#it's like. that's worse. you know that's worse right

[missdynamighttt]

thinking abt katsuki who gets mad when u put a pillow on ur lap when he lays down on it 💔💔 AND THIS IS FOR THE CHUBBY GIRLS W THICK THIGHS!!! urgh katsuki would so love a pluz size girl he would be all over her

katsuki was pouting. actually, no—he was sulking. that'd probably because he was in hell. not the kind with fire and demons, no, this was worse.

you had barely sat down on the couch before he sprawled out dramatically, resting his head in your lap like he always did.

it was his favorite place to be, right on top of you, wrapped up in your warmth, your scent, your presence.

but today, you did the unthinkable.

because right in front of him, you had the audacity, the sheer disrespect, to place a pillow on your lap. his lap. the lap that he was supposed to lay on, unfiltered, unobstructed, completely consuming you like he deserved.

“what the fuck is this?” he grumbled, glaring at the offensive object like it personally insulted his entire bloodline.

“it’s a pillow, katsuki,” you replied, suppressing a smile.

“yeah? no shit, why is it here?” his voice was all sorts of offended, like you had personally wronged him in the worst way possible. “i don’t wanna lay on some dumb pillow—i wanna lay on you.”

you rolled your eyes. “maybe i don’t want your heavy-ass head on my legs all the time.”

“oh, please,” he scoffed, shifting so he could grab at your thighs. his fingers squeezed your flesh, his grip firm but greedy. “these are mine. they’re meant for me. not a goddamn pillow.”

you bit your lip, trying not to laugh while his red eyes flicked between you and the pillow like he was debating setting it on fire. “katsuki—”

“no.” he glared at the pillow like it was his sworn enemy. “you’re warm. you’re soft. you’re perfect. and you’re putting this thing between us?”

he sounded actually hurt, as if the pillow was personally getting in the way of his love for you. “why would you do that to me?”

you blinked at him. “are you really getting this worked up over a pillow?”

“yes.” he said it without shame, without hesitation. “now move it.”

you raised an eyebrow, pretending to consider it. “and what do i get if i do?”

he smirked, shifting so his hand trailed up your thigh, squeezing with purpose. “oh, baby, you know what you’ll get.”

you sighed dramatically, pretending to be reluctant as you removed the pillow.

the instant it was gone, katsuki squished his face into your thighs with a satisfied groan, wrapping his arms around your waist like he was afraid you’d take it away again.

“never pull that shit again,” he mumbled, nuzzling into you. “i got the best damn thighs in the world, and you wanna cover ‘em up with some dumbass pillow? over my dead body."

he sighed deeply, like he had just endured the greatest hardship known to man. his face was completely buried in your thighs, as if he could merge with them if he tried hard enough.

"see?" he murmured, voice slightly muffled against your thigh. "this is how it's supposed to be. no stupid pillow. just you."

you rolled your eyes, but the fond smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. "you’re such a drama queen."

"yeah, and you're my throne, so shut up and let me enjoy it," he shot back, already closing his eyes like he planned to stay there forever.

you huffed a laugh as you ran your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. his grip on you tightened, a pleased hum vibrating against your skin as he melted into your touch.

for someone so explosive, so rough around the edges, he sure acted like a needy housecat when it came to you.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

⋆˚࿔ kia's note ˚⋆ anon ilysm for requesting this, i really do. i'm probably writing the breeding kink next after this, considering it a 4k special since we're going so fast😭 lmk if you wanna be tagged and i hope you guys enjoy💗💗

[gf2bellamy]

haiii can i plz rwquest New Bau member reader and the team only see her at work where shes all serious and introverted, and spencer lowkey has a crush on her. But then they see her out with her friends one night and shes super bubbly and a social butterfly and that makes spencer like her even more thank you

speechless — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: they're at a bar , mention of drinking , awkward spencer a/n: hiii !! i hope you like this <3

Spencer traced patterns in the condensation on his soda glass, his fingers moving in absentminded circles as his gaze flickered around the bar. He was bored. Excruciatingly so. 

But more than that, he was disappointed—because you weren’t here. 

Derek had asked if you wanted to come, but you’d politely declined, mentioning that you already had plans. Spencer hadn’t even gotten the chance to say no before Derek was hauling him along, insisting that he needed to “get out more.” So now, here he was, sitting in a booth, drowning in the chatter and music, stuck in a social setting he had no interest in. 

He sighed, adjusting his grip on his drink just as a sound broke through the dull hum of the room—a laugh. But not just any laugh. 

Yours. 

His head snapped up before he could stop himself, eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on you. And then his breath caught in his throat. 

You were standing with a small group of friends, grinning, eyes alight with joy as laughter bubbled from your lips. There was no trace of the serious, focused demeanor you carried at work. No furrowed brows, no rapid-fire case theories—just you, relaxed, carefree, effortlessly beautiful. 

Spencer had always thought his crush on you was manageable, a quiet thing tucked away. But in those ten seconds—watching you laugh like that, seeing you in a light he’d never quite witnessed before—he realized with absolute certainty: 

He was in trouble. 

His crush wasn’t just bad. 

It had just gotten worse. 

Spencer didn't even notice Derek, as the man walked up to Spencer's table, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Are you just gonna sit in this corner all night,' pretty boy ?” 

Spencer barely registered his words. His attention was still locked on you, watching as you accepted a drink from your friend, flashing them a smile that sent an unwelcome jolt through his chest. 

Derek, intrigued by Spencer’s complete lack of response, followed his line of sight. The second he spotted you, his eyebrows shot up. “Is that—” He squinted, leaning in slightly as if seeing you from a new perspective. “Wow.” 

Spencer remained frozen, his expression unreadable, though the slight parting of his lips gave him away. Derek let out a low chuckle. 

Spencer blinked, finally breaking his trance, but he didn’t say anything. 

Derek glanced back at you, still laughing with your friends, completely unaware of the way you had just short-circuited the genius sitting beside him. “I gotta admit, I did not expect that.” 

Spencer swallowed, finally finding his voice, though it came out quieter than usual. “Expected what?” 

Derek grinned, shaking his head. “Her. Like that. You’re telling me that’s the same girl who spends her lunch breaks reading case files for fun?” He let out a low whistle. “Damn.” 

Spencer’s fingers curled around his glass, his grip tightening as he tore his gaze away from you.

He knew Derek was right. This was a side of you he had never seen before—one that was bright, effortless, magnetic.

And it was doing things to him he wasn’t sure he was equipped to handle. 

Derek smirked, clearly enjoying the situation a little too much. “So… you gonna sit here and stare all night, or you gonna go say something?” 

Spencer’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide. “What? No. Why would I—” 

Derek cut him off with a knowing laugh. “Come on, man. Don’t even try to play dumb with me. You’ve got it bad.” 

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. He could practically feel the heat creeping up his neck. 

Derek grinned, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, fine. You can sit here and pine, but just know—if you don’t make a move, someone else might.” 

Spencer's heart was hammering in his chest as his eyes flickered back to you. 

And just as he did, you glanced up—locking eyes with him across the room. 

The straw slipped from your lips, landing unceremoniously back into your drink with a soft plop. 

“Oh,” you mumbled, feeling warmth creep up your neck. 

“What’s wrong?” one of your friends asked, following your gaze. 

You tore your eyes away from Spencer—who was now staring blankly into his half-empty drink, clearly pretending he hadn’t just been caught staring—and turned back to your friend. “Nothing,” you said quickly.

Derek, on the other hand, wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement. His grin was practically glowing under the dim bar lights. 

You swallowed, glancing between them before mumbling, “I’ll… I’ll be right back.” 

Before you could second-guess yourself, you set your drink down and made your way over to their table, willing your heartbeat to slow. 

“Hi, you two,” you greeted, voice light but a little unsure. 

Derek’s grin widened. “Well, hello to you, sweetheart.” 

Spencer, on the other hand, barely managed a response. “Hi,” he mumbled, his voice quieter than usual. His fingers fidgeted around the rim of his glass, eyes flickering up to you for a brief second before quickly darting away. 

Derek let out a low chuckle. “Wow, don’t sound too excited, Reid.” 

Spencer shot him a glare but didn’t argue. 

You bit your lip, shifting on your feet, suddenly feeling out of place despite the fact that you had come over here. “So… I thought you weren’t coming out tonight,” you said, looking at Spencer. 

He cleared his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “I wasn’t. But Morgan didn’t give me much of a choice.” 

You smirked. “That sounds about right.” 

Derek leaned back, folding his arms. “And yet, it looks like it worked out in his favor.” 

Spencer groaned, rubbing his temple. “Morgan.” 

You frowned slightly, not entirely sure what he meant, but before you could ask, Derek suddenly stood up.

“Well, I think I’m gonna go get another drink,” he announced dramatically. “Maybe take a little walk. You know, give you two some space.” He winked as he stepped away. 

Spencer let out a slow breath, his fingers tightening around his glass. You watched him carefully, noting the tension in his posture. 

“You look nice,” you said, eyes flickering over him. And he did.

He was still Spencer—formal, put-together—but there was something different tonight. His usual sweater-vest and tie had been replaced by a fitted button-down with the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal his forearms.

Spencer looked up, clearly caught off guard. “Oh—uh, thank you. Morgan told me to wear something different, so… I tried.” 

A small, amused smile tugged at your lips. “Well, it worked.” 

His fingers fidgeted against his glass as he glanced at you again, taking a breath. “You look—uhm—good too. Really good.” 

The moment the words left his mouth, he internally cringed. He wanted to bang his head against the table, maybe disappear entirely. 

You bit back a grin, tilting your head slightly. “Really good, huh?” 

Spencer’s ears turned a deep shade of pink. “I—uh—yes?” 

You chuckled, resting your hands on the edge of the table. “I didn’t know you went to bars, Spencer.” 

“I don’t,” he admitted quickly. “Not often. Hardly ever. Bars aren’t actually the most ideal place for socializing due to the high noise levels, the overconsumption of alcohol leading to impaired cognitive function, and—” 

You raised an eyebrow, and he immediately shut his mouth. “Right. I’m rambling.” 

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s fine. I was just surprised to see you here, that’s all.” 

Spencer hesitated before speaking, his voice a little softer this time. “I was surprised to see you too.” 

For some reason, that made your heart skip a beat. You glanced over your shoulder at your friends, then back at him. “Do you, um… maybe wanna get some air? It’s kinda loud in here.” 

Spencer blinked, like he hadn’t expected that at all, but then he nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.” 

And as you led him toward the exit, Derek—who had been not-so-subtly watching from the bar—grinned to himself and muttered,

“Finally.” 

[ranoutofficssoiwritemyown]

Hello, I hope you're fine!! If you are open for requests, how do you think the lads men would react to mc telling them her period is late?

Hii, so sorry for the delay. Uni and work have been crazy and I finally managed to sit down to write

Soo let's start with Zayne. He tracks your period so he knows it's late, hence he doesn't even seem fazed when you burst into his office panicking.

"Yes, 8 days to be exact. You've been under stress these two weeks and don't even eat meals properly. Although, I suggest taking a test and in case of pregnancy I'll schedule and appointment with the gynecologist in our hospital"

You can't help but look at him shocked by his calm demeanour.

"Of course, I would tell all of these 2 days ago if only you didn't ditch our appointment. Now, if you excuse me I have a patient waiting for me in surgery room"

He rose from his chair heading to the door but stopped in front of you.

"I hope you know, in case of pregnancy you don't have anything to worry about"

You just nod your head still dumbfounded and he left the room with a kiss on your forehead.

I imagine Sylus also tracking your period and he wants you to be pregnant so bad. He is the one to tell you that you're pregnant, actually. One night, when you're in the kitchen deciding on late night snack he stands beside you with his arms crossed.

"Your period is late"

He brushes off your question about him tracking your period, instead repeating his statement. You make a mental calculations and just shrug.

"Only by 3 days. It's no big deal"

He clears his throat.

"It might become a big deal. You should take a test just in case"

"It happens sometimes. Like I said, no big deal"

"Take a test, just to be sure"

"First of all it's too early. Second of all, we use protection-"

"We know it doesn't protect 100% of times"

"Oh, stop worrying, will you? I'm not pregnant"

You finally decide on strawberry yogurt.

"I think you are mistaken, sweetie. I do not fret over the possibility of you being pregnant. Quite the opposite, if we are being honest..." he mumbles the last part under his breath but you squint at him.

"Sylus"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Do you want me to be pregnant or something?"

A small smirk pulls on his mouth

"I am definitely not opposed to the idea"

You shake your head standing on your toes to peck his cheek but he turns his head to kiss you. Even after dating him for so long this small gesture leaves you blushing mess.

"I'll be in our room" you tell him and he nods still with the lovestruck look on his face. Once you leave the room he pinches his nose mumbling about canceling the order of baby-proof items.

Poor Rafayel doesn't know what hit him. Sure he has imagined having a family with you but didn't expect it to be so soon. What do you mean there might be a baby? He's the baby. There's going to be another person you'll love as much as you love him? He has to share now? This can't get worse. And as you look at him nervously he realises you're waiting for his answer.

"Late... okay, cool cool cool...  how late?"

"7 days"

He scoffs as if it's nothing.

"7 days is nothing, right? It's- uh did you take the test?"

"Yes-"

"It's negative, right?"

His hopeful tone makes you scrunch your eyebrows.

"It is" you say hesitantly "but it's still too early to be sure. I'll take another one tomorrow"

"Yeah, of course. Okay"  He seems to calm down

"Umm Rafayel... do you not want me to be-" you clear your throat "what if I'm pregnant?"

It just hit him that he's making this worse for you.

"Oh, cutie. It's not that. I want to have children with you... someday" he avoids your eyes "it's just... yourattentionwouldbeonthemallthetime"

You just give him a look that hints you have no idea what he just said. He sighs, giving up.

"Your attention would be on them and you'll cast me aside and I'm not ready for that" He admits blushing.

"Okay well, if I turn out to be pregnant..." you trail off not knowing, or not wanting, to finish your sentence.

"I'll be there, all the way. That's my kid too, ya know"

You crack a small smile

"You're weird"

"Well, you're not perfect either" he scoffs "nevermind, you are perfect"

You just laugh at him.

Xavier is so confused

"It's late. That's amaaaziiing....lyy bad..?" He tries to construct a sentence based on your expression but fails miserably "can you tell me what that means?"

"Well I don't know. It might be nothing serious but there's a chance I might be pregnant but we always use protection so I don't know how..." You sit with your head in your hands "I'm scared"

Xavier falling silent doesn't help your panic at all.

"Please say something"

"I'm going to be a father?"

You let out a confused laugh.

"I don't know. Probably not, but you might. I have an appointment with doctor Zayne tomorrow so maybe we'll know"

"I'm going to be a father"

You start to think you broke him

"Xavier... we don't know yet"

"Yeah, of course. But I would like to have a child with you"

He closes the distance, placing his hands on your hips

"Do you not want to..."

"I wasn't planning on it yet, but I'm not against it"

He smiles gently.

"Don't get your hopes up yet, though"

"Of course"

But as you leave the room you hear him saying "I'm gonna be a dad" to himself.

One evening, Caleb comes home and lets out a sigh when he enters kitchen.

"Okay, why is the breakfast I made for you still untouched in the refrigerator? We agreed you'd eat meals properly y'know?.. Pipsquak?" He calls out in the end when he receives no answer from you. He finds you in your bedroom sitting on the bed with your knees to your chest.

"What's wrong?" He's alert.

"My period is late"

"Oh my god" He starts laughing sitting beside you and pulling you into a hug. "No wayy, did you take a test? Are we gonna have little you and me running around? I'm definitely teaching them how to shoot a gun"

"Shut up for a minute" you grumble in his chest "I didn't take a test. It's only 5 days, I don't think test would show it if I was pregnant"

"I'll buy them anyway. Bunch of them, so you can take one everyday till it shows positive"

His ridiculous statement pulls a giggle out of you.

"Glad to know you're okay with it"

"Try ecstatic"

You look up at him and spot a mischievous grin on his face.

"You know... you'd be a milf"

That earns a smack on his chest

"Idiot"

"This idiot is going to be a father of your children, so be nice"

"I might not be even pregnant"

"I can take care of that"

He laughs at another smack he receives.

[rafes-slut]

Rafe is obsessed with cockwarming

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x You

Warnings: Smut, explicit sexual content, cockwarming, dominance, possessiveness, slight degradation, light overstimulation, sleep sex implications, language, and Rafe being obsessed with always being inside you.

Rafe had a thing for you. Well, more like an obsession. Not just with your body—though he could spend hours worshiping it—but with being inside you, buried deep and snug, even when he didn’t have the time to actually fuck you the way he wanted.

Cockwarming. It was his favorite thing in the world.

It started as something casual, something he realized he liked more than he should. A night when he was too tired to fuck, but he still wanted to be inside you, wanted that warmth, that perfect fit. He slipped in lazily, sighed against your skin, and stayed there, drifting off with you wrapped around him.

And then it became a need. A habit. Something he couldn’t go a day without.

"Come here," Rafe would say, voice low and commanding, whenever he decided he needed you. Sometimes it was in the middle of work, his laptop open on the desk in his bedroom while he typed out emails or took calls. He’d motion you over, pull you onto his lap, and guide you down onto his cock, watching the way your mouth parted from the stretch, the way your breath hitched.

"Good girl," he’d murmur, one hand gripping your hip, the other typing on his keyboard as if he wasn’t balls deep inside you.

You were supposed to just sit there, just keep him warm, but sometimes you’d shift, your walls squeezing around him, making him grunt under his breath. If you moved too much, if you clenched just right, he’d grip your hip tighter, a warning.

"Be still, baby. Don’t make me ruin you right now."

And when you listened, when you sat there with your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his cock nestled deep inside you, he would hum in satisfaction, sometimes pressing lazy kisses to your jaw.

At night, it was even worse.

He slept better inside you, he swore.

"Come here, need you," he’d mutter sleepily, already tugging your panties down, lining himself up even as his eyes stayed heavy-lidded. You barely had time to react before he was pressing inside you, letting out a satisfied sigh once he was fully seated.

He’d wrap himself around you, nose buried in your neck, hands gripping your waist. And then he’d just… fall asleep like that, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Sometimes, he’d wake up hard, already half-moving inside you before he was fully awake, his hips grinding against yours as he groaned into your ear.

"Fuck, baby… so warm for me," he’d breathe, voice thick with sleep and lust.

And sometimes, when you two were watching a movie, he’d pull you onto his lap with no warning, slipping inside you under the blanket, acting like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"Just sit there, baby. Keep me warm," he’d whisper, his lips brushing against your ear.

You could barely focus on the movie, your body hyper-aware of the way he filled you, the way he felt twitching inside you. But he didn’t move, didn’t try to fuck you—just let you sit there, let you take it, like it was the only way he wanted to be close to you.

Because for Rafe, this wasn’t just about sex.

It was about ownership. About intimacy. About knowing that you were his, that he could have you whenever he wanted, however he wanted.

[beatrice-otter]

The profiling thing: there are actually quite a lot of studies on this. We have very solid data. For most people, you have a 50/50 shot at accurately identifying the emotions of a stranger. 50%. That is, half the time, you're right! and half the time you're wrong.

But what about people who are trained to do this, you may ask. What about, like, psychologists and lawyers and intelligence agents and people like that! Surely they know what they are doing?

And they are better than the general public, it's true. It's been a while since I looked at any of the studies on this, so I can't give you the hard numbers, but they do have a better-than-50% chance of correctly identifying the emotions someone is feeling at a given moment and whether or not they're being honest.

The problem is that they still get it wrong a large percentage of the time. They still mess up, they still don't get it. And worse, they are extremely unlikely to believe that they are wrong. Because they know they are very good at reading people, they will often not accept that they got it wrong. They will believe in elaborate lies or conspiracy sooner than they will believe that they were wrong.

Factors that cause even experienced, trained profilers to misunderstand someone's emotions:

Neurodivergence. Having different brain types cause people to process things differently and also show their emotions differently.

Prejudice. Racial, gender, sex, religious, or other prejudices will interfere with our ability to read others. That is literally what prejudice means, it comes from "pre-judging." You are pre-judging someone based on outside factors.

Cultural differences. A lot of our reactions and the ways we show our emotions are based on culture. How much eye contact is good, how much is aggressive, does a lack of eye contact imply dishonesty, for example. There are a lot of different ways different cultures show emotion.

How good a liar the person you're trying to read is. Some people are really good at lying, and have no qualms about doing so, and are really good at looking sincere while they're doing it. Even deeply experienced profilers will get them wrong.

And there are many, many more. If any of these factors are in play, even highly skilled and experienced profilers will get things wrong, sometimes massively wrong.

And the general public has a 50/50 shot at getting things wrong when you're dealing with a stranger.

Things that work in fiction but not real life

torture getting reliable information out of people

knocking someone out to harmlessly incapacitate them for like an hour

jumping into water from staggering heights and surviving the fall completely intact

calling the police to deescalate a situation

rafting your way off a desert island

correctly profiling total strangers based on vibes

effectively operating every computer by typing and nothing else

ripping an IV out of your arm without consequences

heterosexual cowboy

[hencheri]

— perfect little pet

▸ 18+ mdni.

you're jay's good kitten, his sweet girl, but you still need more training until you become the perfect little pet he knows you can be.

| pairing. bf!jay x fem!reader

| warnings. pet play, dubcon, daddy kink, really strict!jay, heavy dom/sub dynamics, impact play, dacryphilia.

| wc. 2k

⤷ part of my 1k event.

you bite down harder into your bottom lip, eyes full of water as you stare at the floor. your grip tightens around jay’s pants every hit that is delivered to your ass, doing your best to muffle down the noises of pain that threaten to escape you. you scrunch your eyes shut as you feel the familiar burning sensation of his palm meeting your flesh, wishing for it to end soon. 

you’ve stopped crying apology after apology when the strikes only became more violent as sobs ripped through your throat, knowing no matter how many times you said sorry, he wouldn’t stop. 

jay has been furious since you’ve come back. you’ve decided to show up 1 hour past your curfew, and he was absolutely pissed once the relief he first felt passed. how could you have been so careless? so irresponsible? he’s taught you better than this. 

his palm hits your ass cheek again and he makes no attempts to comfort you. he asked you to count to 10 earlier, but you didn't expect him to continue his spanks even after you reached the assigned number. you want to beg him to stop, but you know better than this. with jay, you endure and wait.

he wraps his hand around your throat right after delivering yet another spank to your ass, pulling your torso up from his lap.

you slightly turn your head in his direction to meet his eyes and to your surprise, he doesn't seem furious. he looks totally at ease.

"how long until you finally act like the good, obedient girl you pretend to be?" he murmurs to you, rubbing your ass to soothe the sensitive skin, but it doesn’t feel gentle to you. "i don't like it, kitten, when you don't do as i say," he explains in a serious but calm voice, his hot breath kissing the side of your face.

"i'm- i'm sorry," you mumble, shamefully shifting your gaze away from him. it takes everything in you to not let the tears flow from your eyes.

you receive a sharp spank to your ass before hearing jay's commanding voice in your ear, "sorry who?"

"daddy! i'm sorry daddy," you choke out, whimpering as he doesn't hesitate to slap you. even when you do as he says, he still punishes you. he’s never fully satisfied. 

your butt is on fire and it’s 10 times worse with nothing covering you, your panties sitting at your mid-thighs. he finds no remorse into leaving his handprint on you as long as it’s to discipline you. shape you little by little into the obedient, well-trained pet he’s always known you could be. 

and well-trained will you become. 

he lets go of your neck, slumping you back down onto his lap. his hand steadies on your ass for a moment. “what time is your curfew, tell me.”

“10 p.m.,” you exhale, trying to prevent the tears from falling, but it’s too late. 

“so why…” jay begins, rubbing his hand over your ass in circles, as if preparing you for the next hit. “did you come back home 1 hour later?”

you breathe in deeply, blinking several times, making the translucent pearls roll down your cheeks one by one. “i don’t know, i just… i just forgot. i didn’t notice,” you explain with pouty, shiny lips, all coated in your spit. “please, jay.”

suddenly, he spanks your pussy, a wet sound echoing in the bedroom, your cheeks heating up in embarrassment. you jolt in surprise, letting out a high-pitched gasp. 

“i want the real reason.”

you frown. “but- but it is, i swear!”

you scream as he strikes you and you feel so, so exhausted. 

“how dare you raise your voice at me, pet? you do not talk back to me.” 

you whimper in pain, shaking your head, wanting jay to just leave it for tonight, but you know he won’t stop until he’s satisfied. 

“there’s no reason,” you croak out, “i’ve been careless and inconsiderate.” you sniffle, trying to slow down your tears and not choke on them. you notice you haven’t received another hit yet—so you continue. “i didn’t think about the consequences… but i should’ve because i know better than to worry daddy out.”

you feel slightly relieved when you hear jay humming in approval. “that’s right, kitten. daddy was worried about you. he thought something happened to you… but you were just being a disobedient little pet.” you hear the sound of his palm hitting your skin first, the pain making you grit your teeth. your nails dig into his pants and he can feel it poke his flesh. 

“i’m sorry, really sorry,” you whine.

“oh, i’m sure you are,” he says, sighing as he parts your pussy lips, seeing just how soaking wet your hole is. literally begging for him to fill it. he knows that doesn’t mean you like being punished—it’s your body’s normal reaction to have jay’s hands on you, doing things that usually lead to sex. 

he puts your panties back in place, the soft cotton material rubbing against your ass making you wince.

“get off.”

you don’t make jay wait and scurry off of his lap, going to sit on your calves, but as your bruised skin touches your legs—a scorching pain shooting through you—you rapidly decide against and lean on your hands instead. you wait for the next instructions, slightly hoping he’s going to tell you to bend over the couch and use you as roughly as he wants. 

he rises up to his feet, pulling the sleeves of his shirt down his arms before lowering his gaze at you. “come on.” he gestures to the stairs with a nod of his head. “to your room.” 

—-

the hard floor of the living room hurts your knees, but you still place one hand in front of the other, crawling up to jay. kittens don’t walk; he’s made sure you’d never use your feet in front of him. 

you silently make your way to him and stop at his feet, glancing up at him, but he doesn’t look away from his book. you hesitantly put a hand on the cushions beside him, waiting for a reaction, and seeing none, you decide to climb onto the couch. you climb, you don’t stand up—never do you, he made sure of that, too. 

you remember clearly the intense training he made you go through, whipping the back of your bare thighs with his belt whenever you stood on your feet to climb the bed—or any furniture he beckoned you to go on. you thought it’d be easy to just climb onto something, but with jay demanding you to be the perfect pet, it wasn’t. but now you know. 

you lay down on your stomach, fitting your head on top of his lap. he doesn’t seem to mind and offers you a glance. you stay still, not wanting to bother him, but the thought of him still being mad at you weighs heavy on your heart. each move of your body is a reminder of your mistake, of how angry you made jay last night. and you hate that. 

you let out a whiny sigh and he doesn’t miss on it, lifting up his brow. “what’s on your mind?”

you look up and he’s still focused on his book. you let out another sigh. “are you still mad at me?” you ask, the question finally leaving your lips. 

he takes a few seconds before marking the page he’s on and closing the book, his eyes shifting down to your face. “i wasn’t mad, baby. i was disappointed in you,” he says in a calm tone, his voice almost soothing you. 

“are you still… disappointed in me, then?” 

“yes,” he answers honestly. “but i’m looking forward to good behaviour from you.”

“of course.” you immediately nod your head, sitting up on your knees, facing jay. your ass still hurts a lot, but you understand that the punishment was necessary. 

he extends his arm toward you and takes a hold of your face, his eyes studying you. “you’re a good kitten, baby. i don’t know why you keep making it difficult for the both of us…” he wonders, his thumb gently running over your cheek. “wouldn’t it be easier if you’d just obey me?”

“but i do,” you whine.

you wince when his fingers dig into your face, squishing your cheeks between his hand. jay looks at you more severely now, a chill traveling up your spine as you recognize the familiar darkness in his eyes, that same darkness you see when he slaps you until you’re a sobbing mess, when he fucks all of your holes without ever slowing down. 

“careful, pet. i’ve already displicined you yesterday, i’d hate it if i had to do it again today,” he warns and you know he’s serious. you should always believe jay’s threat. 

“i’m sorry, daddy. i just… i just really don’t mean it.”

“oh, i know you don’t, kitten,” he coos, “you have a good heart, hm? you’re a sweet girl.” you bite down into your lip and slowly bounce your head, agreeing to his words. “come here,” he instructs and you don’t have to be told twice.

you crawl to him and straddle his lap, placing your arms over his shoulders and joining your hands together behind his neck. he smiles at you and you already feel yourself getting warmer. 

“what should i do with you?” he wonders out loud, grinning at the way your shoulders sag down, a pout forming on your lips. “put you on a leash? tie you up to the bed?” you shake your head and it makes him laugh. “no? what do you want, then?”

“daddy…” you say in a low voice, almost looking sheepish of your answer. 

“you want daddy?” you nod and he hums. “okay, then. you’re going to have me, baby.”

you totally didn’t expect to find yourself in this situation, and you feel like a part of you should have known that jay wasn’t completely satisfied by now. you fell right into his trap; kittens don’t ask for what they want. 

your mouth is gagged by your panties, stuffed in by jay earlier when he pushed you to the floor, getting on top of you. he shoved it down further in, making you cry around your dirty underwear and all he wanted was to see those tears of yours again. 

his hand around your throat, he drives his cock into you back and forth, giving you what you asked for. you squirm under him and it only earns you a smack to the face. “you poor helpless little thing,” he softly says, watching the tears fall to the side of your face. “you’re such a sweet girl. you must be asking yourself what you did wrong, hm?”

 you arch your back, lifting up from the floor, meeting jay’s hip thrusts, hitting the sweet spot inside of you just right and making you cry out. you claw at his t-shirt, wanting him off of you or closer to you—you’re not sure. your mind is so dizzy, so confused. so hurt. 

“after all my best efforts to make you into my good kitten, you’re still failing me,” he sighs, looking into your teary eyes, “but it’s okay, i’ll keep taking care of you. i’ll keep teaching you, keep reminding you.” he pulls your panties out of your mouth and you instantly cough, swallowing down multiple times to ease your sore throat. “do you understand, pet?”

you sniffle. “yes, jay,” you say in a weak voice. 

“good, baby,” he smiles, finally satisfied. “because you’re not leaving this house until i’ve shaped you into the perfect little pet.

[mandoalorian]

after hours [bucky barnes x f!reader]

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Personal Assistant!Reader

Synopsis: As Congressman Bucky Barnes' personal assistant, you've always maintained professionalism. But when a late-night work session turns intimate, boundaries blur, and hidden desires come to light.

Word Count: 2000

Tags/warnings: 18+ explicit content. employer x employee, hint of voyeurism, f recieving oral, fingering, just general filth, smidge of plot. there's enough here for a part 2 if it's what the people wanted.

Masterlist

The glow of the city skyline filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Congressman Bucky Barnes’ office, casting long shadows over mahogany and leather. The soft hum of your laptop was the only sound filling the room, save for the occasional rustle of paper as you flipped through his notes.

It was well past midnight. The congressional building was deserted. Just you and him, working late—again.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulders to ease the tension there. “You still with me, Congressman?” you teased, not looking up from your screen. The blue light was starting to hurt your eyes. 

“I’d be a damn fool to fall asleep while you’re talking.” His voice was low, rough with exhaustion. Or was it something else?

You finally glanced up—and nearly lost your train of thought.

Bucky had discarded his suit jacket hours ago, leaving him in just his crisp white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His tie was loosened, the top button undone, and his hair was slightly disheveled—probably from him running a hand through it out of frustration.

God, he looked good.

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to focus. “Sir, we need to go over your talking points for tomorrow’s press conference.”

Bucky sighed and leaned back in his chair, arms stretching behind his head. The movement made his shirt pull taut across his chest. “Can’t we take a break? And you know you can call me Bucky when we’re in private.”

“We’ve already taken three,” you pointed out, biting your lip, noting how all feelings of professionalism were lost on him right now. “At this rate, you’re going to wing it in front of the entire nation.”

He smirked. “Haven’t I charmed my way out of worse?”

You gave him a pointed look. “You’re not just a charming face, Barnes. You actually have to do your job.”

His smirk faltered, and something unreadable flickered across his face. “You always do that.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t leave yours. His legs spread wide as he leaned forward in his chair, pressing his elbows into his dress pants and linking his fingers together. He displayed his usual stoic expression, the one that you struggled so much to read. 

You frowned. “Do what?”

His eyes searched yours, intense and unwavering. “You see me. Not just the congressman. Not the soldier. Just… me.”

Your breath hitched. You had no idea where this was coming from, but you weren’t sure you were ready for it.

“Bucky…”

“C’mere,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

You hesitated. The air between you felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken. You’d spent so many nights like this—late hours, stolen glances, brushing fingers when he handed you a file. But neither of you had ever crossed that line.

This felt like the edge of it.

Still, you moved toward him, stopping just short of his desk. “What is it?”

He reached out, his fingers grazing your wrist before trailing up your arm in a slow, deliberate touch. “You work too damn hard,” he murmured, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. “Always taking care of me. Who takes care of you?”

You let out a shaky breath. “You pay me to take care of you.”

“Hmph, s'pose I do.” His voice had dropped to something even lower, more dangerous.

You should pull away. You should remind him that this was not professional. But the way he was looking at you—like you were the only thing grounding him—made your resolve crumble.

“Bucky…” Your voice was barely above a whisper now.

He stood slowly, stepping around the desk until he was right in front of you. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

“If I cross this line,” he murmured, “I’m not going back.”

His words bit at your skin. Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Maybe I don’t want you to. Maybe I want you.”

His eyes darkened. That was all the permission he needed.

His lips were on yours before you could think, before you could breathe. The kiss was slow at first, almost hesitant—like he was waiting for you to push him away. But when you fisted your hands in his shirt and pulled him closer, he groaned and deepened the kiss, his hands landing on your waist, gripping like he’d been waiting years for this.

Heat coiled low in your stomach as he backed you against the edge of his desk, his thigh slotting between yours.

“This okay?” he rasped against your lips.

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay.”

His lips curled into a smirk before he kissed you again—this time with no hesitation, no restraint.

His movements were slow and controlled, like he had all the time in the world. He pulled you into his lap, hands palming at your waist before running up your chest and stopping at your face. He gazed into your eyes and for a moment, you felt your heart stop. 

“You drive me crazy,” Bucky breathes into admittance. “You know how long I’ve wanted to do this?”

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, and on impulse, you press a chaste kiss to the digit. Something primal ignites in Bucky, and he kisses you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging enough just to make him groan into your mouth. The sound sent a shockwave into you, heat pooling low into your stomach. Bucky’s lips left yours, only temporarily, as he trailed down your jaw, your throat, his breath warm as he took his time.

You gasped as his mouth found that one spot just below your ear, his tongue flicking out ton taste your skin before he pressed a slow, open mouthed kiss there. 

“You’re always so put together,” he murmured, lips burshing against your pulse point. “So professional.”

His hands slid down your sides, slow and deliberate.

“Tell me to stop.” He whispered, coaxing you.

You couldn’t.

You’re only response was to pull him closer, tilting your head to give him more access. He groaned against your skin, his hands gripping your hips and pushing you up onto his desk, slotting himself between your legs.

Bucky ran his hand up your leg, stopping when he got to your upper thigh, when he started to feel the heat omit from your womanhood. You let out a gasp that you didn’t know you were holding when he suddenly removed his hand and pulled back just enough to look at you — really look at you. 

“Been wanting you like this for so damn long,” he admitted, voice rough with restraint. “Look at you, all spread out on my desk.”

You feel your face flush with heat as his gaze racks your body. 

“Take me.” You sigh, and Bucky smirks, wasting no time and pushing up your pencil skirt so it bunches at your waist. He pulls your panties down, revealing your glistening folds to him.

“All this… for me?” Bucky asks, his voice dark, but the exasperation isn’t lost on you. He makes you feel small, at his mercy, as his broadness towers over you. 

Licking his lip, Bucky hums as he starts working his tongue at you, lapping at your clit and relishing your taste. Your fingernails scratch at the expensive wood table beneath you as your stomach coils with pleasure. The brassiness of his beard scratches at your skin, but it just turns you on even more. He’s good —no doubt had more experience than the average non-Super Soldier guy. His teeth teasingly graze at you, and just as you’re about to finish, he stops, pressing a kiss to your mound.

He brings his calloused fingers to your cunt and your body twitches at just the slighest of his touch. “Wait—“ you call out, and Bucky immediately freezes, stops what he is doing and looks at you with concern in his ocean eyes.

You reach out and grab his other arm, his Vibranium arm, and replace his flesh hand with that one. Bucky almost looks hesitant. “Are— are you sure?” His cheeks turn pink, and your heart wants to burst. 

God, he’s perfect.

“When I said I want you, I meant all of you.” You smile and press a kiss to his forehead.

Bucky slips his finger into your core, and you let out a moan, arching your back as it hits the spot. Bucky reacts to the moan and hums with contentment. “That’s my girl.”

The coldness of the metal sends shivers down your body, and you feel yourself clamp down on him. As he curled his finger inside of you, you catch a glimpse of his cock pressing against his light grey dress pants. You moan apologetically as you imagine it inside of you, and just then, Bucky pushes a second digit into you.

“Please— more— that’s so good—“ you breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Hear that?” Bucky murmured, returning his tongue back to your clit. “You beg so pretty for me.”

Your breath hitched as Bucky suddenly removed his fingers, and his metal hand ghosted over your hip, pinning you into the desk, exactly where he wanted you. 

“You keep— you tease,” you groan, chastising him almost. Bucky’s ice blue eyes seem to darken as his pupils blow. 

“Oh doll,” Bucky sighs. “Tell me what you want.”

This time, his flesh hand returns to your core and without warning, he pushes his three fingers inside of you as his thumb strategically circles your clit. “I like to feel you.” He mumbled, licking a white hot stripe down your neck. 

“I can’t— I’m close—“

Before you could finish your sentence, his finger closed around your most sensitive spot.

And then, a knock at the door. “Congressman? Your private jet is here.” 

Your entire body went rigid as you glanced over to see the silhouette of a man behind the frosted doors to Bucky’s office. Somehow, you'd totally forgotten that Bucky had plans to fly out tonight if he was going to make it to Tokyo for the conference in the morning. The man was only meters away from you both, and had no idea your boss was busy fucking you beyond belief. 

“Ah shit!” You cried, feeling yourself near the edge just as Bucky’s driver interrupted. But Bucky paid no attention.

“Be there in a minute.” He called back, his voice perfectly calm. 

And when he said a minute, he meant a minute. As if on cue, you fell apart, white-hot pleasure crashing over you and his hand muffling the desperate moan that threatened to escape your body as your body rifed and shook beneath him. 

Bucky groaned as he felt you unravel, his hands gripping your thighs as he licked you through, taking everything you gave him. By the time he pulled back, his lips were swollen, and his smirk was wicked.

“Think he heard you, sweetheart?” Bucky teased, pressing a lingering kiss to your inner thigh. 

You were too dazed to even glare at him.

But when he stood, smoothing his tie, his expression softened. He cupped your face, thumb brushing over your lips before kissing you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. When he finally pulled away, he smirked.

“Looks like we got a plane to catch,” he announced. You dizzily pushed yourself up and hopped off his desk. “Better fix your skirt. Don’t want anyone knowing what I just did to you, do we?”

You swore you were going to kill him.

But first?

You were going to let him do it again.

[be4chywritez]

never grow up | hughes bro.

hughes bros. x sister!reader

your brothers don't want to let you grow up.

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

warning: completely fucked up timeline

The living room is a mess of wrapping paper and half-eaten cupcakes, remnants of what your mom swore would be a “small graduation party” but somehow turned into a full-blown celebration. You’re still holding onto a stuffed bear in a tiny cap and gown, a joke gift from Ellen, but Quinn keeps side-eyeing it like he’s considering stealing it just to make a point.

Luke is lounging on the couch, flipping through your high school yearbook with a growing look of horror. “Dude,” he mutters, nudging Jack. “She has, like, a whole section in here. How do we not know about half of these people?”

Jack takes the book and immediately flips to the senior superlatives. “Oh my god,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Please tell me you didn’t get ‘Most Likely to Break Hearts’—I don’t think I can handle that.”

You snatch the yearbook out of his hands and smack him lightly with it. “Relax. It’s ‘Most Likely to Brighten Your Day.’”

Quinn, who’s been suspiciously quiet, speaks up from the kitchen. “Yeah, well. That’s worse.”

You roll your eyes. “How is that worse?”

“Because it means people are gonna miss you,” Quinn says simply, but there’s something about the way he says it that makes you pause. Like the realization is just sinking in for him, too.

And that’s when it hits you—this is your last summer before everything changes.

It starts when you casually mention that you’re making a packing list.

“I mean, I don’t need to bring everything,” you say, folding a t-shirt as Quinn watches from the doorway. “I’ll be home for breaks anyway.”

Quinn’s arms are crossed, his face unreadable. “Right,” he says flatly. “Because you’ll totally want to come back to Michigan instead of spending breaks with your college friends.”

You glance up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shrugs, but the tension in his shoulders is obvious. “Just that once you’re gone, you’re gone.”

Before you can argue, Jack yells from down the hall, “Why do you even need a list? Just bring what you have now. Do they not have Target where you’re going?”

You groan. “Jack—”

“I mean, really,” he continues, appearing in the doorway. “What could you possibly need that isn’t already in this house?”

Luke suddenly pops his head in too, pointing at you. “And if you think you’re taking the good blanket from the living room, you’re out of your mind.”

You throw a sock at him. “I bought that blanket!”

Jim, who’s been passing by, doubles back and frowns. “Wait, wait—who said you were taking anything from the house?”

You stare at him. “Uh… me?”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well, maybe I decide what leaves this house, and maybe my decision is that you stay.”

Jack smirks. “Yeah, Dad. Ground her.”

Jim actually pauses, rubbing his chin like he’s considering it. “You know what? If she can’t leave, then problem solved.”

“Oh my god.”

It happens at the dinner table.

Tension has been simmering all summer, but tonight, it boils over.

Jack is picking at his food, Luke is sulking, and Quinn has barely said a word. Jim, trying to keep the mood light, asks a simple question:

“So, kid, excited for move-in day?”

The room freezes.

You swallow, already bracing yourself for the inevitable.

Quinn drops his fork. “Oh, great. Let’s talk about it.”

“Quinn—”

“No, really,” he cuts you off. “Let’s talk about how you’re leaving and we all just have to deal with it.”

Jack scoffs. “We’re allowed to be upset.”

“Yeah,” Luke mumbles. “It sucks.”

Something inside you snaps.

“Oh, it sucks?” you echo, voice sharp. “That’s funny—because I don’t remember any of you feeling bad when you left me.”

Silence.

Quinn’s brows knit together. “What?”

You shove yourself back, your back now flat on the chair. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. Did you all forget how this works? You left first, Quinn. You packed up and went to Vancouver. Jack, you left right after, and then Luke followed.”

Jack opens his mouth, but you steamroll right over him.

“And guess what? Nobody asked me if I was okay with it,” you continue. “Nobody sat me down and said, ‘Hey, we’re all leaving, but we know it’s going to be hard on you.’ No. You guys left, and I was just supposed to be fine.”

Luke shifts uncomfortably. “That’s… different.”

“Oh, is it?” you snap. “Because it sure feels the same.”

They all look guilty now.

Jim exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “She’s got a point, boys.”

The weight of your words settles over the room, thick and suffocating.

You cross your arms. “So don’t sit here acting like I’m the bad guy for growing up. I learned it from you.”

And just like that, dinner is over.

Ellen has been quiet throughout dinner, letting the boys sulk and stew in their feelings. But when you throw down the ultimate truth bomb, she puts her fork down with a soft clink and just leans back in her chair, watching.

Jack shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. “Mom—”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me,” Ellen says, taking a sip of wine. “She’s right.”

The boys look at her like she’s just committed some deep betrayal.

“But—” Luke tries.

Ellen raises a hand. “No. You don’t get to ‘but’ this. You all left her. And now that it’s her turn, you’re acting like she’s the one abandoning you.”

Quinn frowns at his plate. Jack rubs the back of his neck. Luke suddenly finds his drink very interesting.

Ellen sighs, a little softer now. “I get it. You love your sister, and you’re gonna miss her. But she’s not a little kid anymore.” She glances at you, giving you a small, knowing smile. “And you’re allowed to grow up, sweetheart.”

That’s when you feel the lump in your throat.

Jim, sensing the emotion rising again, claps his hands together. “Alright,” he says, standing up. “Dinner’s over. Boys, you will apologize when you’re ready. And if anyone else gets dramatic at the dinner table, I’m making you all sit at the kids' table for the rest of the summer.”

Jack huffs. “We don’t have a kids' table.”

Jim raises an eyebrow. “I will build one.”

Ellen just shakes her head, standing to start clearing plates. As she passes by you, she squeezes your shoulder gently—just enough to let you know she’s on your side.

Quinn was six, Jack was four, and Luke was two when Ellen and Jim walked through the front door with you bundled up in a tiny blanket.

Luke was still clumsy on his feet, gripping Quinn’s hand for balance as he stared at you with big, round eyes. Jack, ever the loud one, scrunched his nose. “She’s small.”

Quinn, the oldest, tilted his head. “How old is she?”

Ellen smiled, adjusting the beanie on your head. “Just a little younger than Luke.”

Jack frowned. “So she’s the baby?”

Jim nodded. “Yep. You’ve got a baby sister now.”

Quinn blinked at you, something protective already settling in his chest. “She looks squishy.”

Luke let out a little giggle, wobbling closer. His chubby hands reached out, poking at your cheek. Your tiny hand curled instinctively around his finger, and his face lit up like Christmas morning.

Jack, still suspicious, leaned in. “Where’d she come from?”

Ellen smoothed a hand over your head. “From a different family. But now she’s ours.”

Jack looked at Quinn, then back at you. “Do we have to keep her?”

Quinn smacked his arm. “Mom said she’s our sister, dummy.”

Jack huffed. “I’m just asking! What if she’s annoying?”

Jim chuckled. “Then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

Jack pouted. But then you made a tiny noise—something soft, a little curious—and Quinn’s hand was suddenly there, gentle against your back, like he already understood what Jack didn’t:

You belonged with them.

You avoid them. It’s not subtle, and you don’t care if they notice.

Jack walks into the kitchen for breakfast? You walk out. Quinn parks himself in the living room? You suddenly remember you have something to do upstairs. Luke tries to catch your eye across the dinner table? You focus really, really hard on your food.

At first, they pretend not to care. Jack scoffs and mutters, “She’ll crack first.” Quinn just sighs like he’s too old for this. Luke pouts but doesn’t say anything.

But as the days pass, it becomes clear: you’re serious.

Jim and Ellen, bless them, intervene before things get too ridiculous.

It’s a setup. You know it the second Jim corners you in the kitchen and says, “Need your help fixing up the boat.”

You’re about to refuse when he casually adds, “Jack’s already out there.”

You were twelve when Jack left for the NTDP.

He was throwing things haphazardly into his duffel bag, way less meticulous than Quinn had been. You sat on the floor by his bed, fidgeting with the strings on your hoodie.

“You’re really going, huh?”

Jack huffed a laugh, shoving more clothes into his bag. “Yeah, I mean… it’s not like I’m going to war.”

You frowned. “Feels like it.”

That made him pause. He turned to look at you, his usual cocky smirk softening. “Hey, don’t make that face.”

You tried to glare at him, but the lump in your throat made it hard.

Jack sighed, dropping onto the floor next to you. “C’mon, don’t be sad.”

You stayed quiet, picking at your hoodie. Jack nudged your arm.

“You know I’m gonna miss you, right?”

You scoffed. “Then don’t go.”

Jack groaned, flopping onto his back dramatically. “Ugh, you sound like Mom.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe because she’s right.”

Jack sat up, resting his chin on his knee. He studied you for a second before reaching out to ruffle your hair. “Listen, baby Hughes, you’re my best little buddy. And you know what?”

You looked at him warily. “…What?”

Jack grinned. “I’m gonna be a big deal one day, and when that happens, I’m taking you with me.”

You wrinkled your nose. “To hockey?”

“To wherever I go.” He bumped his shoulder against yours. “Deal?”

You bit your lip, then nodded. “Deal.”

Jack grinned and held out his pinky. You linked yours with his, sealing the promise.

Of course, you didn’t know then that Jack’s world would get bigger, that he’d go from the NTDP to the draft to New Jersey. But you remembered his words.

Damn it.

When you step onto the dock, Jack is hunched over the open engine, frowning like he actually knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t. He’s wearing sunglasses and a backwards cap, and his shirt is already discarded on the deck like fixing the boat is some grueling manual labor.

You cross your arms. “I don’t see Mom or Dad supervising, so I’m assuming this is an ambush.”

Jack grins, but when you don’t smile back, his expression falters. He clears his throat. “Okay, fine. I may have—” he waves a wrench vaguely in the air “—suggested that Dad needed you out here.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So you’re admitting you need my help?”

Jack scoffs. “No, I—” he stops, narrows his eyes, and exhales. “Okay, maybe.”

A beat of silence stretches between you.

Then, quieter, he says, “You’re really mad, huh?”

You shrug, crouching down next to him. “Not mad. Just… tired of feeling like you guys only get sentimental when it’s convenient for you.”

Jack nods, tapping the wrench against his knee.

“Fair,” he says eventually. “But, like—cut us some slack. We’re not good at this whole… feelings thing.”

You give him a look. “I noticed.”

He huffs a laugh. “But we do love you.” He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, then just nudges your shoulder. “Even when you’re being dramatic.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. Jack sees it and grins.

Small steps.

You were nine when Quinn left for Michigan.

He packed his bags carefully, making sure his jerseys were folded just right. You sat on the edge of his bed, hugging your knees.

“You’ll come back, right?” you asked, voice small.

Quinn stopped, turned to you. “Of course I will.”

“But not for long.”

He sighed, crouching down so you were eye-level. “It’s not like that, baby sis. I’m not leaving you—I’m just… doing something for me.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and Quinn immediately pulled you into a hug. “Hey, hey. You’ll be okay.”

You sniffed. “What if I’m not?”

Quinn held you tighter. “Then I’ll come home.”

He did. But never for long.

Then Jack left. Then Luke.

And now, it was your turn.

Ellen hands you the list. “Take Quinn. And please, real vegetables this time.”

You grumble, but before you can argue, Quinn’s already waiting by the door.

The car ride is quiet.

Then, out of nowhere, Quinn sighs. “I’m sorry.”

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

He grips the steering wheel. “For making you feel bad about leaving. That wasn’t fair.”

You swallow. “Yeah, well… it does suck.”

He nods. “It does.” Then, softer, “You’ll always be our sister. No matter where you go.”

Something in your throat tightens.

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, trying to sound unaffected, “maybe I don’t want to be the baby forever.”

Quinn smirks. “Tough luck.”

You huff, but for the first time in days, the silence between you isn’t so heavy.

Ellen and Jim had taken Jack to some tournament, Quinn was away with the Canucks, and for the first time, it was just you and Luke.

You were thirteen, and he was sixteen, but it felt like an even bigger gap back then.

You weren’t feeling great that day—some stomach bug or something—but you had stubbornly refused to call Mom about it.

Luke had been playing Xbox in the other room when he finally noticed you hadn’t bugged him in a while. He found you curled up on the couch, looking miserable.

"Why didn’t you say anything?" he asked, frowning.

You shrugged weakly.

Luke hesitated, then sighed. "Okay. Come on."

You blinked. "What?"

He grabbed a blanket off the chair and threw it over you before lifting you up.

"Luke—put me down!"

"Nope," he said, hauling you up the stairs. "You have two choices: you can walk to bed like a normal person, or I can keep carrying you."

You groaned but didn’t argue. You were exhausted.

Luke tucked you in (with way too much effort, like he thought you’d try to escape), then disappeared for a few minutes before coming back with ginger ale and crackers.

You stared at him.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You’re being… nice."

Luke rolled his eyes. "Shut up and eat the crackers."

You smirked. "Are you gonna feed me, too?"

Luke groaned, dropping the pillow he was holding onto your face. "I take it back. I hope you feel worse."

But later that night, when you woke up feeling even worse, Luke was still awake, sitting on the floor by your bed with his phone.

"You need anything?" he asked groggily.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. "No."

Luke nodded and yawned. "Alright. Go back to sleep."

Luke drives. He doesn’t play music, which is weird for him. Usually, he’s blasting something obnoxious, forcing you to suffer through his terrible playlists.

He doesn’t say anything until you pull into the parking lot.

“I never thought about it like that,” he blurts.

You turn to him, confused. “What?”

Luke shifts in his seat. “That… you were alone when we left.”

His voice is small, guilty.

You sigh, staring out the windshield. “I didn’t want you guys to feel bad about it. You were chasing your dreams. It wasn’t like I wanted you to stay back for me.”

Luke frowns. “But you still missed us.”

“Yeah, dumbass.”

He huffs a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

After a beat, he hesitates. “You know you can always come back, right?”

You roll your eyes. “I know.”

Luke nudges your shoulder. “We’ll visit. All the time.”

You smirk. “Promise?”

He nods, grinning. “Obviously.”

For the first time all week, your chest feels lighter.

You’re sprawled on the dock, staring at the stars. It’s just the four of you—Jack, Quinn, Luke, and you. The air is warm, the lake is calm, and for once, nobody’s arguing.

Jack exhales. “So. This is it, huh?”

You nod. “Yep.”

Silence.

Then, quietly, Quinn says, “We’re really proud of you, you know.”

You blink, caught off guard.

Luke nods. “Yeah. Like, so proud.”

Jack scoffs. “Even though you’re leaving us.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no bite in it.

Quinn nudges your arm. “We meant what we said. You’ll always have us.”

You swallow, feeling that familiar lump in your throat.

Then, because you’re still their little sister, you smirk. “Yeah, yeah. You guys are obsessed with me.”

Jack groans. “God, I take it back—go to college already.”

Luke laughs. Quinn shakes his head. And for the first time all summer, everything feels right.

Because no matter how much things change, one thing never will:

You’ll always be their sister. And they’ll always be your brothers.

[undeadorion]

No, it's worse than a company being liquidated. It's being gutted and replaced from the inside out. It reminds me of what happened to Adobe.

Adobe bought Macromedia in 2005. At first, nothing overtly changed. By the time I started working for their tech support department in early 2007, there were some rumblings happening, but not publicly noticeable. This is because through the transition, Adobe retained it's same CEO.

That is, until November of 2007. When the former CEO of Macromedia, Shantanu Narayen, took over. What followed was as rapid and poorly executed as what Musk is doing. US support was rapidly dismantled. First they took out the email team, which I was part of, to move that support overseas. US email support was put back onto the phones. Phone support was split between the US team, and the very hastily trained overseas team. So the dwindling US team was constantly being yelled at by frustrated customers who had been with the overseas people, with issues from people not knowing what they were doing to outright lying to just hanging up on people.

More than a month after closing the US email team, they begged us to come back and clean everything up. The overseas team had managed to cock it up so bad, there were still emails in the system from the same week we'd stopped answering them. After we got through the backlog and had everything back on track, it was a "Fuck you very much" and we were kicked back to the phones.

To really kick dirt in everyone's faces, the most senior staff members from the US team were "promoted" to being trainers for the overseas team. And as far as I can tell went through like some hardcore brainwashing to maintain a position with Adobe, while the rest of us were kicked to the curb.

I was still friends with one of these newly minted trainers when the serial number debacle happened. Adobe had shut down server support for authenticating licenses for either CS2 or CS3 products. Their solution was to post a completely open serial number on their own website alongside the product download with a little note that said it was only for people who paid for the product. This friend and I got into an argument because he genuinely believed anyone using this serial without having paid for it was STEALING. How do you steal something when it's openly available, you using it doesn't remove anything from anyone else, and you could not purchase it even if you wanted to?

Now Adobe is price-gouging subscription-only piece of shit, so bloated and poorly optimized it takes an age to even launch on a brand new computer and stuffed full of AI. They even took a shit directly on the chests of comic artists, a major chunk of their userbase.

I don't think the US is being liquidated. I think it's Adobe. A mockery of the powerhouse it once was. Gutted by greedy pieces of shit who think optimization is throwing your skilled employees under the bus to slash labor costs no matter who it hurts in the process. Those who remain loyal will blindly listen to their dear leader without critical thought. And everyone stuck in the system will be forced to endure a bloated, sluggish pile of shit that's just handing off your data left and right while squeezing every penny out of your bank account.

Anyone who has ever worked for a company that was bought out by PE firms knows just how disastrous it is.  

[pineconepie]

More Vincent!! >:)

TW: Kidnapping, injured reader, parental yandere, infantilization, murder (not major characters), developing Stockholm syndrome(?)

...

Its been a few weeks ever since Vincent kidnapped you (or "adopted you" as he likes to put it). For the first few days, it was hell trying to get comfortable around your new "dad". It took even longer to feel safe at the Cryo estate, and get adjusted to the people there.

Most of them were surprisingly not that scary once you got to know them.

For the first time in a while, you felt happy, once you adjusted. Sure, being forced to act like a baby against your will was humiliating and embarrassing. But, at least Vincent could be a lot worse.

"Comfy, pumpkin?" he chuckles, ruffling your hair.

You're nestled against him, watching some kid's movie on TV while nestled up against his side.

He seems so much happier now, too. Well, at least now that you've finally come to terms with your fate and given in to him. There weren't a lot of options in this scenario. If you tried to run away or tell anyone outside the Cryo organization, Vincent would have probably killed them.

That thought scares you as well as makes you sick to your stomach, but there isn't much you can do.

"Yeah," you mutter, eyes slipping shut. "'m tired."

Vincent shifts slightly. You feel a light kiss being pressed into the top of your head. "Then I guess it's nap-time, huh? I..." He's interrupted by his phone ringing. His expression quickly turns into a scowl as he checks the caller ID, and answers it after sending you an apologetic look. "Phoenix, this better be urgent."

"Heeey, Boss, Scarlet Syndicate is kinda screwing us over right now." There's sounds of yelling in the background. "They wanna speak to you."

Your eyes widen. Scarlet Syndicate, the same group that forced you into working for them.

Vincent rubs the bridge of his nose. "Then they're idiots. Fine. Tell them they're gonna get what they wished for. Send me the location and I'll be there soon." He hangs up before Phoenix has a chance to reply back. Sighing, he turns to you with a sad smile. "Looks like we'll have to cut cuddle time short. Dad's so sorry."

"They're the ones who held debt over my head. What if they want me back?" you question, dread making your chest tighten. "What if they want me dead? They're probably so angry at me.." Your lip trembles, remembering how cruel they were to you.

He pulls you into a firm hug, rubbing soothing circles on your back. "Oh, kiddo... don't worry about that, alright? If those bastards so much as come near you, they will meet a very bloody fate," he growls, squeezing you even tighter. He buries his face in your hair. "Dad's gotcha. As long as you stay under my protection, they won't lay a finger on you. Hell will freeze over before I let anyone take you away from me."

You nod anxiously. "I trust you."

He kisses your forehead again before slowly pulling away and standing up from the couch. "I'm gonna put you in the safe room while I'm gone, alright?" He doesn't wait for your response, dragging you to the safe room.

Despite trying to seem calm, you can tell he's angry. Extremely angry. Vincent is gripping you tightly, but not hard enough to cause pain.

Once you're in the safe room, he makes sure it's fully locked up.

"I should be home before dinner," he assures you.

"Wait," you rasp. "What if something happens to you?"

Vincent places his hand on the side of your head, stroking his thumb over your cheek. His smile seems a lot warmer when you're the one receiving it.

"You really think I would leave you alone after all the trouble I've went through to have you with me?" he teases, letting out a quiet chuckle. "No worries, sweetie. I'm always gonna find a way to make it home. Even if I have to dig myself out of a shallow grave."

With one last kiss pressed into your forehead, Vincent turns around and walks away, leaving you locked inside the safe room.

...

Vincent arrives at the warehouse where the meeting is taking place, being escorted inside by Phoenix. Inside the main room, he sees the Scarlet Syndicate goons waiting for him and Vincent wastes no time getting to the point.

"What the fuck do you bastards want?" he spits.

Flint, the boss of Scarlet Syndicate, puffs his cigar. "You know exactly what I'm here to ask," he sneers. "Did you not bring the kid with you?"

"Kid? I don't know what you're talking about," Vincent replies nonchalantly, smiling menacingly. "But if I did, what is it to you?"

"Their debt is far from paid off, Bauer," Flint grumbles. "As long as they breathe, we own them. So I was thinking, either you give them to us, or you can pay off the debt yourself." He blows out some smoke. "For a millionaire such as yourself, it doesn't seem like it'd be an issue for you, especially seeing as you've gone soft over them. I've heard the rumors."

Vincent glares darkly at him. "First of all, you're gonna need more than your cronies to keep you protected when I lose my patience." He smiles threateningly. "And second of all, I think I've got a counter-proposal. How about I just shoot you in your face instead?"

In a flash, everyone pulls their weapons on each other.

"Enough!" Flint huffs. "I gave you an option to do it willingly. Now we have no choice but to use brute force."

Vincent is prepared to have bullets flying his way, but instead a smoke bomb is dropped at his feet.

As soon as Vincent realizes this, he covers his mouth and nose, eyes searching wildly to see the culprit, but to no avail. Then he notices Flint is gone along with his cronies.

Once the room clears, the Cryo members notice their boss is seething.

"Go find them!" he barks, scowling furiously. "I want every single one of those bastards dead by sunset." He notices Quinn on her phone. "Quinn! What the hell are you doing?!"

"Your place was broken into," she hisses back.

That gets Vincent's attention. The blood drains from his face as realization dawns on him. They just wanted to draw him out so they could get their hands on his baby.

Never in the past couple of years has he ever been so frantic, scrambling to his car and flooring it back home.

...

As soon as he makes it back to his penthouse, his worst fears are confirmed. There's signs of struggle in the hallway, as well as bloodstains on the carpet.

The safe room door has been busted open somehow. Vincent's stomach churns and he feels rage beginning to bubble up. Not only had someone dared to trespass on his property, they also had the audacity to steal you.

His kid. His everything.

He screams your name while searching for you, even though he already knows it's useless.

After tearing apart the penthouse and finding no trace of you, that's when his panic begins to set in.

"No, no, no..." he rasps, fingers tangling in his hair. He punches the wall and kicks down the nearby table in rage. Vincent stands there staring down at the mess he made.

He feels his chest constricting and tears beginning to flow. He grabs one of the fallen chairs and smashes it against the wall.

Then his phone rings.

Fumbling to grab it out of his pocket, he answers it, wiping his tears away in anger.

"What?!" he barks, voice cracking.

Instead of Phoenix, Quinn, or Trenton, he hears...

"Hello again, Vincent."

It's Flint.

Vincent feels like he's about to snap right then and there. He grips the phone so tight he almost breaks it. "What did you do?" he asks with grit teeth, fighting back the urge to sob. He hasn't felt this way in a long time, and he despises that.

But it hurts. You're gone again... It makes his heart ache knowing you're back in that organization's grasp, likely terrified.

Flint cackles. "I'm sure your kid wants to know the same thing. I told them how your greed was too strong to save them. So! I have a new set of options. Either you can come here and give me the money, or... well, I think you can imagine what'll happen next."

Vincent squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling. "Just tell me where you want me to bring the cash," he whispers, rubbing his hand over his face.

...

You try to ignore the cuts and bruises marring your skin. It's hard to, given your only distraction is the brick wall in front of you. You would cry, but after crying the whole ride here, you feel numb.

There's only fear and dread in you.

You're tied to a chair, arms bound behind your back and legs attached to the front legs of the chair, ankles secured to them.

They've taken you away from Vincent and brought you back here.

Back to the Scarlet Syndicate headquarters, which is really just some rundown warehouse.

Just when you're beginning to wonder if you had been abandoned to starve and die down in this dingy basement, the door opens.

To your surprise and relief, Vincent descends down the stairs with two suitcases.

"Dad!" you exclaim, hope blossoming.

He ignores your cry, approaching the table Flint sits at. With an angry scowl on his face, he sets both suitcases down, opening them up so the man can see.

You peer over as well, shocked to see that there's millions worth of dollars in each suitcase. Probably even more than the debt.

"There, I've met your demands," Vincent hisses. "Now let them go."

Flint cackles, standing up. "My, my. I'm surprised you actually showed up. Thought for sure I would be seeing them dead. Seeing as you don't hold much care for anyone besides yourself."

"Save the monologue," Vincent snaps. "And give them back before I put a bullet through your brain."

Flint nods, untying you from the chair.

Once you're untied, you rub your wrists, wincing at the soreness. Immediately, you rush over to Vincent, wrapping your arms around his midsection and hiding your face against his coat.

He holds you tight. "It's alright. Dad's here."

Flint pouts, taking another drag of his cigar. "So let's let bygones be bygones?"

Vincent forces a smile. "Sure thing." He rushes you out of the warehouse, keeping you cradled in his arms until you reach the car, which is farther away than you had anticipated. You're just grateful he has so much upper body strength. After buckling you in the backseat, he checks your pulse and presses kisses all over your face. "My poor baby," he whispers tearfully. "Did they hurt you bad?"

"My head hurts. And my entire body feels like its on fire."

Vincent pulls you into another firm hug before letting go. He wipes his eyes furiously. "Oh. That reminds me." He pulls out a walkie-talkie and holds it to his face. "Trent. Now."

You hear a loud explosion coming from somewhere nearby, looking out the window to see the warehouse in flames.

You jump a little.

Vincent chuckles weakly, placing his hand on your head. He reaches into the glove compartment and produces a juice box. You hadn't even noticed he carried them around in his vehicles.

He pushes the straw through the tiny hole and hands it to you.

"I think some ice cream is in order once we get back home," he whispers, leaning forward and pressing another kiss onto your forehead.

"But didn't you give them money?" you question, furrowing your brows in confusion as you take small sips of the juice. "You just blew up a bunch of it..."

He laughs. "Don't you worry about that. It wasn't real money," he snickers, patting your head one last time. "But you don't need to think about any of that adult stuff anymore." His smile falters for a split second, examining your injuries once again. "I'll also need to call a doctor once we're home. And then maybe put you in a tower like Rapunzel."

You manage a small laugh. "You're silly."

His smile returns as he shuts the door and settles himself into the driver's seat. "Don't tell anyone else, you're the only one who knows that." He grins at you through the rearview mirror.

Never did you think you'd be okay driving away with your captor from a burning building with possible casualties inside, but... after what you've been through, it's kind of difficult to care anymore.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Mrs. R Part Four

Previous Part | Masterlist

Notes: Not beta-read.

Warnings: Angst and fluff. Flangst. A lotta cursing. Ends happily, I promise!

Summary: Your eyes dart to the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

It's late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren't, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

One glimpse. That's all it takes to convince you that you need to get over him, and to finally move beyond the foolish delusion that the two of you are ever going to get back together.

Robby has been saying that it's something that he's been meaning to do, have you over to his new place—that it's not as sad as you're probably imagining, that you'll be impressed.

And he's sort of right. It's not as sad as you were imagining. It's a little sadder.

You're not completely surprised by the nearly-empty fridge, the scatter of mail on the counter. You are heartened by the little touches of your old life together there, the few things that he took from your home that are scattered throughout the kitchen, the living room.

And he should've known that when you went to the bathroom that you were going to snoop.

That's why spotting the women's perfume bottle on the counter is so fucking jarring.

There aren't touches of anyone else, nothing that you looked at and immediately felt that they weren't his but this—?

The bottle shape is familiar, and you're sure the label would be too if you hadn't suddenly lost the ability to read. You stand in his bathroom staring at the bottle. Your hands are frozen over the drawer that you were about to pull open and snoop through. Your heart is pounding in your ears; your throat feels like someone's just crammed a boulder down it. You try to swallow past it, clear your throat a few times, but it won't budge.

You need to get out of there. You can't tell him that you're not feeling well, because he'll insist on running a full living room diagnostic. You're sure your BP is up, that your skin is going hot with upset. You can't imagine the conversation going well—

"And what were you doing when you felt the onset of symptoms?"

"Oh, just realizing that I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of fixing this."

You take a step back, draw in a deep breath, flex your shaking hands. No, this is fine. You can get out of this. You pull your phone out of your pocket, wincing as you hear Robby pass down the hall nearby. You open the ringtone menu on your phone, tapping one and letting it play loudly for a few beats before you pretend to answer a call from your best friend.

"Hello?...Honey, are you okay?...Chlo—Chloe, calm down," You fake your conversation, forcing yourself to pace through your answers. You glance toward the door, biting the inside of your cheek. Is he still nearby? How much of this can he hear? "What?—Oh, god, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt?...Yeah, of course I can come."

You glance up as the bathroom's overhead bulb begins to flicker.

"No no, don't worry about that. Drop a pin, I'll be there as soon as I can."

You shove your phone into your pocket and yank the bathroom door open—nearly smacking right into Robby. He has a hand up as if to knock, and lowers it as you pull up short.

"Everything okay?"

"I—Yes—No," Shit. "Chloe called, she had a whole fiasco—Bad date, and then she got rear-ended. I'm really sorry, but I've gotta go."

Robby nods a touch, stepping back. "You want me to come with you?"

"No! No," You hurry to cover off on your too-quick answer with a smile and a pat on the shoulder. You lean up, pecking his cheek before you skirt around him, hurrying down the hall.

"Thanks for having me over. I um—" You glance back, jerking your thumb over your shoulder. "You should probably fix that bulb."

--

To your credit, you do talk to Chloe that night. It's mostly to warn her that in case she somehow runs into Robby, to let him know that her car is fine. And you know that she has more questions, but maybe it's the weariness in your voice that lets you off of the hook for the night. You know that you'll have to answer for the fact that you were even talking to Robby in the first place, something that you've neglected to mention since the light bulb situation kicked you into a new personal level of hell.

And you're so, so tempted to let yourself stew on this all for one more night, but you decide that you can't just wallow anymore.

For as difficult as this is going to be, it's been a long time coming. You need to make changes.

--

It's not a complete surprise when he turns up at your door. You've been avoiding him for the better part of a month, coming up with excuse after excuse after excuse to not see him, to not answer his phone calls.

What does surprise you is what he says. Not hello, not how are you, just—

"You're selling?"

You puff your cheeks up and push the air out in a long breath. Maybe you should've answered one one of his messages sooner. Then he wouldn't have taken it upon himself to turn up, and to run into the real estate agent hammering in a sign out front.

You cross your arms and lean in the doorway, eyeing the sign, the slight swing of For Sale in the breeze.

"Yeah. You looking to buy? I'm sure I could get you the ex-husband and bulb-fixer discount."

"When did you decide to move?"

"Been meaning to. This is too much house for me. I use, like, a third of the space. Don't even go in the basement, remember?"

"Where are you looking?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're going to stay in Pittsburgh, so—which neighborhoods?"

The fact he says it with such certainty makes irritation flare in your gut. You curl your hand into a fist out of sight, give a short shrug.

"I don't know if I am."

Robby's brow tip up, his chin dropping toward his chest as he takes that in.

"You don't know?" He repeats, a disbelieving laugh falling from his lips. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just means I'm still weighing my options."

"Where else would you go?"

"I dunno...Philly, New York, LA—"

"You're serious."

"I'm thinking about it."

Robby's eyes narrow, brow furrowing as he takes you in. You fight to stay still, to hold his gaze, even when every part of you wants to retreat inside, close the door, and lock it until he leaves.

"When were you planning on telling me?" He asks.

"What's that matter? It's not like I need your permission, right?" You don't mean for it to sting, but the way Robby's head jerks back makes you think that you've hit a target you didn't even know was up to be aimed for.

"No," He finally says. "You don't need my permission."

"Great, so I don't know what the fuss is about—"

"I guess I mistakenly thought that friends told each other things—"

"Oh, please," You splutter a bitter laugh. "When's the last time you fucking told me anything important?"

"This again?"

"You can't 'this again' me when you're the one that brought this shit up, Michael."

"There's a difference between that and you moving across the fucking country!"

"I'm not—I'm not absolutely gonna, I'm just thinking about it!"

"If this place sells tomorrow, where are you gonna go?"

"I'll figure it out."

"You can't just fly by the seat of your pants on shit like this."

"Whatever happens, I will work something out."

"Since when do you want out of Pittsburgh?"

"Since when do you give a fuck about what I want?"

"HEY!"

The two of you turn to see your neighbor, Diane, standing on her steps, glaring at the two of you as she waves toward where her kids are playing in the yard.

"Do you mind? Watch the language."

"Please," Robby scoffs," You curse more than the two of us combined."

"Yeah, blow it out your ass, Diane," You snap. She blanches, tightening her robe around her and pointing a warning finger at you.

"Keep that up and I'm calling the fucking cops."

"Now who needs to watch their language," You sneer, glaring at her until she goes back inside. You draw in a deep breath, keeping your focus just over Robby's shoulder.

"...Look," You say quietly, "I've got shit to do, so. You should go."

"Jesus fucking christ," Robby scoffs, turning and heading down the front walk. You force yourself inside, shutting and locking the door before sagging heavily against it, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. Your hand curls into a fist, and you just manage not to slam it against the wood grain. Hitting something won't solve anything. You have to start weeding through your living room for the things that you absolutely don't need—things that you can sell online, or just put out on the curb to get rid of.

Then you can go back to apartment hunting online, browse the internet, and see if you can google your way into figuring out where the hell you're going next. The house needs some work, there's no way it'll sell tomorrow—unless Robby decides he does want to buy.

The thought freezes you in your tracks on the way to the living room. You don't think...You'd asked, teased, but you'd been kidding—

"No. No," You mutter to yourself, shaking your head as you turn into the living room. There's no way he would do that. You have some books to sort through, then name-change paperwork to get rolling on, and then some apartment hunting as you passively watch House Hunters.

--

The call is atypical—has been for a couple of weeks now. Robby hasn't reached out since your blowout on the steps. No quick calls, no voice notes, no💡gracing your chats.

That's why seeing his name flash up on your screen in the middle of your nightly doom scroll catches you so off-guard. Your eyes dart to the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. It's late—but for all of your qualms about whatever the hell you and Robby are or aren't, for better or for worse, in sickness or in a health, for richer or for poorer, you still care about him.

You answer, raising the phone to your ear. It's quiet for a moment, and you hedge, "Robby?"

More silence—and then a sniffle.

You're throwing the covers off of yourself and getting out of bed before you can even think about it.

"Hang on, okay?" You yank your drawers open, grabbing the first pair of sweatpants and sweater that you see. "Give me twenty, I'll be right there. Do you wanna stay on with me?"

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and your ear, wiggling out of your pajama pants and tugging the sweatpants on.

"Michael? You've gotta talk to me, honey," You press when the quiet persists. You hear him draw in a deep breath, then push it out slowly.

"Okay," He finally mumbles.

"Okay what? Okay you want to stay on?"

"I'll see you in twenty minutes."

"You don't want me to stay on?"

"No. No. S'okay."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Okay I'll be there soon. I—" Love you. The words are automatic, but they clog in your throat, your fingers flexing around the phone. "I'll be there as soon as possible."

--

You're hardly across the threshold with the door shut and locked behind you before he's leaning into you, pressing his face into your neck and drawing in a tight, shaky breath. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, gently scrubbing your nails over his nape as he shakes.

You don't tell him to let it out, that you're there, that everything's going to be alright, that nothing's gonna hurt him. You learned a long time ago that Robby can dish platitudes, but he doesn't like to take them—and he's already been hurt so damn much. He needs someone to look at the walls that he builds up around himself and identify and patch leaks before the dam breaks. You knew it was work, at least—if one a friend or family member was sick or had passed, he would've told you over the phone.

His hands curl in the fabric of your shirt, anchoring tight; you feel his eyelashes fluttering, spreading warm tears against your skin. You let him stay there, your heart breaking with each soft sob and sniffle.

When he draws back, you let him. He doesn't go far, only lifting one of his hands from you to scrub at his eyes.

"Thought you said twenty minutes," He mumbles.

You frown, brow furrowing. "I did."

"It's only been ten. How many traffic laws did you break?"

"Let me and the speed cameras worry about that."

Robby pushes out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. You reach up, gently swiping away a few of his tears as you cup his cheeks. You let yourself search his weary face—his red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained face, quivering lips.

"What's going on, Mikey?" You press softly. His gaze drops to the floor, and you watch his shoulders tense. It's the first brick of a new wall—once he's all cried out, the dam needs to be rebuilt, maybe at double-time now that you're there. A wave of irritation is pushed down by petty attraction as his hands flex in the fabric your shirt. You expect him to tell you to forget it, that it was a lapse in judgement when he called you, that he's fine. You watch him wet his lips, see him open his mouth, and—

"Can you stay tonight?"

--

It's not an easy night of sleep for you. You have to stop yourself from fidgeting. You constantly find yourself in that hazy space between light sleep and wakefulness. Whenever Robby shifts, when he mumbles in his sleep, when his fingers skim along the strip of skin exposed between your borrowed pajama top and sweatpants, your heart beats double-time.

You're not entirely sure when you manage to drift off, or what exactly it is that wakes you up first—the sunlight creeping through the curtains, or the tender brush of Robby's lips against the underside of your jaw. You hum softly at the sensation, that way his beard prickles against your skin. You press up unthinkingly against his palm where it's anchored against your hip, keeping your body tucked tightly against his.

Your hand lifts sleepily, fingers sliding into his hair as the kisses lazily drift higher and higher. The tantalizing pressure of his teeth closing around your earlobe makes you pull in a soft, sleepy gasp, your thighs squeezing together beneath the sheets to quell the growing ache there. His answering hum sends a pulse of want through you—but it also wakes you up.

You push yourself to sit up, the speed of it knocking Robby's hand aside. You stare down a your lap as you try to sort through the mess of feelings twisting in your belly.

Robby's soft murmur of, "What is it?", the sleep-roughened timbre of his voice, does nothing to quiet your thoughts. You raise your hands, scrubbing at your eyes.

"Are you working today?" You ask.

"'No."

Considering the state he was in last night, that's for the best.

"Okay. Okay, good." You swallow thickly, looking around. You left your sweatshirt in the bathroom, didn't you? When you got changed—

You still as Robby's hand slides across your thighs, his face pressing into your hip. You bite the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself.

"I've gotta go." The words come out firmly, but you don't make a move.

"Can't stay for coffee?"

"No. No, I can't stay for coffee," You insist, forcing yourself from his hold as you slide out of bed, "And I can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing what?"

"This!" You wave toward him as he sits up. "This one-leg-in-one-leg-out shit! Things need to change, Robby. It's gonna suck for a little while, but—"

"Is that what this move about?"

"Yes! Not—I mean, partially, yeah. I need to sort out my shit, I have to remember who I am without you and I don't think I can do that here. Not when we're both a phone call away."

You bite your lip as Robby dips his head, scrubbing his palms over the back of his neck.

"Besides," You push on, "You're—You've moved on, so. I think it's about I do, too."

"Moved on?" He laughs derisively. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

You fix him with a stern look. "I saw the perfume last time I was here, Michael. Look, it's fine—" Even though it most certainly does not feel fine—"And expected, we're divorced, but—" You falter as Robby yanks open the bedside drawer, drawing out something and tossing it to you. You fumble to catch it, and your stomach churns when you realize it's the same perfume bottle from the bathroom.

"Michael, I said—"

"Look at the bottom."

You frown, tipping the bottom as he says, and going still when you see the familiar, half-torn, half-faded Christmas label. It had been one of your worst Christmases together—Robby had been working overtime, and had been so tired when he'd tried to wrap presents that he'd wound up sticking labels on the wrong side of half of your gifts.

You run your thumb across the adhesive, shaking your head.

"I don't understand."

"It got packed up with my things when I moved. I kept meaning to give it back, but I kept forgetting, and then it got further away, and—" He draws in a deep breath. "And then when I stayed the night, a few weeks ago—and I slept better than I have in months. I tried to convince myself it was the scent of you on the sheets that I needed, tried spraying it on the pillows but it isn't enough." He shakes his head, dark tired eyes flitting to your face. "It's you."

Your heart skips a beat, and your fingers tighten around the bottle as tears prickle at your eyes. You lower yourself to the edge of the bed, pulling in a deep, shaky breath. You hear the rustle of the sheets as Robby shifts, coming closer.

"...You still want me to stay for coffee?" You hedge.

"I want you to stay for a lot more than that."

You tip your head to the side, warily meeting his eye, and finding an almost boyish smile on his face.

"...Robby," You sigh, setting the bottle on the bed. "I mean it, I can't...I can't survive in this emotional purgatory. I'm tired of tying myself up in knots trying to figure out what the hell you're thinking—And it's not so easy as just being more open with communication," You warn as he lowers his head. "We've got...Stuff. We know one another so well but we still get tripped up by this shit."

"I know." Robby reaches out, taking one of your hands between his. "But I also know that when I needed someone last night, the only person I thought to call was you."

"Because you knew I'd answer?"

"Because even if you didn't, I could still listen to your message. I could still hear your voice." His own breaks with the admission. "I need you. And I've missed the hell out of you."

You reach up with your free hand, gently stroking across his cheek.

"I've missed you, too," You murmur, "You grumpy old man."

He splutters a laugh, and you smile, relaxing as Robby raises your hand and presses a gentle kiss to the back of it.

"Whatever you decide, I can't stop you—I won't," Robby clarifies, "But...Cards on the table: I don't want you to leave."

You nod a little. "Cards on the table: I'm not so sure I want to leave either. And—" You reach up, running your fingers over his nape before giving it a gentle tug. "You still need a haircut."

--

"Okay! So I know what I read on the intake form, but I'd like to hear it in your own words from the two of you: What brings you to marriage counseling today?"

You hesitate, eyeing Robby on the other end of the couch. He gestures forward, softly urges, "Please."

"Well, this might be a bit unorthodox. " You shift in your seat, "Robby—Michael," You correct, "And I are divorced. Have been for a while now. But we've been talking a lost more lately, and the lines between our relationship have...Never felt more blurred than they do now."

"Would you say that's an accurate assessment, Michael?" The counselor prods, and he gives a nod.

"Yeah, I'd say that's pretty accurate."

"What would you say has been your biggest stumbling block throughout the relationship?"

"Communication."

The two of you manage it in unison, and it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing at the stunned look on the counselor's face.

"I promise we didn't practice that."

"Well," She chuckles, leaning back in her seat. "In some aspects, the two of you are seem to still be in sync. Why don't you tell me a little about how the two of you met?"

--

"I didn't think we'd get homework," You grumble, stepping outside.

"It's all part of the process."

"Yeah, but week one? Harsh." You tuck your hands into your pockets, glancing up the block. "You headed to the Pitt?"

"Yep. Shift starts in half an hour."

"Alright. Be careful, huh?"

"Always am." Robby glances back toward the doorway. "It's gonna be weird, not talking to you until next week."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know," You fidget, shifting from foot to foot. "But honestly, if something happens at work and you need to—You know." You lean in a little, fake-whispering, "We could just lie."

He grins, taking a step closer. "Oh, no. We're doing this right."

"Such a stickler."

Before you can argue further, Robby cups your cheeks, drawing you in for a soft kiss. You hum against his lips, raising your hands and grasping his hoodie. You should lean away sooner than you do, but for you a few moments, you can't bring yourself to care that you're standing in the middle of the block in broad daylight, right outside the marriage counselor's office. But hey, maybe it's a good look. The sight of a kissing could could give off a good impression, drum some business up for her. Really, you're doing her a favor.

You lean away, letting your eyes slip closed again as Robby tips his chin up, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Seriously, though," You murmur. "If you really need—"

"I know."

"Okay." You nod, finally letting go and giving his chest a teasing push. "Have a good shift, Dr. Robinavitch."

He takes two steps back down the block, eyes still fixed on you as a warm smile grows on his face.

"I'll see you next week, Mrs. Robinavitch."

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

@mad-girl-without-a-box ;  @winchestershiresauce ; @lorecraft ; @kmc1989 ; @veryprairieberry ;

@kittenlittle24 ; @ilariyalavorowrites ; @morgy3456

[suiana]

yandere! loser who's chronically online and thinks that the world is ending because he can't find love. or rather, can't get a lover because wdym he's had a crush on you for five years and is STILL single!!!

bro's the type of guy to complain on reddit about being single and not do anything afterwards even if people give him advice. bro's the type of guy to say he's going to die alone and continue sitting in his room while watching lego building videos. bro's the type of guy that... also stalks you intensely after one single conversation where he thinks you're his one and only.

this guy probably thinks he's tough shit or something but cannot for the life of him, ask you out on a date like a normal person. forget that! he can't even get out of his house!

he lives off of his parents money (thank goodness they're rich) and doesn't work. why? because he says his dream job is to be rich and unemployed (successfully done btw). sooo no, he's probably not gonna be inheriting his father's company and be the hot rich alpha ceo you were dreaming of.

you'll get this weirdly obsessed loser though.

he's the ultimate loser! and in this ultimate loser pack you have gacha addict, fucked up sleep schedule, virgin, 70 different hyperfixations, reddit user, stalker, 4chan user, compsci graduate, have i mentioned stalker? yeah, definitely stalker.

stalking... heh, guess you could say he has a job... that is, if you count stalking and watching over you 24/7. yeah, that's right. the feeling you get that you're being watched even at home? that's him.

sure, he might be jacking off to surveillance footage of you, watching gf/bf asmr and pretending it's you talking to him... oh and also he might've built a mini shrine with things he 'borrowed' from you...

but really, you should just be glad he isn't doing more heinous things. for all you know he could be doxxing or manipulating you to be with him! god, that would be horrific. especially because we all know what 4chan and reddit users can be like.

like he's... weird to say the least. but it could be worse than just obsessed, crazy, and delusional. yeah, so what if he's thinking of scenarios that don't exist? scenarios that involve you, to be specific?

you don't even remember meeting him but he's gone and created a life for the two of you in his head already. for five years, if i must add. like... that's bloody crazy innit?

and he's also british.

yeah so😝

don't worry, he's crazy devoted! some might call him a yearner, others say he needs to be amditted to a hospital. whatever! they just don't understand him.

but you do, don't you? you have to! you're his one and only (one sided)! he's already planned the both of your weddings out, bought you TONS of gifts- you received his presents before right? yeah, those new headphones you wanted? you got it a few weeks back. your college debt? remember how it was mysteriously paid off? yeah, and the fact that you were happy about it must mean that you accept his advances!

yeah! g'luck mate you're going to be called darling REAL soon 🤑 hopefully. jost hope you don't get asked out on a date... he might do a little shanking 😵☝️

[smileymoth]

Hermitcraft is like a medical malpractise central to me bc nobody has training in being a doctor (beside Gem maybe)

If you get injured/get ill your choices are: 1) chug 10 vials of health regen and hope it does something 2) die and hope you come back right 3) choose one of the other hermits to take care of you which could go in multiple different ways::

Docm can fix up your technical things and if you have any robot limbs or parts he will help you with those but otherwise I feel like he would make it worse. Like I know this guy has done self surgery. So if you're on good terms with him you could go to him and hope that you don't come out of surgery with a tracking chip planted in you or wires in your brain

Cub could probably help you. But you need to be prepared that he's going to do it in the most unconventional ways possible and theres a 1 in 4 probability it'll cause you 10 other problems that leave you dependent on him bc he needs to fix those as well now. Also be prepared for all your confidential information about your body to be shared with Scar. Somehow the most safe option in my opinion. but watch out

Gem.... With smaller problems I feel like she could help you, but you have to beg her for it because she will think you can just walk it off. Sometimes she's right, other times you'll end up at Cub's. She does know wound care. And it's proper wound care too. She'll want to duel you first tho before she helps you bc she think's it's fun and #payment

Grian can only help you if you're a hybrid, but barely. He knows more theory than practise. Do not go to him with your problems. He will make them worse somehow.

Skizzleman knows probably too much about wound care. Like all hermits have basic knowledge of immediate wound care but I feel like he would know the best. I feel like he's also a guy who has probably stitched himself up so he knows how to do sutures. He's surprisingly gentle despite him having large hands that possible couldn't do anything so delicate.

Zedaph knows some things. He knows how to do surgery. He just doesn't like doing them. He's deeply uninterested. Even though I would probably trust him more than Cub or Docm because he doesn't seem like a guy who would sabotage you on a medical level. I think he would reroute you to Cub instead without any malice.

If you have issues with your Code please go to Tango. He will probably help you fix those. He would really want to try to fix your medical problems with fiddling around with code but most of the time he starts whining and gets pathetic about it because he's scared he's gona hurt you

Only go to Cleo if you have ripped off a limb and it didn't reattach itself when you respawned. She knows how to stitch you up. She will do it without any anesthetics or painkillers so you'll have to go through with it since she wants to be sure that she connected the nerves right. If you go to her with anything else she will look at you like you're insane

[kathaelipwse]

Worlds Apart | C.Seungcheol

Popular!Seungcheol x Scholar!Reader Trope: Angsty Lovers | Second Chances (kinda) | Push-and-Pull Romance Warnings: Heavy Angst | Emotional Hurt/Comfort | Intense Feelings | Mentions of Self-Worth Issues | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE Synopsis: You tried to walk away. You told yourself it was for the best. That Seungcheol’s world was too bright, too untouchable for someone like you. But when he kneels before you, hands trembling, eyes filled with a love you don’t think you deserve—you start to wonder if you’ve been running from the wrong thing all along. Word count: 4.2k Reading Time: 15-ish mins Author’s note: This is a heavy, emotion-driven piece that explores love, self-worth, and the struggle of letting yourself be loved. Hope you enjoy the angst- (I cried while typing- Got no idea WHY i am writing so much angst- It scares me haha) Have an amazing day/night y'll!!

--

You were fine being invisible. It was safer that way. No attention, no judgment, no cruel words whispered behind your back.

A quiet existence, a solitary path, a refuge from the harsh realities of a world that didn’t seem to have a place for you. You learned to blend into the background, to become a shadow, a whisper, a footnote in the grand narrative of the university.

And then Seungcheol noticed you.

He didn’t just see you; he saw you. He dragged you into the light, not with a forceful hand, but with a gentle persistence that chipped away at the walls you had so carefully built. He sat next to you in the bustling cafeteria, his presence a shield against the judging eyes, his laughter a melody that drowned out the whispers.

He fought for you, not in grand, dramatic gestures, but in subtle, unwavering ways—a quiet defense against the casual cruelty of his peers, a silent promise that you weren’t alone. He walked you home after your late-night shifts, filling the silence with laughter and stories, making you feel like you weren’t just a scholarship student working two jobs to survive in a private university full of people who would never know what it meant to struggle. He saw the fire in your eyes, the resilience in your spirit, the quiet strength that you kept hidden from the world.

He made you feel like you belonged. Like you were seen, valued, cherished. He made you feel like you were worthy.

But people like you? You don’t get happy endings. The world doesn't allow it. The universe doesn't permit it. You were a realist, after all. You understood the rules of the game.

Because someone—one of his rich, entitled friends—hurts you. Maybe it’s words, sharp and cutting, designed to wound. Maybe it’s something worse, a subtle act of sabotage, a calculated humiliation. Either way, it’s enough to break you, to shatter the fragile hope that Seungcheol had ignited within you.

It happened after the game. The roar of the crowd, the blinding lights, the electric energy of victory—it was a world you had only ever observed from the periphery, a spectacle you watched from the shadows. Seungcheol, the star, the hero, the center of everyone's attention, had led the team to another championship win. The arena was a sea of adoring faces, chanting his name, their voices a symphony of praise.

You stayed at the very back, a shadow in the corner, a silent observer. You were the stagehand, the unseen hand that ensured the show went on, the unsung hero who worked tirelessly behind the scenes. You were only here because you were in charge of managing the after-party setup, a duty assigned to you as part of your scholarship work, a constant reminder of your place in this world. You were just the nobody scholarship student working behind the scenes, running around with a clipboard while the real students—the ones who actually belonged here—partied like they ruled the world.

Seungcheol caught your eyes right before he was hoisted onto shoulders. For a fleeting moment, a foolish, reckless hope sparked in your chest, a dangerous flicker of belief. That maybe, just maybe, he would see you, would choose you, would break through the sea of adoring faces and come to you first. That maybe, just maybe, you were something more than a fleeting interest, a passing fancy.

But then a voice shattered that fragile illusion, a voice laced with venom and disdain, a cruel reminder of your place.

“You really thought he’d run to you?”

You turned, your heart sinking, your breath catching in your throat. A group of students stood there, their designer clothes and arrogant expressions a stark contrast to your worn uniform, their eyes filled with a mixture of pity and contempt. Seungcheol’s friends, the ones who always looked at you like you were an unwelcome guest, a stain on their perfect world.

One of them, a girl named Mina, with perfect hair and cruel eyes, stepped forward, her voice dripping with false pity, her words laced with venom.

“God, you really are delusional. You think he actually cares about you? You’re just a novelty, a distraction.”

You opened your mouth, but another voice cut in, sharp and dismissive, a cruel echo of your deepest fears.

“You’re embarrassing him.”

That one hit different, because this time, it was one of the guys from the basketball team, Jaehyun, one of Seungcheol’s closest friends, someone you had thought might understand.

“Hanging around like a lost puppy, acting like you actually have a chance with him,” he scoffed, arms crossed, his eyes filled with disdain. “Do you even hear yourself? Do you know what you look like? Pathetic.”

You felt your stomach drop, the air thick with humiliation, the weight of their judgment crushing you.

“I—”

“Do you know what people say about you?” Mina interrupted, tilting her head, her eyes gleaming with malice, her voice laced with poison. “That you’re his little charity case. His pet project. Something to amuse him.”

Laughter rippled through the group, a cruel, mocking sound that echoed in the vast arena, a chorus of disdain.

“Poor Seungcheol,” someone else mocked, a tall, lanky guy named Junho. “Always looking out for the underprivileged. Such a saint. So noble.”

You couldn’t breathe. The whispers, the glances, the subtle rejections—you had endured them all. But hearing it from his closest friends, from the people he shared his life with, was a different kind of pain. It was a betrayal, a confirmation of your deepest fears, a stark reminder that you didn’t belong.

“You should just disappear already,” Mina sighed, her voice laced with false concern, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Save yourself the humiliation. Do him a favor. Just go away.”

That was the moment something inside you snapped, a fragile thread breaking under the weight of years of insecurity and self-doubt. You shouldn’t have let it get this far. You shouldn’t have let yourself believe, even for a second, that you and Seungcheol were anything more than a fleeting moment, a mistake waiting to happen.

So when you finally found him in the crowd, his eyes searching for you, a flicker of concern in their depths, you turned away. You walked past him like he was a ghost, a phantom, a figment of your imagination, a dream you had foolishly dared to believe in.

And when he grabbed your wrist, his touch warm and insistent, when he looked at you with nothing but pure concern, you ripped your hand free and whispered, your voice barely audible, a broken echo of your shattered hope,

“I just want to be invisible again.”

And the way his face shattered right in front of you, the way his eyes filled with a pain that mirrored your own, almost made you stay. Almost. But people like you? You don’t get happy endings.

So you left, disappearing into the shadows, and you didn’t look back, your heart a heavy weight in your chest.

You disappeared after that night.

No texts. No calls. Nothing.

A ghost in the machine.

Winter break feels endless. Cold. Empty. A barren landscape devoid of warmth.

Seungcheol spends weeks staring at his phone, waiting for your name to pop up, a desperate vigil.

It never does.

The silence is deafening, a constant reminder of your absence.

His friends try to cheer him up, but he’s not the same.

The laughter, the confidence—it’s all forced now, a hollow echo of his former self.

The joy has been leached from his eyes.

The basketball court doesn’t feel the same.

The thrill of the game, the camaraderie of the team—it’s all muted, a pale imitation of what it once was.

Nothing feels the same without you.

Every time he sees something you would’ve liked—a worn paperback, a cheap cup of coffee, a little trinket from a street vendor—his chest aches, a sharp, stabbing pain.

It’s a constant reminder of what he’s lost.

And at night, when it’s quiet, he hears your voice, a haunting melody in the silence.

"We don’t belong together, Seungcheol."

But he still refuses to believe that.

He clings to the hope that you’ll come back, that you’ll see that you belong with him.

The moment classes start again, you avoid him.

A master of evasion.

You’re a ghost, a whisper in the wind.

You change routes, take the long way around campus just so you won’t run into him.

A desperate attempt to erase yourself from his life.

He notices.

Of course, he notices.

He sees the way you duck your head, the way you pretend he doesn’t exist—

It destroys him.

A slow, agonizing erosion of his spirit.

Every time he gets close, you slip away, a phantom in the crowd.

Every time he calls your name, you pretend you don’t hear, a cruel denial of his existence.

The team notices.

His friends notice.

"Dude, what the hell happened over break?" they ask, their voices filled with concern.

But Seungcheol doesn’t talk about it.

He just clenches his jaw and keeps chasing after the girl who doesn’t want to be found.

A relentless pursuit fueled by love and desperation.

One night, you’re walking home, the streetlights casting long shadows.

And he finally catches you.

His heart pounds in his chest as he reaches for your wrist.

Not hard, not forceful—just enough to make you stop running.

A gentle but firm hold.

"Stop."

His voice is raw, broken, filled with a pain he can no longer contain.

You freeze, your back to him, shoulders tense.

You don’t turn around.

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

"Look at me."

His voice cracks—pleading, desperate.

"Please, just look at me. Give me a reason."

You swallow hard, trying to regain control.

But you don’t move, your feet rooted to the spot.

And that’s when he breaks.

"I spent the entire break waiting for you."

His voice shakes, trembling with emotion.

"Do you know how fucking empty everything felt without you? It was like the world had lost its color."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying not to cry.

Trying to block out his words.

"You left, and I—"

He exhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat.

"I haven’t been okay since. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. All I can think about is you."

Silence hangs in the air.

Thick with unspoken emotions.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You weren’t supposed to wait for me, Cheol."

Your voice is filled with a sadness that mirrors his own.

That’s when he turns you around, his hands trembling slightly.

When he cups your face with both hands.

Forcing you to see just how wrecked he is.

To witness the depth of his pain.

"You think I had a choice?"

His eyes are filled with tears.

His voice is full of pain.

Full of love.

"I’ll always wait for you."

It’s a promise.

A vow.

A declaration of his unwavering devotion.

Your breath is shaky, your chest rising and falling rapidly.

His hands are warm against your skin.

His grip is so gentle, so careful.

Like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again.

Like he’s holding onto something precious.

And you should.

You should pull away.

You should tell him it’s over.

That he needs to move on.

That you’re not worth his pain.

But when you look into his eyes—

God, his eyes.

You see everything you’ve ever wanted.

Everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

And it terrifies you.

"Cheol…"

Your voice wavers, barely holding on.

A fragile whisper.

His thumb brushes over your cheek.

A tender caress.

"Don’t do this."

His voice is a plea.

A desperate attempt to hold onto you.

"We don’t belong together," you whisper.

Even though it hurts like hell to say it.

Even though every fiber of your being screams in protest.

His jaw clenches.

His eyes darken with a mixture of anger and pain.

But he doesn’t move.

His gaze unwavering.

"Why do you keep saying that? Why are you so determined to push me away?"

You force yourself to stay strong, to ignore the way your heart is screaming for him, to suppress the longing that threatens to consume you.

"Because it’s the truth."

A lie that tastes like ashes in your mouth. LIE.

You try to step back, to create some distance between you, but he doesn’t let you. He doesn’t tighten his hold—he just refuses to let go, his grip gentle but unyielding.

"Bullshit." His voice is rough, desperate, filled with a raw emotion that mirrors your own. "You don’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to tell me what I feel."

You exhale sharply, trying to regain your composure, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

"You don’t understand, Cheol—"

"Then make me understand!" His voice cracks, frustration mixing with heartbreak, a desperate plea for clarity. "I’ve been chasing after you, waiting for you, and you won’t even tell me why you’re running! Just tell me what I did wrong."

Your throat tightens, the words caught in a knot of pain and fear, the truth too heavy to bear.

"Because I don’t belong in your world!" you finally snap, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and vulnerability. "Because people like me—people who have to fight just to exist—don’t get to have things like this! We’re not meant for happy endings."

Seungcheol stares at you, his expression unreadable, his chest heaving, his eyes filled with something you can’t bear to face—a reflection of your own pain.

Then—he lets go.

Your breath stutters, your heart skips a beat. He steps back, creating a space between you, a chasm that threatens to swallow you whole.

For a second, you think—this is it. He’s giving up. He’s finally realized that you’re not worth the effort.

But then—he kneels.

Right there, in the middle of the dimly lit sidewalk, in the cold night air, he kneels in front of you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, a gesture of humility and devotion.

And when he looks up at you, his eyes filled with a love that transcends words, you’re ruined.

Your carefully constructed walls crumble around you.

"I would leave everything for you." His voice is quiet, but it hits like a sledgehammer to your chest, a declaration of his unwavering commitment.

"Because you are the only one who has ever seen the real me. The me that I keep hidden from everyone else."

Your lips part, but no sound comes out, your voice lost in a sea of emotion.

"Where my money didn’t matter. Where my status didn’t matter." His eyes never leave yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "All that mattered was us. Just you and me."

His hands find yours again, gently, carefully, his touch a lifeline in the storm of your emotions.

"Tell me that wasn’t real." His voice is a whisper, a desperate plea for reassurance.

Silence.

"Tell me you didn’t feel it too." His eyes search yours, seeking confirmation, seeking a glimmer of hope.

Your throat closes up, the words caught in a knot of longing and fear.

Because you did.

Of course, you did.

You felt it with every fiber of your being.

And Seungcheol sees it.

Sees the way you tremble, the way your fingers clutch his, the way your eyes betray your carefully constructed facade.

He has you.

Now all you have to do—is stop fighting.

Your pulse is hammering, a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

This is too much. Too intense. Too real.

Seungcheol, kneeling in front of you, holding your hands like you’re his entire world, his eyes filled with a love that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His words replay in your mind, over and over—I would leave everything for you.

You can’t breathe.

You rip your hands away, breaking the connection, creating a space between you.

"You’re a fool, Seungcheol." Your voice is barely a whisper, filled with a mixture of fear and desperation.

His brows knit together, his expression a mixture of confusion and hurt, but he doesn’t move, his gaze unwavering.

"You don’t know what you’re saying," you whisper, your voice shaking, your eyes pleading with him to understand.

"You have everything. A future, a reputation, a life people would kill for. Why would you throw that away for me? I have nothing to offer you."

He stares at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors your own, his expression a mixture of sadness and disbelief.

Like you’re breaking his heart right in front of him.

"Because none of it matters without you." His voice is firm, unwavering, a declaration of his love.

No.

No, no, no.

Your vision blurs, tears welling up in your eyes, threatening to spill over.

You take a step back, trying to create some distance, trying to escape the intensity of his gaze.

Then another.

You have to go.

You have to leave before you crumble, before you succumb to the longing that threatens to consume you.

Your body screams run, but the moment you turn away—

He moves.

And then—his arms are around you. Warm. Solid. Unyielding. And just like that—

You shatter.

A choked sob escapes your lips, and suddenly, you can’t stop. The dam breaks, and years of pent-up emotion flood out. Your hands clutch his jacket, holding on for dear life.

You hate him for not letting you go.

You hate him for holding you together when all you wanted was to fall apart alone.

"Why—why are you doing this?" you gasp against his chest, your whole body trembling, your voice choked with tears.

His arms tighten around you, his lips pressing to your hair—a silent promise of comfort and support.

"Because I love you, idiot."

His voice is thick with emotion, a raw declaration of his feelings.

Your breath hitches. Your heart skips a beat.

"And I’m not letting you go."

His words are a vow, a commitment, a refusal to give up on you.

Tears pour down your face, a torrent of emotion. Your knees go weak, but Seungcheol just holds you closer, keeps you steady—a human anchor in the storm of your emotions.

For the first time in forever—

You let yourself break.

You allow yourself to be vulnerable, to let go of the walls you've built around your heart. And for the first time in forever—

You're not alone.

You have someone to share your pain, someone to hold you through the darkness.

You cry until you have nothing left, until the tears run dry and your sobs subside into soft whimpers. Your sobs start sharp, gut-wrenching, a release of years of bottled-up pain. Your body shakes in his arms, fingers clenching into his jacket like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And maybe he is.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. Arms tight, steady, unshaken—like he’s anchoring you to this world, a constant presence in your life.

And you let him.

For the first time in your life, you let yourself be held. You surrender to his embrace, finding solace in his strength.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. Time doesn’t exist in this moment—only the two of you, wrapped in a shared space of vulnerability and connection.

Your breathing slows, chest still hitching with the remnants of your breakdown, the storm gradually subsiding. Your face is buried against him, and his heartbeat is the only sound you hear.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

A steady rhythm. Strong. Safe. A comforting reminder of his presence.

When you finally shift, pulling back slightly, he still doesn’t let go. His grip remains firm, a silent reassurance.

Instead, he exhales softly—warm breath against your hair—and then tilts his head down, his eyes filled with tenderness.

And then—a kiss.

Soft. Gentle. Right on your forehead. A gesture of comfort and affection.

Your breath stutters. Your heart flutters.

Then—your nose.

You blink up at him, eyes still red, still glassy, but now filled with a glimmer of hope.

He’s watching you like you’re something fragile. Something precious. Something to be cherished.

Then—your cheeks.

One.

Then the other.

Then—your closed eyelids.

Like he’s kissing away the tears that remain, erasing the traces of your pain.

You don’t move.

Can’t.

You're lost in the moment, captivated by his tenderness.

His fingers slide against yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles—before he leans down and presses a kiss there too, a gesture of reverence.

And then—finally.

Your lips.

A whisper of a touch at first. Like he’s asking for permission, seeking your consent.

Then—

You press back.

And everything shatters.

The kiss deepens. His hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking the skin, a gentle caress. You tilt your head, open up to him, let him pull you in, surrendering to the moment.

And then it’s not soft anymore.

It’s raw.

Hungry.

Desperate.

A release of pent-up longing.

Because this isn’t just a kiss—

This is a confession.

This is Seungcheol showing you everything he can’t say in words, a language of touch and emotion.

And this time—

You don’t push him away.

You embrace his love, allowing yourself to be loved.

When you finally pull apart, breathing hard, lips swollen, a tangible reminder of your connection, Seungcheol still doesn’t let you go.

Instead, he rests his forehead against yours, his grip on your waist still firm—like he’s scared you might slip away again. Like he never wants to lose you. A silent promise of his unwavering devotion.

And then—

He smiles.

Not the cocky, teasing smirk he flashes on the court, a mask he wears for the world.

Not the polite, practiced grin he gives to the rich kids at school, a facade he presents to his peers.

No.

This one is soft.

Real.

Just for you.

"I am yours," he murmurs, voice low, steady, filled with a certainty that resonates deep within you.

"Since the day I saw you working at the café with your hair up and that adorable white and blue dress."

You suck in a breath, your heart swelling with emotion. Your eyes flicker up to meet his—deep brown, burning, full of something you can’t quite believe is meant for you, a love that seems too good to be true.

"You—"

Your voice catches, your words failing you.

His thumb gently strokes your cheek, a tender caress. "You don’t have to believe me yet." His lips twitch, a hint of his playful side returning. "But I’ll prove it to you, baby. Every damn day if I have to."

And for the first time… you think maybe—just maybe—you’re ready to let him. To trust him. To believe in his love.

You don’t pull away. You stay in his arms, finding comfort and solace in his embrace.

And Seungcheol? He notices.

A slow grin tugs at his lips, a little smug, a little too self-satisfied, a hint of his playful arrogance.

"You know, baby," he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to make you shiver, a seductive whisper. "If I’d known all it took to get you in my arms was making you cry, I would’ve done it sooner."

You gasp and smack his chest, a playful rebuke. "Cheol!"

His chuckle vibrates against your skin, a warm and comforting sound. "Too soon?"

Your glare is weak at best, your lips twitching despite your efforts to remain stern. "You think?"

But Seungcheol just tilts his head, still smiling, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "At least I made you forget about crying, huh?"

You huff, but he catches it—the way your lips twitch, the way your eyes aren’t as clouded anymore, the glimmer of a smile that threatens to break through.

So he leans in, just a little, lips brushing your ear, his voice a low and intimate whisper.

"And for the record, you looked hot as hell in that dress, but you look even prettier like this."

Your breath stutters, your cheeks flush. "Like what?"

His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, his embrace a comforting haven.

"In my arms."

His voice is filled with tenderness and love, a promise of safety and belonging.

Seungcheol barely has time to react before—

Flick.

His head jerks back slightly as your finger snaps against his forehead, a playful act of defiance.

"Ow—hey!" He pouts, rubbing the spot like you actually hurt him, his expression comical.

You just smirk, a genuine smile gracing your lips for the first time in what feels like forever.

"You are such a flirt."

His grin starts creeping back, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"You love it."

You tilt your head, pretending to think, your eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Mmm… maybe."

Then—

You lean in just a little, just enough to make his breath hitch, a playful challenge.

"But you’re my flirt."

Your voice is soft, intimate, a declaration of your feelings.

Seungcheol? Absolutely wrecked.

His ears go pink, a blush creeping up his neck. His smile falters for a split second, his usual composure momentarily shattered.

Then—

He groans, throwing his head back, overwhelmed by your words.

"Baby, you can’t just say stuff like that!"

You laugh—light, breathless. And it hits you.

You haven’t laughed like this in a long time.

And Seungcheol? He’s looking at you like he knows. Like he’s the reason why.

Like he’s gonna make sure you never stop being happy after all of the troubles you went through alone.

[hwonnrinji]

─── // . 📸 𝜗𝜚 WHEN YOU 𝓒ALL MY 𝓝AME . . .

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 < calling their names (for what reason?) // ♪ — ıllı polaroid love . enhypen

⨳ ﹒ ⊂ OT6 ⊃ ꜛ 𝒻 luff wc. 250 + ⤸ // idol!establishedrelationship!kats x f!reader — hcs — 𝓴issing ⋆ tw ; down bad kats

៸៸៸ . . . ๑ ( SOPHIA LAFORTEZA )

"SOPH,"

sophia looks up from her phone and was immediately greeted by the sight of you holding up sanrio hair clips. she laughs and puts her phone aside, giving you her full undivided attention. "what're you gonna do with them, sweetheart?" she asks as she reached out to gently tug on your wrist to get you to sit on her lap.

"i wanted to put them on you," you elaborated while settling your knees on either side of her lap. "i think they'll look cute all over your hair."

"mm, yeah?" sophia tilts her head and you felt her hand cup the back of your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. "go ahead. i trust your opinion," she says after pulling away. you smile widely as you spend the next five minutes decorating her hair with sparkly and childish clips, occasionally pulling back to look at your work.

once done, you pull out your phone and told her to pose for a quick picture, making it your wallpaper as soon as it saved. "you look so cute," you complimented as you kissed her lips again, your thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, her hands rubbing your sides in an up and down motion.

"you're cuter, pretty girl," she mumbles against your lips, making you giggle slightly. "you're the most stunning girl i've ever seen, your gorgeous–"

"okay! enough!"

៸៸៸ . . . ๑ ( MERET MANON )

"MANON!"

manon, in the living room with the kats, heard you call her name from her bedroom. she excuses herself and walk down the hallway to her room where she sees you holding up two hoodies, both belonging to her.

"which one can i wear?" you ask.

"whichever one you like. you're my girlfriend," manon replies.

"well, i know, but which one do you like better?—and don't say in a birthday suit like last time..." manon chuckles and trudged further into the room, her hand reaching out to a coffee colored hoodie. "this one," she says. you nod and put back the other hoodie wherever you found it, pulling the one she chose over your head and letting the warmth of the soft material envelope you.

manon didn't say anything after you did, her eyes only staring at you with an unreadable gaze. "why are you looking at me like that?" you question her, now feeling a bit shy after realizing that you are now her center of attention.

she shakes her head and her hands wrap themselves around your waist to pull your body flush against hers, her lips instinctively landing on yours. "no reason. you just look so beautiful."

"you always say that," you laughed, letting your own arms wrap around her neck. "it's true, no?" she smiles before kissing you again.

៸៸៸ . . . ๑ ( DANIELA AVANZINI )

"DANI?"

"yes, amor?" she responds just as quick as you called her name, her eyes drifting upwards from the book she was currently reading. you looked giddy and she didn't know if that was a good thing or not. "you seem... happy."

"very," you confirmed with a nod of your head. you lifted up the sleeve of your shirt to reveal a small, funny tattoo you got as a punishment from losing a bet—but was it really a punishment if you enjoyed it a little too much?

daniela's eyes widened, her lips parting slightly as she took in the tattoo on your arm. "y/n... you're crazy," was the only thing she had to say. you laugh at her reaction, plopping down on the spot next to her. "it's only a bet punishment, baby."

"that's even worse, oh my gosh. over a bet? really?" she leans in close to examine your new tattoo, the decision of supporting it or being against it weighing down on one another. you merely shrug. "but i like it, so that's all that matters, right?" you ask.

daniela looks up at you, the decisions still visibly wavering between her eyes. "i mean it looks good on you," she starts, "but why that tattoo out of literally anything else?"

"it's still a punishment."

"now you just look like a loser." it earns her a smack on the arm, and she apologizes with a chaste kiss to your lips.

៸៸៸ . . . ๑ ( LARA RAJ )

lara was trying to produce a new beat for a personal music project since she was bored on her day off. she toyed around with the instrumentals and attempted to write down some lyrics but ended up laughing at how silly she sounded trying to diss 'dogsear.'

"LARA?"

she looks up from her screen to her bedrooms door, a smile gracing her lips as soon as her eyes land on you. "hey, pretty," she says, motioning you to join her on her bed. you comply without hesitation and climbed on to bed, setting yourself down on her lap, her hands instantly latching on your hips.

"are you making a new song?" you question curiously. lara nods, removing one hand from your body to the trackpad, moving the cursor around on the screen. "mhm. i'm trying to diss dogsear but i'm failing so far," she laughs softly, her breath just fanning over your ear.

"let me hear," you insisted. she presses play and the music started playing. you were liking the song so far but when it got to the rap part, lara was just laughing into the microphone as she couldn't sing the lyrics without doing so. "wow, you really are failing," you said teasingly.

"should i write a song about you? maybe then i'll give it my all." she turns your head to face her after holding your chin between her thumb and index finger, her lips lingering above yours. "maybe you should. and maybe then i'll listen to it," you playfully yet quietly suggest.

"you got yourself a deal, beautiful." with that, she leans in and captured your lips in a deep kiss, you reciprocating in the exact same way.

៸៸៸ . . . ๑ ( MEGAN MEIYOK SKIENDIEL )

"MEGAN!"

"it's not my fault!" megan exclaims for the millionth time, her eyes scrunching up more every time her character falls down. you were currently playing a two player obby with megan, something you wanted to do after she bragged about being such an advanced player, which you found out to be a total lie.

she sucks, she really does, but seeing the slightly upset– and cute –expression on her face just makes up for it. even if you're getting mad yourself. "it's the faulty update! i'm never this bad!" she whines, her hands shaking her ipad around in frustration.

"i thought you were 'so good' at this game," you said with air quotations. "what else are you gonna lie about? having fake headless?" megan loudly gasps at your statement, her hand clutching her chest.

"how could you say that? my headless is legit!" she complains. you raised an eyebrow, not trusting her words. "playing any obby game with you is like trust trading in adopt me." to megan, that was a next level insult.

she tackles you down onto the bed, her hands pinning down both of your wrists on either side of your head. "that is a sensitive topic, you know," she muttered lowly. you playfully rolled your eyes. "you say that about anything that backfires on you–"

she shuts you up with a kiss, pulling back with a smug grin once she saw your flustered state. "you were saying?"

"you're terrible at anything but kissing me," you corrected yourself. she snickers and kissed you again, softer this time. "i'll take it."

៸៸៸ . . . ๑ ( JEUNG YOONCHAE )

"YOONCHAE!"

a familiar voice calls for her backstage and she smiles right away, turning around on her heels to be engulfed into a hug from you. she holds you close without any second thought, her fingers clasped behind your back.

"you didn't tell me you were already back in la," you grumbled into her shoulder. she laughs quietly, her hands carding through your hair. she often finds herself missing the soft feeling of your hair between her fingers whenever she was on a trip for events.

"i wanted to surprise you," she mumbled softly, pressing a light kiss to your temple. "you know, 'cause you're always complaining about me being gone for too long."

"that doesn't matter," you groused. yoonchae only laughs more, hugging and squeezing you tighter. "but i promise, after today's show, i have a whole month off."

"really? you're serious?" you ask, a smile breaking out. she nods and holds up her pinky finger to promise you her words, and your heart couldn't help but melt a little. you return the gesture, your pinky interlocked with hers. she brought your hand up and kissed your knuckles, making you feel a little warm inside as a result to her actions.

"you're cute when you're blushing," yoonchae suddenly spoke up, making you chuckle. "like really cute," she adds. "so cute, i might have to soft launch you on instagram."

"we should do that. like literally, we should." the look in your eyes tell yoonchae you really weren't joking. "okay, we'll do that when i finish my last performance," she vowed.

─── ᶻz it's like a 𝓹olaroid 𝓵ove the 𝓬heesy feeling 𝓸f love

i still forgot who to tag so comment on this post to be on a perm taglist 🙏 .masterlist.

[wynnd1]

This is tangentially relevant and I’m not sure if it makes the situation worse or better, but vague explanation of exigent circumstances below. It’s a legal term of art, which is why it isn’t defined.

All of the below is just explaining the term of art, not meant to reflect whether I think it’s appropriate. Legal analysis and education, not personal opinion on public policy. It’s not perfect, but gives broad strokes of the term.

The 4th amendment protects against not all search and seizure but unreasonable search and seizures. There is a class entirely dedicated to investigative criminal procedure in many law schools bc it’s extremely complex. I’m going to give broad strokes so the vibe is a little more clear, but I’m not a lawyer (yet) and I’m definitely not a professor. State arguments on the legality of an alleged 4th amendment violation break down as follows:

1) there is no search or seizure

- search and seizure are also terms of art. I won’t go into a detailed explanation bc that’s like an entire class in law school. All you need to know is that some stuff you’d think is a search or seizure isn’t. Here, we are dealing with searches and seizures though.

2) said search and seizure is reasonable.

-2 ways to get reasonableness: Either a warrant or a warrant exception.

Warrants, most people know the vague idea. Not going to go into detail bc, again, an entire class. Basically: authority seeking warrant must make an affidavit explaining the probable cause, state the specific items to be searched and seized, the nexus between the probable cause and the items, and do so before a neutral detached magistrate.

Warrant exceptions: there’s a lot of them. Terry stops (stop and frisks), automobile exceptions, inventory searches, searches incident to arrest, etc. But importantly, one is exigent circumstances.

So: exigent circumstances explained below

Exigent circumstances are situations where if the police wait for a warrant, there’s a specific risk of safety (to the public, officers, and sometimes even the suspect themselves), destruction of evidence, or escape. A good rule of thumb: if there is time to request a warrant, then it’s not an exigent circumstance; in other words, if the police have time to get a warrant before the risk is realized, they should.

There are lists, but exigent circumstances are defined by case law and you really have to dig in to get the details because it’s a very fact intensive inquiry. But I’m going to describe the most common ones

- active, HOT pursuit of a FLEEING felon: if there is probable cause to support a felony, and a suspect is fleeing with a sufficient nexus to the felonious incident (ex, they see a suspected homicide shooter run from the scene right after the shooting) police are able to continue the pursuit even where it would otherwise require a warrant. (Ex cont. if the same suspected shooter flees into a nearby home, police may be able to enter and search for the shooter or evidence related to the incident without a warrant immediately after the flight from the scene)

-destruction of evidence: this is particularly relevant to low quantity drug crimes where the officers have specific reason to believe the drugs may be destroyed if they don’t act now. (Ex. Cops are on a stake-out, they have probable cause to believe the person possesses illicit drugs, they make eye contact with the person who is holding a bag of white powder, and that person immediately runs away from the window and can be seen running towards a bathroom. Not a great example but work with me here)

-medical emergency: if the officers have a good faith belief that there is an ongoing medical emergency, they may make entry as necessary to provide aid during said emergency. That may include clearing the area around the emergency for safety of officers while providing aid.

I’m not saying any of these are good per se, but they are what Columbia likely means when referring to exigent circumstances. They’re not even really giving up ground by saying that, as the warrant exception already exists, but it does make it sound like they don’t intend to in any way impede the police’s ability to search. If that was on the guidance given out, they should have explained it because it is a term of art and people reading might not recognize or understand that.

Every single Democratic Senator voted for Marco Rubio as Sec of State!