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corroded-hellfire · 2 days ago
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Forever Young - Eddie Munson x Reader
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An As You Wish story
Summary: It’s Eddie’s 40th birthday and when everything else is making him feel old, you aim to show him that he’s still young.
Note: in honor of our birthday boy
Warnings: smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), oral, m! receiving, older!eddie, Eddie still has his breeding kink of course
Words: 2.7k
[As You Wish masterlist]
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To say Eddie wasn’t excited about his 40th birthday would be an understatement. The closer it came to the day, the grumpier your husband became. He’d grumble under his breath, the words obviously not meant to be heard by you or the kids; but the sentiment was still conveyed.
Months before his birthday, Eddie made it clear to you that he did not want a party. Although he loved spending time with his friends and loved ones, he had decided that he only wanted to spend this particular day with his family. But just because he would be getting through the day unscathed by in-person jokes and ribbing from the likes of Steve Harrington and Dustin Henderson didn’t mean his own family wasn’t going to tease the patriarch.
“Happy birthday, Dad!” Luke holds a card out to his father. His grin isn’t necessarily mischievous, but it’s smart to always be on guard when it comes to the teenager.
“Thank you.” Eddie takes the indigo envelope from his son and slips the card out. Before his eyes can even take in the bold bubble letters on the front, a pamphlet slips out. Eddie catches it before it can fall to the floor and holds it up to take a proper look.
Hawkins Comfort: The Exceptional Home for Senior Living
The clenching of Eddie’s jaw causes Luke to snicker. Your husband tosses the pamphlet at your son’s face before reading the card itself. Luckily for Luke, the card itself was sweet and didn’t add further insult to injury.
With a heavy sigh, Eddie nods his head and closes the card.
“Thanks,” he reiterates.
“Aw come on, Dad,” Luke says, stepping forward and patting his father on the back. “I’m just messing with you.”
Freshly dressed for the evening out, Eliza zooms into the room, the three-year-old already tickled pink at the thought of having some cake after dinner. She runs into her dad’s legs and wraps her little arms around them.
“Happy birthday!” It’s the fourth time she’s told him this today and he knows it won’t be the last.
“Thank you, baby girl.”
“See?” Luke says, nudging his dad. “You have a baby. You’re not old.”
Eliza’s face goes from gleeful to rueful.
“‘M not a baby!”
“Excuse me, miss.” Luke bows to her before snatching the toddler up into his arms. “I meant to say that Daddy has a young lady for a daughter.”
Placated by that explanation, Eliza nods her head once. “Better.”
As you walk into the living room, a minute later than Eliza due to her rapid speed, Luke gestures to you with one hand while the other one supports his little sister.
“And look! You have a wife who is in her twenties.”
Eddie’s tongue pokes out of the side of his lips, internally trying to decide if that fact makes him feel better or worse. He does have a young, hot wife. But does that make him feel young as well or does he just feel each and every day of those eleven years between the two of you?
“See! Mama is young!” Eliza says.
“Are they ganging up on you, honey?” You playfully pout as you approach your husband’s side.
“Luke’s ready to check me into a nursing home,” he gripes.
“Why you need a nurse?” Eliza asks.
“He doesn’t,” you say before Luke gets a chance to be a wiseass. “Daddy takes care of himself and all of us. Right, Lize?”
“Yeah!”
“Are we ready to go?” Ryan asks, waltzing into the room as he pats his flat stomach. “I’m starving.”
“Didn’t you have a bowl of cereal an hour ago?” you ask.
“Yeah,” Ryan replies. “An hour ago.”
Eddie sighs, remembering the days when he too was a teenager and could inhale food all day and keep that small waist of his. As if able to read his mind, you slip your arm around your husband’s middle and give it a small squeeze.
“Alright gang,” Eddie says, “let’s head out.”
After you all return home, Eliza isn’t nearly as excited about cake as she was before. Her head rests on your shoulder, soft whines coming out of her mouth as you carry her into the house.
“We told you not to eat too much ice cream,” you say.
“Daddy said I could,” she groans.
The restaurant gave Eddie a free ice cream sundae for his birthday and he invited all of you to share it with him. The boys, of course, had room even after finishing off their dinner plates completely. But Eliza’s tiny tummy was already decently full of her noodles before she picked up a giant spoon and started scooping the vanilla dessert into her mouth.
“But you had too much.” You press a kiss to her curls before setting her down on the couch.
Eddie hangs his keys on the hook by the door before coming over and wrapping his arms around you.
“Thank you for a nice dinner, princess.”
You smile up at him and press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“Daddy?” Eliza asks.
“What’s up?”
She pushes herself to sit up straighter and tucks her legs beneath her.
“How old you now?”
He gives her a small smile as he drapes his arm across your shoulders.
“40.”
“Whoa.” Eliza’s eyes widen comically. It’s hard for you to keep your laugh in. “That’s big number. I don’t think we got enough candles for the cake me and Ryan made.”
This time you have to turn your head to the side and hide your smile in Eddie’s armpit.
Thankfully, Ryan is able to assure Eliza that they don’t need to put the whole 40 candles on the cake. With a gaggle of offbeat singing surrounding him, Eddie smiles and closes his eyes to think of a wish. Apparently, he takes too long for his daughter’s liking. She sighs, naturally dramatic as always, and everyone else laughs.
Eddie is able to blow out all the candles in one go and you cut the cake, giving pieces to your two sons who are eyeing the confection with glee. You’re unable to keep from snorting in amusement at their never-ending hunger and you take a seat next to Eddie to eat your own piece. Deciding to power through it, Eliza manages to eat half off a slice before she lays across her dad’s lap, hands holding her once again full belly.
The perk to her being so full is that it’s easier to wrangle her into her pajamas and under her covers. With one last wish of a happy birthday to Eddie, he presses a kiss to her forehead and her eyes begin to flutter closed.
The boys aren’t far behind. Whether or not they’re going to sleep, you’re not sure. But as long as they’re in their rooms you’re happy. Because you have one last surprise for Eddie today.
You come up behind him as he unbuckles his belt and yanks it out of the denim loops on his black jeans. His shirt raises up slightly and you take advantage, slipping your hands beneath the fabric, letting your nails gently scratch over his pale skin. Eddie starts to unzip his pants and you press trailing kisses across his shoulder blade.
“Baby?” Eddie steps forward out of your grasp and turns around to face you. “I’m pretty tired.”
A frown creases your brow. Eddie has every right in the world to be too exhausted to fool around and just want to climb into bed, but you’re not buying that’s really the case right now.
“Okay,” you say softly, stepping forward and gently cupping his face in your hands. “We can just lay down and cuddle if you want. But something tells me you’ve got something on your mind.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then, Eddie sighs and steps backward out of your hands, and takes a seat on the foot of your bed. You move to stand in front of him and gently card your fingers through his bangs resting against his forehead. He rests one hand on your hip and appears deep in thought for a few minutes.
“I just
” he finally says. “I just feel like the older I get the more pronounced our age difference is.”
Your eyebrows shoot up, not expecting that to be what’s on his mind.
“Hey.” Gently, you take his chin between your thumb and forefinger and lift his head so he’s looking you in the eye. “So what?”
Eddie’s brow furrows and he looks at you, skepticism dancing across his face.
“What do you mean ‘so what?’”
“That exactly. So what if you look like you’re forty and I look like I’m twenty-eight? Those are our ages. Just like you looked thirty-two when we got together and I looked twenty. And how in thirty years you’ll look seventy and I’ll look fifty-eight. What does it matter? Do you really think I give a shit what anyone else thinks? The only two people in this marriage are you and me, buddy.” You grab his shoulder and gently shake him back and forth. “I knew how many years apart we were when we got together. When I married you. When I had a baby with you. You think I would’ve stuck around all this time if I had doubts about our age difference? No way, baby. You’re stuck with me. Even when I get gray hair and all.”
A finger absentmindedly brushes against Eddie’s temple as you speak. Your husband stiffens, connecting the dots between your words and where you touched him.
“I have gray hair?” He jumps up and scurries to the full-length mirror in the corner of your room.
“What?” A heavy sigh deflates your body as you realize the conclusion he jumped to. “No, Eddie. You don’t have any gray hair.” His inspection in the mirror bothers you, so you walk forward and manage to squeeze between him and the mirror. “But even if you did, you’d still be the sexiest man I’ve ever met.”
Eddie sighs and rests his forehead against yours.
“I don’t feel forty,” he whispers to you. “I feel like a kid still.”
“Well, you are a big kid,” you tease, managing to pull a small smile out of him. Relieved to see him feeling a bit lighter, you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck. “And besides, I think I’m the last person in the world you have to convince that you’re still young.”
“And why’s that?” he asks.
Giving him a suggestive smirk, you lean in until your lips ghost against his.
“Because,” you whisper, “of how nice and good you fuck me.”
A low groan reverberates from your husband’s chest and he pulls you flush up against his body.
“Yeah?” His voice is dripping in lust. “You like how I make you feel, princess? How hard I pound that tight little pussy of yours?”
“Uh huh,” you whimper before pressing your lips against his.
Eddie’s fingers dig into your hips as you walk him backward towards the bed. When the back of his knees hit the mattress, all it takes is a small push from you to have him falling onto his back. His eyes are dark with need as he watches you tug his open jeans down his legs. The two of you work together as he yanks his shirt off over his head and you tear his boxers off.
As you fall to your knees between Eddie’s thighs, he sits up enough to pull your top off as well. Once you’re free of the offending fabric, you take Eddie’s cock in your hand. You move it up and down slowly, feeling him harden in your grip.
“Fuck,” Eddie growls.
On a swipe down you lean in and press a kiss to the tip. The resulting moan from your husband sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. You pump his cock a few more times before you can’t hold off any longer and have to take him into your mouth.
“Yes,” Eddie hisses.
You run your tongue along the underside of his length, making sure to keep eye contact with him the entire time. The way he watches you with lust-blown eyes and his chest rises and falls in rapid succession with his shallow breaths has you squeezing your thighs together.
You start to bob your head up and down, taking him a little deeper each time. He becomes impossibly harder in your mouth. A large hand gently cups the side of your head and pulls you off of him. The way you whine in protest makes Eddie chuckle darkly.
“Sorry, baby,” he says. “Feels too damn good, though. Need you up here.”
He helps you to your feet and shed the rest of your clothes. Eddie shuffles back towards the pillows, eyes taking in your every movement as you crawl up towards him. When he moves to sit up, you put your hand on his shoulder and push him back down.
“You just lay there,” you coo, lifting one leg to straddle across his thighs. “Rest those old bones and let me take care of you.”
Eddie narrows his eyes, playfully glaring at you and the shit-eating grin on your face.
“Fine,” he challenges. Eddie raises his arms and laces his fingers together behind his head. “Get going.”
He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You line him up with your entrance and slowly lower yourself onto him. The two of you moan in tandem, the feeling of being united insanely pleasurable.
Once you’re fully seated on him, you start to rock your hips back and forth. Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and bites at his bottom lip. His fingers dig at the back of his head, digging into his scalp to keep from caving and grabbing ahold of your body.
Sensing his resolve breaking, you rest your hands on his chest and lean in to speak softly.
“What do you think, Eddie?” you croon. “Want to get me nice and knocked up on your birthday?”
“Shit.”
Your words snap the last bit of restraint he was holding onto and his hands fly to your hips, helping your body move against his.
“Come on, handsome,” you continue through labored breaths, “fill me up with your cum.”
“Jesus Christ.” Eddie huffs a laugh and tilts his head up, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m fucking forty now, I should be able to last longer than this.”
“You forget I know how to push your buttons.”
“Mm?” Eddie looks back down at you, raising an eyebrow as you bounce on his cock. “You mean like this?”
A ringed hand slides between your body and rubs quick circles over your clit.
“Fuck!” You bite down on your lip, attempting to keep your voice low.
“Let’s go, princess. Want you to come with me.”
Unable to respond in any articulate way, you nod your head and hum incoherently. With one hard flick against your clit, the coil in you snaps. Your head falls forward, your jaw hanging open as your high washes over you. The way you clench around Eddie has him following right behind you, the two of you rutting against one another as you ride out your orgasms.
“Holy shit,” Eddie groans as both of your bodies begin to come down.
Suddenly boneless, you flop down against Eddie’s chest and he instinctively wraps an arm around you. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and lets his heavy eyes close.
“I love you so fucking much,” you mumble against his chest, slightly sticky with sweat.
Eddie breathes a chuckle and rubs his hand up and down your back.
“How are you so perfect?” he asks.
Now it’s your turn to laugh.
“I’m going to remind you that you said that next time you get all grumpy over me making fun of your age.”
Before you have time to process his movements, Eddie grips your waist and flips the two of you, smirking down at you as he settles his weight against your body.
“I’ll just have to keep proving how well I can fuck you then,” he says.
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Is that supposed to discourage me?”
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moonstruckme · 12 hours ago
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Hi Mae! I was in a car accident yesterday (car took most of the damage, I’m ok other than bruises and sore muscles) and the whole thing has been a whirlwind of insurance and hospital and half asleep crying. I was wondering if I could request James potter x reader for comfort in a situation like that? I’m going through it rn lol hope you’re having a good day :)
Oh I'm sorry lovely! I had a very similar thing happen a little over a year ago, it's sooooo exhausting even when luckily no one is seriously hurt. Thanks for requesting, hope you're having a good/better day too <33
cw: past car accident, no details but talk of general aftermath of police questioning, insurance, etc.
James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 799 words
The way James half-jogs up to the automatic doors of the hospital, seeming caught between walking and running, feels like someone is pressing down on the bruise of your chest. You wish you’d called him sooner. 
“James,” you call as he comes in, hating how your voice cuts through the taut quiet of the waiting area. It’s worth it for how his whole self softens when his eyes find you. 
He slows to a fast walk the rest of the way to you, the urgency slowly leaving him—which is appropriate, there is no urgency, everything has happened already—like an engine running out of gas. You stand as he nears, and both of you reach for each other before James hesitates. His hands stop midair, his brow tightening for a moment, before they come tentatively to your elbows.
“Hi,” he says, squeezing. “How bad is it?” 
“For me or the car?” you joke. 
“You.” James is feeling too earnest for joking, it seems. “Well, both of you. But you first.” 
You really thought you’d cry when you saw him. Worried you’d make a whole scene, blubbering and inconsolable, but you don’t seem to have any tears left. It makes sense, you suppose; you’ve cried a lot in the past few hours. First the slow, shaky kind right after getting out of your car, and then a real cry when a police officer had pulled you aside to get your version of events. (It had been embarrassing. She’d been nice about it, though.) Now, you wait for the tears to come, but for all your relief at seeing your boyfriend you feel rather dried up. 
It makes you wish, once again, that you’d called James sooner. You’d wanted to, of course, but you’d been nearly certain you’d be even less capable of holding yourself together if he were there, and there wasn’t much reason for him to be anyways. He was at work and you weren’t terribly hurt, so there was really nothing he could have done while you were talking to the police and the tow company and the paramedics and attempting not to drown in an overwhelm of insurance information. The only thing you really wanted him for was to hold your hand.
“I’m okay,” you say, the necessary preface. “A bit bruised up. My chest got the worst of it.” 
Unconsciously, your hand comes to your sternum as if to demonstrate, gravitating towards the center of the ache. James’ hand follows, seemingly just as thoughtless as it covers your own. He can’t see the bruise, but he makes a low, sad sound anyway. 
His care softens your voice. “They said my neck will probably hurt tomorrow, but it doesn’t yet.” 
“Oh, sweetheart.” James sounds really, truly heartbroken for you. “And the rest, it hurts a lot?” 
You shrug. What’s a lot? You know you could’ve had worse, much worse; still, you could do without that frightening soreness that comes with each breath. 
“It’s not too bad,” you say. “I could still hug.” 
It’s the question he’s been dying to ask, clearly. James’ arms are around you in a second, ardent but still gentle, palms pressing to the high and low points of your bag. It’s a good hug. You melt a little against him. 
James tucks his face into the side of your neck, like he’s trying to get as much contact with you as he can. “I wish you’d called me when it happened.” 
“You were at work.” 
“I’d have left work.” 
“There wasn’t anything you could do. I was fine, I just had to
” a little sigh escapes you, exhaustion creeping in now that he’s here “...talk to people. Insurance and all that.” 
James makes a soft, half-agreeing sound. His thumb strokes the base of your neck. “Still. I could have held your hand.” 
A new ache rises in the back of your throat, coming to join the rest. You wind your arms tighter around James. 
After a few, silent moments, he kisses your neck chastely and loosens his hold. “Ready to go home? Anything else you need?” 
You shake your head. “I’m signed out,” you say, so eager you feel like you could float out the doors. You hope you can entice James to lie in bed with you when you get home. You think you’ll sleep until tomorrow. “Let’s go, please.” 
“Alright, you don’t have to say please, sweetheart.” James curls an arm around your shoulders, pressing a smile into your cheek. “We can go. You need one of those wheelchairs for me to take you out to the car?” 
“Ha ha,” you say drily. “No.” 
“Just checking. Think maybe I ought to ask for one, just in case?”
“James. I will take your car home without you in it.” 
“Alright, lovie, I’m coming.”
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jazzhaaaands · 18 hours ago
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This is what it will take though, for shit to start LITERALLY FALLING FROM THE SKY
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Diversity, equity, and inclusion programs provide the best candidates.
Old boy network provides a lot of dumbass men and white nepotism. Male, pale, and stale.
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clockwayswrites · 1 day ago
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The Haunting of Danny Fenton, p4
Masterpost late, tired, still emotional and physically fragile. please no editing <3
“—ir? Sir?”
Danny mumbled something incoherent that was supposed to be a response to that, or befuddlement about being called ‘sir’, or at least something better than ‘wadamehaaftz’. The bite of a tightening blood pressure cuff around his arm helped bring him a little be back to the world. He opened his eyes right into too bright light and winced back in reaction.
“Sir? Do you need us to call an ambulance?” the panicked looking barista asked. She was crouched down next to him where he lay on the floor.
Great, now he could never come back to this coffee shop. That was a damn shame, they had really good bagels.
“No,” Danny managed to make his mouth say. “Seizure. Newish thing for me. I’m fine—will be fine. Sorry.”
“Maybe you should stay laying down for a moment longer?” The barista suggested.
Danny hummed. “Don’t want to be a bother.”
“Dude,” someone said off to Danny’s right. He didn’t think it was worth the effort to turn his head and look, “you just had a seizure. You were screaming. Like, I think we’re all okay if you lay there. We can step around you.”
There were murmurers of agreement.
“Okay, yeah, you know what, great,” Danny said and summoned the willpower to lift his hand and give there room a thumbs up. He let it drop listlessly back down onto his chest.
At least the floor was cool against his back. And he did feel a bit better not trying to get up immediately. When he finally pulled himself back up into his chair, the nice barista brought him a glass of ice water with a straw. Danny drank every drop of the first glass and a refill until the paper of the stupid straw started to turn to mush between his lips.
Knowing that he wouldn’t be up for doing much especially that day, Danny got a bagel sandwich to go, left a generous tip, and fled the cafe with his proverbial tail between his legs.
Penny was was at the apartment. She shoved a still warm load of banana bread at Danny as she bitched about her latest failed relationship. Apparently her girlfriend had been hooking up with the bouncer at their favorite bar. Not that Penny would have minded if they had talked through it before hand and Penny was allowed to join every now and again.
Which, fair, the bouncer did have amazing arms.
When Penny’s phone rang, blaring a dated pop song, Danny was able to make his escape with the added load of his two liter water bottle and bag of little oranges. Or not oranges—clementines? Tangelos? Whatever, little oranges.
He set everything down on the end of his bed before flinging himself onto it.
Another seizure. A worse one.
But a clearer vision of the ghost than he’d ever had before.
Groaning, Danny dragged himself to hang over the edge of his bed so he could pull out one of the storage cubes from under it. After a bit of shuffling, he got the one he wanted out from the back: a long ignored stack of art supplies. Danny rummaged around in it for a pencil and eraser before he pulled the sketchbook out from the bottom. He flipped past old game ides and idle doodles to find a blank page and started to work.
There was so much of the ghost that he still couldn’t define, but the more he worked at the sketch of the ghost’s face, the more he started to narrow it down.
Danny stared down at the page.
Overworked eyes stared back.
Feeling frustrated at how close it was, Danny grabbed a blue marker from the page and filled in the eyes carefully. Then, with almost irritated strokes, Danny roughly messed in the strikingly orange hair.
Now his ghost started back.
“Hello there
"
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futbolfatale · 2 days ago
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Origin Story
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Pairing: Alpha Alexia Putellas/Omega Reader, Omega Mapi LeĂłn/Omega Reader, Alpha Ingred Engen/Omega Reader,
Summary: You get invited to a Barca game by an Alpha at your school who wouldn't accept.
Tags/Warnings: Dubious consent, Bathroom sex, scent marking,
Note: Only is Mapi the only one in this but there will probs be a part 2 with the rest of the pack.
The only reason I've been writing lately is @insomniakisses who definitely doesn't know I exist but I love their blog.
Something about their writing has inspired me for better or worse.
Wordcount: 1.1K
When you got invited to the Barca vs Real Madrid Game by a girl at your college of course you accepted.  She was in a couple of your classes but all you knew about her is that she is an alpha and is kind of a dick. But you would be crazy not to know how expensive tickets are and surely she can’t be as bad as everyone says. But this girl surely has another motive for inviting you. It will come to light soon as you sit next to each other in the crowded stadium. Her scent is aggressive forward and fills the space around you it's almost like Lily and maybe an undertone of patchouli. Overall not the best when you're already surrounded by unfamiliar scents. 
You can’t help but grow excited as they walk out. Okay, so you may have a major crush on some of the players. By some you mean most but it makes since it’s pretty common knowledge that the different teams are packs. Which makes transfers even more devastating. Even so, everyone knows that Barca has two omegas already which is already more than most other packs. They differently don’t need another which is devastating to you but it's not like you could ever be with them anyway. It’s rare for a Futbal pack to mate with someone outside of the football world.
It’s around 20 minutes in before Maddie, whose name you’ve just learned, takes off her sweater revealing that she is wearing a Real Madrid jersey. “Are you seriously wearing that right now?” You ask incredulously. “Ya Real Madrid is going to win, I promise you. They are the superior team,” she responded as if you were stupid for thinking any different. “Barca is definitely better, they have a stacked roster.” You argue back, growing more annoyed. Most likely due to her attitude problem and overwhelming scent. “Real Madrid will win” She seems so assured of herself as if she can already see the outcome of the game. “That's never going to happen. I bet you Barca will win and If they don’t I will write your next essay for you.”. “Deal”
It's not even 10 minutes later that Hansen scores and you're left with a smile on your face. It’s a good feeling to know your rights. Maybe you’ll pick up a sweet treat on the way home. You deserve it after dealing with this idiot. But it's all worth it for free tickets. “I told you” You gloat but only a little. “They're going to pull through one goal doesn’t mean anything,” Maddie responds sharpley her scent turning sour. “One goal can be the difference between winning and losing” You count to praud her mostly for your amusement. “ You think I don’t know that. I know football better than you.” She growls her fangs obvious in her aggressive state. So maybe you fucked with her a little too much but god it was so funny. “Sorry,” You startle as Pajor scores. You definitely made the right choice when picking a team to support.
By the end of the game, you are bursting with excitement a 5-0 win is crazy. You can feel Maddie seething beside you but it doesn’t sour your mood. As you move to stand at the barricade watching the players trade jerseys and such. Then Mapi Leon comes to your section and you're practically vibrating as she strips off her jersey. She walks closer to you her scent is so strong probably from running for so long. “ Would you like it?” She asks looking directly into your eyes. It's like a shock to your system “Yes” You take it from her gratefully and she flashes a toothy grin. “You so pretty princess” Her voice is so low. “Thank you” You can’t help but blush as she sprints off to join her team.
You gather up your things and walk out of the stadium with Maddie. You are starting to feel overheated and are growing quickly annoyed by Maddie.  Her mood has only seemed to worsen since the end of the game. The heated feeling only grows as you move through the stadium. “I’m going to run to the bathroom before we leave.” You split off from Maddie not waiting to hear her response. You have all your things if she leaves you it won’t be the end of the world. You slip into the bathroom and lock yourself in. You lean against the wall and take a deep breath of the jersey. It smells strongly of citrus and has an undertone of cinnamon. It soothes some of the heat under your skin.
You startle as the bathroom opens and someone else steps inside. It takes a moment for their scent to register. Citrus and cinnamon same as the jersey. You open the stall door and peek out to see Mapi standing by the door looking directly at you. “I thought I could smell you in here” She hurried towards you and pushed you back into the stall. “What are you doing” You ask dropping the jersey as she grabs your wrist. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You smell so good” She nuzzles her face into your neck. “Let me have you please” She whispers her accent thicker than before. “You want me but you have Ona if you want an omega” You reason. Sure you want this but you want her to think clearly. “I can and have had Ona but I want you. Once I have had you im sure they will want you as well.” she pushes you into the wall and slides a hand down your pants. Her fingers trace along your cunt through your underwear. “Say yes please I need you” She whimpers into your shoulder tonguing at your scent gland. “Yes. Yes please” you moan rolling your hips against her hand. She slides her fingers past your underwear to rub at your clit. ‘Take me please I need it too bad.”You moan grinding against her. “Shh you can have it see” she slips two fingers inside you with ease. It makes you uncomfotbly aware of how slick you are. It only last a second before shes distracting you by moving her fingers and using her other hand to rub at you clit.
You cum twice before Mapi finally lets up. As you catch you breath she is collecting your things and straightening out your clothes and hair. “ Come with me we are having dinner tonight. Please,” she asks tacting on the please almost as an afterthought. “I'll go but I've got school tomorrow and I really can’t afford to miss any more of my lectures this semester.” You explain as the two of you head out of the stall. Mapi stops to wash her hands before leading you out of the stadium.
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godmadeaterribleerror · 2 days ago
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No More
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Main Masterlist
Read on A03!
Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, so much angst, hurt/comfort, small fluff at the end, pre-established relationship, past abusive/toxic relationship, soft Dean
Summary/Warnings: Some scars don't really fade. They just fester and rot, remaining unattended in your body because you can't really remember how to heal them.
And Dean can't fix this for you. But he can give you somewhere safe to fix yourself.
Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one's heavy guys. If you think that past abusive relationships might be a no go for you, make the right choice for yourself <3. If not, enjoy (?) the story.
Word Count: 4k
It had been a good hunt. An objectively good hunt. Done in two days, no bodies to burn or bury, an alright bar in the town, and Sam managing to get his own room because he’s sick of you trying to bang Dean in front of him.
“Hey, don’t blame my girl for how you’re always sticking your ass in our business-“
“We share a room, Dean!” Sam had said, half-throwing his hands in the air. “Where else am I supposed to stick my ass if not in our communal living space-“
Dean had snorted. “Communal living space? Dude, you sound like such a jackass-“
“Why, because I can use big words like space?”
“I- Watch it, Sammy-“
“I’ll watch it if you stop trying to fuck on my bed!”
They’d kept arguing. You’d remained silent, picking at the wood of the table and wondering if—should you actually attempt to—you could sink into Dean’s chest and just stay there for a while. It would be warm and solid, and probably not all that safe—that man got himself stabbed and shot a lot—but safer than being in you. Then your traitorous and useless body, made only to be snapped in half. It must have something written on it or in it, emit some kind of blacklight or stench that said weak. Dumb, weak little bitch, lucky to have this because you don’t deserve it. Couldn’t deserve it.
Better, you could turn to stone, right here in the booth. If you could do that, you’d never get another bruise on your throat or hear venomous words spat in your ear. Sam and Dean could leave you behind and never have to feel any guilt. Dean could stop having to pretend he likes you as more than a body, and pull away without beating himself up about abandoning you like a used and worn couch. 
Moth-eaten and stained, only still in the house because it feels wrong to throw it out. Because you have a little sentimentality for the couch when it was nice, before it had been beaten and abused and reduced to just a lumpen sack of feathers and cloth.
You don’t think that comparison is fair to the couch. 
At least the couch was once useful.
Because it had been a good hunt.
You were the problem.
You’d slipped and wavered and fallen. But the whole place had smelled like lavender soap, and it had carried you back to where that same smell had suffocated you. He had loved that smell, and said it made you seem prettier and softer than you were. 
This whole case had reeked of him. And you’d told yourself you’d be fine. That it was in the past, and he wasn’t supposed to have that kind of control over you anymore. That the world seems gray in that vamp nest, but it was winter, so that was to be expected. And when you’d been knocked flat on your back, you’d seen a crack in the ceiling—identical to the one that had been over his bed—but had been a coincidence. Ceilings cracked, and there were only so many patterns in the world.
And when a Vamp had wrapped its hand around your throat, that was just something that happened to hunters. You all got hurt and beaten and had close calls. That was the job. You’d faced worse than this. You’d faced blood coating your fingers and splattered on your face, guts pooling at your feet and long moments where you’d been sure no one would come and save you.
Dean had always saved you. Even before you’d started doing more—and then more and more and more, until it seemed pretty obvious you were dating and it was more exhausting to fight it than accept it—Dean had always been saving you. He’d had to do it today, yanking the Mare off your chest and cradling your head against his chest until you were breathing easily. 
Yet again, you’d been the problem. The hunt had been easy and simple, and you’d still fucked it because you sucked. You were dead-weight. You couldn’t stop feeling the hand around your throat—imprinted like a tattoo that made your words small and body smaller—and you couldn’t stop the weighed down feeling of hopelessness. Your brain stuck on a scratching loop around the Vamp’s hiss of dumb, annoying, weak little bitch, until you couldn’t manage to smile at anything at all.
It just made you feel worse, because Dean might be worried you don’t think he’s being funny. That whenever he makes truly horrible joke and you don’t giggle like a lovesick schoolgirl, it’s because he’s gone wrong.
He’s done nothing. You really hope he just gives up and tosses you aside, because he shouldn’t have to put up with worry about something so valueless. He’d find someone else. Someone better and more deserving. You’re just lucky he ever even looked at you, let alone bothered to try and stay. To try and be the hero that keeps rescuing the princess, even when the princess is just a peasant who can put on a show.
You’d tricked him into thinking you’re better than you are. Lied to him until you’d trapped him, and now he had to stay with you, because he’s a good man and you’re simply the fucking worst thing in the world to darken his path, and he’ll leave if he really saw you-
That’s not fair to Dean. He is a good man. Better than he was, by miles and stretches and eons, but that really just made it hurt more. Because Dean’s not him, but you’re still you. The same you who was weak, and stupid, and undeserving. That doesn’t change. It only grows now that you have someone you really don’t deserve. Someone who glows in the low light of the night, laughs in a way that fills the bar with life, and always touches you like he’d like to keep you.
You aren’t something that should be kept. But he’s doing it anyway.
And there’s some bile in your throat at the thought. And that’s just another way in which this—in which you—are horrible.
But the worst part was that things like this happened all the time, and you still weren’t strong enough to build an immunity. To just move on, like a big girl. To actually teach yourself that he was in the past, and this you—now, in the present, sitting with your smoking hot boyfriend’s arm around your shoulders—didn’t have any right to be afraid anymore.
“Are you feeling okay?” 
You blink at Dean as he guides you out of the bar, Sam walking a few feet ahead and the wind of the night is so cold-
Dean says your name, his brow furrowing in the way it does when he’s worried, and you give him your best, softest, most docile smile.
“Everything’s fine.” You say, and you can almost believe yourself. Your voice is gentle and small and doesn’t sound like you, but it’s the best way to end the questions. You’ll fold over. You’ll bend until you snap. And nobody needs to push you for that to happen. 
But Dean’s still frowning. “Are you sure? ‘Cause if you’re feeling well we can head back to the bunker tonight, and Sam won’t have to get his own room-“
“No, Dean, I’m-“
“Yeah, no, Dean.” Sam turns, shooting his brother a glare. “How would I get home?”
“You’re smart, Sammy, you’d figure it out-“
You tune out the rest of their fake-argument. You’re mostly listening to the wind. It’s loud, and strong, and cold. So cold, biting at your skin and making your joints stiff, but at least you can feel it. It’s not numbing, and it’s indifferent, and Sam and Dean don’t seem half as affected by it as you are, but they’re also not weak-
“C’mon,” Dean says your name, and you realize you’re moving again. That he’s guiding you into the shotgun seat, and a grumpy looking Sam is clambering into the back.
“Wait, why-“
“We’re dropping Sam off, then heading back.” Dean turns the engine on, his voice barely raising to match the rumble, and you’re not sure you heard him right.
“Why- I don’t-“
“I wanna go home.” Dean shrugs, and it’s too casual. “And Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll be fine without Mommy and Daddy watching him.”
A small smile tugs at your lips, built by Sam’s groan from behind you, and you can’t stop the words from slipping out. “I told you to stop calling us that.”
“Yeah, but you also told me that you were-“ Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly and clearing his throat. “That you weren’t into car sex, and that ain’t ever stopped us-“
You cover his mouth with a hand—his shit-eating grin just as blinding in only his eyes—and Sam makes a fake gagging sound.
And you think Dean knows. That he’s realized that you’re just so tired and weak and useless, and he’s trying to work out if it’s worth keeping you around. If you’ll listen to him and do what he asks—and you will, you always will, not because of the threat of being left but because he’s Dean and he couldn’t lead you astray if he tried—or if he needs to leave you on the pavement to scrape yourself back together.
So you don’t fight him, or insist that Sam can have his privacy and sanity without getting another room or you and Dean leaving, because you don’t really want to be touched like that right now. You just drop Sam off at the motel, grab your bags, and slump back into the Impala’s bench as Sam and Dean exchange low words outside.
By the time Dean joins you, you’re half asleep. And you try to stay awake—to entertain him half as much as he entertains you—but he pulls you right into his side, lets your head rest on his shoulder, and Dean doesn’t smell like lavender. He smells like evergreen and apples, he’s warm when your ears are still a little numb from the cold, and when he starts to hum along to the low music, you’re gone. Everything fades, and it’s just the deep sound of Dean’s voice like a lullaby and a big, firm hand on your thigh that isn’t going to leave a bruise.
Maybe you don’t deserve a bruise. 
Maybe you don’t deserve anything. Maybe you’re lucky to be stuck in this bed with stinging marks around your throat, and a voice like nails on your ears sneering that you’re a weak little bitch. If you were stronger you’d fight back, but you’ve been broken in and can’t be put back together. If you were stronger, you’d scream for help, but you’re also so horribly you that you know nobody will ever come and save you.
Who would try to save you? Who could possibly care about something like you enough to bother and patch up you up, to take string to your skin and heart and organs and tie them back together? You’re not strong enough to make anything stick. You’re made of glass and linen, and any attempt to put you back together would be futile, because you’d probably just break further. Someone would have to be patient enough to pull you back together when you spooled apart, and warm enough to fuse and meld you in a way that wouldn’t shatter with one touch.
You don’t think a person like that would be real. And if they are, they wouldn’t want you.
Because they’d be strong, and you really are weak.
If you were strong, you would’ve left. But you’re still here in this freezing cold bed, staring at the crack on the ceiling.
And you don’t think you’ll ever be more than that. Not as another hand wraps around your throat—you don’t remember what you said, but you must have said something—and there’s a heavy weight on your chest and you can’t breathe-
“Breathe.” A deep voice that sounds like it cares says your name, and you listen. “It’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe for me.”
For him. There’s a hand on your head that’s combing through your hair and pressing you into a place that warm and solid and safe. You’re held steady by an arm around your waist, and it fits so well there. You don’t think it could hurt you if it tried.
He’d sounds kind and caring, and he’d said your name like you mattered, so you’ll try to breathe.
And you don’t remember how to do it for yourself yet, so—just for now, until you can teach yourself to do anything for you—you’ll breathe for him.
“There you go, baby,” the voice mutters, and when you make a weak, choked sound his body tenses, but he doesn’t push you away. “I know, but I’ve got you. Swear I’ve got you.”
He says he’s got you. Dean says he’sgot you.
And you believe him.
So you start to cry.
He’d never liked it when you cried. He’d said it was useless, and that the sound was annoying.
Dean just keeps holding you, and muttering soothing words in your ear until the tears stop flowing. He only keeps rubbing a circle on your back until your breathing slows, and you can lean back to meet his gaze.
He’s not angry. Just worried. 
You’re going to start crying again.
“Are,” you sniff, trying to pull yourself back together by force, and look around the dark space. “Are we still in the car?”
“Pulled over earlier.” He mutters, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone with a care you don’t deserve. “You started doing that tossing shit when you’re about to have a nightmare. Wanted to get ahead of it.”
You swallow. You’d made him pull over, and you had enough nightmares that he knew what one looked like, and you were just a burden and problem and he should just shove you out of the Impala and leave you to rot like carrion on the highway-
“Stop doin’ that.” Dean grunts, and you tense.
“I- I’m not-“
“You’re freakin’ out. You’re freakin’ me out.” Dean scans over your face, pulling you close until you’re half on his lap. “If you’re hurt, you know you gotta tell me, sweetheart. I’m not looking to do a zombie bite thing, where we get home and you start bleeding all over the floor. So tell me.” He takes a deep breath, and his exhale is warm over your lips. “Please tell me.”
You can’t tell him. You’re not ready for him to leave yet.
You drop your brow to Dean’s, taking low, slow breaths and shaking your head. “It’s okay-“
“It’s fucking not.” He snaps your name, his grip tightening slightly, and you flinch. “I- shit- did I hurt you-“
“No.” You mumble. “I’m just tired-“
“You’ve been sleeping for five hours. You’ll get another seven once we get goin’ again. But,” Dean narrows his eyes, even as his grip loosens once more. “We’re not getting back on the road until you answer me. What’s wrong.”
“I-“ You cut yourself off with a choked sound. He’s angry. You’d made him angry, and he won’t hurt you but if he did you’d deserve it-
You start crying again, and Dean’s eyes widen. This is it. He’s going to push you out the window and you’ll have to wander through the marshes until the mud just swallows you whole-
Dean pulls you fully into his lap, holding you there carefully and muttering in your ear with a care and reverence you don’t deserve.
“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry, fuck, please don’t cry-“
“No, it’s- I’m-“ You take a long, strangled breath, wrapping your arms around his torso until you’re sure you’re going to suffocate him. “It’s not you, Dean, I- It’s not your problem-“
“Fucking hell it’s not my problem.”
You shake your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Maybe you really could move in there, and nothing would ever hurt you again. “It’s- You don’t have to-“
“I do.” He mutters, guiding your head back to meet his gaze. He brushes the tears from your eyes. You don’t deserve this. “You’re hurtin’.”
It’s not a question, but you nod anyways. Holding a lie too long has never done you a favor before.
“Tell me how to fix it.”
“You- you can’t fix this,” you mumble, staring at the bridge of his nose. You aren’t worthy of looking him in the eyes. “It’s, it’s just me, Dean. I’m just like this.”
He frowns. “Like what?”
“Weak.” You whisper. “I- I risked the hunt, I always risk the hunt, and I’m not strong like you and Sam are, and I just wanna go home-“
“We’re going home, babygirl.” Dean’s voice is soft, and low, and cautious, and you let out another sob that shakes your whole body. “And you’re not weak, you ganked like three vamps-“
“Could’ve done more.”
“There were seven of them. Three is pretty awesome numbers.” He gives you a nervous small smile. “You’re awesome. I don’t know who’s been telling you otherwise, but you are.”
That’s what breaks you. The floodgates don’t open—they’d barely held anything to begin with—but something snaps along your spine, and you can’t stop the horrible, rotten truth from falling out of your mouth. 
“But he was right.” You whisper. “I’m weak, Dean, and I don’t know why you can’t see it.”
“There’s nothing to see, and I- Who’s he?”
You wish that you’d slept better. If you had, your tongue wouldn’t be loosened with pure exhaustion, and you could lie.
But you’re so tired. Unbelievably tired. Mind-numbingly and persistently tired, all the time, and it’s grow so intolerable you just want to be anything else. And if what you are is weak and alone, at least you’ll know that’s where you're supposed to be. 
And you’d never wanted Dean to know. He was never supposed to learn from your own mouth how foul you are. He was supposed to find out himself, and then leave you like everyone always has the right to do.
But you’re telling him that you’re weak and fearful, that you’d never been able to fight tooth and spit and leave. You waited so, so long to leave and even then, it had only been because he’d been gone for a while, and you were so tired, and you needed to be anywhere but there. 
And you stepped out, and never gone back.
There’s not going back now either. It all spills out, from how you met him to the day you left. And Dean’s so quiet. Only watching you as you speak and squeezing his hold on your hips when you trail off or cry.
But he doesn’t kick you out. And when you finished, you’re still in his lap. You can’t read the expression on his face. The highway lights are dim, and there’s nothing obviously hateful or disgusted written over his features, but you might just be too stupid to see it-
“I’m-“ Dean clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
You blink at him, the tears still blurring your vision. “What.”
“That’s- I didn’t know, I never even fucking guessed- I should’ve guessed-“
“How would you have guessed?” You whisper, risking a drop of your brow back to his. He lets you stay. “I never told you-“
“But I know you. I should’ve seen it, you- I should’ve made you feel like you could tell me, I-“ His face hardens in his second, his grip tightening, but not to suffocated you. To protect you. To wrap his whole body around yours and keep it there safely. “I should fucking kill him. Cut off his arms and stuff them up his ass, get Cas to put the fear of god in him-“
“Dean, no-“
“He doesn’t just get to fucking do that to you and keep walking around-“
“He shouldn’t.” You mumble. “But he did. Men do all the time. And, I- I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-“
“Don’t apologize.” He grunts, dragging his thumb over your cheekbone. “You’ve never done anything wrong, baby, it’s just that son of a bitch, who’s gonna get a knock on his door soon-“
“No knocking on doors,” you wrap your arms around his neck, shaking your head against his brow. “Please, Dean, that’s- that’s not what I want-“
“What do you want?”
His question is immediate, and it crashes into you like a tidal wave. Numbing your whole body and kickstarting it in the same second, because you don’t know. You haven’t really known, haven’t had a direction, in years. You wandered and wandered and just tried to keep on breathing, to keep on your feet,  and never let yourself look back. 
You’d never been good at that last part. You kept on breathing because you didn’t have a choice. You’d kept on your feet because if you faltered, you’d fall over and it would be so painful to get back up. 
But you’d always looked back. On nights like this one, over and over and over until your eyes were sunken and your neck was craned to always make sure nothing was behind you. 
It might be nice to rest. To breathe not because it’s a labor, but because it feels nice to breathe the same air as Dean. 
It would be amazing to keep looking back—it’s a habit, and it will die a slow and withering death until it’s gone, and you never pinpoint the moment you lost it—but to also start looking forward. Looking for that place to rest, that you already seem to have found.
What do you want?
“I want some food.” You whisper, leaning back to scan over Dean’s face. “And a nap. Please.”
Dean gives you a small grin, and nods. “I think we can do that. And after, you’ll give me an address-“
“Please don’t kill him, Dean.” You drop your voice slightly, holding his gaze. “I just want to stay with you, and to never see him again. Please.”
Two more wants. You’re on a roll. 
“Just me?” Dean asks, and you don’t he believes you.
But it really is the truth.
“Just you.” You say, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, and humming when he grins against them.
“Lucky you,” he mutters your name against your lips, squeezing his arms around you “I think I know a dude who can swing that.”
You let out a soft giggle—barely a breath, but there—Dean squeezes his arms again, and you really like how he does that. It’s not because he’s trying to remind you where you belong, it’s because he trying to check that you’re there. Like he’s just as afraid that you’ll flee as you are that he’ll shove you aside, and he’s trying to hold you together with everything he has before you slip away.
“You’re really cheesy,” you say, and he chuckles.
“You like it. We start drivin’ again, you think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”
“Yeah, but food-“
“We’re only a few hours out from home.” Dean shrugs, really making no attempt to move you from his lap. “I’ll order whatever you’re feeling when we get back.”
You pause, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as you think. “How about pizza?”
“Who’s cheesy now-“
You lean back to give him a mock glower. “Dean Winchester.”
“What did you not like that one-“
“It was horrible-“
“That’s not a no-“ 
You cut him off with a long, soft kiss, and you like it here. Wherever Dean is, you’ll like it there.
“Can we please get pizza?” You mumble, and he nods. It’s such a small, normal movement. 
It makes you feel a little more found.
“We can get anything you want, princess.”
End Note: Oof that was a sad one. Sorry squad.
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jasontoddsotherhalf · 1 day ago
Text
Hey guys, I gave it a try lol let me know what yall think!
Jason Todd isn't a cruel guy.
Not on purpose, anyways. He saw some shit as a kid, as any kid did growing up in Crime Alley. His parents were murdered when he was still very young and he'd been taken in by THE Batman. Regardless of what anyone says, beating criminals up every night of your tween years does affect one's physce. Getting beat with a crowbar and killed by Joker does worse.
But now Jason is back, and he's stronger, and he's smarter. Sure he's scarred up and violent, but he's finally his own soilder, his own dog. And Jason really does love helping people. Which is why along side running the biggest crime ring Gotham had seen in years, he also works for a Mental Health Helpline.
He didn't get many calls directed to him, but he did get one tonight as he sat in his shitty apartment in Gotham, tending to a wound on his leg a few days old. He answered the phone, putting it on speaker and laying it on the coffee table.
"Hello, Gotham Mental Health Hotline. How may I help you tonight?"
A deep voice comes from the other side of the phone, a voice that Jason had heard in his dreams for years, praising him, scolding him, reading him stories to help him get to bed, waking up from resting to go fight crime.
"I'm not at risk. I don't need help." Bruce Wayne says slowly.
Jason clears his throat, his eyes narrowing. Would Bruce know it was him. Would Bruce ever be able to recognize him at all?
"I understand." Jason answered. "Is there any way I can help?"
Bruce took a shakey breath. "I don't need...help. I just...I have some heavy regrets waying on me. Mistakes that I've carried with me, guilt that acts like a noose, tighter recently than it has been in years. My son...I messed up so badly with my son. I want to fulfill my promise to him. I want to make it all okay again for my boy."
Jason shivered. He's not talking about you, idiot. He tells himself. He doesn't care that you're dead. He never cared. He's talking about perfect Dick or clever Tim. Not better-off-dead Jason Fucking Todd.
Jason slowly went back to tending to the open wound, which had started bleeding from how hard he was unintentionally prodding at it. "Have you tried talking to him? I'm sure he'd understand." Jason said through gritted teeth. It wasn't him. Batman didn't need Jason, so Bruce certainly didn't either.
"I would tell him. If he ever showed up. God, I'd tell him anything and everything." Something screeched in the background on Bruce's end and Bruce swore softly. Jason pictured him suddenly speeding through Gotham streets, the Batmobile swerving dangerously, recklessly.
Jason didn't say anything, just waited for his father- for Bruce Wayne- to keep speaking. He continued, after a moment. "I only see him sometimes, when I dream. And he's in my arms again, young and bright and so full of life and potential." So he was talking about Dick. The first Robin who had grown up, fought with Batman, and left, never to return, not as he had been. Dick was Nightwing now, and led his own team, though he was still close with Bruce. Jason relaxed. This call was not about him. He could continue with his plans of vengeance without feeling guilty. I'm sure I'll laugh about this later.
"I'm sorry sir..." Jason trailed off awkwardly. Bruce spoke before Jason could say anything else.
"He's...he's dead." Jason froze. Everything went still. It seemed as though the cars outside all went skidding to a halt, the blood in Jason's veins went cold. The only sound was the old light above him flickering. Jason stuttered slightly as he quickly searched up both Nightwing and Robin on line, a dark part of him hoping one of them had died. But no, there were only two articles published within the last few hours and it was about a case Robin, Nightwing, and Batman had dismantled the previous night.
Jason swallowed. "I'm...so sorry, sir. Do you want to talk about him?" Jason wanted him to say no, needed Bruce to say no. For once he wanted Bruce to close off everything and everyone and retreat back to the dark corner of his mind where he told no one anything.
And there was a long silence between them, Jason was sure Bruce would hang up.
Batman would have. But Bruce didn't. "His name was Jason. And he was the most golden and beautiful boy on this planet. You would have never thought so from judt glancing at him once. His hair was flat and dark, And he was short and skinny and always had dirt on him somewhere. But it was in his eyes, and in his laugh. That's where his love was held. He cared so much. About everyone. He always wanted to help. He would always rush forward, even if it put him at risk. He didn't care about himself. He cared more about the wellbeing of others. He was so sweet and..." Bruce's voice cracked. "I just want my son back. My sweet boy." Jason didn't say anything. He felt his throat burn and his eyes blur. "I-i'm sorry sir. He sounds...amazing. I'm sure whatever it is you feel guilty over..." Jason took a deep breath. "I'm sure he forgives you." He lied. Partially lied. Jason didn't know anymore. One conversation where one participant didn't even know who the other was did not count as closure, and nothing was different. But it wasn't the same either. Bruce cared. All this time Jason had been looking for Batman to show the effect Jason's death had on him, when really it was Bruce he should have been looking at.
Bruce was quiet for a long long time. "I wish that was true, son. But I don't think so. Still, thank you for saying so. And thank you for listening. You're a good kid." Bruce didn't say anything else before hanging up. Jason sat in silence for a moment, frozen in time, feeling dizzy. Then he sprung up, his injured leg aching and dripping blood onto the floor, and he ran to the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet and throwing up anything he had eaten in the past 24 hours.
AU, where Jason returns to Gotham, but in between of his evil mastermind plans and managing the criminal empire, he starts working in this anonymous psychological hotline services.
And gets a call from Bruce-fucking-Wayne.
Well. It is not like Bruce announces that he is Bruce Wayne — it is anonymous, after all — but Jason knows his father's voice, alright?
'I don't need a physiological help,' his father tells him the minute he picks up the phone.
Jason... Snorts.
'Of course,' he nods, making his voice nicer. 'How can I help you?'
Bruce pauses, his breath hitching for a second; almost as if he recognized Jason's voice.
'My... my son thinks I need it, but I am fine,' Bruce insists. 'Still... I want to, well, fulfil a promise I gave... for once.'
Jason rolls his eyes, a familiar irritation flaring up in green flames before his eyes. He wonders who is this lucky son that gets to have such a diligent, responsible father - Dickhead? Tim? Damian?
'I see,' he breathes out, trying to follow a protocol of the calls. 'I am sure he will appreciate your loyalty. Will you tell him about it?'
'If he appears,' something screeches in the background, and if Jason closes his eyes, he can easily imagine Bruce leaning back on the armchair, in the Batcave. 'I... He only ever appears in my dreams, my boy.'
Jason freezes.
'Excuse me?'
'I... He is dead, my son.'
Had someone else died? Jason frowns, reaching for his phone, typing anxiously Nightwing and Robin in the search bar, trying to see if there is something serious happened; because he can't be talking about the second Robin, can he-
'I am sorry,' he blurts out, eyes drifting back to notes on the table, with some common phrases that can be used in this situation. 'I... Do you want to talk about, sir?'
Bruce is silent for a while. Jason thinks he is about to drop the call, but then, he sighs heavily on the line:
'His name was Jason. And he was the brightest boy.'
Jason mutes the microphone. He thinks he is going to vomit.
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pnutbutter-n-j-elyy · 3 days ago
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When You Call Them Clingy| Hyungline Pt2
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Hyungline x Gn! Reader
(sorry this took like forever lmao ive been going through it in life unfortunately💀💀💀 )
Bangchan
The hum of the studio was still present, but now it felt different- less like a comforting embrace and more like static electricity prickling your skin.
The once-warm atmosphere had turned cold, muted, and the silence stretched like a chasm between you and Chan.
He didn’t ask if you needed anything anymore. He didn’t look at you at all.
The first hour after your slip-up had been the worst. You’d sat there, staring at the screen of your phone, scrolling aimlessly to avoid looking at him. But your thoughts betrayed you, circling back to the look on his face when you’d called him clingy- the hurt in his eyes, the faint slump of his shoulders, the way his movements slowed, as though your words had drained the energy out of him.
This is almost unbearable... You thought to yourself. I've never been uncomfortable around Chris before, rather the complete opposite...I don't like this.
You had apologized in your head a dozen times already, running over how you could bring it up without making things worse. But every time you glanced his way, you found yourself frozen, the words dying in your throat.
I was harsh...I'm feel horrible...
Chan wasn’t usually one to sulk, but this was different. He didn’t seem angry-he didn’t snap or lash out.
Although you wished he would have. It may have been better than this thick tension.
But instead of yelling or cursing, he buried himself in his work, shutting you out completely. His usual hums and absentminded muttering as he worked were nowhere to be found. The tapping of keys and the occasional adjustment of a dial were the only sounds that filled the room.
It felt unbearable.
After almost two hours of sitting in silence, the tension was too much. You shifted in your chair, swallowing the lump in your throat as you finally spoke up.
“Chan,” you said softly, your voice hesitant.
He didn’t respond immediately. His fingers paused over the keyboard, but he didn’t turn to look at you.
“Yeah?” he said, his tone neutral- too neutral.
You winced. “I didn’t mean to sound so harsh earlier. I-” You rushed out.
“It’s fine,” he cut you off, his voice tight, clipped.
But it wasn’t fine. You could hear it in the way his words came out too quickly, the way he immediately went back to typing as though he hadn’t just brushed you off.
Serves me right...
You tried again. “It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He let out a breath, finally turning his chair to face you. His expression was guarded, a carefully constructed mask of calm, but his eyes gave him away.
“Look,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I get it. I was being overbearing. I just
I thought I was helping. I'll ease up from now on."
The words hit you like a punch to the chest. He wasn’t trying to defend himself- he was agreeing with you, accepting blame where there wasn’t any to take.
And you didn't want him to agree.
“You- you were helping,” you said quickly. “I was just
 overwhelmed, and I didn’t think before I spoke. I-I don't want you to ease up...I love you the way you are.”
Chan nodded slowly, but the way his jaw tightened told you he wasn’t convinced.
“Sometimes I overdo it,” he said, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I don’t know how to
not worry about the people I care about. Or love.”
Your heart sank. He wasn’t just talking about you. He was talking about himself, about how he carried the weight of everyone’s needs on his shoulders, even when it wasn’t his responsibility.
“And I made you feel like you couldn’t breathe,” he added, almost to himself.
“No,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “That’s not what I meant. You’re always so thoughtful, Chan. I just
” You trailed off, struggling to put your feelings into words. "I...uh...damn it..."
He tilted his head, waiting for you to continue, but there was a distance in his gaze now- an invisible barrier you hadn’t seen before.
“I don’t want you to feel like you’re doing something wrong,” you said finally, your voice trembling. “Because you’re not. I was just having a bad day, and I-”
“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupted again, standing abruptly. “It’s getting late. I should wrap this up anyway.”
You blinked, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.
It wasn’t angry, but it was dismissive.
Final.
“Chan-”
“Seriously, it’s fine,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You should get some rest. I’ll finish up here.”
The dismissal stung more than you expected. You stood up, hesitating for a moment, unsure if you should push further or give him space. But the way he had already turned back to his desk made the decision for you.
“Okay,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible.
You grabbed your bag and made your way to the door, glancing back one last time. Chan was hunched over his keyboard, his back to you, the soft glow of the monitor casting shadows across his face.
“Goodnight,” you murmured.
He didn’t respond.
As you headed out he called out.
"Y/N."
You turned towards him, hopeful.
"You don't have to come tomorrow. Ji...sung-ah and...Innie-ah are supposed to be here to work on something with me."
You sighed and bit the inside part of your lip. He was terrible at lying.
Then a small rush of unrighteous anger hit you.
"Thats okay, I had plans anyways." You shot back, leaving. You almost missed the surprised look as he lifted his head from his bag.
The walk home was a blur. The guilt in your chest felt heavier with every step, suffocating you until you could hardly breathe.
But now that guilt stemmed from also saying something to purposefully provoke him.
Why would I even say that? I have no reason to be mad- but he...he has all the reason to be.
You thought about texting him, but what could you say? Nothing you typed out felt like enough. Apologizing once wasn’t going to fix this.
And you were too prideful to admit your pettiness.
It's embarrassing...
When you finally got home, you dropped your bag by the door and sank onto the couch, burying your face in your hands. You replayed all the moments over and over in your head, wishing you could go back and choose different words, wishing you could make him understand how much he meant to you.
But then your anger driven words hit you. You just loved digging yourself deeper graves. So, you pulled out your phone and shot a text.
Deciding that if you were at a standstill with each other, you at least wouldn't lie to him.
——————————————————————————
Minho
The next morning, you woke up feeling a mix of guilt and lingering irritation. Sleep hadn’t come easy, your mind replaying the events from the previous night like a broken record. You had lashed out, hurt him, and now there was this gnawing uncertainty about where things stood.
You debated texting Minho to apologize, but the thought of his cold tone from last night stopped you. The memory of his quick, hollow kiss on your temple was like a dull ache in your chest- a reminder of how much damage had been done.
You sighed as you reached for your phone, jumping when you see a text from Minho.
Minho: Dori didn't even wait for me to finish preparing his breakfast before eating Soonie's. Such a menace.
You stared at the text for a long moment, unsure of what to make of it. It wasn’t unusual for him to send updates about his cats, but this felt like an attempt to return to normalcy without directly addressing what had happened.
Should I respond? Should I apologize? You wanted to, but the thought of putting your emotions into words felt daunting.
Instead, you liked the message, telling yourself you’d figure it out later. But as the day dragged on, and you found yourself unable to focus on anything. By the evening, your phone buzzed, breaking you from your thoughts.
Minho: Did you eat?
The question was simple, almost routine, but it held a strange weight. And you were unsure how to respond.
Was this his way of reaching out, or was he just trying to check a box out of habit?
You hesitated before typing back: You: Yeah. Did you?
His reply came almost immediately: Minho: Mhm. Chan-hyung made japchae. Ate while working. Minho: Also, three cups of pudding.
You couldn't help but let out a little giggle. You could picture him in his studio, his face reflected in a the mirrors, as he sat crisscross on the dance floor, scribbling choreo ideas, spoon in one hand and a cup of pudding beside him. The image tugged at your heartstrings in the way only a lover could do.
You: Busy day? Minho: Always.
You sighed and rested your head on the back of your couch.
Short. Not necessarily clipped, but there were no teasing or playful jabs. No emojis. Just facts. It felt so unlike him, and it hurt more than you wanted to admit.
You could feel the awkwardness as if he was sitting in the room with you.
You: I’m sorry about last night. You typed out a response, then deleted it, then typed it again. Finally, you settled on: You: I miss you.
The three dots signaling his response appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared. You held your breath, waiting.
Minho: Yeah...
You: I'm sorry.
Minho: It's fine.
It wasn’t fine. You knew that. The lack of warmth in his reply was enough to confirm it.
You: It doesn’t feel fine. Minho: Maybe it’s not...
There it was. The crack in the veneer. Your chest tightened as you stared at his words. You wanted to fix it, to make it right, but you didn’t know how.
You: Can we talk? Minho: Not right now. I’m tired.
The conversation ended there. You stared at the screen long after his reply, the words “I’m tired” echoing in your mind. It wasn’t just physical exhaustion he was talking about. He was emotionally drained, and you were the reason.
You: Okay, goodnight. I love you. Minho: Night. I love you too.
Over the next two weeks, things didn't get much better.
You hadn't seen him in person, and only had a few video calls where anytime you tried to bring up an apology, Minho deflected the conversation.
It felt like more of an awkward and intimate friendship interacting rather than a couple. And you needed to change that. You couldn't handle it. You missed your boyfriend.
Minho had always been steady, a constant in your life. You hadn’t realized how much of a lifeline he was until you cut it with a single careless word.
Clingy.
The way his expression had shifted when you said it- it haunted you. Minho, who rarely let his emotions crack the surface, had been hurt. You’d seen it, felt it in the way he pulled back from you. And you wanted to pull him back towards you.
That’s what brought you to his house a few nights later, your chest tight with desperation and dread. You didn’t have a plan, just a need to be near him, to try and fix what you’d broken.
The porch light cast a faint glow as you arrived, the sight of it familiar yet unsettling. You hesitated at the keypad, your fingers trembling as you entered the code. For a moment, you feared he might have changed it, but the lock clicked open with a soft, mechanical hum.
The sound felt louder than it should have in the quiet night, and your heart ached with the thought that you still knew this house so well.
You stepped inside, the warmth of the entryway doing little to ease the chill in your bones.
“Minho?” Dori was the only cat by the door, immediately rushing to you to rub up against your legs. "Min?"
Your voice was soft, tentative, as you slipped off your shoes and into slippers, but it went unanswered.
The faint murmur of voices reached you from the living room. You moved toward the sound, your footsteps hesitant.
And then you saw them.
She was sitting on the couch, her laughter carrying easily in the stillness of the house.
Minho was beside her, close enough that the space between them seemed insignificant. His expression, one that had been so cold and was open-relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen in minute.
Your stomach twisted painfully, the scene before you crashing down like a tidal wave.
You must have made a sound, because Minho’s head turned sharply in your direction. His eyes widened, surprise etched across his face.
“Y/N?”
The girl followed his gaze, her expression a mix of confusion and mild curiosity.
You froze, your pulse hammering in your ears.
“I-” The words caught in your throat, your mind scrambling to come up with an explanation for why you were here, standing uninvited in his doorway.
“Y/N-ah, wait-” He said, scrambling up from the couch, tripping over Dori who had decided to join the party.
But you were already backing away.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you said quickly, your voice cracking as you stumbled toward the door. You knocked into the cats water bowl, soaking your feet. The lump in your throat threatened to choke you, but you forced the words out. “I’ll just- go.”
Minho reached for you, his movements sharp and deliberate. “Don’t-”
You didn’t wait for him to finish, pulling away. The door slammed shut behind you, the cold air biting at your skin as you stepped into the night.
You didn’t realize you were still wearing the house shoes Minho had bought for you months ago until you were halfway down the street, your steps uneven on the pavement. The absurdity of it made your throat tighten, but the tears came before the laughter could.
Your vision blurred as you walked aimlessly, the weight in your chest pressing down until it felt hard to breathe. You could still see her face, hear her laugh. It was seared into your mind.
There is no way he could have moved on in just two weeks...right?
Could he have...no. Never.
But had he?
You didn’t know either way. And you couldn’t bring yourself to stay long enough to find out.
Back at the house, Minho stood frozen by the door. Doongie let out a soft mew, as if speaking.
"I know..." Minho said to the cat.
His jaw clenched as he stared at the space where you’d been, staring at where your shoes were left, your sudden departure leaving a suffocating silence along with them.
“Minho?” the girl called hesitantly, her voice breaking through the tension.
He turned to her, his expression unreadable.
“You should go.” he said finally, his tone flat.
Her brows furrowed in confusion, but she didn’t argue. She gathered her things quickly, giving Doongie a quick scratch, the sound of her footsteps fading as the door closed behind her.
Minho sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he leaned against the wall. His gaze fell to the floor, and for the first time, he noticed the trail of damp footprints leading to the door- proof of your hurried escape.
You hadn’t even waited to hear him out.
He wanted to chase after you, to get an explanation for why you’d come in the first place.
But he didn’t move. Instead, he stood there in the silence, the weight of your absence pressing down on him; and he was stuck wondering how something you caused had now become a snowballed issue he needed to resolve.
——————————————————————————
Changbin
You sat there frozen, the echo of his quiet, defeated tone playing on a loop in your mind. It wasn’t like him to leave like that- without a fight, without reassurance, without trying to smooth things over. He had always been one to want to ease conflict in the calmest manner.
Your eyes drifted to the coffee table where his phone sat, screen dark and mocking in the dim light. He must’ve forgotten it in his rush to leave, and the realization sent a pang of guilt straight to your chest. You couldn’t even call him to try and make things right.
With trembling hands, you picked up his phone, turning it over in your palm. It was a small, insignificant thing, but it felt like the only connection you still had to him.
The weight of Hyunjin’s text was heavier now, replaying in your mind like a cruel taunt.
He had planned to propose tonight.
And you had ruined it.
You pressed the phone to your chest, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. You couldn’t stop picturing the way his face had fallen, the light in his eyes dimming with every word you’d said. The warmth he carried with him, the energy that filled every room he walked into, was gone. And it made you feel terrible.
Your hands tightened around his phone as you leaned back on the couch, your thoughts spiraling. Changbin wasn’t just a boyfriend- he was your safe space, your biggest cheerleader, the person who always knew how to make you laugh when you wanted to cry.
And tonight, you had been the one to make him feel small.
You let out a shaky breath, blinking back the tears threatening to spill over. There was no way you could let things stay like this.
So, you got to work.
--
Changbin’s car coasted slowly down the street, the low hum of the engine the only sound in the otherwise quiet night. His mind buzzed, replaying every moment of the evening- your harsh words, the hurt in his chest, and the sudden shift in the air between you two. He could still feel the weight of your gaze, and your frustration.
He had tried so hard.
Maybe it is my fault...
He wanted to make the night perfect, make it something to remember. A sweet cute, relaxed proposal. Soft and warm and everything that represented the love he had for you.
But now he was left uncertain, second-guessing everything. The familiar streets blurred as his thoughts swirled, mixing with the disappointment and confusion still lodged in his heart. His grip tightened around the steering wheel.
As he pulled into his driveway, he killed the engine but didn’t immediately move. He sat there for a while, the headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. It was cold, but he didn’t feel it. Instead, his chest was heavy, a knot of frustration and sorrow gnawing at him.
I need to apologize. Maybe then-
Reaching for his phone, he noticed a slight tremor in his hands.
Is that the best thing to do though...what if Y/N-ie is still mad...
He spent the next couple minutes thinking about texting you- even though he hadn’t done anything inherintantly wrong.
But the thought of sending an apology and admitting to a fault he didn’t deserve seemed like the easiest way to get things back to normal.
He swiped the phone screen on, but his stomach dropped when he saw his empty hand. He reached to pat his pockets.
He didn’t have his phone with him.
He trailed his eyes at the empty seat next to him, hoping maybe it was there, as the realization hit him harder than it should’ve.
His phone was still on the couch at your place. He must’ve left it there in the rush to get away.
"Shit," he muttered under his breath, the frustration and anxiety rising again.
He shifted the car back into gear, pulling out of his driveway and heading back to your apartment. As he drove, he let out a deep sigh, trying to shake off the weight pressing on him.
He didn’t know what to expect when he saw you again. He didn’t even know what he wanted from the rest of this night.
Back at your place, you were busy, but not in the way you had planned. You paced the living room, biting your lip as you nervously looked over the decorations you had hastily thrown together. You had wanted everything to be perfect for him, the way he’d promised it would be tonight, but now
 you were the one fixing things.
You were the one putting the final touches on a proposal- his proposal.
Your heart flipped over and over in your chest, as you adjusted things anxiously.
You had to scrounge through a ton of different leftover decorations from previous events and holidays; and it looked like the spirit of every celebratory occasion had thrown up over your living room.
You had tried so hard to get it right, to show him how sorry you were that your nerves and selfishness had ruined everything.
When you heard the distant rumble of his car approaching, your heart skipped a beat. You quickly fixed your hair and wiped your hands on your pants, as if trying to make up for everything all at once.
You hadn’t planned this, hadn’t thought through how you were going to apologize. You just knew you couldn’t let him walk away- couldn’t let him leave the night without fixing at least a small part of it.
The doorbell rang, and you froze, your pulse quickening in your throat.
You opened it, and there he was. Changbin. Standing there with an unreadable expression, his eyes flicking over your face before he looked down at the phone in his hand.
You didn't know if you imagined his red rimmed eyes.
“I-” he started, but the words faltered. He opened his mouth again, as if trying to say something, but nothing came out. "I left my phone."
You handed it to him, and he stood there awkwardly turning it in his hands.
"Bin, come in," you whispered, stepping aside to let him in.
He hesitated for a long moment, his feet still on the other side of the threshold, as if he were debating whether to leave or stay. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the uncertainty in his movements.
But then, with a deep sigh, he stepped inside.
You led him to the living room. His eyes stayed on the floor. He didn’t sit down, didn’t speak, just stood there.
"Y/N, I'm sor-"
"You don’t need to apologize," you said, voice barely audible as you walked toward him. You didn’t know how else to start. "I’m the one who messed up tonight. It wasn't you. It was all me."
Changbin shook his head, though it seemed like he was trying to process what he was feeling. He opened his mouth again, his voice hoarse. "No, it wasn't you. I
I didn’t mean for-"
"Changbin, don't fool yourself." You said with a sarcastic chuckle. "You know it was all my fault-"
"Y/N I was the one who was-"
"-I ruined your proposal. Of course it's my fault." You finished.
Your words stopped him. He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of everything hanging in the air between you.
"So you knew..." he murmured, his voice cracking just slightly.
"Hyunjin texted. I saw it on your screen."
Changbin sighed and then looked around, seeing the decorations.
"What..."
"Since I ruined your proposal I thought I could fix it. As an apology."
The air between you thickened suddenly.
"I-I know it's not the best or the prettiest, but I thought—"
His voice faltered as he looked up at you, eyes filled with something unreadable. Shock, confusion
 and then something softer, something heavier.
"What
what did you do?"
You froze. Your heart pounded.
He was staring at everything—the decorations, the candles, the careful details meant for him to present to you.
"I thought
 I'd throw something together," you repeated, your voice small. "To fix your proposal."
"Fix it?"
And in that moment, you realized just how wrong that had sounded.
"N-No! I meant fix the night. Not your proposal—nothing was wrong, I just—I ruined the moment, and—"
You were scrambling, desperate to explain.
"Binnie, I—"
"I understand, Y/N."
His quiet chuckle sent a chill through you. It wasn't warm, wasn't teasing. It was sad.
"You made another opportunity," he said, his voice steady but distant. "You set up a proposal."
"Yes! An opportunity, not-" But then you saw it. The rapid blinking, the slight shift in his expression. The way he swallowed hard, as if forcing down words he wouldn't let himself say.
And suddenly, it clicked.
He wasn't upset about your wording. He wasn't even upset that you'd tried to make things right. He was upset because you'd taken this from him. Because he had wanted to be the one to do this for you.
When you had called him clingy earlier, you had let your stressors guide you to insult what you loved most about him.
How he wanted to do everything for you.
His love language towards you always tended to be acts of service.
And while a proposal wasn't necessarily though, it made sense that he wanted to do this for you. One of the biggest acts of your two lives.
He wanted to gift it to you, and you took it away.
For a long, suffocating moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, without another word, he stepped back. His hands curled into fists, then relaxed. He exhaled, gaze flickering between you and the scene you'd set. And then he turned.
You barely processed it as he walked past you, his presence fading with each step toward the door.
"Binnie, wait-"
But he didn't stop. The door opened, and before you could find the right words, the ones that wouldn't make everything worse—
It clicked shut.
——————————————————————————
Hyunjin
The moment Hyunjin you shut the door, you felt a wave of regret crash over you. You stewed in your regret for a while before you succumbed to it.
You couldn't stand it.
You rushed out the door, hoping to catch up; even if it had already a bit since his departure. But you knew him, and he probably hadn't made it far, taking his long legs for granted and dragging out his journey.
You wanted to stop him, to explain, to make him see what you couldn't say- but your pride had already built a wall too high. The words you had snapped at him stung, but there was a fear settling deep within you, too. Fear of rejection, fear of the misunderstanding spiraling out of control.
Fear of losing him from a quick yet grave mistake.
The street was quiet, and your footsteps echoed in the empty space. You turned the corner, but in your rush, you hadn't paid attention to where you were going.
It seemed you had taken one wrong turn after another, and suddenly the comforting glow of the familiar streetlights was replaced with unfamiliar darkness.
Panic rose in your chest. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you fumbled to pull it out, only for it to die before you could see.
You cursed under your breath. Of course, it died. Why wouldn't it? Your mind was foggy, and you could barely focus on anything, let alone figure out where you were. The tightness in your chest felt suffocating, but you pushed through it.
You wandered a little until you found a cute little convenience store, stepping inside, letting the warmth encapsulate you. You decided to grab a snack while you charged your phone, the clerk so graciously allowing you to charge it behind the desk.
You figured while you ate you could figure out what to say to Hyunjin, to mend whatever crack you had caused.
--
Meanwhile, Hyunjin still felt the sting of your words settled deep in his chest. His jaw clenched as he shoved his hands into his pockets, walking briskly down the street.
It wasn’t fair. He had done nothing wrong, yet you had pushed him away like he was too much. Like his affection- his need to be close to you- was suffocating.
Me? Too much- HAH. As if.
You were just being bratty because you were in a bad mood...right?
I'm not actually too much am I?
And maybe it was dramatic, maybe it was childish, but he wanted you to chase after him. To call out his name, to grab his sleeve, to do something to prove you cared as much as he did.
But the street behind him remained quiet.
His throat tightened. His steps slowed.
You weren’t coming.
Hyunjin scoffed, shaking his head. Fine. If you weren’t going to run after him, then you could suffer.
He would make you grovel, make you look at him with those wide, guilty eyes and apologize.
Beg a little. Then - only then - he’d pull you into his arms, stroke your hair, kiss your forehead, and tell you it was okay.
Because at the end of the day, that’s all he wanted.
To make things okay again.
With a sigh, he turned back around, heading toward your apartment, already playing out how he’d drag this out just enough to make you squirm before giving in.
But when he got to your door, his smirk faltered.
The lights were off, but the door was cracked.
His brows knitted together as he stepped into a completely empty home.
You were supposed to be here. You were supposed to be sitting inside, stewing in guilt, waiting for him to come back so you could apologize properly.
His fingers twitched as he opened your bedroom door. He went to the bathroom and knocked.
No answer.
He knocked, a little harder this time.
Still nothing.
A flicker of unease crept up his spine. He pulled out his phone and called. It rang twice before going straight to voicemail.
Hyunjin swallowed. His throat was dry.
His mind raced through every possibility. Maybe you just went out for air. Maybe you ran to the convenience store. Maybe-
But his gut told him otherwise.
His gut told him something was wrong.
His fingers curled around his phone, knuckles white as he sucked in a sharp breath. His frustration, his plan to make you beg, his need to be dramatic- all of it evaporated, replaced by one single, overwhelming thought.
He needed to find you.
Now.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy
taglist specific:
@darling-imobsessed @changbinismymuscledaddy @artist2181 @minniesverse @monbrigh @20staaa @aeri-skzver @noannah @skysole @chanssmiles @depressedarlling @
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ashkenazzle · 22 hours ago
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BEFORE YOU RESPOND: IF YOU HAVE NOTHING INTELLIGENT OR PRODUCTIVE TO SAY DO NOT SAY IT!
Jumblr (and others who wish to contribute in a respectful manner) i would like to discuss this post and get your thoughts on it!
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Personally – something about this does not sit right with me. I understand what they're trying to say, but I feel like there is a better, less sensational wording. Not only do extreme and absolute statements like this just paint us as even worse in the eyes of the opposing side, but i also feel like it is unfair and lacks nuance. Not that I'm excusing it, but when you're a literal child and are raised with propaganda shoved down your throat and embedded in your language OF COURSE you are going to believe it and regurgitate it. It's their entire existence, it's all they know. I feel like we shouldn't be blaming young, impressionable children, but rather the adults indoctrinating them and molding their minds in such a way.
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zerophantomphan · 14 hours ago
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It's only going to get worse before it gets better
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Leopards meet face
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secretlysimpash · 3 days ago
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đŸ€’Telling them to go away when you're sick (because my throat's killing me, so reader is sick too)đŸ€’
Character(s): Price, Gaz, Soap, Ghost
Reader is gender neutral
John, to his credit, does get out of the room. But he comes back moments later with a thermometer, tea, something easy on the stomach...He'll give you space, not trying to catch whatever you have, but he's going to take good care of you.
Kyle's pretty much the same...But where John has a little more restraint with putting distance between the two of you, Kyle's more likely to keep poking his head into the room. Will be right at your bedside or up in your face until you remind him that you are sick (or until you start coughing and sneezing again, that usually makes him back up). Kyle hates getting sick himself, so he's going to try and keep his distance. Jus get ready for a lot of longing stares until you feel better, buddy.
Oh, Johnny...Bless him. You tell him you're sick, he laughs. Says he'll take care of you (and he does), but also refuses to leave your side. He's in that bed, on the couch, wherever you are. He's running a hot bath and bathing you. Reassures you that he's fine, that he has an amazing immune system. But the very next week, he's going to be in bed in a worse state than you were, looking like a dying Victorian child.
Simon has masks on hand at all times. Not just balaclavas and his skull masks, but medical masks with the ear loops too, things meant to keep out dust and germs. Needless to say, he's going NOWHERE. This man is prepared to sit in bed with you, mask on, not wanting you to be alone. Will also go out for whatever you need, but will come back very quickly. Would honestly make an order for a delivery before going out. The idea of his baby being alone and sick breaks his heart a little bit :(
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borderlinereminders · 14 hours ago
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I think 99% of my advice for healthy relationships is to communicate, especially in advance.
Talk to your loved ones about conflict before you have one. Talk about how you react to conflict and ways you can solve conflict together. If you need to walk away during conflict to gather your thoughts, let them know before you have a conflict so that they can be prepared for the fact that you may need space. If there are certain things that really upset you that typically come up during conflicts, let them know.
Talk to your loved ones about your insecurities before they become a problem. Maybe this means planning a way to communicate that you could use some reassurance. Maybe this means getting a letter from them, or screenshots to read when you need to.
Talk to your loved ones about boundaries. If something they tease you about is actually upsetting, communicate that and let them know. Our loved ones generally want to make our lives better and wouldn’t continue to do stuff if they knew it was hurting you. They don’t know there’s a problem to fix if they aren’t told.
Talk to your loved ones if something is bothering you. Do you feel you always message first or initiate contact? Talk to them about it. Don’t start playing the “I’m not going to message until they do” game. Try not to become passive aggressive or hint at the problem.
Talk to your loved ones about things you like, appreciate or love. Give them the opportunity to do these things for you.
If a loved one is venting to you, ask what they need if they don’t tell you. Ask if they’d like support, or for you to offer validation or advice, or just to listen. This can prevent so much. When we get advice sometimes when we’re upset, we’re not in a place for it and it can make it worse and create conflict.
If a loved one is struggling and you don’t know how to help, don’t just avoid them because you don’t know what to say. Ask them how they’d like support. Sometimes people just want company, a distraction or to know they’re loved. On the other side of this, try to tell your loved ones how they can help. Often they do want to help, they just don’t know help.
I could go on and on about this, but perhaps you get the idea by now.
Our loved ones aren’t mind readers, but sometimes we expect them to be and that isn’t fair to them or us. That usually ends with both you and them being upset. Communicate directly when you can.
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hexhomos · 2 days ago
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Maybe I’m that one oomf that’s too woke, but I have a feeling that people being weird about jayvik is a sign of Bad Things on the rise =/ I’m old as balls and I’ve been in fandom spaces since late 2000s, and I’ve never seen people act so hostile towards a fanon mlm ship. I mean precisely in women and queer dominated fandom spaces, dudebros never change, whatever. And of course there were always ship wars. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen people act so oppressed over being into het ships, crash out over their ships not being endgame and demand from fandom content creators to accommodate them. What is happening.
I think this started happening around 2023~ to be more precise bc that's when i started getting weird ass entitled comments on OTHER gay ships. IMHO the real issue here is that we are going through fandom clash with a newgen that did not experience early internet and they take the gayness in fandom spaces completely for granted. As in, they think these little niche holes we've built are the de facto 'effortless norm' and minimize the work that's been done to create these safe spaces. This is the kind of rhetoric i keep seeing pop up:
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Many of them have also grown up almost exclusively interacting with art created by old fandom graduates where queerness is presented casually. They're not watching shit from the 90's or 00's. They're not adults, so they don't have a personal contrast experience seeing that 'rep' dwindling consistently over the years. They don't remember a time before this and don't know how bad it was.
OFC there are always old ass conservative weirdos riding on this wave to be even more annoying (certain infamous viktor stan accs... lol!) but #backtotradition rightwing bullshit has been on the rise worldwide, and so are the viral tiktok tradwife alphamale detransition white supremacy grifters. Its a larger cultural problem feeding into the micro stuff we see daily and it's terrible. It's also why I tune this shit out and I stand my ground. I'll draw what I WANT to draw and I'm not going to be twisting myself into pretzel shapes to appeal to anyone and everyone; go get YOUR shit elsewhere!
I *do* think people have been getting way more entitled towards fanworks, and that comes with a heightened level of apathy. You can notice this on the decreased number and quality of feedback across twitter, as an example (seeing as that place has been consumed by the conservative grifter wave) but it's also been reported by every fic writer who's consistently used AO3 for years. Tags on tumblr aren't as widely used. The focus on 'community' has been replaced by 'DOES THIS MAXIMIZE ENGAGEMENT?'. I know from personal experience that there is this one specific asshole who, for almost a year now, has been trawling the trans viktor tag and leaving insanely long transphobic critique comments on works of newer writers to discourage them from writing. (They are always on the cusp of open violent transphobia, but shittily cloaked as 'debates' on ~natural biology~ and fantasy logic so they don't get banned. If you've seen the ao3 pfp of a smirking white haired woman before you know who im talking about.)
Things have been Bad and on the Rise for a while now. Look at the current shit on the news. Look at the presidencies around the world. And it's going to get worse before it gets better, because it always does; that's what forces people to wake up. Be annoying. Be watchful. Don't waste your time platforming or debating weirdos that should be left to die on obscurity - this is how trump got a memeable platform, and look at where we are now. Protect your peace.
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solarbiomechanist · 9 hours ago
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it ain't their fault they've been fucking lied from cradle to grave. Education, news, entertainment, all pointing them towards "these are the guys who make my life better and these are the guys that hate me and don't want me to be able to afford to fix my truck and will give my job to someone else who will do it worse because they don't know that Bob always tries to fix his own roof first before he calls somebody so they gotta work around that..."
Point is, everyone has reasons why they believe what they do, and a lot of them are good, honest people who care about their neighbors and the world around them but have been LIED TO about what would be best for them and their neighbors and the world because where the hell are they gonna learn that when their trusted elected officials said "I think it's time we take America back and focus on what truly matters" they meant "I'm going to kick out the nice old lady Maria and her hard-working sons José and Roberto who live next door, not just the fictional people I've told you to fear"
Who would tell them straight? The fear-mongering news? The sunny depictions of a post-election world they get from Facebook? The opposition, whose descriptions of the playbook, while entire, must seem so outlandish in their cruelty as to be *surely* hyperbolic from the perspective of someone who expects the government to act sane?
I plead to you, reader. for a better world, do not punish what you want to see. If you see someone doubting, encourage it, do not disparage them. Help them lean into that confusion, that dissonance. Give them the gentlest examples you can think of where things clearly won't match up and let them uncover deeper ones. It HURTS, like nothing fucking else, for your reality to crumble around you. I understand not having space to bear witness to it, give yourself grace, but please don't bite them before you go. Just go, and breathe.
This is less coherent than I would like, but thank you, dear reader.
ok so these new tariffs are likely going to be primarily affecting red states. i want y’all to ignore the urge to respond by saying the people in those red states deserve it because of the political representation we have. not because some of us are progressives but because this is an opportunity. if conservatives from these states start complaining about higher prices and financial strain, do not respond with “well you voted for this!” this is your opportunity to pull them to the center. say “wow that is really awful. i’m sure this isn’t what you wanted when you voted last year. you deserve representatives that will have your best interests at heart, you should let them know how upset you are! you deserve to be heard!”
because listen to me. republican politicians don’t give a shit about what progressives in red states have to say. they aren’t gonna change their voting trends for us. but if a bunch of small town conservatives start to get restless and angry with their politicians, if they lose support from their most important demographics, that has a shot at changing things. so swallow your pride and disgust and have a conversation with that republican truck driver instead of taking the pot shot that’ll get you 10 minutes of dopamine. do the hard work.
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reidsmanuscript · 1 day ago
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Seven Seconds
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Summary: when Katie Jacob's gets abducted in a Mall, setting the clock for the BAU, who needs a legal favor, and it's been a year since the A.D.A. has know anything about Spencer Reid. Pairing: Spencer Reid x lawyer!reader Genre: pinning, SLOW BURN, maybe right moment?, angst bc i love angst wc: 4.6k! (i know so small comparing to part 1 bear with me) TW: cm canon typical violence, set in 05x3 "Seven seconds" (obviously lol), sexual violence, implied reader's dark past, glimpses of female rage. A/N: my idea for the serie is be taylor jenkins reid and have you question if lawyer reader exists or not (delusional bitch), english is not my first language and let's pretend it's proofread part I - part II - part III - part IV
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Spencer sat on the park bench reading a book while playing chess with Ethan, brilliant kid for his age and good opponent, not good enough tho because when he cheered “I see checkmate in 5, What do you see?” It took Spencer one glance to calculate all the movements necessary.
“I see it in 3” he answered looking at his book again, the kid turned around the board and moved the pieces
“We've missed you out here” he said, staring at the board amazed.
“Thanks. I, uh, I had to take a little break”
“How come?” His hands froze on the book for a second before closing it.
Spencer had been clean for over a year now, it was 14 months and 2 weeks ago that he had freaked out after noticing his stash of Dialud was gone along with his needle. Where could he find more? Who knew about his addiction? Where was his stash? Who the fuck is Dr. Fitzgerald? Did you report him?
His first instinct was confronting you, given that you were the only person who found out his drugs that he knew, the first days he was a complete paranoid, he jumped every time Hotch called his name, or that Gideon looked at him a little too long.
At the end of the week he was thinking where he could find more, and when that thought scared him, he called the number of the card you had left in the same pocket his drugs used to be.
“Hello this is Dr. Fitzgerald” said a calm voice, it was 10 p.m. so there was a higher chance of going to voicemail, but he got an answer and the tremor of his hands got a little worse. Was it the anxiety or the withdrawal?
“Umm hello.. this is.. Dr.. this is Spencer Reid and someon-""I've been waiting for your call Dr Reid” the other line interrupted, he froze for a second.
“I used to play with a co-worker friend of mine. He's probably the best mind I ever went up against. One day, he just decided that he didn't want to play anymore.”
Fast forward, she helped him get clean and stay clean after Gideon left, getting tested regularly, and gave him the contact of the help group of FBI addicts. He was better, he was alive.
“So you gave up, too?”
“Just the opposite. I attempted to play Through every permutation of moves on a chessboard.”
“That's an infinite number of games.”
“It's not infinite. It's just- it's exponentially large.”
“You couldn't have played through them all.”
“There's an average of 40 moves per chess game, And I'll tell you something– the more I played, The more I realized that every single match every single chess game, Is really just a simple variation on the exact same theme. You know? It's aggressive opening, Patient mid-game, inevitable checkmate, And I realized why my friend quit. He was tired of repeating the same patterns And expecting a different outcome.”
“That's because you haven't come up on Fridays or Mondays in a while” the way his eyebrows went up along his voice tone made him feel like he knew something that he didn't.
His eyebrows furrowed “What do you mean?”
“There's this great player who comes around those days, she even brings the best pastries, and her games is similar to yours, always two or three moves ahead, she always beats everyone here
 i think her boyfriend called her Buzz or something like that, like the Toy Story character”
“Buzz?
 i don't really remember anyone with that nickname”
“It’s probably not that one but you don't know her because she started coming like 8 months ago.. I'm sure you have a lifetime of chess strategy in your head that you're just sitting on, but when you meet her?” He made a dramatic pause “You'll have to play it.”
He glances at his watch to realize his 15 minute break is coming to an end. “I still use it. I just, uh... I apply it differently. I have to go. It's good seeing you.”
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That evening, the BAU was called in for a local case—a little girl, Katie, had been kidnapped from a busy mall. A week earlier, another girl had been taken from the same location and found dead hours later. Now, they were all racing against the clock.
Katie’s parents were desperate. As any parents would be in this situation, right? But when Hotch asked the father if either of them was having an affair—a routine question in abductions—the man took offense. Deep offense. So much so that he refused to let the FBI search their house.
Now, what kind of parent refuses to help the police find their missing child?
In a small surveillance room, Morgan and Reid sat with Garcia, who was visibly frustrated by the mall’s ancient security system. They were surrounded by screens displaying grainy footage from different angles—well, almost every angle. They had a single glimpse of Katie in one video, and then, seven seconds later, she was gone.
JJ and Prentiss were with the mother, aunt, and uncle, trying to get a read on the family dynamic. Meanwhile, Morgan and Reid had conducted a cognitive interview with Katie’s cousin. It had led nowhere.
“The family has refused permission to search the house,” Hotch announced as he stepped into the room.
“What do you mean they denied?” Morgan’s frustration was evident. “Your only child goes missing, and you refuse to collaborate?”
No one disagreed. They were all thinking the same thing.
“The cousin didn’t say much,” Reid added. “He was too distracted in the game room to notice anything.”
Hotch exhaled sharply. “I’ll speak to the detectives, see if we can get a warrant.” His tone was firm, but they all knew time wasn’t on their side.
Garcia adjusted her glasses. “Sir, I mean this in the best way possible, but it’s almost 8 p.m. I don’t think-”
“I’ll handle it,” Morgan interrupted.
All Reid and Garcia turned to him with identical looks. What do you mean you will handle it?
Hotch’s eyebrows furrowed, but after a moment, he gave a small nod and walked away. Morgan was already pulling out his phone.
“I have a contact,” he explained, dialing.
He put the phone on speaker. It rang once. Twice. On the third ring, a voice answered—sharp, direct, and all business.
“A.D.A. Woodvale.”
Reid went rigid.
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It was late in the office; most people had already gone home, including your assistant Molly. All but Austin, who was still there because he had a lead on one of your cases. You knew he was still hanging around because, over a year ago, when someone had snuck into your office to harm you, you’d become a little paranoid. You’d gotten better, but Austin insisted on keeping you company, especially since your car was in the mechanic’s.
You were reviewing a legal brief, pen in hand, skimming the margins to jot down notes when the desk phone rang. Without looking up, you hit the speaker button with the tip of the pen.
“A.D.A. Woodvale.”
There was a beat of silence before a familiar voice cut in—smooth, direct, urgent.
Morgan called your name “Hey. We need a warrant. Fast.” You blinked, setting the pen down.
Reid and Garcia exchanged glances as Morgan jumped in without hesitation.
“Katie Jacobs. Eight years old. Abducted from a mall earlier tonight,” Morgan started, all business. “Another girl was taken from the same place a week ago—she was found dead hours later. We’re working against the clock.”
You frowned, swirling the pen, going through the multiple scenarios. You had heard about last week’s case, and how slow the police had moved back then.
“We’ve got mall surveillance footage,” Morgan pressed. “At first, we thought she just vanished, but Garcia finally pulled something from one of the side corridors. Katie wasn’t taken by force—she was walking calmly with someone.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around her pen. “Someone she knows.”
“Exactly,” Morgan confirmed. “That narrows it down to family or close acquaintances.” They all shared a silent thought. Family.
We know they’re hiding something,” Morgan corrected. “We just don’t have the probable cause to kick the door down.”
Garcia watched as Morgan paced slightly, his tone firm but urgent.
“That’s thin, Morgan,” Your voice came through the speaker, steady and unyielding.
“We don’t have time for airtight,” Morgan countered.
Your jaw tightened. “You don’t have time for me to get laughed out of a judge’s office, either. Refusing a search isn’t a crime, and suspicion alone doesn’t cut it. I need more.” You understood where the suspicious came from, how are you supposed to help them if they had nothing?
There was a pause. A beat of silence. Then, another voice—one you hadn’t heard in over a year.
“99% of abducted children who are killed due within the first 24 hours” He cleared his throat, willing his voice to stay even. Spencer Reid. “75% within the first 3 hours, and what only law enforcement knows is Jessica Davis joined the 44% of children who are abducted and killed within the first hour. We’re already past the three-hour mark. If we don’t act now, statistically speaking—”
“The likelihood of recovery drops exponentially,” You sighed, already standing up, ignoring how his voice sounded. So different. So
 clean.
Your gaze flicked to the clock. 8:06 p.m. Damn it.
You grabbed a blank warrant form from her drawer and reached for a pen. “Send me the address and everything else you have. Give me 20 minutes.”
Click. You didn’t have time for goodbyes.
Austin raised an eyebrow from his seat. “Guess you’re not going home anytime soon.”
You didn’t look up as you started writing. “I never was.”
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The courthouse was mostly deserted at this hour. The fluorescent lights hummed quietly, and the stillness of the evening was only interrupted by the sharp click of your heels on the polished floors followed by Austin’s boots toward the judge’s chambers.
“You sure you don’t want me to take this one? Sweet-talk her maybe?” he teased.
You shot him a look. “You think Judge Holloway is the type to be charmed? Plus, you’re a private investigator, not a lawyer.”  
“She’s not gonna like you showing up this late.”  
You didn’t miss a beat. “If she’s still up, she’ll make time for this.”  
Taking a steadying breath as you stopped in front of the door, you quickly ran through your notes, making sure you had every detail in order. Then, without hesitation, you pushed through the heavy wooden doors of Judge Evelyn Holloway’s chambers.  
Inside, the judge barely glanced up from her paperwork. “You have two minutes, Woodvale.”
Stepping forward, you set the warrant request on the desk. “Your Honor, I apologize for the late hour, but we have a child abduction case we’re working against the clock. A young girl, Katie Jacobs, was taken from a mall over three hours ago. We’ve obtained surveillance footage showing her walking with an individual—someone she likely knows. We believe the family is withholding information, and they’ve refused to allow us to search the residence.”
The judge narrowed his eyes, folding her hands on the desk. “And what do you propose I do about it? What evidence do you have to warrant a search?”
Alex kept her voice steady. “We have footage of the girl with someone who wasn’t a stranger, Your Honor. The parents are refusing cooperation, and the father was evasive when asked about possible affairs, which raises red flags about his involvement.”
Holloway sighed, leaning back in her chair. “That’s thin.” You were ready for that.
“I have the full footage from the mall security, including a timestamp showing the precise time the girl went missing. She is last seen walking calmly with someone she knows, most likely family.”
There was a brief pause, and for a second, you thought you were about to lose her. So you pulled Reid’s words from memory, adjusting them just enough to make them your own.
“Time is working against us. Statistics show that 99% of abducted children who are murdered lose their lives within the first 24 hours 75% within just the first three. And only law enforcement-”
She cut you off with a raised hand, signaling you to stop.
The judge exhaled through her nose, it was late and you were rambling about statistics and you knew she wanted you out as soon as possible when you started citing numbers. So pushing himself out of her chair with a slight groan. “Fine. Get me the paperwork. I’ll sign it—but you better have your ducks in a row.”
You nodded, her demeanor unflinching. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
As you turned to leave, you couldn’t help but feel the weight of the hours ahead of you. But you were used to this—fighting against the clock.
“Let’s move,” motioning to Austin. He gave you a small nod. “You got it.”
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Exactly 15 minutes after the call, 5 minutes earlier than promised, Morgan’s phone rang. He answered it without even looking. 
"You got your warrant. I'll meet you there," Alex’s voice came through, crisp and businesslike, just as expected.
Morgan exhaled, his relief barely hidden. "Thank you, Woody."
He paused for a moment before adding, "I owe you one," then hung up, turning to Reid.
“Tell Hotch we’re heading to the Jacobs’ house,” he instructed, already moving toward the door.
Spencer had been timing her. It wasn’t the first time he'd gotten caught up in the tense waiting game of law and order, but the pressure of it had a different weight today. The memory of your voice, clear and resolute, echoed in his mind, sharper than before.
For Reid, part of getting clean wasn't just the physical withdrawal—it was the emotional weight of confronting his mistakes. The memory of how he'd lashed out at you a year ago still haunted him. How could he have been so cruel? The hurt in your eyes, the way he dismissed you, the way it all spiraled
 it wasn’t just the drugs that had made him say those things. And the fury he saw when you looked at him, Dialuid in hand, how you looked like a timing bomb when he was trying to see if he could talk to you, the tension in your shoulders, the lock in your jaw, the grip on the file. He’d been battling so much more since then, in his mind, you saved his life by doing what he couldn't do.
He’d rather die than relive that moment again, than say those things. And yet, here he was, standing in the middle of another chaotic case, still carrying that guilt with him. He stayed behind Morgan for just a beat before pushing down his feelings and moving quickly. 
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The engine of Austin's bike rumbled to a stop as they pulled up in front of the house, where Morgan and Reid were standing in front of the black SUV. You slid off the back with practiced ease, taking off the helmet and letting your hair fall loose.
Austin followed your lead, taking his helmet off with a groan. “So, what exactly are we looking for?”
You shot him a quick, sidelong glance, handing him the helmet, keeping your expression flat knowing he’s about to be a drama queen. “You’re not coming inside. The warrant’s for FBI and police only. Not P.I.s included”
Austin paused, a mock pout crossing his face. “Excuse me? I just got you here, through all that traffic, risking myself to get a speeding ticket and now I don’t get to search? This is the second time in the night that you P.I. shaming me. Do you hate me?”
“If I hated you I wouldn’t have bailed your ass out of jail
 twice” you remark the last part. He had a talent for sticking his foot where he shouldn’t be, maybe that’s what makes him good at his job.
“You act like you wouldn’t do it a third time” he was mocking, but he was right, something you would never admit to him. 
You start walking to the house “Mhm.” you hum rolling your eyes, heading towards where Morgan and Reid were. 
You didn't expect him to be there, or maybe you did, maybe you wanted to see him and know what had happened to him since the last time you saw him. They were looking at you, Morgan with a curious already-profiling-you stare, while Reid expression was more
 cautious. He looked so different, his cheekbones were prominent in an attractive way and not sickly, he had put on some healthy weight and was not fidgety. You were not mad anymore, because of course at the moment the hurt had turned into rage like it always does for you, but it was more because of phantoms than anything else. 
“Got your golden ticket” you said, avoiding Reid’s gaze as you pulled the warrant from the inner pocket of your gray coat and swung it toward them.
Morgan nodded “You staying?” He gestured with his head to Austin who was leaving.
“I have to make sure you find something, otherwise the judge will have my head for this,” you said dryly, shrugging as though the threat didn’t bother you, but there was a flicker of seriousness behind your words. You were only talking to him, which felt rude because Reid’s stare was locked in your profile. 
Reid was thinking how pretty you looked, how the black vest suited you, and he couldn’t ignore the fact you had changed your brown bag to a black one that looked nothing like his. Your white shirt and gray coat gave you an older, wiser look, but as Reid analyzed your features, he realized he didn’t even know how old you were. You couldn’t be older than him. Serious, sharp, and young... How was it possible for someone that young to be the A.D.A.?
Reid’s mind couldn’t let go of the numbers. The average age of an Assistant District Attorney in the U.S. is 36. You couldn’t be older than 25, and yet you were already in that position.
You glanced at him for a moment before stepping inside the house, feeling the weight of his stare. The look made him snap out of his trance-like state, and of course, his eidetic memory hated him, because for that brief second, he remembered how you had looked at him a year ago.
Morgan nodded and thanked you again before he and Reid walked into the house. You left the warrant on the hall table with a deliberate touch, your fingers lingering for just a moment—as if to remind yourself that you weren’t entirely done with this.
“Somebody lit a fire last night,” you heard Reid say.
“Well, there are dirty dishes for three in the kitchen, so they eat together as a family.” Morgan’s voice carried from the other room as they moved through the house, taking in the details.
If Katie was in danger, the signs wouldn’t be in plain sight. You had to look where they hid—where children kept their secrets. Their bedrooms.
“Hey, my favorite movie from when I was a kid.” Reid held up a DVD, turning it in his hands before pulling it from the player just as you passed by him, tugging on latex gloves before heading upstairs, you did feel a little guilty for not even looking or talking to him, but it was something you did unconsciously. 
“So they watch movies together, too,” Morgan mused. They were starting to build a picture of the family’s dynamic.
“By a fireplace in a house that’s straight out of a catalog,” Reid added. “Norman Rockwell couldn’t have painted this any cozier.”
“That’s what worries me.” There was weight in Morgan’s voice. A tension that sat between them.
Upstairs, you searched through the rooms with careful precision.
When you first became a lawyer, you made a promise—never ignore a sign. Since then, you have gone further. You didn’t just refuse to ignore them; you searched for them. Hollow eyes. Unexplained bruises. Small bloodstains. You looked for them in teenagers, in young adults, in the elderly. But nothing—nothing—was more painful than a child who couldn’t speak up.
Because they were small. Because someone older, someone stronger, was hurting them. There's nothing more hurtful than not being able to speak out, to say something and stand up for yourself. Except when someone did—someone saw the bruises, the fear, the signs—and they looked away deliberately. Because a child’s pain was inconvenient. Because it came with a mountain of paperwork no one wanted to touch.
You had spent your whole life making sure you never looked away.
That’s why you were hunched over the small desk in Katie’s bedroom, flipping through her drawings when Morgan and Reid entered the room. They started searching, their movements efficient and methodical.
“Katie’s been wetting her bed,” Reid said as he lifted the duvet, inspecting the mattress beneath it.
“A lot of six-year-olds do. Could be bad dreams,” Morgan replied, crouching beside you as he sifted through a pile of toys.
You considered that possibility—it was perfectly logical. In a perfect world.
“Some kids won’t get up at night because they’re afraid of the dark,” Reid added, his tone careful. Almost knowing.
“Or it could be a lot more complex than that.”
Morgan had found a doll. Not a Barbie missing a shoe or one that had simply been played with too much. No—this doll was different.
Its hair had been hacked off, jagged strands sticking out unevenly. Red marker smeared across its face like smeared blood. Its clothes were yanked askew, twisted, and wrong.
“Most girls covet their dolls like an extension of themselves.” He took the doll in his hands like it was made of fine glass. 
“Reid, I know these signs-— acting out on her toys, wetting the bed. She's obviously covering up something about that necklace.”
“And her cousin might be holding something back.”
“Well, this looks more like a man than a boy to me,” you said, holding up a drawing of a tall, shadowy figure towering over a small, crying child.
Morgan took it from your hands, his expression hardening as he analyzed the image.
“Psychology says drawing is a child’s way of channeling their inner world. Look at the strokes—how harsh they are,” you pointed to the dark, jagged lines forming the tall figure, then traced your finger over the smaller one. “And this looks like Katie to me. She forgot to draw the hands, which means she feels powerless
 helpless.” 
Morgan took his phone out, dialing up “Hotch, we think Katie’s being molested,” Morgan said, his voice clipped. “And we both know the odds.”
A brief silence. Then Hotch’s response, firm and certain. “Most likely by someone under the same roof.”
He hung up, and both men started toward the door, their movements brisk with purpose. But you stayed behind for a moment, rooted in place, taking in the scene. Trying to quiet the distant sirens that echoed in your mind, the same ones always shouting when you were face to face with these situations. A loud pause—maybe out of respect for Katie and her pain, for everything she had been forced to endure.
From the doorway, Spencer glanced back. The dim light from the hallway cast your figure in stark contrast, outlining you in shadow—your form dark against the soft glow of the room. He couldn’t see your expression, couldn’t read your face. He focused on the way your hands curled into fists at your sides, the tight set of your shoulders.
And he wished—just for a second—that he could see more.
         .˳˳.â‹…à„±Ë™ Ë™à„±â‹….˳˳.â‹…à„±Ë™ Ë™à„±á§.˳˳.⋅.   
You stood outside, leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. By your side were Morgan, Jeremy, Katie’s cousin, and Reid.
Turns out, Katie’s uncle, Richard, was her abuser. A disgusting son of a bitch who deserved to rot in hell. And you were going to make sure he did. He had destroyed Katie’s childhood, probably more than just hers, shattering an entire family in the process. His own son, standing right next to you, was collateral damage he clearly hadn’t spared a thought for. And then there was his wife. The woman who had chosen to look away. Who had taken Katie and nearly gotten her killed, all for the pathetic, desperate hope that it would somehow stop her husband from creeping into little bedrooms at night. She deserved the same hell he did.
A stretcher rolled past, Katie’s small frame barely visible beneath the blankets as the paramedics guided her into the ambulance. Her mother clutched her tiny hand, whispering something—words meant to soothe, to promise safety.
A young voice cut through the air. “I heard her call my mom’s name. That’s what I remembered before.”
You closed your eyes, your mind already racing ahead. Your attorney brain was piecing it together, sketching out the battle that was coming. If the kid had heard it, that made him a witness to the abduction. His own mother had committed the crime against her niece. And God only knew what else he had seen—what else had been happening in that house—without fully understanding it.
“We get it, kid. That’s your mom,” Morgan said, his voice steady. But you knew the truth: if Jeremy could barely say those words to them, getting him to the stand in front of a jury would be another fight entirely.
The boy shifted on his feet, staring at the ambulance. “What’s gonna happen to me now?”
If God existed, He had already been too cruel. He had let all of this happen. And you knew how these things worked—knew there was a very real chance that Katie’s parents, burdened with their own grief, would resent Jeremy by association. That they wouldn’t take him in. That he would be swallowed by the foster system.
You wouldn’t let that happen.
The sirens blared outside the mall, cutting through the air with urgency, but it was the ones inside your mind that were louder—screaming in the same rhythm, as if they were one and the same. Distant and deafening, they filled every corner of your head, drowning out everything but the grim reality unfolding before you.
“I don’t know, Jeremy,” Reid answered, his voice gentle. “But we’re gonna make sure you’re alright, okay?”
Jeremy didn’t look at him. His eyes stayed fixed on the ambulance. “Is Katie gonna be all right?”
You wished—desperately, violently—that you could tell him yes. That you could say it with certainty and make it true. But how could you give him something you didn’t have?
“She will, eventually,” Morgan said, his voice firm.
You exhaled sharply. The words made your skin crawl.
“Is she?” The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it—low, bitter, nearly spat out under your breath. Just quiet enough that the kid wouldn’t hear. Just loud enough that Morgan did.
Before he could respond, you were already moving.
Your feet carried you toward the police car, toward the sick, selfish bastard they were shoving into the backseat. Your hand shot out, slamming the door closed—harder than necessary, just enough that it cracked against Richard’s face.
Morgan watched. So did Spencer.
And for the first time, he realized just how much of a puzzle you really were.
Partially because, throughout all of this, you hadn’t looked at him once. Not when he entered the room, not when he spoke, not even now, standing just a few feet away.
Partially because your eyes, when he finally caught a glimpse of them, were full of something he rarely saw outside of a case like this. Pure, undiluted rage.
Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something deeper. Something personal.
         .˳˳.â‹…à„±Ë™ Ë™à„±â‹….˳˳.â‹…à„±Ë™ Ë™à„±á§.˳˳.⋅.  
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pacofprunes · 18 hours ago
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KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE PRIZE
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DARK CONTENT inho x reader
warnings — noncon, cockwarming, guns, squid game stuff
i’m begging you. if you don’t fuck with noncon and you hate it so much, then don’t fucking read this. 18+
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a whole waterfall coming down your face, lip quivering, biting back your sobs. he said he’d make it even worse if you made a sound. so you decide to replace the sobs that you couldn’t let out with heavy breaths. you were about to start hyperventilating. legs tied to his, he was balls deep in you, forcing you to cockwarm him with your arms tied behind your back. god, you felt like you were gonna puke. you feel his cold gloves slide under your tracksuit jacket and onto your bare stomach, making you shiver.
“what’s got you so tense? are the games getting boring?”
you shake your head no, and he shifts under you. you know he did it on purpose, it wasn’t done to get comfortable, it was done to fuck with you. feeling his dick move in you and feeling yourself clench around him. you hated it. he laughs lightly before moving his head into your shoulder to get a better view of the games. he squeezed your arm with one of his hands, the other still wrapped around your stomach. you had to watch all these people die, you put your head down. this was sick. he was sick. he lets go of your arm and grabs your chin, lifting it to make you keep watching.
“keep your eyes up. this is nice of me, no? i could pick up this gun right now and shoot you just like them. it won’t hurt me. i still got what i want.”
he moves his hand from your chin and taps the gun on his table. you hadn’t even noticed it until he said something. he picks it up for a second, wiggling it at you tauntingly before putting it back down. he runs his hands through your hair and wraps his arms all around you, pulling your back right into his chest. you don’t know how, but somehow that made his dick go even deeper, and you quickly try to lift yourself up off of him, despite your legs being tied down to his own. he quickly grips your hips and pulls you back down before slapping you on the inside of your thigh, hard, causing you to flinch up and bounce on his dick, immediately you pause and suck the air through your teeth, more tears dribbling down, all while hearing a low dark laugh from behind you. an evil man you thought was your friend. a man you thought you could trust.
“yknow,”
he grabs a glass of whine from his table and presses it to his lips.
“you’d think you’d be happy.”
he moves the glass to sit on your thigh, a quiet way of telling you to stay still. wouldn’t wanna spill it on his nice suit after all.
“i mean, instead of running the risk of getting shot, now you just have to stay here and run the risk of not pleasing me.”
you swallow hard, your chest rising up and down quickly still as you try to keep your head up to watch these sick games, the whole time you’re looking for gihun and your group, hoping they’re okay. he moves the glass off your thigh and blindly presses the glass to your lips. you move your head away and the wine spills on you, painting the once green jacket completely red. it was the only safety net that you had that he allowed you to keep. that stupid jacket covered in blood and now wine. it was gross, but at least you weren’t completely bare. it didn’t stop him from touching you though, clearly, but it gave you some sort of comfort. he sighs before putting the glass back on the table and you tense more as he rubs his hands up your arms, scared of what was to come next.
“so? what’s going on in that head of yours?”
you take a deep breath before finally speaking to him.
“you’re a liar.”
he simply laughs and he moves once again, making you squeeze your eyes shut and you bite your lip.
“i want to go.”
“you’d rather play the games?”
you slowly nod your head and he hums before you hear something on his table move and something pressed against your back. you try to twist yourself to look behind at him, but he simply grips your arm, sending a threat your way to turn back around towards the tv and you obey.
“let’s play a game then.”
you hear the sound of a gun cocking and he presses it back to you and that’s when you knew what was pressing against your back, causing you to whimper.
“what? i thought you wanted to play.”
“i—”
he moves the gun away from your back and up to your neck and you choke on your words. you feel his hand shift before you hear the loud bang of the gun, causing you to scream, thinking that the bullet went through your head as you sob out, choking on your own tears. coughing everywhere and your chest heaving. he wraps his arm around your neck and pulls you into his back again cutting off some of your air flow and rests his other arm with the gun onto your exposed lap. you felt his cock twitch in you, but any other sensations were dulled out from the fear you were in. it had all felt almost numb.
“you still wanna play the games?”
he positioned the gun under your chin, lifting it up and you let out a choked up ‘no’. he decides to remove it and you finally stop holding your breath. he moves it in front of your face and waves it slightly before placing it back on the table beside him, but it didn’t comfort you in the slightest. your chest was stil heaving and the beads of sweat dripping down your forehead didn’t slow down in the slightest. you hear him sigh behind you before sitting up straighter and doing the slightest movements and the slowest thrusts in you. you immediately start moving your wrists in the restraints, straining to free them, throwing your head down and trying to squirm away and free your legs from his. he just holds the sides of your arms tightly, definitely bruising them under his gloved hands and he continues to grind under you, a small laugh coming from him as he feels you clench around him and he moves his gloved hand from your arm to the inside of your thigh, squeezing it before he sticks a gloved finger in you, lying right next to his dick, stretching you even more and finally a loud sob finds its way out of your throat and escapes your lips. he removes his finger and rubs a few circles on your clit, living for the feeling of you clenching around him before he moves his finger up the inside of your thigh, covering it in your slick. he wraps his arms around you again, pressing you against his chest as you continue to sniffle and let out small cries. he simply runs his hand through your hair and moves a hand to grope your boobs under your tracksuit. feeling that you’re so tense, he runs his hands up your sides and your waist, as if that was going to make you relax at all.
“i told you earlier that being here was better because all you had to do was run the risk of not pleasing me.”
he suddenly grips his fingers as tight as possible into your hips.
“so i’d suggest you start moving instead of trying to be so still unless you want me to pull the trigger next time i pick the gun back up.”
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