you.

Your chest heaved as you tightened your grip on the gun, the cool weight of it grounding you, fueling you. Your hands ached, not from exhaustion, but from the sheer force with which you clenched the weapon. Your index finger twitched against the trigger, the tendons in your wrist pulled so taut they might snap, the palace were you nails used to be pulsated as if it was calling you. Do it.

“This man trafficked children across the country.” Your voice was steady, but there was no mistaking the fury that laced every word. It crackled in the air around you like the moments before a thunderstorm, suffocating and electric. “He made them think they were safe. He made them trust him. He took their hands, promised them safety, and then he sold them. He ruined their lives—just like Calloway did.”

Morgan’s expression hardened.

You knew if you kept talking, you could get to him. You could make him see. Maybe, just maybe, he would let you do this. You could say it was an accident, that it was life or death. And you could walk free.

You didn’t move. You didn’t take your eyes off Graham, who had the audacity to grin.

The sight of his teeth—white, clean, untouched by suffering, untouched by the pain he had inflicted on others—sent something violent and raw ripping through you.

"Finally," he mused, his voice tainted with amusement, mockery, knowing. "Calloway’s little sugarcube. The angry one. The wild one. The one who snapped that boy’s arm like a twig when she was what—six? seven?"

Something inside you cracked.

The air turned thick. The blood in your veins ran hot, too fast, too much. You felt it in your fingertips, in the throb of your pulse, in the back of your skull where pressure built like an overfilled dam, desperate to break.

Your ears rang with the phantom sound of his voice—not Sullivan’s, but Calloway’s—the slurred taunts, the threats, the sickly sweet way he’d whispered your name while he—

Morgan took a careful step forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Put the gun down," he urged, his voice calm but firm. "This isn’t you."

But it was you.

The gun in your hand felt like the only real thing in the room. The weight of it, the cold metal against your palm—it was control, justice, revenge.

Graham’s smirk deepened, unfazed. "Go on," he taunted, his voice raspy. "Show them who you really are."

Your heart pounded. Your finger hovered over the trigger, aching to pull it.

"You don’t have to do this," Morgan tried again. "You pull that trigger, you don’t get to come back from it."

The words hit you like a slap, but they didn’t land. The sound of the gun, of Graham’s taunting grin, drowned everything else out.

Your chest was tight, your breath ragged and shallow. Every fiber of your being was screaming, do it. End him. Make him pay. But something else, something deep inside, tugged at you—just a whisper of hesitation, but it was enough.

And then Spencer appeared at your side.

His voice, when it came, was soft. It wasn’t the sharp edge of a command or the hard lines of Morgan’s warning. It was patient, the way he always spoke to you when he thought you needed to be reminded of your worth. Of your humanity.

He called your name, his voice threaded with something like understanding, like he was walking on glass but knew that you needed him to be there. “I know what you’re feeling. I know you want him to pay. But this won’t fix anything. You know that, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes were locked on Graham, on his smile. The gun in your hand felt so right. But there was something in Reid’s voice, something gentle, that made you waver.

You could feel his presence now, right next to you. Close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of his body that seemed to pull you in. He wasn’t backing off, wasn’t giving you space to breathe—he was there. Centered.

Reid repeated your name, his voice lower, more insistent. “You’re not him. You’re not the monster he’s trying to make you. Please.”

But you were a monster. Weren't you?

You finally tore your eyes away from Graham, the weight of your anger still pressing down on your chest. And then you saw him—Reid. His eyes weren’t filled with fear, or judgment, or pity. No, they were soft, gentle, as if he was trying to reach something deep inside of you.

He wasn’t looking at you like you were some broken thing to be fixed, or a threat to be afraid of. He wasn’t recoiling in disgust. He was looking at you like you were human. Like you mattered. Like you weren’t the monster you thought you were.

"Please," he whispered, his hand—slow, tentative—moved toward your trembling wrist. "You don’t need to do this. You are not alone."

Your breath hitched. A sob built up in your chest, hot and sharp. The rage was still there—so there—but somewhere in the flood, you felt something crack. A dam breaking. The years of holding everything back, all the hurt, the memories, the weight of a life you had never asked for, crashing down on you. You closed your eyes, and in that moment, Reid’s voice was the only thing you heard.

“I’ve got you,” he said, almost like a prayer, his fingers brushing yours, a lifeline in the chaos.

Your chest burned with the need to scream, to yell at him to stay away, to let you do what needed to be done. But instead, your hand—still holding the gun—slipped. Your fingers, raw and trembling, lost their grip, and the weapon fell to the floor with a soft, final clink.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. You stared down at the gun, a wave of dizziness crashing through you.

The urge to kill, to make him feel the same terror, the same helplessness, was gone. But in its place… there was nothing. Just emptiness.

Reid’s hand was on your arm now, guiding you, steadying you, like a shore amidst the storm. You let him pull you back, away from Graham, away from the moment you almost gave in to. You let him lead you out of the fury, out of the darkness that had almost consumed you.

Hotch kicked the gun away, and Morgan quickly cuffed Sullivan, but none of it registered. All you could hear was the thudding of your own heart in your ears, drowning out the world around you. You couldn't shake the feeling of weakness gnawing at you—how you couldn't pull the trigger, how pathetic it felt to even consider it. The shame washed over you in waves, thick and suffocating.

And then, hands were on you—Spencer’s hands. Soft, steady, and protective. They guided you, as if he could sense the storm raging inside of you, and he didn’t let go. His touch grounded you, calming the chaos, but it didn’t stop the guilt. You wanted to pull away, to hide from the vulnerability that threatened to swallow you whole, but Spencer didn’t let you. His presence was a quiet reassurance, his grip gentle yet firm, and for once, you let yourself be guided. You needed it. You needed him.

The freezing raindrops began to fall as Spencer walked you out of the building toward the waiting paramedics. Each drop felt like a sharp reminder of everything that had just happened. As the cold settled into your bones, everything hit you all at once. Your body trembled, weak and exhausted, while self-loathing thoughts swirled in your mind. You couldn't stop thinking about what you'd done—or what you had almost done.

Spencer noticed the way your body quivered, how your shoulders were bare in the downpour. Without a second thought, he draped his FBI windbreaker over you.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice broken, eyes filled with regret.

Before he could reassure you—that none of this was your fault, that you hadn’t done anything wrong, that everything would be okay—one of the paramedics rushed toward you with a stretcher. In an instant, they pulled you from his arms, guiding you toward the ambulance.

Spencer cursed under his breath, the image of you in that moment burned into his mind. He knew it would stay with him for the rest of his life.

　　　　 　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　

The sun bathed the park in a golden glow, its warmth fighting against the crisp breeze, making the trees shimmer with life on what the weatherman called ‘the warmest day of our winter’. Everything looked prettier at sunset. It was a beautiful day—one best spent among the laughter of children and the quiet focus of elderly chess players, their skill not only clearing your mind but offering it a rare moment of peace.

It had been two weeks since the night you almost lost control. After that, you decided to take three weeks off work—time you had spent searching for a new place, moving in, visiting your parents, and coming to the park.

"Check in five," Ethan said with a confident smile.

He was good—really good. He assessed the board with careful precision, you considered every move, from the forced plays to the controlling one's for the next move. 

"I see it in four," a voice said behind you.

The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah, but he plays with the rooks,” you said, studying the board after spotting the move Spencer had pointed out.

Ethan frowned as you moved your bishop, setting up a check he hadn’t seen yet—not until he moved his pawn.

“Check in two,” you announced.

He sighed and pushed his king piece forward. “I officially surrender because I do not remember moving my bishop there.” His confused expression made you smile. Then, he glanced behind you. “And I’m glad you finally showed up. Can’t wait to see which one of you is better.”

Spencer tensed slightly but forced a polite smile at Ethan, who had no idea what had happened between you two. And Spencer hadn’t come here looking for you—but considering the probabilities of both of you being at the same place at the same time, he wasn’t exactly surprised either.

Still, he didn’t know how to talk to you. He still felt guilty about how he had treated you in the warehouse, and you were ashamed of how you had reacted.

As Ethan walked away, Spencer took the seat across from you. Something shifted in your stomach when you noticed his hair—it was shorter now, messier, no longer brushing his shoulders. Your blood rushed at the sight.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small, tight-lipped smile.

It was infuriating and embarrassing how impulsive you became around him. “You cut your hair.”

“Uh—yeah. My boss said I looked like I joined a boyband.” He ran a hand through it, chuckling nervously. 

“I think it looks good.” Where had all the apologies you prepared for this moment gone?

He smiled softly, wishing the hair was long enough to cover his pink ears, and you looked down at the chessboard, unable to meet his eyes.

“Do you want to start over?” he asked gently.

When you looked up again, it wasn’t the board he was focused on—it was you. There was something in the way his eyes shine, the way he swallowed nervously. That’s when you realized he wasn’t just talking about the game.

So much remained unspoken. Too much. Fear and shame sat heavy between you. You had convinced yourself that no one could love someone with the monster you carried inside you. But Spencer had seen it. And somehow, he was still here, offering a way forward.

He extended his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

His skin looked soft, and you hesitated for only a second before reaching out. For the first time in weeks, physical touch didn’t make you flinch.

You smiled. “I’m Woody.” Your voice was soft but steady.

“I’ve been told you’re good at chess.” He smiled at you the way the sun warmed the park—quiet but certain.

“Well, wanna see for yourself?” You began arranging the pieces.

He did the same, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Maybe the odds suggested otherwise, and maybe you didn’t believe in destiny—but if Spencer ever confessed how he had felt inexplicably drawn to the park that day, you might just believe him.

Dostoevsky once wrote, “To love someone means to see them as God intended them to be.” And Spencer, ever the atheist and man of science, found himself willing to believe in God every time he looked into your eyes.

　　　　 　　　    .˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘⋅.˳˳.⋅∘ ˚ ˚∘.˳˳. 　　　　　　 　　 　　 　

FINALLY MY BABYS ARE TOGETHER. the request for them are OPEN. And the series is going to take a jump in time, next time i post about them, they are going to be already together

Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

tag list: @arialikestea @hellsingalucard18 @pleasantwitchgarden @torturedpoetspsychward @cultish-corner @nymph0puppp @l-a-u-r-aaa @cherrygublersworld @theoceanandthestars @i-need-to-be-put-down @esposadomd <3

[sailoryuns]

INAMORATA ─── PSH

genre. idol!sunghoon x model!f!reader | established relationship

warnings. angst, fluff (moreso towards the end), smut, accusations of cheating, hoon being lowkey toxic, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, some mentions of crying, not proofread wc -> 1.5k

ps. the position i’m referring to is this (nsfw link), i usually hate vids but this was rly good imo.

“i think we should take a break...” you admit, voice growing shakier as you spoke. this was never something you wish to say in a million years, you wanted this relationship to work more than anything. but you were at your wits end with everything, talking to sunghoon was like conversing with the wall, never fully grasping any of your concerns.

you noticed the cracks beginning to seep in the midst of six months of being with him. he would often be dishonest of his whereabouts, saying he was out late due to “work” but was actually out drinking at some bar with jake or something. it made no sense for him to lie about such trivial things but he does it without even thinking. this was supposed to be a lovely vacation in paris together but lately you’ve grown tired of feeling like you’re unappreciated. a break from each other might be the best solution in getting his act together once and for all.

sunghoon felt his whole body turn limp as you uttered those words. not only was he blindsided by your decision, but you never indicated before to him that you were ready to propose such a drastic idea. “but why though? don’t you think this is a bit random? i mean this came out of nowhere y/n, i thought everything was good between us, why are you suddenly saying this now?” his thick, bushy brows furrowed in confusion, he wasn’t letting you off this easy and you know it.

“i just think it’s for the better right now hoon, we’re both so busy. we have a lot on our plate, especially you… and this relationship is just— it’s only putting more strain on everythi-”

“are you serious y/n? do you hear yourself? i knew what i was getting myself into the day i asked you to be my girlfriend. i’m well aware that i can’t be with you 24/7, and neither can you—however, i don’t expect that anyway. all i ever wanted was to have you by my side, i want to work through the hardships with you but if you’re so willing to give up like this then… i don’t know. i don’t even know what to say to this honestly..” sunghoon couldn’t help but cut you off, once his emotions take over, all sense of logic and reasoning is thrown out the window.

he was never one to question his worth in the eyes of his partner, but you were his longest relationship, he saw you as his first and only true love. it never occurred to him that he could lose you, the possibility of this break lasting long enough to make your love fade away was a scary revelation. there had to be a way he could fix this, he couldn’t bear to be without you.

“are you seeing someone else? maybe that’s why you’ve been so distant towards me lately…” he wanted to scream for saying that out loud but at least he got it off his chest. he knows how petty it sounds but he didn’t care, he wanted you to give him answers.

“no! i’m not seeing other people, i don’t have an interest in anyone but you sunghoon. i want to do this for the sake of us, we’re clearly not where we need to be and this break could help with getting us back on track and spending time apart could be beneficial.” you try your best to articulate your words properly but he remained unconvinced, he wasn’t on board with any bit of this.

how could you even be okay with something like this? spending time away from you drove him absolutely insane, he couldn’t fathom taking a break—not from someone as important as you in his life. he just needed to remind you that the love was still there, though it may be but a dull flame, he could ignite the spark again, with the little bit of hope he had left.

the foundation of your relationship was built from shared interests, since you both are part of professions that rely heavily on looks, you refused to see each other based solely off those superficial aspects. instead you got to know each other’s minds, your core values and beliefs, what mattered to you the most. you cherished every one of those deep conversations you shared together, it was a beautiful experience, an indescribable memory that shaped your bond forever.

so why is it now that you feel this way? was he really that oblivious to everything? he should’ve done more to prevent this but now he fears it’s too late. he’s faced with the conundrum of losing you and there wasn’t much time for him to stall or ask for a chance of redemption, he couldn’t waste another second.

“fuck that,” sunghoon angrily spat, his face contorting into a look of pure disgust. “you’re not going anywhere.” he reaches out to grab your waist before you could walk away, aggressively pulling you into his chest.

no matter how much you attempt to escape his hold, he’s not letting you go in the slightest. he’s much stronger than you, could easily lift you up without breaking a sweat. there was no use in fighting, you had no choice but to give in and let this conversation go. once his lips crashed into yours, everything faded to black. as if a simple kiss was the cure-all of mending this decrepit relationship.

sunghoon’s forehead pressed against yours as he pulled away, “shhh, lye down baby,” he hushes your quiet mewls, instructing you to do as he says. “gonna make you feel so good,” his hands slid under your skirt, gently rubbing over your clothed core “you’ll forget everything.”

* :.･ﾟﾟ･ ✿

“oh my- fuckk, sunghoon!” you cry out, almost on the verge of tears just from how skilled he is, rutting your hips upwards into his mouth as he devours you whole.

the pace of his tongue is relentless, roughly lapping up all your juices like he’s the most starved man alive. you’ve lost count at the amount of times he’s already made you come undone just from his mouth alone. your body’s buzzing with titillation, all you can do is scream and clench your pussy around nothing while he fiercely sucks on your clit.

you couldn’t stop twitching, feeling yet another orgasm approaching. your legs anchored over his shoulders, unable to think or speak coherent sentences as his face was fully buried into your sloppy cunt. he relaxes his jaw a bit more, going all the way from the bottom inching further up as he comes back in contact with your puffy clit. at any given moment it feels as if your heart’s about to stop.

“hoon-” your heads thrown back into the pillow, digging your nails into his shoulder blades from how overly sensitive you are. “n-need to cum.. can feel it. m’so close.” it surprises you when you’re able to even express such words.

a low grunt can be heard underneath, sunghoon loves hearing you— it’s arguably the best part about going down on you. the hand that wasn’t occupied went straight to gripping a fistful of his ebony hair, continuously moaning his name so loud that you genuinely feel bad for whomever the unlucky people that got to hear this.

just when you thought it couldn’t get anymore intense, he slips 2 of his slender fingers inside, making you gasp from the overwhelming sensation. flashes of white invade your vision, violently shaking as your lips form an “o” in the throes of ecstasy. sunghoon knows your body so well that this is nothing for him, he’s got it all down to a simple science. no one knows your body like he does, and especially no one can make you cum as hard as he can.

“go ahead, make a mess for me baby,” he strongly encourages, picking up his pace as his digits fuck into you faster. “just gonna clean it up with my tongue all over again.”

your eyes roll back to the depths of oblivion, feeling an out of body experience when reaching your climax. a string of curses leaves your shaky breath, limbs trembling and faint tears stain your flushed cheeks. sunghoon slows his movements, rubbing his thumb over your clit gently to make you even more sensitive. you love the way he calls you “good girl” and how proud the look on his face becomes while you ride out your orgasm on his fingers. he doesn’t stop showering you with compliments, only ramping up his affection as he plants fleeting kisses to your thighs, hips, and stomach.

once he’s finally come back up for air you grab his face to pull him into your lips again. moaning in his mouth while getting a taste of yourself was probably the hottest thing sunghoon’s ever witnessed.

“can’t believe this is all mine.” sunghoon whispers against you, gently massaging your aching thighs. “i love you so much, baby.”

“love you too hoon.” you instantly say back, feeling more at ease now that things are somewhat back to normal.

maybe a break isn’t necessary after all, how else would you be able to have such earth shattering orgasms?

- 完 ♡��

[tea-writes19]

besties | p.p.

pairing: peter parker x f!stark!reader

summary: your friendship with your dad’s intern turns into something more

warnings: friends to lovers, swearing, these bitches being oblivious, comedy, dad tony, mentions of past affairs, suggestive content, fluff galore, slow burn, underage drinking

a/n: i’m not usually a peter girlie as i love him and mj together but i wanted to write some fluff so here we are. also i’m laughing at petey’s intials. set post endgame but tony lives and steve doesn’t go back in time. nat’s still dead tho :(

liked by peterparker, nedleeds, tonystark, and others

yourusername: your fave upstate & queens duo

tagged: @/peterparker

view comments below

user1: MY FAVES

user2: imagine being friends w/ the y/n stark😩

user3: THIS

nedleeds: can’t believe y’all got food without me…

peterparker: sorry!

yourusername: no we’re not

peterparker: never getting in a car with you driving AGAIN

yourusername: IT WAS ONE CURB

user4: like father like daughter😭

user5: omg😂

tonystark: how many people from queens do you even know?

yourusername: that doesn’t matter

peterparker: they hate when we serve orphan & nepo baby

yourusername: 🗣️🗣️

user6: not the dead parents—

user7: i bet peter is the funniest person alive😭

user8: bro’s got trauma for days😭😭

pepperpotts: so this is why it took you two 6 hours to get the olive oil i asked for…

yourusername: should’ve sent happy🤷🏻‍♀️

jamesrhodes: you act like y/n doesn’t have tony’s horrible time management skills

pepperpotts: and peter?

jamesrhodes: spends too much time with tony and y/n

user9: god i want to live in nyc so bad

user10: pov: you saw y/n stark hit a curb today

liked by nedleeds, yourusername, mjjones, and others

peterparker: lab days🛠️🥽

tagged: @/tonystark

view comments below

yourusername: YOU GOT FIVE GUYS WITHOUT ME?!??

peterparker: BLAME YOUR DAD!! IT WAS HIS IDEA

tonystark: that was supposed to stay between us kid😑

user11: is that a new iron man model i see👀

peterparker: nope, just fixing rhodey’s suit :)

yourusername: surprised uncle rhodes is letting you touch that old thing

jamesrhodes: HEY! the war machine suit works fine just the way it is

yourusername: clearly not if it had to be fixed…

user11: oh god what have i started🫣

user12: five guys👨‍🍳🤌

user13: looks so fun!

nedleeds: man you HAVE got to convince mr. stark to let me come with someday

tonystark: not happening hacker

nedleeds: 😔

mjjones: THIS was more important than acdec?

peterparker: YOU DON’T JUST SAY NO TO TONY STARK MJ!!!!

yourusername: i do all the time🤨

user14: 😭😭

user15: love how peter is just friends with all the starks

user16: i’m pretty sure he’s tony’s personal intern

user17: ^^^

user18: oh my god i thought he was another bastard from tony’s playboy days😭

user19: lmao nooooo

user20: tbf i forget y/n isn’t pepper’s kid sometimes soooo….

liked by nedleeds, mjjones, peterparker, and others

yourusername: a happy meal is the only true serotonin one needs in life

tagged: @/peterparker @/nedleeds

view comments below

tonystark: what am i? chopped liver?

yourusername: yes

tonystark: ouch

user21: imagine calling tony stark chopped liver😭

nedleeds: i’m pretty sure we broke the airplane wheel

yourusername: shhhh…don’t let ronald hear you

peterparker: thanks for the nightmare fuel tn

yourusername: anytime🫡

user22: happy meals >>>

user23: mcds cokes >>>

yourusername: ronald mcdonald🥵

user24: one of these is not like the others…

user25: LMAO NOT RONALD MCDONALD😭😭

peterparker: i’m just glad we took the subway this time

yourusername: WOW

yourusername: AND TO THINK WE WERE BFFS

peterparker: I’M SORRY I DON’T WANT TO DIE YOUNG

tonystark: that is the most bullshit response i’ve ever heard from you

user26: this comment section is so unhinged😭😭

user27: lol what’d you expect??? it’s the starks

tonystark: morgan would like a happy meal

yourusername: we all know that’s just the excuse for you to get one too but that’s ok

liked by tonystark, yourusername, steverogers, and others

pepperpotts: cozy day with the family🤍

tagged: @/tonystark @/yourusername

view comments below

user28: you guys are so cute!

yourusername: i would like everyone to know that dad pushed me into the pond after that pic was taken

user29: omg noooo😭😭

peterparker: did you save your drink at least?

yourusername: obviously…i’m not a monster pete

user30: i’m crying at the thought of tony stark pushing his daughter into a pond😭😭

user31: ^^^

tonystark: this is defamation

steverogers: glad to see you guys doing well pep!

pepperpotts: you should come over for dinner sometime soon!!

tonystark: please leave the 2 assholes that follow you around at home thanks

pepperpotts: TONY

yourusername: bring them for the bit

samwilson: i’m going to get morgan the loudest fucking toy for christmas now

user32: this thread is a mess😭😭

user33: it’s so weird to see y/n without peter lol

user34: lol frfr

user35: i’m kinda starting to ship them ngl

user36: omg yes!!

user37: you guys can never let a boy and girl just be friends😒

tonystark: my arms are so tired from pushing morgan in that swing all day

yourusername: sounds like a skill issue

peterparker: ^^^

tonystark: i’d like to see you two single-handedly save new york from an impending nuke

user38: 😭😭😭

jamesrhodes: looks like a perfect day for the stanks!

tonystark: you’re never letting that go are you

jamesrhodes: nope!

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: when the trip makes it out of the family group chat >>>]

story replies

peterparker: can’t wait!!!

yourusername: i am so beating you to the best room

user39: i just know the pics are abt to be fire🔥🔥

user40: where are you going?

mjjones: i’m expecting a real life nemo

yourusername: 🫡🫡

liked by peterparker, pepperpotts, mjjones, and others

yourusername: us virgin islands? this american def ain’t a virg—

tagged: @/peterparker @/tonystark @/pepperpotts

view comments below

user41: HELLO?!?

user42: GIRL WHAT!?

peterparker: ain’t nothin’ virgin abt this isla—

yourusername: 🏝️= 👉👌

user43: WHAT IS HAPPENING?!?!

user44: YOUR PARENTS FOLLOW YOU Y/N

mjjones: the island after y’all left: 🤰

yourusername: MJ I’M SCREAMING😭😭

nedleeds: so was the isla—i’m gonna stop

user45: 😭😭

tonystark: sometimes i think i asexually reproduced you like a plant

yourusername: surprised you didn’t clone yourself in a lab or smth

jamesrhodes: don’t give him ideas

user46: i’m freaking out over the caption

user47: no fr…

user48: AND PETER’S COMMENT

user49: 🎶i think they did it but i just can’t prove it🎶

steverogers: there’s definitely an innuendo in here somewhere but i’m just going to pretend i’m blind and go

yourusername: good choice

user50: CAPTAIN AMERICA SIR—

user51: mom come pick me up i’m scared

liked by yourusername, nedleeds, tonystark, and others

peterparker: i have sand in my ass

tagged: @/yourusername @/tonystark @/pepperpotts

view comments below

user52: love how peter was invited on the family vacation

user53: he really is just part of the fam

user54: so convinced he and y/n are dating

user55: god i hope so

nedleeds: simp

peterparker: damn right - y/n

user56: not y/n stealing peter’s phone to comment this

user57: simp you say👀

yourusername: damn who that hottie in slide 2?

peterparker: you boo😘 - y/n

yourusername: aww thanks boo🥰

user58: 😭😭

steverogers: and that’s enough instagram for me tonight

tonystark: i still don’t know what y’all were looking at

yourusername: your ego obviously🙄

user59: oh to go on a hike with tony stark

user60: oh to be dating y/n stark

user61: they never said they’re dating…

user62: shhh let us be delusional🤫

liked by pepperpotts, jamesrhodes, yourusername, and others

tonystark: the difference between morgan and y/n on vacation…

tagged: @/pepperpotts @/yourusername

view comments below

user63: omg😭😭

user64: y/n is such a mood

peterparker: morgan is a menace at go karts

yourusername: she plays too much mario kart fr

jamesrhodes: when one gets pepper’s genes and the other yours…

yourusername: i can’t believe you’ve done this

tonystark: oh but tis has

user65: i wanna say i’m morgan but in reality i’m y/n

user66: thisssss

user67: same😭

pepperpotts: to be fair y/n was hungover in the second pic…

yourusername: the porcelain gods did not grant mercy on me😔

liked by tonystark, peterparker, steverogers, and others

pepperpotts: great vacation with even greater company💕💕

tagged: @/tonystark @/yourusername @/peterparker

view comments below

peterparker: thank you for the invitation mrs. potts

user68: stop he’s too cute

user69: peter you’re adorable

user70: what a wonderful time to spend with family!

tonystark: i love you mrs. potts

pepperpotts: i love you mr. stark

yourusername: 😖🤮

jamesrhodes: glad to see tony still somehow manages to end up in the er on every trip

tonystark: i have a world record to hold up😤

user71: lmao😭

yourusername: i’m still full from that feast

peterparker: none of my pants fit after that salmon😩

user72: LOVE🤍🤍

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: 🌟🌊]

story replies

peterparker: you really are the best

yourusername: you too pete💞

user73: holy shit holy shit holy—

user74: omg i’m so happy for you

steverogers: so did you two…fondue?

yourusername: OH MY GOD

liked by yourusername, mjjones, nedleeds, and others

peterparker: another post bc we leave tmrw

tagged: @/yourusername @/tonystark

view comments below

yourusername: gonna miss sneaking out…

tonystark: oh please you do that back home too

yourusername: it’s not the same🙄

nedleeds: can’t wait to see you man!!

peterparker: so ready for our mandalorian marathon!

mjjones: nerds

yourusername: ^^^

user75: lmao tony😭😭

user76: he’s keeping an eye out for selener

user75: STOP😭

tonystark: andddd you’re grounded from the lab for that pic

peterparker: awww man😔

yourusername added to their story —>

[caption: when he cares abt school🤭🫠]

story replies

peterparker: you were just making fun of me for studying🤨

yourusername: semantics

user77: automatically makes a guy hotter

yourusername: hear hear🗣️

mjjones: that better be acdec work…

liked by mjjones, peterparker, tonystark, and others

yourusername: here’s the hard launch for you bitches

tagged: @/peterparker

view comments below

user78: OMG OMG OMG—

user79: I CALLED IT

peterparker: so happy to call you mine🫶🏻

yourusername: 😘

mjjones: abt damn time…

nedleeds: ^^^

tonystark: ^^^

jamesrhodes: ^^^

pepperpotts: ^^^

steverogers: ^^^

samwilson: ^^^

happyhogan: ^^^

yourusername: damn ok then

tonystark: keep the door open

tonystark: and don’t even THINK about fonduing in my house

yourusername: PLEASE STOP

© tea-writes19 do not repost, translate, or copy

[kathaelipwse]

More Than Best Friends | L.Minho

Synopsis: After being abandoned by your boyfriend upon discovering your pregnancy, you struggle to navigate motherhood alone—until your best friend, Lee Know, steps in. As he becomes your greatest support and the perfect father figure for your daughter, buried feelings resurface. But will you have the courage to confess that you have fallen in love with him?

Warnings: Just fluff honestly-

Word count: 1.1k

Authors Note: Ah!! Lino as a girl dad <33

The pregnancy test sat on the bathroom counter, its two pink lines staring back at you like a reality you weren’t ready to accept. You felt your breath hitch as you sat on the floor, your arms wrapped around your knees. This wasn’t supposed to happen—at least, not like this. Your boyfriend, or rather, the man who was supposed to love you, had left as soon as you told him.

“I can’t do this,” he had said. “I’m not ready to be a father.”

And just like that, he was gone.

For days, you kept it to yourself, pushing away the one person you knew would see right through you—Lee Know, your best friend since childhood. If you told him, he’d worry, and you didn’t want to burden him. He had his own dreams, his own life to focus on.

So you avoided him.

You ignored his texts, dodged his calls, and canceled every plan you made. It wasn’t easy. Lee Know was persistent, showing up at your apartment unannounced, but you always found an excuse to push him away. He never pried, but you knew he was hurting.

Yet, even as you tried to keep your distance, you couldn’t erase him from your life completely. The ultrasound pictures sat on your bedside table—a reminder of the tiny life growing inside you. And, in some way, they were also a reminder of him. You had always imagined Lee Know being there, maybe as the fun uncle, spoiling your kid with treats and making them laugh. But never had you imagined him as more.

Until the day he found out.

Lee Know had finally had enough of your avoidance. He used the spare key you had given him years ago and let himself into your apartment, fully intending to scold you for acting weird.

“Alright, what’s your deal—” His voice cut off as his eyes landed on the small black and white images on your side table. He wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what those were.

His heart pounded as he slowly stepped closer, picking up the ultrasound picture with shaky fingers.

“Is this…?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You stood frozen in the doorway, your face drained of color.

“Lee Know, I—”

“Since when?” he demanded, turning to face you fully, his expression unreadable.

You swallowed hard, feeling the tears prick your eyes. “A few months.”

“A few months?” His voice rose. “You’ve been dealing with this alone for months?”

You looked away, shame washing over you. “I didn’t want to burden you.”

Lee Know let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Burden me? Are you serious right now? You’re my best friend! How could you think I wouldn’t be here for you?”

Tears finally spilled down your cheeks. “Because I was scared! He left, and I—”

Lee Know’s jaw clenched. “Who?”

You shook your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t,” he growled. “Tell me his name.”

You didn’t, but that didn’t stop Lee Know from feeling a burning rage in his chest. How could any man walk away from this? Walk away from you?

“I hate him,” he muttered under his breath before stepping closer. “But you’re not alone. You have me.”

And just like that, the weight you had been carrying for months felt a little lighter.

A few months later, you gave birth to a baby girl.

The moment you held your daughter in your arms, you felt an overwhelming sense of love and protection. But what surprised you most was the sight of Lee Know, standing by your side, looking down at the baby as if she were his own.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, eyes soft.

You turned to him, exhaustion evident in your voice. “Will you name her?”

Lee Know’s eyes widened. “Me?”

You nodded. “You’ve been here more than anyone else. You deserve it.”

He looked down at the tiny baby in his arms, her little fingers wrapping around his. And with a soft smile, he whispered the name that felt perfect.

“Minji.”

As the years passed, Lee Know became more than just your best friend. He became Minji’s protector, her playmate, her safe place. Even with his busy schedule, he always made time for her, whether it was bedtime stories, dance parties in the living room, or simply holding her when she had a bad dream.

And while you adored watching Lee Know bond with your daughter, a part of your heart ached. Because you had fallen in love with him.

But how could you ever tell him?

You weren’t the same as before. Motherhood had changed you—physically, emotionally. You weren’t the same girl Lee Know had grown up with. Your body had become curvier, softer, a reminder of the life you had brought into the world.

One night, you stood in front of the mirror, tugging at your oversized hoodie, trying to hide yourself. But Lee Know caught you.

“What are you doing?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You turned away. “Nothing.”

Lee Know stepped forward and gently pulled your hoodie up, revealing the small folds of your stomach. “Stop hiding.”

You flushed. “I just… don’t look the same.”

He scoffed. “So?”

“So, I don’t feel beautiful anymore.”

Lee Know stared at you before shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”

Your eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

He leaned in, his hands resting on your waist. “You carried a whole human being. You think a few curves make you any less beautiful? If anything, you’re even sexier now.”

You felt your heart skip a beat as he smirked. “Seriously. I love every part of you.”

Your breath hitched. “Lee Know, I—”

“Mommy, Uncle Lino!” Minji ran into the room, interrupting the moment.

Lee Know laughed, picking her up effortlessly. “What’s up, princess?”

Minji pouted. “Why are you ‘Uncle Lino’ and not my daddy?”

Silence filled the room.

Your chest tightened as you looked at Lee Know, searching for an answer. But instead of hesitating, he just smiled.

“You can call me whatever you want, Minji.”

That night, you found the courage to confess.

“I love you, Lee Know,” you admitted, bracing yourself for rejection. “I know I come with baggage, and I—”

Lee Know rolled his eyes and closed the distance between you.

“Took you long enough,” he teased before lifting you onto the kitchen counter, trapping you between his arms.

You barely had time to process before his lips were on yours, soft yet demanding, as if he had been waiting for this moment forever.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours. “I’ve been yours this whole time.”

Minji’s giggle rang out from the doorway. “Eww, Uncle Lino!”

Lee Know turned, smirking. “Guess I’ll have to get used to ‘Dad’ now.”

And just like that, your little family was complete.

---

[writeriguess]

Can you write a Dabi x female reader, where reader is Katsuki's sister and in secret relationship with Dabi?? Reader is not a prohero and doesn't have any quirks. Katsuki is sssssuper protective of her and Dabi just lives for it. He throws hints about her and their relationship while fighting Katsuki, but he doesn't catch up, he thinks it's just some nonsense a crazy person would say. This is probs stupid but I'm just... crazy about Katsuki's sister reader x Dabi trope and I wish there was more of it 😩

author's note: Oh I love this scenario and I loved writing this fic <3

Burned in Secret

You’ve spent your whole life in the shadow of someone explosive—your brother, Katsuki Bakugo. It was never easy being the quirkless sibling of a pro-hero, especially not when that hero was the loudest, most aggressive, and most protective person you knew. He had a way of acting like the world was out to get you, like you were made of glass and would shatter if he wasn’t watching. You loved him for it, but at the same time, he didn’t understand that you weren’t some delicate little thing. You could handle yourself.

And, well… you handled yourself right into the arms of the last person Katsuki would ever approve of.

Dabi.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened. Maybe it was because, in some ways, he was everything your brother wasn’t. Katsuki was all fire and noise; Dabi was quiet destruction. Where Katsuki burned hot and bright, Dabi burned slow and deep, dangerous in a way that sent a thrill through your veins. You met him through circumstances that should’ve never led to romance—he was a villain, after all. But something about his smirks, the way he looked at you like you were something interesting, something real, had you falling before you even realized it. And despite his nonchalant attitude toward most things, you found that he actually cared in his own twisted way.

The relationship was a secret, of course. If Katsuki ever found out, there’d be hell to pay.

Which is exactly why Dabi loved to drop hints.

The battlefield was in ruins, buildings crumbling, smoke filling the air. Katsuki stood in the middle of it all, blood trickling down his forehead, hands still crackling with residual explosions. He was glaring at the man standing across from him, the one whose stitched grin hadn’t wavered once throughout the fight.

“You just don’t shut up, do you?” Katsuki snarled, flexing his fingers like he was resisting the urge to blast him into oblivion.

Dabi smirked. “What can I say? You’re fun to mess with.” He rolled his shoulders, barely fazed by the heat in the air. “Though I gotta admit, you’re a little denser than I expected.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Dabi let out a low chuckle, tilting his head just enough to let his bangs fall into his eyes. “Just thinking about how protective you are. Cute, really.”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened. “Shut the hell up.”

“You act like you can keep everything precious to you locked up tight, but people have secrets, Dynamight.” Dabi’s tongue flicked out over his lower lip, dry and cracked. “People do things in the dark they’d never do in the light. Even the ones closest to you.”

Katsuki barely stopped himself from lunging. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Dabi just grinned, the kind of grin that set Katsuki’s teeth on edge. “Nothing. Just thinking about how funny it’d be if someone close to you was keeping a little something from you. Something big.” He raised his hand, wiggling his fingers as if in thought. “Like, I don’t know… a secret relationship?”

Katsuki froze for half a second before shaking his head violently. “You really are a lunatic. What the fuck are you even talking about?”

Dabi just shrugged. “Just a thought.”

With a snarl, Katsuki launched himself forward, palm sparking. Dabi dodged effortlessly, laughing under his breath as if this was all a game to him. In some ways, it was.

Because he knew the truth.

He knew that the moment this fight was over, he’d find you waiting for him in the shadows, worried and scolding him for teasing your brother. He’d get to hear your voice, feel your hands fussing over his burns even though he told you not to bother. He’d get to be with you, touch you, kiss you. And your precious big brother? The one who thought he had everything under control? He had no idea.

And Dabi lived for it.

Later that night, when you met him in your usual spot, you smacked him lightly on the arm. “You were messing with him again, weren’t you?”

Dabi chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Maybe.”

“You’re going to slip up one day,” you huffed, though your hands still rested against his chest. “And he’s going to actually kill you.”

“I’d like to see him try.” He leaned down, brushing his lips over yours. “Besides, what’s life without a little risk?”

You sighed against his mouth, knowing this was just who he was. Knowing that, despite everything, you wouldn’t change him for the world.

And knowing that when Katsuki finally found out, all hell was going to break loose.

[onehundredelevven]

Nerd!jo Being Absolutely Pathetic Headcanons♡

☆When he’s tutoring you, he’s trying to focus on the lesson, but all he can see is the way your lips part when you’re thinking, the way your fingers twirl your pen. His glasses keep sliding down because he’s sweating—why is it so hot in here?

☆The moment you step out for a bathroom break, it’s like a crime scene. He’s touching the bedsheets, picking up your hoodie, rubbing the fabric between his fingers like he’s studying its molecular structure.

☆If there’s a hair tie left behind? Pocketed. A pen you chewed on? Pocketed. Your perfume lingers in the air? He’s inhaling like it’s life support.

☆Worst-case scenario? He spots your underwear folded neatly in your laundry basket and just stares. It’s a moral dilemma. A test of willpower. If he touches it, he’s never coming back from this.(He touches it.)

☆When you come back, he’s red-faced, acting way too normal, legs crossed suspiciously. "A-ah, you—you were gone for a while! I—I was just reviewing our notes!" (He has not retained a single word.)

☆He thinks he’d be in control, that his intelligence means he’d have the upper hand. Wrong.

☆He tries to be composed, but the second you straddle him, he’s gripping your hips like his life depends on it.

☆The first time you get even a little close, whisper something teasing in his ear? His breath hitches so hard his glasses slip down.

☆Whimpers. Like, actual gasping, high-pitched whimpers. If you so much as grind a little, he’s gone, head tilting back, eyes rolling.

☆Mumbles incoherently. Between hitched breaths, he’s whispering nonsense— “I-I can’t—this is—I shouldn’t—y-you’re too—” before cutting off with a desperate moan.

☆Absolutely clings to you, hands grasping at your thighs, your waist, your back. Like he’s scared you’ll disappear.

☆If you tease him? Call him cute in that sultry tone? He whines.

☆Would beg. The moment you slow down, teasing him about how needy he is, he’s nodding frantically, pupils blown wide, glasses askew. "P-please—please, I—I need—"

Nerd!Gojo is a wreck for you, and he knows it. He’s supposed to be the smartest in the room, but the moment you so much as breathe on his neck, his IQ drops to zero.

[knavesflames]

SUCKING ARLECCHINO’S STRAP

guys i am so back 😎 first piece of smut writing since the surgery so let us hope it meets the standard of my lovely followers :] i will get back into posting regularly and i will still try to get to requests (but like i said tumblr deleted a lot of them for no reason)

this was promised ages ago to @celuere so mwah here you go pookie i hope you enjoy fr

word count: 1.5k

contents: strap sucking, degradation, condescension, dumbification (a little bit..?), arlecchino is mean, you like it

nsft utc!

Sitting on your knees, a pillow graciously given to you to place under them, you look up at the woman in front of you with wide eyes. You’re bare, completely stripped naked. Your clothes sit in a crumpled pile in the middle of the room, taken off painfully slowly while her nails gently raked across your skin when revealed. You pleaded gently for her to take her clothes off too, but she denied with a sharp “No. Be quiet, doll.”

You know she’s got the strap. You could see it under her dress pants. You noticed in the middle of the evening, when she leaned back from the dinner table to ‘stretch’. Her eyes had gazed at you, a perfectly sculpted eyebrow raising when your lips parted in shock. What were you supposed to say, in the middle of a restaurant? Absolutely nothing, that’s what. She had left you clenching your thighs together in desperation, barely focusing on the pasta in front of you.

Slowly, Arlecchino stepped closer to you, finally shrugging off her blazer. It hits the floor with a soft thump. Her blackened hand moves to the belt she has on, unbuckling it expertly. She doesn’t look at you.

“Hands.” She utters, and in turn, you don’t even think before your wrists come together and raise in the air. She hums in approval, the leather quickly wrapping around your wrists and tightening, keeping you restrained. “What an obedient little whore you are tonight.”

Arlecchino finally focuses on the zipper and her eyes finally meet yours as she unzips her trousers. She does it so slowly it has you practically whining already, your hips rocking in the air to try and get some sort of friction. You’re unsure if you’ll get it. She’s feeling mean tonight, and you asked her to be extra mean the next time she fucked you. You wanted to try it, you said. She’s more than happy to oblige. Plus, not even she can deny the way something burns in her at the way you look at her when she calls you those names.

When the strap is finally revealed, you’re immediately raising your body, lips parting. Your breath shakes, a mix of anticipation and desire to please her.

“No.” The firm command shocks you, freezing you in your place. Why-? Your eyebrows knit together in confusion, your eyes meeting hers.

“I beg your pardon?” You stutter out, a slight smile gracing your face at the way her head tilts. She’s bemused, or at least, acting like it.

“Then beg,” You search her for any sign that she’s joking, that she isn’t going to humiliate you by making you beg on your knees. “You wanted this. You know what to say if you dislike it.”

You feel the arousal embarrassment rise in you, and you open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You can barely meet her eyes. She’s correct. This is what you wanted, and it’s working.

“You won’t say it though, will you, sweet thing? You don’t have to pretend you’re not thinking all sorts of whorish things. Isn’t that what you are?”

“I-“

“Answer.”

You swallow. You take a breath, eyes diverting her gaze, moving to look at the dresser behind her. There’s a mirror, your skin care, Vaseline. “Yes,” you whisper. “I am.”

“Say it, doll.” Urges Arlecchino, or rather, commands. “Tell me what you are.”

“A whore,” it’s humiliating in the most wonderful way, in a way that makes your entire body burn hotter than the flames that course through the woman in front of you. “For you. Always for you.”

“Oh, what a good girl you are!” How condescending. How easy it is for her to make you feel so stupid. How embarrassing it is that you like it so much. The idea that it’s so easy for her to push every single button of yours, even the ones you didn’t know you had. “You’ve been so stressed, haven’t you, baby?”

“Mhm.”

“Hm? Use your words, pet. I know you can.” It’s a command hiding behind sweet encouragement. If there’s one thing she’s good at, it’s confusing you like this. In the best way, really. You look up at her and you’re unsure whether she’ll be soft and gentle or commanding and cruel. She switches between them, and she’s fucking good at it, you’ve learned.

“Yes. I’ve been so stressed, it’s all just been too much an—“

“I know, darling, I know.” Arlecchino cuts you off, her thumb raising and resting on your bottom lip. Her nail grazes the skin between gentle dresses before she tilts your head back. Just enough so she can easily slide her thumb past your lips. When the wetness of your tongue coats the tip of her thumb, Arlecchino sigh, eyes closing for a brief moment before they focus back on you. She waits for your reaction. She knows it’s coming.

And it does. Your lips close around her thumb, your tongue swirls around the tip of it. Your eyes don’t leave hers, not once, and they flutter when she pushes her thumb just a little deeper into your mouth. Red crosses stare down at you, looking almost bored. She isn’t, of course, you can tell that by the way her jaw feathers every so often. Arlecchino watches you until she decides that you’ve gotten desperate enough. The way your thighs keep rubbing together and your hands are squeezing into fists within the constraints of the belt around your wrists tells her you’ve become more desperate than she’s often seen you. Her finger pulls away from your mouth, a string of saliva connecting it and your lips. Her eyebrow arches at the sight of it, and she shakes her head slightly, tutting in faux distaste.

“So messy. Can you not control yourself?” Arlecchino doesn’t wait for an answer, and her middle and ring finger slide into your mouth just easily. The movements she makes are the same, sliding across your tongue and to the back of your throat, gathering spit before pulling back just before it gets too much for you. When she deems that she’s collected a good amount of saliva, she removes her fingers once more. She watches how her fingers glisten in the light, almost reflective against her dark fingers. You wonder what exactly she’s doing, and your eyebrows furrow as you open your mouth to ask-

You should have known. She uses what’s on her hand to lubricate the silicone, hand stroking it before letting out a small groan. Has she convinced herself she can feel things? It doesn’t matter.

“You’re so pretty on your knees for me. Open up, hm?” Her velvety voice no louder than a whisper, her other hand runs through your hair, giving a gentle tug to urge you to part your lips again. You do, and for the first time in this entire exchange, her lips quirk up into a smile when her strap slides into your mouth with ease.

“What a whore. Was it that easy for you to take it?” The question is rhetorical, of course. Your head moves forward in an attempt to take her as deep as you can, but she stops you with another sharp tug of your hair.

“No. Whores don’t think, do they? Why don’t you just sit, look pretty and enjoy yourself while I fuck that gorgeous face of yours?”

You don’t reply. You can’t, not with the weight of her strap resting on your tongue. You blink in response, brain quickly trying to comprehend what she’s saying. You can’t form a single coherent thought.

A harsh laugh cuts you out of your daze. Your eyes focus back on her once again, tearing when her hips give a harsh thrust, the tip of her hitting the back of your throat.

“How fucking pathetic. You can’t think? Aw, that’s okay, pet. You don’t need to think. Just keep taking me as well as you are.” Her words are matched with another thrust of her hips. And another. She continues, hands in your hair to keep you still. Arlecchino is breathless as she watches the material of the strap disappear completely beyond your lips, reappearing covered in more and more obscene amounts of saliva. Every few movements or so, she’ll stay, refusing to pull out until your body arches and you whine, gag or cough. She laughs when you do, degrading words mixed with pants and the occasional grunt.

Only when your hands, still bound by the belt, come up to tap on her thigh twice does she relent, slowing to a stop before pulling out of you completely. Your chin is a mess. Or rather, your entire face. With watering eyes and a wet lower face, you look utterly wrecked. Despite this, you find yourself laughing. It’s a hoarse, shaky laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. Her hand comes to your face again, softer this time, thumb beginning to wipe the mess she had caused you to make.

“You should buy an ejaculating one, Peruere,” you whisper, snorting quietly at the way her eyes widen and she freezes in her place. “Don’t you think?”

“Ah. Perhaps.”

[odileeclipse]

I'm gonna freaking eat your works.....

(this is mildly wordy It's like 2am and I have a lot to say)

I'm a big big BIGGGGG sucker for a good Shmilk or Pure ganilla fic....and wow you delivered.....🤤🤤

Big thank you for keeping me entertained for a good hour, that's a struggle for me LMAO I loved your writing, and the way you wuold describe his voice being all wispy and spooky; really added to the overall vibe of the fic and I really did like it :3

If you don't mindsies, I'd love to request something from you as well (o゜▽゜)o☆ As previously stated in a comment somewhere, angst makes me SO happy to write/read....the in-depth details people can do with emotions makes me so HEAHEHHAEHAEHEHAHEAHEH in a /pos way....

So! I would like to hhhhhhumbly request some good old fashioned Shmilky angst! Or, if you'd prefer to write Pure vanilla that's cool tooo!!!! I don't really mind what *type* of angst, just angst 🤤 I try to give writers creative freedom, but I'd adore some loss/unable to cope with loss of a loved one.....whatever works ;b ANYWAYS! LOVE YOUR WORK AND YOU'RE VERY COOL!!!!! 💥💥💥💥

The Puppet and the Fool

A tragedy in One Last Breath

A/N You're right there's been too much happiness on this blog time to fix that.

You were never supposed to last. From the moment you met Shadow Milk Cookie, you had been a mere curiosity, a spectator drawn into his ever-moving spire, his ever-deceiving carnival of illusions. And yet, somehow, you had done the impossible you had slipped between the cracks of his carefully constructed reality, nestled yourself in the spaces he hadn’t meant for anyone to occupy. It had started as a game, like all things with him did. "Oh? What’s this? A little spectator who doesn’t flee at the first trick? How rare!" His voice had slithered around you, a serpent’s coil laced with amusement and something sharper, something dangerous. Others feared him, reviled him, whispered of his cruelty in hushed tones. But you, oh, you were foolish. Foolish enough to laugh, to poke at his ego, to challenge him in ways no one else dared.

He had never asked you to stay. Never invited you into his world of trickery and taunts. And yet, there you were, day after day, watching his performances with something that was not admiration, not fear just an amused understanding. "And what, pray tell, keeps you lurking about, dear audience?" he would purr, flourishing his staff. "Surely, you have places far safer than my den of illusions." You had only shrugged, smiling faintly. "Your shows are entertaining." "A high compliment, indeed!" He placed a hand over his chest in mock gratitude. "But beware! The greatest trick of all is never knowing whether you’ve already become part of the act!" "I think I’ll take my chances." Foolish. But he liked that about you. And so, your presence became a fixture, something woven into the very script of his performances. He would create grand illusions, dazzling lights and twisting realities, and you would be there, arms crossed, shaking your head with a knowing smile. "Too much?" he would ask, grinning. "You always overdo it," you would reply. It became a game one he never admitted he enjoyed far too much. And, without realizing it, he began making his performances for you.

"I see through your tricks, Shadow Milk. You’re not as unpredictable as you think." That had caught his attention. You played along, indulged his theatrics, yet somehow remained separate from them. You saw through him in ways that unnerved him, as if you knew where the real strings were pulled. But instead of cutting them, you simply held them, quietly watching as he tangled himself in his own illusions. You became a regular in his performances, not as an unwilling participant, not as a victim, but as something else entirely. A quiet presence beside him, a soft counter to his grandiosity. A knowing smile when his lies got too elaborate, a gentle nudge when his mind grew too tangled in its own web. And somehow, he let you stay. Because for all his lies, you never demanded the truth from him. And for all his illusions, you never asked him to be anything but himself. Looking back, the signs had been small, quiet things, easy to dismiss, easier to ignore. The way your hand would tremble when reaching for his. The way your breath sometimes came too short, too shallow, even when you stood still. The way your laughter, once bright and full, became something softer, something restrained. "Tired already, my dear? We’ve barely begun the show!" he would tease, twirling his staff, watching as you paused to catch your breath. And you, ever the fool, would grin and wave him off. "Maybe you should carry me, then." "Oh-ho! A tempting proposition! But I’d hate to spoil you."

He had never thought much of it. Cookies grew weary. They faltered. It was natural. It wasn’t until he noticed the way you hid it the way you swallowed the winces, the way you steadied yourself against walls when you thought he wasn’t looking that something cold and unfamiliar began to fester in the back of his mind. Doubt. A word he despised when it came to you. But it remained. And yet, he never asked. Because asking would mean acknowledging. And acknowledging would mean accepting. So he let the show go on, even as the cracks in the stage deepened beneath your feet. Now, as you lay in his arms, the truth he had refused to see wrapped around him like chains, dragging him into a reality he would not accept. You had always been dying. And he had never noticed. Or rather he had never allowed himself to notice. "You lied to me," he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. You managed the smallest of smiles, though it barely reached your eyes. "I didn't lie." "But you didn't tell me." His grip tightened, his mismatched eyes wild, frantic, unblinking. "You let me play my part, let me prance about like a fool while you-" He choked on his words. "Why?"

You exhaled, slow, tired. "Because I knew you’d react like this." The laugh that tore from his throat was anything but amusement. "You-!" His voice cracked, and he had to swallow down the wreckage threatening to spill. "You knew and you still…" His breath shuddered. "Why didn’t you tell me?!" You hesitated. Not because you didn’t have an answer, but because you did. And he wasn’t ready for it. "Because I didn’t want my last moments to be a performance," you murmured. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, weak, barely there. "I wanted to just… be with you." Something shattered inside him.

All those stolen moments, every laugh, every conversation, every quiet night beneath an illusory sky of his own making they had been real. You had given him something real. And now you were taking it away. His breath came quick, shallow. His grip on you was desperate, as if holding you tighter could keep you anchored to him, to this world. "No, no, no, I won’t let you—" "Shadow Milk." His name had never sounded so soft. So final. You smiled. "I love you." And then, stillness. The silence was deafening. Shadow Milk Cookie did not move. Did not breathe. Did not accept. His jester’s hat had long since fallen, forgotten on the cold ground. The ghostly eyes in his hair flickered wildly, their gazes darting in all directions, uncertain, uncomprehending. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t real. The story wasn’t supposed to end this way. He clutched your body tighter, rocking slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You’re still here." A statement. A fact. A truth. Or perhaps, the most desperate lie he had ever told. "You’re just waiting for your cue. That’s all this is." His tone was light, theatrical, forced. "A clever little act oh, how you’ve fooled me this time, my dear!" His mismatched eyes gleamed, too wide, too bright. "But the show must go on." There was no response. Yet he continued, undeterred. "I’ll give the next line, then! What a generous performer I am!" A sharp, broken laugh left him. "You’ll wake up soon. You always do." The world did not answer. But he did not listen. Because Shadow Milk Cookie was a liar, a master of illusion, a weaver of truths and falsehoods alike. And so he told himself the greatest lie of all. That you were still there. That you had never left. That the final act had not yet begun. And as the silence stretched on, swallowing the stage whole, he did what he had always done. He played his part. And waited for you to play yours.

[systlin]

ooooo summarize the one where tarl gets called bosk by a mean lady and it rewrites his brain chemistry

Oh, Telima! The Mean Domme! LMAO it's so funny.

So Tarl is boating down the Big Fuckass River to Port Kar where a dude he wants to meet up with lives. Port Kar is a notorious hive of scum and villainy but has far fewer Han Solos to shoot douchebags in the face unfortunately.

We get like, ten pages of Tarl talking about how longbows are good at killing people, because duh of course they are. However, for some fuckass reason Goreans usually consider it a low class and disgraceful weapon, and Tarl is considered weird for liking it. I will give Norm credit for Tarl, raised an Englishman, having a favorable view of the longbow even in a society that views them as dishonorable. Reluctantly. Anyway.

He's in the Vosk delta, which is a vast labyrinth of swamp mostly covered in a reed called Rence, which is used to make paper and also parts are edible. It's inhabited by Rence Growers, who are actually kinda cool?

They make like, floating boat towns, and hunt and fish the marshes, and they take in fled slaves sometimes and let them live as free women. Like. They kinda rock actually?

Instead of any actual plot for a bit, we get like twenty pages here of Norm outlining Rence, how it grows, how it's harvested, how things are made from it, ect ect. This completely derails the story for a jarring length of time, and it will not be the last time such a thing happens. Norm loves his annoying and dumb infodumps.

Anyway, Tarl is in their territory, and happens upon a free woman fishing in the marshes. He is, predictably, what he thinks is polite but from her POV is intrusive and annoying, and her village takes him captive.

THEN we get to the wild shit.

 

A Sorp is a turtle, btw. And legit this is like, one of the 3 reasonable dudes we get on Gor. Ho Hak you're a king love you bro.

Champion shit.

ANYWAY.

This, in the hands of a better writer, could have been the moment when Tarl realized that, oh, shit, yeah okay in this situation he will act just like the women he's enslaved before who complied rather than be beaten or killed. It could have been a watershed moment.

It will not be.

ANYWAY, Tarl is taken slave, and Telima absolutely rearranges his whole brain with ONE SINGLE NIGHT OF BEING A MEAN DOMME.

He will go by this name FOR THE ENTIRE NEXT THIRTY BOOKS LIKE GIRL JESUS CHRIST.

He's chasing this high for the entire rest of the series. He never gets over this. Like holy shit. Fuck.

Anyway so some Port Kar slavers raid the place and take some people captive, whatever, there's not actually any plot in this book it's just here to get Tarl topped and get him to Port Kar. He fights the knowledge that he can be enslaved like he's enslaved women this whole time, and again somehow manages to do no actual growth or introspection. It's really incredible.

The only thing of note here is that there is a dude named Clitus, which is inexpressibly funny to me. I bet no one can find him.

Tarl becomes a Captain of Port Kar by killing one of the other Captains. There's like, a war with Cos and Tyros, which are also naval powers, and we are supposed to root for Port Kar but honestly I do not give a single shit. It's mostly so that Norm can jerk himself off to pictures of Greek war galleys and Charlton Heston as Ben Hur, tbh.

How TF Tarl knows without trying how to captain a war galley, you ask? And is somehow so good at it that all the other captains are in awe? Well because he's a Speshul Boy, of course.

Of course Tarl wins the war and shit, it's pointless, I don't give a single shit about Port Kar vs Cos Vs Tyros and I want Tarl dead.

Anyway, Tarl hooks up with Samos, but not the way Tarl would really like. Stupid PK vs Kurii plot shit is droned on about for like fifty pages. It's all stupid, the end.

[wlwsoccerfics]

LionessesXDeafReader)

Warning: deaf reader

A/N : when i Put something in ' ' it means it's signed

Summary: you get called up for your first England Camp and people are not taking it well. the fact that you are Keira Walsh's Baby sister doesn't make it any either. And you start doubting If you even should be there.

You sit on a bean bag in the gaming/TV room at England Camp. It was just the first day. The comments you have read so far were mostly great and supportive under the Team list of who made the cut. But then you read comments about yourself. Lots of mean ones including:

'how is she supposed to win us anything? she can't even hear instructions!'

'she is only on the team cause of Keira. she must have put a good word in for y/n.'

'her on the Team feels like a charity case!'

There were lots more of those comments. Which only made your self doubt become worse. Even though if it was just a first full day everyone had noticed that you were acting distant. Especially towards your sister & on top of that Grace. Your girlfriend. You just wanted to focus on football. Deep down you knew you were able to play at this level. You were one of the Star Players at Arsenal. Yes you and your sister played for two different teams. So did you and your girlfriend. But your best friend Alessia was playing for Arsenal with you. While your girlfriend Grace was playing with your other best friend Tooney. If you weren't any good Sarina wouldn't have called you up to play for the lionesses. But still theres a part of you hurt by people thinking just because you were deaf that you couldn't do your job. In the last five games for Arsenal you scored 7 Goals. That alone was saying alot. Yet there were still people wanting to bring you down.

'you are avoiding me!' you see your girlfriend sign, she showed up out of nowhere so you put your phone away.

'i am not!' you look at her and frown.

'you are! you are also avoiding Keira, Less & Tooney. And basically everyone!' she was clearly concerned.

'grace i am fine. just let it go.'

The fact that you didn't use a cute pet name for her was confirmation enough that something was totally not right.

Less and Tooney were also in the room, looking over at the two of you. they knew something was up as soon as you said you didn't want to play cards with them. And the discussion you had with Grace only confirmed that for them as well.

At the same time with Keira, Leah and Lucy...

"Keira, i think i know why your sister is keeping to herself." Lucy told her. Handing her Phone over to her. Showing the comments under the Squad post that are related to you.

"that's nasty!" Leah said, after Keira wordlessly showed them to her.

"i hope she knows that this Is crap. Nothing about this Is true!" Keira stated.

"well you should try and talk to her about that." Lucy replied.

'yeah either you do it or i will. If we wait for too long she is gonna Spiral!" Your England Captain and Arsenal teammate said.

"i will talk to her, don't worry about it." Keira let them know and then went to look for you.

She found you and Grace still arguing. Looking over at Less & Tooney.

"what is this about?" Keira asked your two best friends.

"y/n is claiming how fine things are and that she is not avoiding anyone! Even though we all know she is!" Tooney stated.

"they going back and forth now for almost 20 minutes!" Alessia explained.

"i want to know why she is avoiding us." Tooney stated and Keira grabbed her own Phone to show her and Lessi.

"Lucy thinks this might be the reason and honestly i think so too!" Keira let them know.

"oh my god. This Is terrible. And not true! She deserves to be here!" Alessia stated.

"which is why i will talk to her now." Your sister answered.

The Talk with Grace has gotten to a point where you both have gotten frustrated with one another that you stood up and wanted to race past your sister but Keira quickly grabbed your hand.

'stay. We need to Talk.'

'no we don't!'

'you do need to start letting us in on what's happening.' Alessia looked at you. Worry written across her face.

'fine. what do you want to know?'

'why you are acting this way. You avoiding us is not normal.'

'i don't belong here.'

'so it's about the comments!' Keira let out a soft sigh. Grace now standing next to you.

'what comments?' she wanted to know. Keira showing her the comments. Grace looked mad now.

'those comments are not true! you are amazing and you deserve this place in the Team!' Grace let you know.

'deep down i know. but those comments still hurt. i just want to show them how wrong they are!'

'then let's do that!' Tooney smiled at you.

The team put out a Statement that there is no place for bullying in any form. And that people who are disrespectful towards the players, especially the Younger ones Like you (you were only 22 years old) shouldn't watch the games.

You could Show them what you are made of during a Game against Portugal were you scored two Goals during your debut which sure did shut up the haters. Getting praised by your teammates and Sarina.

You couldn't hear but your eyes were working perfectly fine.