#but i know how the ao3 ''''algorithm'''' work

[lordsardine]

.

well i have no idea if anyone will even like this fic but im having fun

we're going full throttle into the different segments again too

[foxtrology]

inertia (1)

reed richards x reader

star sailor series | ao3 link

notes: hi. so i’ve been writing this fic over the last three weeks (yes, three entire weeks, i know) and honestly it would not exist in its current form without my best friend, who is a literal physics major and walked me through so many of the equations and techy parts so reed didn’t sound like a fraud. i love her for that.

also, fun fact: reader is neurodivergent (i borrowed some of my own neurodivergent tendencies to shape her), so if you pick up on that... you’re right. thanks for being here!

word count: 12k

─────

You’ve always preferred rooms with humming machines to those filled with people.

It wasn’t shyness, not really.

Just an overwhelming awareness of your own rhythm, too far removed from the world’s noisy metronome. You knew early on you understood things differently—less about feeling out what someone meant, more about isolating the structure beneath their words, the pattern in their tone, the physics of an interaction.

Most people called it brilliance. You called it survival.

The Baxter Foundation didn’t feel like survival at first.

It felt like exile.

A postdoctoral placement handed to you like a sealed fate—"promising," "potential," "gifted." Euphemisms for "difficult," "obsessive," "odd."

They said Reed Richards might know what to do with you.

You assumed they'd meant “handle.”

But he didn’t handle you. He saw you.

Reed Richards wasn’t what you expected.

The name carried weight: prodigy, theorist, treasured in the scientific community. You imagined arrogance, an aging wunderkind with a room full of accolades and a voice like static.

But the man who stood waiting for you at the base of the Baxter Building's elevator looked almost misplaced—rumpled in a navy button up, absent-mindedly smearing graphite on the sleeve as he scribbled into the margin of a battered notepad.

He had those lines around his mouth—the kind that softened a face rather than hardened it. A sharp nose, brown eyes, and that unmistakable streak of grey curling through otherwise dark hair.

At first, you assumed it was dyed—it looked too perfect. But it was real. Of course it was.

You hadn’t realized you were staring until he tilted his head.

“You're early,” he’d said, voice warm and textured. Then, a smile that lit up his whole face—eyes first. “I like that.”

That was two years ago.

You’ve since learned Reed keeps a second toothbrush for you in his private quarters upstairs, though he’s never pointed it out.

You discovered it one night after a double shift, when he gently steered you towards the bed in his guest room instead of letting you fall asleep under your desk again. He didn’t say, “Stay with me.” He just adjusted the pillow, handed you a glass of water, and made sure the bathroom light stayed on.

It’s quiet love. A sustained frequency. A knowing.

On Tuesdays, you both eat lunch in the server room because it's the only place in the Baxter Building that maintains the kind of white noise you can disappear into.

Reed brings you a sandwich without tomato—he learned after the first week that you can’t stand the texture—and sets it beside your research without interrupting your thought process. You don’t thank him out loud. You just leave the crusts in the pattern he finds funny, concentric squares, always precise.

Sometimes, he laughs at that. Sometimes, he files it away like data.

Today, the two of you are working on a stabilization algorithm for experimental gravitational anchors—Reed's theory, your math. The simulation keeps failing, and Reed mutters something under his breath about quantum decay before turning to you.

“Show me again how you’re quantizing the drift interval,” he says, pushing his chair slightly closer to yours.

You don’t flinch. He always asks to see your work like this—not to correct, but to understand. He thinks your brain is a mystery worth mapping. And maybe it is.

You pull up your calculations, annotated with your usual shorthand that no one else in the lab pretends to follow. Reed doesn’t blink. He reads your annotations like they're a shared language.

“You inverted the modulus,” he says quietly, quite in awe. “God, that’s...elegant.”

You look down. Compliments still stick to you like static. You’ve never known what to do with them.

“It was obvious,” you murmur, tapping the screen once to clear the render.

“Not to me.”

His voice carries something like reverence. Not the kind people fake when they’re talking to someone younger, or different. His is heavier. Sincere. Measured.

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“Can I show you something?” you ask.

That’s how you always start, even though Reed never says no.

The observatory lab is empty when you both arrive.

He unlocks it with his palmprint, but you go in first, navigating in the dark by memory. You’ve had an idea simmering for days—a tweak in boundary calibration using harmonic frequency overlap, something even Reed dismissed initially as too unstable.

But last night, at 2:43 a.m., your model ran clean for the first time. No drift. No bleed. Pure coherence.

You bring it up on the projection wall, fingers moving fast. Words tumble when you’re excited—sharp, fast, too much for most people. Reed doesn’t interrupt. He never has.

When the model stabilizes on the fourth run, you glance over your shoulder.

Reed is watching you.

Not the simulation. Not the math. You.

You freeze.

He steps forward slowly, like if he moves too fast you might vanish.

“You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

You look back to the projection. “No. But it was worth it.”

He exhales a soft breath, close enough now that you can feel the warmth of it on your temple.

“You can’t burn like this all the time,” he murmurs, but his voice doesn’t hold judgment—only concern.

“I can,” you reply simply. “And I do.”

He lets out a low laugh, almost involuntarily. Then, more gently, “Let me take care of you. A little.”

He says it like a hypothesis. Something untested.

You don’t answer. Not out loud. But you lean into his shoulder—not quite a nod, not quite an invitation—and he stays there. Long enough that the simulation cycles again, quiet and steady in the background.

Later, you’ll find that he’s updated the cafeteria schedule in your calendar to make sure no one disturbs you between 12 and 2 p.m. on Tuesdays. You’ll notice that he’s ordered extra noise-cancelling panels for the lab, without ever saying why. That the lights outside your lab space dim slightly when you stay past midnight.

All Reed’s doing.

He never says it out loud.

But this is how he shows you.

In recalibrated thermostats. In cups of tea left cooling on your desk. In letting you be silent when silence is the only thing that fits.

The world outside moves too fast. New York never sleeps, never softens. There’s always construction in the distance, always an ambulance shrieking down Fifth, always people spilling from cafés and rooftop bars like they’re late for something invisible.

But in the Baxter Building—six floors above the ghost of the old Avengers Tower—the hum of your controlled environment remains undisturbed.

For now.

It’s the kind of phrase that hangs in the air longer than it should, like steam after the kettle's been lifted, like the echo of a chord when your fingers already left the strings.

You don’t hear it, of course. Not consciously. But the sensation trails you anyway, ghost-like, as the day folds open and the building shifts around you.

You return to Lab B-3, where a data stream from the gravitational anchor prototype pulses in pale blue on the screen. You prefer this room to the others—less foot traffic, colder air, fewer variables. The walls are lined with the modular panels you installed yourself, after three months of fighting sensory burnout from the old fluorescents. The air purifier in the corner hums at a frequency you can tolerate.

It smells faintly of dust and ozone, like a server farm on a rainy day.

You’re cataloging the last ten hours of micro-interference logs when the door hisses open behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn. It’s a mistake, maybe, but you assume whoever it is has entered the wrong lab.

You’ve put the sign up: DO NOT DISTURB — QUANTUM MODELING IN PROGRESS. A laminated shield between you and the rest of the building’s noise.

The voice cuts through again, sharper. Louder.

“Hey—don’t ignore me.”

You blink at the screen. Your heart doesn’t race. It clenches, tightens like your ribcage is shrinking inward. You turn slowly.

It’s Dr. Ian Delmont. One of the senior engineers. Jacket unzipped, badge swinging loose around his neck like a noose that can’t make up its mind. His face is already red, already pulled taut around the mouth.

You recognize the body language...shoulders set forward, hands ready to gesture. Angry people always move in patterns. You learned this years ago, the way some people learn fire drills.

“Why the hell did you rewrite my core schematic without logging the revision?”

You stare at him.

“I didn’t rewrite anything. I optimized the redundancy logic. It was bottlenecking the chain reaction model.”

“That’s rewriting.”

Your voice stays steady, your mouth forming the words in the exact order they should go. “No, it's not. It’s a correction. The existing code couldn’t handle parallel iteration under dual-load conditions.”

“You didn’t clear it with me.”

“It was a bottleneck,” you repeat.

Ian’s voice raises. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn chokehold, you don’t get to touch my work without authorization.”

He says it loud enough that it ricochets off the walls. Too loud.

Your neck goes hot. You feel it in your jaw, down your arms. Your hands twitch just enough to knock your stylus from the table and you bend down to retrieve it—too fast. You bump the corner of the desk, hard. The pain doesn’t register, but the sound does.

Too loud. Too loud.

Ian takes a step forward.

“Every time I turn around, you’re sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong—”

“I was fixing it.”

“You were showing off.”

That does it. You freeze.

This isn’t about the code.

You blink. You don’t blink. You can’t remember. You try to open your mouth, but your tongue sits wrong in it. The sound you try to make stalls halfway up your throat. Your hands curl into themselves like you could fold out of sight.

The lights feel wrong. The texture of your sleeves is wrong. The hum of the purifier is gone, replaced by the jagged, ugly timbre of yelling.

“I don’t care what Richards says about you,” Ian mutters. “You don’t run this place.”

“Hey.”

The sound comes from the door. Not a shout. Not sharp. But it cuts through everything like glass through butter.

You both turn.

Reed Richards steps into the room like he’s always belonged there, like his presence is not new or sudden or charged with a heat you’ve only ever felt in gamma pulses and untested energy chambers.

His mouth is tight, drawn. There’s nothing soft about his expression now.

“I suggest,” he says slowly, like each word has been smoothed against the edge of a scalpel, “you take your tone down. Immediately.”

Ian hesitates. Then his jaw sets. “With all due respect, Dr. Richards—”

“No,” Reed interrupts, walking further into the room, voice calm and sharp all at once. “Don’t. Don’t try to play seniority. This isn’t about protocol. This is about how you just cornered one of my lead researchers and yelled at her while she was running live code on a multivariable anchor model.”

“I was confronting—”

“You were posturing,” Reed cuts in. “And you were wrong.”

Ian blinks. Reed’s voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.

“She didn’t rewrite your schematic. She corrected a critical flaw that should have been caught weeks ago.” He stops beside you. Not in front of you, not shielding—beside. “The only reason that anchor hasn’t destabilized is because she stepped in.”

Reed turns his head slightly, glancing down at you. His eyes soften, fractionally. He doesn’t touch you, but he lets the silence hang, as if waiting for you to reclaim your voice if you want to.

You don’t. Not yet.

“Ian,” he says without looking away, “I want you out of this lab. Now.”

Ian’s mouth opens, then shuts again.

Then he leaves.

You’re still breathing too fast. You know you are. You can feel the microtremors in your fingers, the irregular skip of your pulse. But the room feels real again. Your body is slowly remembering where it ends.

Reed waits until the door hisses shut.

Then, “Can I sit?”

You nod, once. He pulls a chair close—closer than he usually would in a shared lab space���and sits beside you with the kind of silence that doesn’t ask anything from you. His knees are angled toward yours. His forearms rest loosely on his thighs. His whole posture is a quiet question you don’t have to answer.

You stare at the screen. 

“I wasn’t showing off.”

Reed lets out a sound between a sigh and a laugh. Not at you. With you. “I know,” he says gently.

“I just…saw the error. It was obvious.”

“I know.”

He pauses.

“You don’t need to explain yourself to anyone in this building. Least of all him.”

You press your thumbnail into the meat of your palm, grounding.

“I’m not good at…tone.”

“That’s not a flaw.”

“I always think I can just fix it quietly and not deal with the…other part. The confrontation.”

He nods once, his eyes still fixed on you. “The way the world expects communication isn’t the only valid way to exist in it.”

Something in your chest cracks open at that. Quietly. Invisibly.

You lean back against the chair, your breath finally settling into a rhythm.

Reed stays where he is. His presence doesn’t press against you—it anchors. He’s always been like that. Dense and still, like a planet with just enough gravity to make sense of things.

You glance over at him.

“Thank you,” you say finally.

He shrugs. “I don’t like mean people.”

You look down at the table. You trace a line in the condensation ring your tea left behind earlier.

“Are you going to fire him?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I’m going to make it very, very clear who’s indispensable here.”

You don’t ask who he means.

You already know.

Later that night, you’re still in the lab, long after the rest of the building has gone dim.

Reed comes back with a takeout container—your favorite, though you don’t remember ever saying it aloud. He doesn’t mention the incident again. Just passes you the food, leans back in the corner chair, and starts updating his lab journal aloud, knowing you like to listen to the way he thinks.

Outside, New York glitters like a malfunctioning galaxy. Inside, the lights are low, the air quiet, the world small and manageable.

Just you, your notes, and the man with the grey streak in his hair who watches you like you built the constellations from scratch.

A quiet love, not yet named.

But it’s there.

Always has been.

It’s late now, nearly eleven, but the labs on the upper floors of the Baxter Building don’t abide by clocks. Here, time stretches. Pools. Slows down when the work is good. Speeds up when the math gets too beautiful to let go of.

You and Reed are the only ones left.

Everyone else has long since clocked out, their departure announced by the usual symphony of zipping backpacks and elevator chimes. The security team downstairs knows better than to check on you. You’re a known variable—an equation that balances best in silence, after dark, with only the man beside you and a cooling takeout container between you and the void.

Reed is sketching something in his notebook—a systems flowchart annotated with arrows that curve and overlap like a child’s drawing of a galaxy.

He’s humming, under his breath. Just a few bars of something he’s probably not even aware of. It’s familiar, not because you recognize the tune, but because you’ve heard him do it before, under the same kind of fluorescent moonlight and the same clean, ticking quiet.

You finish logging the day’s simulation data, close the terminal, and pull up your schedule for the upcoming weeks. The glowing display casts faint shadows over your face, which you don't notice but Reed glances at, once, over the edge of his notebook.

Monday. Field trip.

You hadn’t forgotten. Not exactly. It had just sat at the bottom of the week like a pebble in your shoe—felt but not seen.

You stare at the words for a beat too long.

VISITOR OUTREACH: 9:30–11:15 — RICHARDS / YOU

Group: PS 22 — Grade 2

Your fingers twitch at your side, a muscle memory of anxiety without the adrenaline to match. You don’t say anything, but your mind is already running the old loop, quiet and tight, like rewinding a tape you didn’t want to play in the first place.

You’d been paired with high school seniors last time.

They came in loud, late, and bored. One of them had a vape pen tucked into their hoodie drawstring.

You remember the boy in the back who asked if you “did anything real” or if you just “sat in rooms with graphs all day.” Another mimed falling asleep when you began explaining atmospheric coding inputs for small-scale gravitational fields.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t snapped. You just shut down the projection early and handed the rest of the presentation off to the intern whose voice sounded like she smiled even when she didn’t mean it.

Afterward, you’d sat on the roof of the Baxter Building and stared at the clouds. Told yourself they were just kids. Told yourself they didn’t know.

But it stuck. The way they laughed when you said you worked on electromagnetic resonance feedback models. The way one of the girls whispered “so basically nothing” to the boy next to her like you weren’t even there.

They didn’t know.

That your work stabilized quantum harmonics in the kinds of silicon they tap on all day, every day.

That your programming makes the screen light up when their crush texts them back.

That the interface delay they complain about in video games used to be twenty seconds instead of two, and you helped design the equation that closed that gap.

They didn’t know you once pulled Reed out of a theoretical blind alley and into a breakthrough he’d later call elegant, a word he doesn’t use lightly.

They didn’t know how much you cared. That the caring was the point.

So after that, you asked to be reassigned.

“Elementary school kids,” you’d told Reed in his office one morning, already chewing at the inside of your cheek. “They’re too small to be cruel yet.”

He didn’t laugh, but you remember his eyes. How they softened. How he nodded and said simply, “Okay.”

And now here it was. Monday. Second graders. A classroom full of kids with juice boxes and velcro shoes and hands that still shoot up when they’re curious.

You can handle that. Probably.

You close the schedule tab. The screen goes dark.

Reed looks up from his notebook. “Everything okay?”

You nod once.

He doesn’t press. But he waits.

You speak without looking at him. “Monday's outreach.”

He leans back in his chair, notebook on his lap. “Right. You’re with me.”

You nod again.

“I asked for the younger group this time,” you add quietly, almost like you’re confessing something. “The older ones were…”

You trail off.

You don’t finish the sentence, but Reed catches the thread anyway. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say they were cruel. He doesn’t say you didn’t deserve that. He doesn’t fill the silence with anything easy.

Instead, he says, “You’ll be good with them.”

“Because they’re not old enough to be bored yet?”

“Because you care,” he says, looking directly at you. “And kids remember that. Even if they can’t say it.”

You pick at the corner of your sleeve. You’re still thinking about Monday. About the fear that your voice will tremble again. That the wrong word will come out. That your quiet will make them fidget and giggle and whisper.

But then you think about the last time a kid visited the Baxter—seven years old, wandered away from the main tour. Found his way into your lab by accident. You showed him how magnets repel in zero gravity fields and he tried to high five you with both hands at once.

You’d smiled for hours after that.

Maybe Reed is right.

Maybe caring is enough.

By the time you both shut down your stations and gather your coats, it’s nearly midnight. Reed holds the elevator for you without asking. It’s just the two of you, the soft gold of the lights reflecting off the brushed metal doors as they slide shut behind you.

You watch the numbers tick down.

Reed stands beside you, shoulder not quite brushing yours. Quiet, like always. Present, like always.

“Do you want me there?” he asks suddenly, softly, as the elevator hums downward. “Monday. With the kids.”

You blink. “You’re already scheduled for it.”

“I know,” he says. “But do you want me there?”

It feels like a trick question. But it’s not. It’s just Reed, offering steadiness in the places you don’t always know you need it.

You nod.

He nods too.

Outside, the city glows like it’s forgotten how to sleep. Yellow cabs streak past in lazy arcs. Rain clings to the pavement like it’s not ready to let go.

You stand under the awning of the Baxter Building, both of you half-heartedly pretending to check your phones, neither of you quite moving to go. It’s a ritual now—this lingering. Like the day doesn’t want to end, so you don’t let it.

Reed finally speaks, his voice low and near your ear.

“You know…you do more than keep this place running. You are this place.”

You glance at him. He’s looking at the sky like it might answer back.

“And if some bored teenager can’t see that, it’s only because they’re too young to understand the shape of things.”

You swallow. The city smells like damp concrete and neon and early summer.

You don’t reply. But the words lodge somewhere behind your ribs.

And they stay.

In the space between you and Reed, that sentence hums like background radiation—silent, but measurable.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly, but the softness in his posture says enough. The kind of softness he reserves only for you. For late nights and unsaid things. For quiet field trip fears and tired bones after thirty-seven straight hours in the lab.

You shift your weight from foot to foot under the awning, fingers fidgeting at the edge of your sleeve. The city is wet and warm and humming in that uniquely New York way—trash trucks groaning down Sixth Avenue, a taxi horn blaring three blocks over, the subway beneath your feet thrumming like some subterranean heartbeat.

Reed checks the time on his phone, but it’s performative. He’s not really looking at it.

“You can stay upstairs if you want,” he offers. Voice neutral, like he’s suggesting you borrow a pencil.

You know what he means.

His quarters above the Baxter labs—spare and quiet and clean, like an extension of his brain. You've stayed there before. Once after a storm knocked out the subway, once when you got a migraine so bad you couldn’t walk home without throwing up. The guest room is always ready, with a weighted blanket you know he ordered just for you. The lights dim at 30% automatically, and the fridge always has tea.

Still, you shake your head.

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

You shrug one shoulder.

“But I’d feel like I was bothering you.”

There’s no irritation in your voice. It’s just a fact. A line drawn lightly in pencil, not ink.

He doesn’t argue. Reed knows better than anyone that pushing you when you’re already overstimulated only drives you deeper into the quiet.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

You almost tell him it’s not necessary.

That you’ve done the walk a hundred times alone. That it’s late and he must be exhausted too. But something in the way he says it—low, certain, without any edge—stills your protest before it can take shape.

You nod once.

The streets are emptier than usual, rain thinning to a mist that catches in your hair and softens the world around the edges. You button your coat up to your chin. Reed tucks his hands into his pockets, his long strides slowing instinctively to match yours.

You don’t speak for the first few blocks. You don’t need to. It’s not awkward—it’s companionable. Your silences have always been functional. Built like scaffolding. Structural.

You pass a late-night falafel cart and the warm, oily scent of fried chickpeas folds around you. Someone’s playing Miles Davis through a cracked open window above a bodega. A cab splashes through a puddle without slowing down.

You glance at Reed. His hair is slightly damp from the rain, curling a little at the edges. The grey streak catches in the streetlamp glow and glints like metal. He looks tired, but the good kind—brain-tired. Soul-deep contentment worn like a worn-in coat.

There’s something in the way he carries himself now that feels looser than it used to. Since you.

You think about that sometimes. The before of him.

You’ve seen the photos.

You’ve read the papers.

The man with ideas too big for gravity, with headlines like The Modern Da Vinci and Richards' Law stapled to his name before he was even out of his twenties.

You used to resent those profiles.

How they smoothed over the things that mattered.

How they all insisted on brilliance and ignored what he really was...careful. Constant. Gentle in ways that science rarely rewards.

He wasn’t always like this. He told you, once, in a rare moment of openness, that he used to believe love would only slow him down. That affection dulled the edge of genius.

He doesn’t say things like that anymore.

But he doesn’t say the other thing either.

You know what you are to him—friend, confidant, collaborator.

His mind matches yours, nearly. But not quite.

You run faster. Not always more elegantly. But faster.

You see the equations before he does.

You make intuitive leaps he can only reconstruct in hindsight.

He admires that. You see it in the way he watches you work, the way he lets you lead without hesitation.

And still, he hasn’t said the thing.

Because once it’s said, it can’t be unsaid. And Reed Richards has never risked a variable he couldn’t account for.

“You know,” he says softly as you cross Park, “when you rewrote that module today… I think that was the first time I felt—” He pauses. “Old.”

You glance at him. “You’re not old.”

He chuckles. “My knees would disagree.”

“That’s not science.”

He smiles. “No. But it is gravity.”

You snort.

He watches you carefully. Then says, “You don’t realize how good you are, do you?”

You look down at the sidewalk. The rain has turned the concrete slick and mottled.

“I do. I just don’t know how to be proud of it.”

He nods like he understands. “Because pride implies…audience.”

You don’t answer. But your silence agrees with him.

A block later, you say, “You’ve taught me how to be better without making me feel small.”

It slips out before you realize it. The kind of truth that rarely finds a voice.

Reed stops walking.

You look back at him. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing the moment.

“You’ve done that for me too,” he says quietly.

It should be more than that.

But it isn’t. Not yet.

Your building is a brick structure tucked on a quieter side street. Sixth floor, walk-up. Rent-high, because New York is cruel and physics has been paying you back a lot recently.

Reed’s been here before—once when you locked yourself out, once when you were sick with a stomach bug and couldn’t get out of bed to pick up your prescription.

He always waits at the foot of the stairs.

Tonight is no different.

You fish out your keys and glance back at him.

“I’m okay,” you say.

He nods. “Text me when you’re in.”

You hesitate. Then, a beat later, “Thank you for walking with me.”

“Always.”

You step inside. The door swings shut behind you with a soft click.

Reed watches the rectangle of light shrink until it’s gone.

Only then does he turn.

He walks back slowly, hands deep in his coat pockets, rain heavier now. The city is hushed, its noise folded in on itself. His shoes splash through puddles he doesn’t try to avoid.

He thinks about you.

The way your voice tightens when you talk about the things you care about.

The way you never apologize for being brilliant, just for being visible.

The way you notice every small thing—every decimal, every gesture, every change in temperature—and store it away like evidence that the world can be read if only you learn its language.

Reed Richards has spent his life searching for patterns. For the math behind miracles. He’s found some. Lost others.

But you?

You remain his favorite unsolved equation.

He doesn’t say the thing. Not yet.

But it lives just under his tongue, waiting.

The next morning you wake up earlier than you meant to.

Not by choice. Not by discipline.

But because your upstairs neighbors, despite living in an apartment complex with allegedly soundproof walls, have spent the last six and a half hours making the most expressive use of their vocal cords.

Moans.

Laughter.

Something you’re fairly certain was a vase being knocked over around 3:12 a.m.

You’d counted.

You’d logged the minute it started—12:49 p.m.—and the moment it finally slowed to quiet again, or at least to something muffled enough that you could hear yourself think.

There was nothing logical about it, and therefore nothing you could fix. No formula to solve thin drywall. No algorithm to isolate human behavior into something quiet, contained, reasonable.

So you’d stared at the ceiling. Then at your wall. Then at your ceiling again.

And now it’s 5:47 a.m., and your alarm hasn’t even gone off yet.

You sit up.

The air in your apartment is slightly too warm—residual heat from the radiator you can’t adjust. Your mouth is dry. The muscles in your back ache in the specific way they do when your sleep’s been interrupted just enough to confuse your circadian rhythm but not enough to explain it to anyone else.

You don’t bother lying back down.

Your morning routine is exact. Not out of compulsion, but out of necessity. A lattice structure of steps that keep the rest of the day from collapsing.

Boil water. Black tea, no milk.

Brush teeth—no mint toothpaste, only the kind with baking soda, because you hate the artificial sweetness.

Shower. Warm, not hot. You step out and wrap the towel tightly around you like armor.

Dressing is harder. The shirt you wanted to wear feels off today—too scratchy, too bright. You change into the navy knit Reed once said brought out your eyes.

That memory shouldn’t matter, but it does. You feel steadier when you put it on.

Bag. Notebook. ID. Keycard. Noise-canceling headphones, just in case.

You skip breakfast.

You always do when you’ve been overstimulated. It makes your stomach feel like wires have been crossed.

The subway is half-empty this early. The kind of silence particular to Friday mornings—the city not quite buzzing yet, just flickering. You stand near the doors and stare at your reflection in the opposite window, your face hovering over the tunnel blur outside like a ghost.

You think about the model you left open in Lab B-3. About the field trip on Monday. About whether or not you remembered to reroute the final data loop in the harmonic anchor sequence.

You think about Reed, and then try not to.

By the time you arrive at the Baxter Building, it’s just before seven.

You enter through the side entrance, swiping your badge through the sensor and waiting for the familiar mechanical click. The lobby is dark except for the ambient lighting that glows along the baseboards. The city hasn’t reached in yet.

And then you see him.

Reed.

Sitting on the bench just inside the front hallway like someone who forgot what time it is—or didn’t care.

He’s wearing the same navy coat from the night before, his hair still slightly damp from whatever morning shower he took before stepping into the day. His notepad is on his lap, open, but untouched.

He looks up at the sound of the door.

“Hey.”

You blink.

“You’re early,” you say.

“So are you.”

“I didn’t sleep.”

He stands slowly. “Your neighbors again?”

You nod, already tugging your bag strap higher on your shoulder.

“I’m thinking of writing them a formal request to conduct their mating rituals at a lower decibel range.”

That makes you snort, despite yourself.

“They’d probably just find that hot.”

Reed’s laugh is soft. “You’re probably right.”

He falls into step beside you without needing to be asked. You head toward the elevators together.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” you say as you press the button. “You're never this early unless there’s a test run.”

“I was hoping you’d show up early,” he admits, sheepish but not apologetic. “You didn’t text last night.”

You look down. “I forgot.”

“Neighbors really did a run on you, huh?”

You ket out a breathy laugh meeting his eyes.

Soon the elevator arrives. You both step in.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the quiet settles around you like a blanket. You don’t have the words for it, but you know he does this often—positions himself near you, close but not invasive, like a planet finding the right orbit. Something about it always makes you feel tethered.

The elevator stops on your floor.

As you exit, he doesn’t turn toward his own lab. He follows you.

“I figured I’d sit with you for a bit,” he says simply, “if that’s okay.”

You nod. You don’t say thank you, but your body does—shoulders uncoiling, pace slowing, your breath evening out.

Your lab still smells faintly of ozone and the synthetic lemon Reed always insists on using in the electronics-safe cleaning spray. You flick on the under-lighting instead of the fluorescents. It’s quieter that way.

He watches you unpack, the same way he always does when he’s not pretending to be distracted by his own work. You can feel his gaze—clinical, affectionate, reverent.

You settle at your station and glance over.

“Did you get any sleep?”

“Some.”

He sits across from you at the small corner table, flipping open his notebook. “I kept thinking about the field trip Monday.”

You groan softly.

Reed smiles. “You’ll be fine.”

“They’re going to ask me if I built Fortnite.”

“Just say yes.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s unethical.”

He shrugs. “You do kind of power their world.”

You chew the inside of your cheek.

“I know you’re dreading it,” he adds, more gently. “But you’re going to surprise yourself. I’ve seen you explain quantum turbulence to a twelve year old. You used two chairs, a glass of water, and a slinky. It was borderline performance art.”

You allow yourself the smallest smile.

He studies you for a beat.

“I waited this morning,” he says, voice lower now. “Because I wanted to see you before the day started. I figured if you didn’t sleep, you’d need a buffer.”

You look up at him.

“A buffer?”

“For the noise. The world. Everything.”

You don’t answer for a long moment.

Then, “You’re good at buffering.”

Reed closes his notebook. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“Only for you.”

You look away too quickly. Your stomach flips, your thoughts scatter like dropped dice.

This happens sometimes.

The intimacy of Reed. The nearness of what he doesn’t say.

The feeling that he’s handing you something fragile and invisible, and asking you to decide whether to name it or leave it untouched.

You pull up your simulation model and begin reviewing last night’s logs.

He watches you for another minute, then opens his notebook again and starts annotating something beside you, close enough that your knees brush once, and neither of you moves.

The morning settles.

Quiet.

Unspoken.

Waiting.

The building wakes slowly, like a body stretching into motion. The light outside the lab windows tilts, warmer now, brushing across your workstation and catching on the rim of your teacup. You don’t drink it, but it’s there—heat fading, a symbol of routine more than comfort.

One by one, the others begin to arrive.

Keycards beep. Footsteps echo off tile. The rhythmic click of heels and the soft, buzzing shuffle of rubber soles on linoleum fill the air in the way only a scientific institution ever sounds. Conversations start up in clipped, caffeinated tones. Someone’s talking about a failed simulation in Lab A-2. Someone else is complaining about the elevator skipping floors again.

You don’t look up.

You’ve already built a wall of focus, exact and methodical—three simulations running in parallel, an error log cycling in your periphery, two graphs comparing harmonic distortion levels under varying environmental noise inputs.

Reed hasn’t moved far from you since you sat down.

Every now and then, he leans slightly over to ask a question—never invasive, always curious. He taps the edge of your screen to point out something and waits for you to explain it in full before speaking again. His voice stays low. His body language remains small.

He is very, very careful with your space.

At some point, you adjust the variables in one of the testing loops. Reed notices before you explain why.

“You brought down the feedback tolerance?”

You nod. “I think it’s overcompensating for impulse drift. If we calibrate to a slightly lower resilience threshold, we might expose the weak nodes in the structural harmonics.”

He lets out a low hum of appreciation.

“I wouldn’t have caught that.”

You glance at him.

“That’s because you were trained to trust the tolerances.”

Reed raises an eyebrow, amused. “And you weren’t?”

“I was trained to notice what doesn’t belong. Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with something just shy of awe.

That’s when the others start to notice.

There’s no whispering. No gossip. That’s not the culture here. Baxter doesn’t reward spectacle.

But still, people look.

It’s subtle—an extra second of eye contact, a glance exchanged between postdocs in the corridor. Even in a building dedicated to research and theoretical physics, attention has a shape. You feel it.

You’re used to being watched when you speak, but this is different. They’re watching him.

They’re watching how Reed stays near.

How he lowers his voice when he speaks to you.

How he doesn’t interrupt when you’re mid-thought.

How he laughs at things you don’t mean to be funny.

How he tracks your gestures with the full, unguarded focus of a man trying to memorize not just the content of what you’re saying, but the rhythm of it, too.

You register the attention. You don’t engage with it. You would get too flustered.

Instead, you pull up a different dataset.

Across the room, someone’s looking at you over their glasses. You minimize the screen and adjust your chair slightly so your back is to the rest of the lab.

Ben Grimm arrives around 9:15, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled up like armor against the morning.

You like Ben.

You liked him even before you knew him—when all you had was a list of his mechanical engineering contributions and the curious note in his file that simply read “Reed’s oldest friend. Trustworthy. Not academically inclined. Smarter than he lets on.”

He sees you before you see him.

“Hey, Doc,” he calls out, his voice gravelly but warm.

You glance up and, for the first time since the building really began to fill, smile openly.

“Hi, Ben.”

He walks over slowly, avoiding the edge of the test rig you have set up. His eyes sweep the table, reading the mess of wires and calibration notes without actually processing them, which is part of his charm—he doesn’t pretend to understand your work. He respects it anyway.

“You eat today?”

You blink. “Not yet.”

“You want half my bagel?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“It’s everything seasoning.”

He grins. “You’re too sharp for your own good.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I’m just observant.”

Reed, still beside you, chimes in dryly, “She’s also allergic to sesame.”

Ben winces. “Oh, right. My bad.”

You wave it off. “It’s not lethal.”

Ben hands you a sealed granola bar from his pocket instead. “From Alicia. She said you looked pale last week and told me to keep snacks on me in case I ran into you.”

Your mouth twitches.

“Tell her I said thank you.”

“Tell her yourself. She’s coming by Monday.”

You nod, then return to your screen, not rudely, just efficiently. Ben doesn’t take offense. He pats the table lightly and leaves you to your work.

Once he’s gone, Reed glances at you sidelong.

“You like Ben.”

“He doesn’t talk to hear himself speak,” you reply.

Reed smirks, folding his arms across his chest. “So I guess I should be worried.”

You don’t answer. But something in your cheek lifts. A small, unspoken response. Reed ntoices it. Files it away like he does everything about you.

By late morning, you’re too deep in the math to notice anything else.

Three out of five anchor simulations fail—but not catastrophically. The new feedback threshold is revealing the pattern you hoped it would. Reed asks if he can run his own version of the loop. You nod without turning, already exporting the baseline parameters to his terminal.

You hear someone outside the glass wall whisper, “Is Richards still in Lab B-3?”

And then, “I think he’s shadowing her today.”

“He shadows her every damn day.”

You pretend not to hear. You shrink slightly into your collar. Not from shame. Just to stay small.

Reed doesn’t respond to the comment. But you notice that he reaches over and very quietly pushes the door shut.

Not to hide.

But to give you quiet.

The rest of the morning passes like this—like a film spooling out in perfect rhythm. Reed occasionally types beside you. Sometimes you work in parallel, other times in sync. You don’t speak unless necessary, but the air between you is charged in a way you can’t name. Not love, not yet. But a proximity to it.

And even though others look—at him, at you, at the space between—you don’t notice anymore.

You’re too busy trying to catch the shape of something hidden in the data. Something just out of reach.

Like truth.

Or a confession.

Or gravity.

Fridays at the Baxter Building settle into their own kind of orbit.

Every lab has its rhythm—Lab A-2 always wraps their protein sequencing early, because Dr. Lyman likes to jog at 1:15 on the dot. Tech Ops syncs their systems for overnight updates before noon. Environmental Engineering runs its daily dehumidifier diagnostic with exaggerated ritual, a kind of inside joke no one explains to the interns.

It’s been that way since you arrived. It wasn’t written anywhere, but you learned it all the same.

And the unspoken tradition...Reed Richards forgets about time.

By now, everyone has made peace with it.

On Fridays, he’ll get caught chasing some quantum trajectory through a dozen notepads and open tabs, muttering to himself about temporal flux interactions or pattern resonance mismatches. If someone reminds him what time it is, he’ll blink, check his watch as though it’s betraying him, and then wave his hand vaguely in the air—“Take two hours, go. Ben, order something greasy.”

And everyone will. With relief. With a kind of reverent affection for their slightly scattered, brilliant leader.

Except you.

You stay.

Always.

It’s nearing 12:45 when the lab thins out. Ben claps his hands once, loudly, to announce, “Twenty-four-inch from Mario’s. I got half with olives, don’t fight me about it.” Someone cheers from the hallway.

You don’t look up.

The simulation in front of you is finally stabilizing under increased pressure loads, and Reed’s scribbling new hypotheses across his tablet at a manic pace—“If we compensate for decay acceleration by adjusting the sequence resolution window down to 10 seconds, the cross-bridging might resolve on its own—”

You hum without meaning to, fingers typing out the updated code.

“I’m serious,” he says, pushing his chair closer to yours, legs brushing under the desk. “We’re so close. This could finally solve the vibration decay issues in the dynamic anchor builds.”

“It won’t,” you reply calmly, running the next set. “Not unless you account for the spectral density shift around the 170 Hz mark. It’s going to collapse again.”

Reed pauses.

“You already ran this model.”

You nod.

“When?”

“Last weekend.”

He looks at you like you’ve handed him a paradox.

You let the silence stretch, then: “Try adjusting the constraint to reflect a Gaussian distribution, not linear. The peaks are too soft, and the algorithm’s compensating for noise that isn’t actually noise.”

Reed exhales slowly, reverent. “How does your brain do that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have the words for how you see things. You just do.

He smiles like he’s in the presence of something sacred.

He leans in again, close enough that his shoulder presses lightly into yours. You shift slightly to give him access to your terminal, and he doesn’t pull away.

He’s always been tactile like this—with you, at least.

Hands brushing yours when you pass equipment.

A palm steadying your wrist when you’re assembling small, sensitive components.

Once, you found yourself gripping his forearm without realizing it during a particularly volatile magnetic resonance test. He didn’t mention it. Just let you hold.

But today, it’s different.

Today, something lingers.

You're both staring at the screen. The simulation is stabilizing now, running longer than it has all week. Your throat tightens with something like triumph, or relief, or maybe just fatigue disguised as euphoria.

Then, softly—soft enough that it catches you off guard—Reed reaches up and brushes his thumb across your cheek.

You freeze.

Out of disbelief. Out of awe.

His hand is warm. The pad of his thumb gentle.

The touch isn’t performative. It’s not even decisive.

It’s hesitant. Like he needed to check that you’re real.

That this moment isn’t just one of his half-formed ideas scrawled into the margins of a late-night notebook.

Your eyes flick toward him.

He’s already looking at you.

Something unspoken and heavy passes between you. It hums underneath the fluorescent buzz of the lab lights, underneath the whirring fans of the machinery, underneath the working theory you’ve spent days fine-tuning.

You don’t lean in.

But you don’t lean away.

He doesn’t move his hand.

You don’t say a word.

Ben opens the door a few feet down the hall, holding a pizza box in one hand, a Coke in the other.

He sees you.

Sees Reed.

The hand. The closeness. The moment.

And just as quietly as he entered, he steps back. Sets the pizza down on the nearest desk. Walks away without a word.

You and Reed don’t notice.

The simulation pings complete. For the first time in eleven models, it doesn’t fail.

You blink.

Then breathe.

Reed drops his hand, slowly, like it doesn’t want to leave but knows it has to.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

But something has shifted.

In the lab’s stale, climate-controlled air. In the simulation still pulsing faintly on your screen. In the trajectory of two minds moving dangerously close to each other’s center of gravity.

You get up first, walking to the sink in the corner to splash water on your face. The cold helps. Reed stays in his chair, scribbling, though you can tell his mind isn’t entirely on the notes.

You find the pizza box. It’s already cold. You bring two slices back to the workstation.

You don’t mention the moment. Neither does he.

But all through the second hour of your “break,” you work with that electric tension still threaded between you.

You pass him a slice. He accepts it.

He says your name, once, softly, like an answer to a question you haven’t asked yet.

And you don’t look up. Not yet.

You’re afraid that if you do, everything will change.

Or maybe—it already has.

“Hey,” Reed says again, this time your name folded into it, spoken low and careful, like he’s afraid of breaking it. Like he’s afraid of breaking you.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know what he’s asking without asking.

And you know that if you answer—if you meet his gaze now, if you name the thing humming between you—it won’t go back in the box. It will take shape. It will have mass. It will alter the gravitational field between you forever.

You chew the edge of your lip and keep your eyes on the simulation results, blinking too fast.

He doesn’t push. Reed Richards never pushes.

But he stays there, watching you like a question he’s been trying to answer for years. Like a proof that’s always been just outside the edge of comprehension.

He wants you.

You can feel it in the heat of his gaze, in the way his hands twitch with unspent energy, in the way he shifts closer every time he speaks. He wants you the way he wants knowledge, reverently. With hunger and hesitation in equal parts.

But more than that—he respects you. And that respect builds a boundary he’s too careful to cross without your invitation.

So he doesn’t speak again. Not yet.

Instead, he clears his throat gently and leans back into the moment he knows how to inhabit best—the work.

“You were right about the Gaussian window,” he murmurs, eyes returning to the data on your screen. “The mean deviation narrowed just enough to stabilize the micro-vibrational bleed. Look.”

He tilts his tablet toward you.

You peer at it, grateful for the anchor. “The variance dropped below 0.0003. That’s lower than the threshold for secondary echo.”

Reed nods. “It’s still not perfect. But it’s holding. For now.”

You echo it before you can stop yourself. “For now.”

He smiles at that—soft, and only for you.

The tension doesn’t break. But it shifts. Warms.

You pull up the residual energy pattern charts and begin comparing them to your older models. Reed swivels his chair to face you fully, chin resting lightly on his knuckles as he watches you work.

Your voice steadies.

“I think we can reduce the decay rate even more by using a layered harmonic buffer. Not just a single envelope. Something like... like a tri-modal stabilization frame.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Using phase-offset looping?”

“Yes,” you say, eyes lighting up. “But slightly desynchronized. So each frequency compensates for the loss in another—like an algorithmic relay. Less like a barrier, more like... a conversation.”

You feel him watching you, not the charts.

There’s a kind of electricity in your blood now, not from caffeine or adrenaline but from being understood, seen at the level you need to be.

And for once, the way you talk—fast, disorganized, precise, too much—feels like the exact shape of something he’s been waiting to hear.

You meet his gaze finally.

He’s smiling.

That soft, quiet, wrecked smile of his. The one he only wears around you.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you say I taught you how to be better without making you feel small. But you make me feel like I don’t have to be better all the time. Like just being...with you is enough.”

You don’t know what to do with that sentence.

It sits too heavy in your chest. It rearranges your molecules.

Reed notices your hands twitch—how your fingers twitch at your sleeves when the air gets too loud inside you. He leans forward just slightly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” you say too quickly. “You didn’t.”

Then, after a breath, “It’s just... I don’t know what to do when people say things like that.”

“Okay,” he says. “Then we don’t have to do anything. We can just stay here. With the work.”

But there’s softness in the offer. No withdrawal. No hurt.

Just the way he always gives you room.

It’s quiet again.

The others are still gone. Outside the lab, Friday spills forward in lazy arcs—someone arguing about where to eat next week, a song playing faintly from someone’s portable speaker. You can hear Ben laugh somewhere near the stairwell.

Inside, Reed starts sketching again. You realize, after a while, that it’s not a schematic. He’s drawing the harmonic layering you suggested, but not in code—in lines and waves, almost like music. It’s abstract and a little chaotic and not how he normally works.

It’s your method. Translated.

You watch him for a moment. Then you reach over and pick up a stylus of your own.

You add to it without asking. Adjust one arc. Shade one line.

He doesn’t flinch.

This is your intimacy. Shared language in waveform. A courtship of the mind.

The pizza gets cold. No one bothers you. Not even Ben, who peeks through the glass once more and then nods to himself like he's witnessing a rare solar event—better not to interfere.

And Reed…

Reed reaches over again at one point, softly, thumb brushing your cheek once more. This time he doesn’t look away when he does it. And you don’t freeze.

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you both feel it coming.

Not like a crash.

Like a calculation converging.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

Friday settles into its soft descent.

Outside, the city shifts into its end-of-week hum. That specific kind of tonal change—less frantic, more languid. Like the buildings are exhaling.

But in the lab, the world is still quiet, contained in the steady blinking of data streams and the near-inaudible whir of cooled processors.

You sit on the floor now, legs crossed beneath you, a cluster of components spread around you like offerings. The modeling station sits nearby, quietly compiling your last run.

Reed is at the console, sleeves rolled up, hair curling faintly at the temples from the humidity that’s crept in through the vents. He’s biting the corner of his thumbnail absently—thinking.

You watch him.

And then you remember.

“Did you finish the sensory-feedback demo for the field trip?” you ask, voice soft but cutting clean through the air between you.

He blinks up from the console, eyes going immediately bright.

“I did. Mostly. I was going to test it tonight.”

You tilt your head. “Can I see it?”

He smiles—a real one, unguarded and boyish. The kind he only wears with you.

“You can help me run it.”

He gets up, walking to the supply cabinet in the corner, pulling down a heavy black case the size of a carry-on. You follow, standing now, hands folding in the sleeves of your sweater as you watch him unlock the case with the smooth familiarity of a man who designs entire universes and still finds joy in the click of good mechanics.

Inside, a scatter of wires, motion sensors, a series of spherical objects that look like oversized ping pong balls, each one patterned with conductive filament and dotted with touch points. You recognize the layout—a modular, reprogrammable interface system with haptic feedback, originally built for mobility therapy.

“You modified the base algorithm,” you say, eyes narrowing with appreciation.

“For kids,” he replies. “It runs a simplified tactile-reward loop. Kind of like a visual puzzle—kinetic memory reinforcement. Color-coded neural feedback.”

“Accessible interface?”

He nods. “Built for neurodivergent learners. Adaptive texture mapping. It reacts to the user’s input in real time. No static pathways. No performance grading.”

Your chest tightens a little. Not painfully. Just precisely.

“You built a toy.”

Reed shrugs. “It teaches basic physics concepts. Friction, acceleration, force vectors. Just…disguised as fun.”

“That’s not just a toy,” you murmur.

He watches you closely.

“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

You set it up together on the floor of Lab B-3, moving the tables back, laying the tiles out in careful rows. The modular touch-nodes blink softly as they come to life—first red, then green, then a low, pulsing blue.

The algorithm kicks in after calibration. Reed holds the interface tablet, flipping through the menus. You hover close behind him, watching how he reprograms the environmental variables on the fly.

“Want to try it?” he asks.

You nod.

He sets it to manual mode. The first node lights up in your periphery. You move toward it, tap it lightly with your finger. It flashes yellow, then blue, and vibrates beneath your touch.

You laugh, just once—quick, surprised.

“Positive reinforcement,” Reed says softly. “Each node has a different tactile response depending on approach angle, velocity, and touch pressure.”

“So they learn physics by playing.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You test the next one. And then another. As the nodes light up, the floor becomes a low-lit constellation, flickering gently around your movements. It’s beautiful. You crouch down near one, tracing your fingers across the filaments, letting the haptic buzz hum beneath your fingertips.

“Reed,” you say quietly. “This is... really, really good.”

He kneels down beside you.

“I just wanted to build something that made them feel like science was listening back.”

You look over at him.

That sentence hangs there, too delicate to touch.

Your hand moves before your brain registers the decision—slowly, instinctively—and you reach for him.

You had reached for his hand but landed on his thumb.

Just his thumb.

You wrap your small hand around it gently, like it’s the only part of him you can hold without consequence.

Reed freezes.

Not from discomfort. From something else.

He turns his head toward you, slowly, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too quickly. His smile is soft, stunned. As if he can’t believe you’re doing this. As if he’s afraid that if he acknowledges it too directly, it might stop.

You don’t look at him. You just hold his thumb in both your hands, watching the floor blink beneath you.

It’s a strange gesture, almost childlike in its simplicity. But to you, it’s everything. It’s grounding. Permission. Trust.

Reed lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for years.

He doesn’t move his hand away.

Instead, he uses the other to reach forward and adjust a setting on the control interface without looking. The lights shift. The nodes pulse in a new pattern. You follow them without letting go of his thumb.

He’s smiling now, wide and quiet.

Completely and utterly gone for you.

You test every mode together—gravity simulation, frictionless slide, kinetic echo. Reed talks softly through each setting, explaining how he rewrote the original code to simulate Newton’s Laws in modular intervals, adjusting for sensor latency so kids could trigger reactions with slower or less precise movement.

You ask questions. Not because you don’t understand. But because you do. You want to understand it his way.

He answers everything.

By the time you’re done, the lights in the lab have dimmed into their evening cycle. Reed packs up the demo system slowly, like he’s folding something sacred.

You’re still holding his thumb.

Finally, gently, he uses it to tap the back of your hand.

“You know,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to hold back around me.”

You look at him, expression unreadable. You squeeze his thumb once, then let go.

“I’m not,” you say.

And you aren’t.

Not anymore.

The lab is dark when you both leave.

Outside, the city has begun to cool. You walk beside him in silence, shoulders brushing once, then again. Not by accident.

You don’t talk about the moment on the lab floor.

You don’t have to.

It happened.

It exists.

Like an inevitable, elegant solution.

The sky has turned the color of television static. Not black, not gray, just faded. Soft enough to feel unreal. Streetlights flicker on in stuttering intervals. A breeze curls up the avenue and catches at the hem of your coat.

You and Reed stand just outside the Baxter Building entrance, neither of you moving to leave, as if there’s some invisible membrane between the lab and the world you’re not quite ready to pierce.

You should go home.

That’s the next step, isn’t it?

That’s what people do when the day ends. They go back to the place with their name on the lease and try to remember who they are when no one’s asking them questions.

Except your place has neighbors.

And thin walls.

And you're too tired to pretend your own exhaustion doesn’t vibrate at the same frequency as their pleasure.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, knuckles tucked deep into your sleeves. You can feel the buzz of the day behind your eyes—not anxiety, not anymore. Just too many thoughts stacking on top of each other like tetris blocks, and you don’t have the energy to make them fit.

Reed stands beside you, hands in his coat pockets, quiet as ever. The edge of his sleeve brushes yours every so often, an unspoken rhythm that makes you feel here.

Not tolerated. Not managed.

Just here.

Ben soon exits the building. Hoodie zipped to his throat, a half-eaten brownie in one hand. He slows when he sees you both.

“Well, well,” Ben says, raising an eyebrow. “You two finally gonna leave the building or should we start paying you rent inside the lab?”

You glance at Reed.

He shrugs, noncommittal.

Ben smirks. “Alright. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Then he gives Reed a look. “Which ain’t much.”

Reed doesn’t respond, but his smile is quiet. Affectionate.

“Goodnight, Ben,” you say softly.

“Night, genius.”

He walks off into the dark.

You stay.

Reed doesn’t ask if you’re going home.

You don’t say anything for a while. You just look at the sidewalk. The cracks in it. The faint smudge of oil near the curb. The headlights of a cab bending light across Reed’s cheekbone, catching on the streak of gray in his hair.

Finally, you say, “Can I stay?”

You don’t explain. You don’t need to.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just turns to you, and for a split second, something in his expression softens so completely it’s almost painful. His eyes widen like he’s been caught off guard, but then his entire face warms, lips parting slightly, like you’ve just handed him something fragile and beautiful and unexpected.

“Yes,” he says immediately. “Yes, of course.”

You nod once, eyes down, and he opens the glass doors for you with his keycard.

Reed’s private quarters are located on the top floor, built into the architecture like a quiet secret.

The space is sparse but intentional. One long wall is lined with windows that overlook the city—lights shimmering like data points, static and alive at once.

You’ve been here before. The air smells like him. The surfaces are all smooth, clean, designed for function rather than comfort—except the guest bed, which he quietly upgraded after the second time you stayed, replacing the stiff mattress with something memory foam, orthopedic, weighted blankets in navy and grey.

He never mentioned it. But you noticed.

Now, you step out of your shoes and move instinctively toward the small kitchen alcove, placing your bag on the counter where you always do. You hear Reed behind you, taking off his coat, the soft clink of keys being set in the ceramic dish by the door.

“I didn’t want to go home,” you say, very quietly.

“I know,” he replies.

He fills the kettle without asking. He doesn’t ask if you want tea. He just knows that the ritual helps.

You settle on his couch while he prepares everything. There’s something deeply intimate about watching him move in this space—not as a scientist, but as a man who’s built a life designed for quiet. For stillness. For you.

“Did you finish that secondary circuit loop in the interface?” you ask, voice small.

“I did,” he says, turning toward you with two mugs. “Replaced the original buffer with a superconductive braid. Reduced the thermal variance by thirty percent.”

You take the mug with both hands.

“That’s going to make it more stable in hands-on mode.”

He nods. “Exactly.”

You sip the tea. It’s perfect. Rooibos, no caffeine. Subtle and warm.

You look down at your knees.

He sits beside you, not too close, not too far. Just right.

“I’m still thinking about that tri-modal stabilization relay you suggested,” he says. “It could actually be used in more than just the interface model. If we layer it into the resonance prototype, it could compensate for secondary harmonic bleed without adding mechanical dampeners.”

You glance at him. “It wouldn’t even need a power supply. It would just borrow from the existing vibrational field.”

“That’s what I was thinking.”

You smile faintly. “We should test it this weekend.”

“We should,” he agrees.

But neither of you move.

You sit there in the dark, the city lights flickering behind the glass, the tea cooling slowly between your palms.

And then, Reed shifts slightly closer.

His fingers brush the side of your hand where it rests on the couch cushion.

You don’t pull away.

“I’m glad you asked to stay,” he says, quietly.

“I don’t always know what I need,” you admit.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “Not with me.”

You turn your hand palm-up.

He hesitates—barely a second—and then sets his own hand into yours. Warm. Long fingers. Calloused thumb.

You wrap your hand around his thumb again.

It’s small. Stupidly small. But it feels like precision.

Like the alignment of orbitals in a new chemical bond—unexpected, improbable, but somehow inevitable.

He stares at your hands like they’re a proof he’s just solved.

And you can feel it now, radiating off him.

That Reed Richards is completely, irrevocably in love with you.

It sits in his stillness.

In the way he lets you hold him without needing to be held back.

In the careful cadence of his breath next to yours.

In every half-finished sentence he doesn’t speak because he’s still calibrating the right moment to say it.

You close your eyes.

The lab can wait.

The world can wait.

Because here, in this quiet room on the top floor of the Baxter Building, the noise of the city fades into static, and two brilliant minds sit side by side, slowly, carefully falling into something that even physics doesn’t have language for.

Yet.

You’re still holding his thumb.

The weight of it feels small and ordinary and terrifying, in the way intimacy always is when it sneaks in sideways—quiet, soft, patient.

The tea between you has gone slightly cold, but neither of you moves.

Reed glances at your hand in his again like he’s not sure it’s real. Like he’s afraid any shift in air pressure might break whatever this is.

He doesn’t want to lose it. You can feel that. It lives in the quiet of his body. In the way he breathes more carefully now, like your closeness has changed the atmospheric composition of the room.

You can’t explain it.

Not exactly.

But you know the moment has arrived—like a threshold has been crossed without either of you noticing when.

You lift your eyes.

Reed is already watching you.

And then you kiss him.

There’s no warning. No lead-in. No poetic pause.

You just lurch forward and kiss him like your brain caught fire.

You cup his face with both hands—awkward, determined, imprecise. You feel the stubble on his jaw beneath your palms. You feel the soft surprised puff of his breath as you press your mouth against his with more force than you intended.

Reed makes a startled noise.

You pull back slightly, embarrassed, but he surges forward like a current finding its charge.

His hands find your waist, anchoring—not possessive, not demanding, just present. And then his mouth is on yours, properly this time. He kisses you with a slowness that makes your skin buzz, then deeper, until you forget how to think.

You chase it.

You chase it harder than you meant to.

You end up half in his lap, straddling his thigh on the couch. He grunts softly in surprise as you pull him closer by the collar of his shirt. Your hands roam. One settles in his hair, the other at the base of his neck, grounding yourself in the shape of him. His body is warm and solid and older than yours in a way that feels deeply comforting—experienced, steady.

“Wait—” he whispers into your mouth, breathless but laughing.

You pause.

“I—God, I didn’t think—” he tries to say, and then you kiss him again.

It’s clumsy and desperate and real. Your teeth bump once. Your nose is probably smushed too hard against his.

But Reed groans quietly like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

Because it is.

Because it’s you.

Eventually, you slow. Not because you want to. Just because you run out of breath. You ease back a little, your forehead resting against his, both of you flushed and dazed.

His fingers trace up your spine, slow, careful, reverent.

You say nothing for a while.

Then, softly, eyes still closed, you murmur, “I need to take a shower.”

He blinks, dazed.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You make no move to get up.

He doesn’t push.

Then, without looking at him, you say, “Will you come with me?”

Reed stills.

It’s not a seductive invitation. Your voice is too quiet. Too vulnerable.

You mean with you. Not to see you.

There’s a difference.

A difference he understands immediately.

He exhales once, very slowly.

“Yes,” he says.

The bathroom in Reed’s quarters is clean and understated. No clutter. Neutral tones. A single towel folded perfectly on the heated rack. The kind of space made by someone who needs things to stay quiet, even in private.

You peel off your clothes with your back to him. You don’t ask him to turn away. You just move, deliberately, like someone trying to stay present in their own body. You don’t rush.

He undresses behind you.

You don’t look.

Not because you’re afraid.

Just because this isn’t about looking.

When you step under the water, he follows. The spray is warm. Steam begins to rise immediately, curling around your shoulders, softening the edges of the room.

You don’t speak for a long time.

He helps you rinse shampoo from your hair.

He rubs a towel gently across your upper back, washing you between passes of the water.

You stand in the quiet, eyes closed, while he reaches for the soap, his hands careful and broad. You’ve never felt so heldin a room without touch. Even when he does touch you, it’s so measured. Like he’s calibrating pressure in real time.

He never touches more than he needs to.

He never looks longer than you let him.

You begin to wash him in return—his arms, his back. Your fingers map the ridges of his shoulders. The plane of his chest. 

He smiles at you when you look up at him.

You smile back.

Afterward, you towel off side by side. You slip into the oversized sleep shirt he keeps in the guest drawers—the one you claimed without asking the second time you stayed over. Reed pulls on a soft cotton shirt and gray sweatpants, hair still damp, curls a little unruly.

You both brush your teeth in silence. The kind of silence built on trust, not absence.

You spit and rinse and then, leaning over the sink, you say, “You’re not what I expected.”

Reed glances at you in the mirror.

“I’m not?” he asks, toothbrush in hand.

You shake your head. “You’re a better equation.”

He stares at you for a moment, then leans over, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “So are you.”

You fall asleep in his bed, facing each other.

You don’t touch—not at first. But at some point, your foot slides across the sheet and brushes his calf.

He doesn’t bother to move.

You drift off like that.

And he stays awake for a while longer, just watching you breathe, memorizing the sound of it, calculating the half-life of the moment in real time.

He doesn't think there's a formula for this.

But if there were, he’d already be solving for you.

taglist: @totallynotshine @the-curator1 @christinamadsen @imaginemixedfandom @randomuserr330 @princess76179 @little--spring @mielsonrisa @he-is-the-destined @in-pedros-smile @aysilee2018 @stormseyer @or-was-it-just-a-dream @strawberrylemontart1 @lovetings @peelieblue @just-a-harmless-patato @lizziesfirstwife @princessnnylzays @stargirl-mayaa @vickie5446 @everandforeveryours @jxvipike @sukivenue @neenieweenie @i-wanna-be-your-muse @sonjajames2021 @fxxvz @indiegirlunited

[frownyalfred]

How are you live what's happening with ao3 and the AI? Does it discourage you in any way from publishing your stories?

Great question. I haven't archive locked my stories and don't plan to. That's a personal decision I've made for myself and my own content, and that doesn't mean I don't wholeheartedly support my fellow authors who do so. But I'm of the (again personal) opinion that my works already have been scraped, and will continue to be scraped in some capacity. As have all of my texposts on here.

I appreciate the work the OTW is doing to take down data on other sites where it has been scraped. I think that's absolutely the right course of action. But personally, I am under no illusions that by archive-locking my fics, I am 100% preventing the scraping/sharing/AI use of my content. And at this point, even when we first learned of that big "scrape" a while back, it was too late.

My goal is to make my content as widely available for readers as possible, which comes with drawbacks. Archive-locking fics came with a significant reduction in hits/comments/kudos for some authors, and I decided that was a risk I personally did not want to take. Especially when, again, I was of the belief that many of my fics had already been scraped/were vulnerable to being scraped before we learned about these mass-scraping incidents.

Additionally, I'm quite certain people have been feeding my fics into AI processors, ChatGPT, etc, for a while now. It's not something I have control over, and people will continue to do it even when they know it's wrong. Even with ao3 accounts.

I don't own my fanfiction content, I can't make money off of it, and I don't want to. This would be a very different conversation if I did. Truthfully, my only hope is that by continuing to write a/b/o, and large amounts of it, I can "spike" whatever dataset is using my fics. That thought brings me joy, even if it's a little silly and far-fetched with these better algorithms.

[musings-of-a-rose]

Say You'll Remember Me

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 1500+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: This one came to me right after S2 Ep 2 so…beware of sad. Shoutout to @mermaidxatxheart for beta reading and letting me crush her heart a little

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

→Tell Tumblr this should be shared with others by reblogging! That's what the algorithm loves (it's how it works here. I don't make the rules!)

**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Joel Miller Masterlist

I remember the first time I saw him. People in Jackson started whispering the moment he and his teenage daughter came through the gates. I caught a glimpse of him through Tommy's mussed up curls as he embraced him, fists pounding on the other's back. I couldn't make him out clearly. 

I remember asking Tommy later that day who he was. “My big brother,” he said with a small smile. “I thought he was dead and here he is!” 

I remember literally bumping into him later that night, his strong hands gripping my shoulders to keep me steady. His eyes find mine, and I remember momentarily forgetting to breathe. He was older than me, greys streaking through his hair. His eyes were big and brown and sad. 

I remember hearing his voice, gruff but soothing, a drawl like Tommy's spilling from his lips. “Are you alright?” I think I nodded. I know I smiled like a damn school girl. “All set.” Yeah. That's what I said. I remember being so embarrassed, but a tiny smirk ticked up the corner of his mouth. “Alright then.” 

I remember looking for him the next day but instead finding Tommy, who told me he and his daughter, Ellie, had left. Not his daughter but may as well be. Some sort of quest. He didn't give me details and I didn't ask. 

I remember thinking of him often. I never had a man have this effect on me before. I found myself wondering if he would come back. And if he did, would I have the courage to speak to him?

I remember the spring day when he returned, Ellie and him. Something was different. Changed. I didn't know what but I was so thrilled to see him again that I didn't pay it any mind at that moment. 

I remember talking to myself in the mirror, hyping myself up to bring him a cup of coffee. I don't drink it as often as others, so I had a bit of a stash left from our last run. 

I remember him opening the door when I knocked, his eyes still sad but focused fully on me, until he saw the coffee I held out. I remember the way his eyes lit up, the smile that crossed his face, and I remember thinking how beautiful he was. 

I remember bringing him coffee every day for 2 weeks before Maria pulled me aside, her belly big and round, and told me to “Stay away from Joel Miller. He's not a good man.” I remember I didn't give a fuck what she'd said. Lucky for me, she went into labor not too long after and was busy with a newborn. 

I remember our conversations on his front porch that eventually moved inside. He started making me breakfast. And when he learned that I was giving him my ration of sugar for his coffee, he added bacon to the mix. 

I remember the first time I heard him laugh, head thrown back, belly shaking, tears running down his face. I vowed to myself to try and make him laugh like that as often as I could. 

I remember the first town party we went to, the first dance we had. I remember that's when it shifted, from friends to…something more. He looked down at me, his eyes glancing down at my lips before he pulled away. 

I remember following him all the way to his house, standing on his porch as he told me he was too old for me. I remember telling him that I was 35 and didn't care. 

I remember the first moment his lips touched mine. Hesitant at first, then desperation. Slightly chapped but still so soft as he kissed a path down my neck. 

I remember the first time he laid between my thighs, making me feel things I'd never felt before. I remember laying with him after, my head on his chest listening to his heart and thinking that I never wanted to leave. 

I remember us officially making our couple debut in town, how Tommy clapped him on the back and winked at me. How Maria rolled her eyes but still always supported us. 

I remember we bickered sometimes, but we always made up. 

I remember the sadness creeping back in the further Ellie pushed away from him. “Give her time,” I'd said. After all, she's still a teenager. 

I remember watching as he helped fortify and expand Jackson. The way his muscles pulled under his shirt, the sweat dripping from his brow. I remember the massages I'd give him and the sounds he'd make, both from the massage and when he slid between my legs. 

I remember being happy. 

I remember that morning. It was cold. Likely a blizzard coming through later. I remember him pressing a kiss to my forehead as he left early for patrol with Dina. I remember grabbing his wrist and begging him to stay in bed with me. 

I remember him saying he loved me and that he'd see me later. 

I remember the day going by and going about my chores, preparing our home for the blizzard that had already crept over the horizon. I remember hoping he and Dina and the others on patrol would find a safe place to wait out the storm.

I remember waking. I must have fallen asleep. The day was late and he wasn't back. 

I remember the pit in my stomach that appeared out of nowhere. I remember thinking something isn't right. 

I remember the knock. The sound was small but it echoed in my head. I remember wanting to be sick. 

I remember the look on Tommy's face right before he told me and my world split apart. I remember crumbling to the floor, a wail I'd never made before clawing it's way out and down the street. I remember Tommy joining me, holding me while we both mourned. 

I remember seeing him laying on a table under a sheet. I remember seeing his knuckles, bruised, chapped, and bleeding. I remember grabbing his hand, hoping that he'd jump up and announce the world's worst joke ever. I remember nearly vomiting at the coldness of his hand. I remember Tommy telling me not to look under the sheet, begging me not to. 

I remember ignoring him. 

I remember pulling back the sheet and seeing his broken and battered face, his blown out kneecap, the broken bones. I remember screaming and crying, rage filling me and spilling over. I remember yelling as loud as I could for as long as I could. When I couldn't rage anymore, I planted a soft kiss on his forehead. 

I remember getting a bucket of water and a cloth, gently cleaning him of all the dried blood. I remember Tommy coming in while I was doing this. He said nothing but returned a short while later with one of Joel's favorite outfits that we put on him. 

I remember the funeral. I don't remember the words said but I remember watching them lower him into the ground, half of me going with him. I stayed there long after the sun went down, staring  at a tombstone that simply read JOEL MILLER. 

I remember how quiet the house got. And how loud that silence was. No puttering about in the kitchen, tinkering with random things. No making breakfast. No sound of boots on the floor. My bed was cold and empty. I remember sleeping in his shirts just to feel him with me. And then I would wake up and remember. 

I remember a couple months later when I realized I was pregnant. “How can I do this without him?” I cried in Tommy and Maria's arms. “He didn't even know! Maybe if he knew, he wouldn't have gone on patrol and then he'd….he'd..” Tommy told me to not think that. Those people had it out for him and they'd have come one way or another. 

I remember so many nights crying for him, the hole in my heart the same size as it was the moment Tommy knocked on my door. Ellie came back inside the house then, helping me when I needed it. 

I remember calling for him when I was giving birth. I yelled for him to be here and out she came, our daughter, Sarah. The moment she was laid on my chest, she turned and looked at me and I saw his eyes staring back out at me. And it was then I realized. 

It's my job to remember. 

Remember how she looked at birth. Her first steps. Her first food. Remember how she mispronounced words, what her favorite book was, how she fell out of the tree in the backyard and nearly broke her arm. How she was just as stubborn and headstrong as him. How she met a boy and fell in love. How they also had a child and we became grandparents. How those grandkids are and what joy they bring to my life. 

I remember sitting in my chair, looking out into our backyard at the tree he'd carved our initials in claiming the house as our own. I feel a warm hand on my shoulder and look up into beautiful brown eyes that I'd seen every night in my dreams. 

“Hey sweetheart. All set?”

I can't wait to show him what I remember. 

General Taglist:

@frankie-catfish-morales @chaoticgeminate @janebby @astoryisaloveaffair @balekanemohafe

@greeneyedblondie44 @hoeforthefictional @marvelousmermaid @hauntedmama @icanbeyourjedi  

@wretchedmo @sunnshineeexoxo @livingmydreams13 @adventures-of-a-noodle @sara-alonso  

@theewokingdead @punkerthanpascal @giggly-otter @f0rever15elf @phandoz 

@gallowsjoker @lovesbiggerthanpride @booksarekindaneat @charlispersonallyhell @xoxabs88xox 

@amneris21 @gooddaykate @avengers-fixation @paintballkid711 @harriedandharassed  

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@mermaidxatxheart @alexxavicry @justreblogginfics @kmc1989 @veryprairieberry 

@mysterious-moonstruck-musings @heartpascalispunk @speaktothehandpeasants

[vash-the-trans-catboy]

The problem with the current culture of ao3

Recently I’ve noticed a huge lack of interaction from readers on ao3. The ratio of hits to kudos and comments is usually sadly low. Personally I think we need to de-insta and de-TikTok how people use ao3. What I mean by de-insta/tiktok is to try to move away from the culture of being afraid to interact with a piece of media. I know especially on insta people are afraid to interact, like, and comment because they don’t want to be seen as weird or a stalker for liking all of someone’s post. Same goes for tiktok. Another thing about other social media culture that is dangerous for ao3 is being afraid to interact because now the algorithm will show all your followers what you interacted with.

With the younger generation using ao3 (and just people in general), these fears associated with other forms of social media have followed over to ao3. I think the lack of interaction on fics is incredibly draining. Not that fic writers only write for likes and attention, but it is very hard to stay motivated when you put a lot of work into a fic then get little out in return.

We need to shift the culture of ao3 back towards user interaction. Please give kudos if you like a fic. Please leave a comment, or two, or as many as you’d like. Fic writers would love so much to see that their work is being appreciated. By interacting with a fic, it shows the writer that people like their work and often gives motivation for them to write more. It is really easy to get burned out if you feel like no really appreciates your work. Also with comments, a lot of writers love interacting with their readers! Giving an opportunity for a writer to talk about their work is so important. Even if they don’t respond, I can guarantee they read all the nice comments about their work and get a lot of joy from seeing them.

Yeah so basically in summary ao3 is not your standard social media like insta and TikTok. Interacting with fics by commenting and leaving kudos means so much to fic writers and helps with motivation and feeling appreciated

[the-kipsabian]

saw a take so fucking rancid on twitter i almost deleted the entire app from my phone jesus fucking christ

first of all ao3 is an archive site. this is like going to the library and saying "oh i dont like this" on every piece of media you find that you dislike and thinking they should be stamped with some sort of a marker just cause you didnt like it

you can always click back and leave. fic writers owe you nothing to explain themselves and their creations. if they have mistagged or miscategorized fics, then i understand, however there are report tools for that instead of yelling at the artist tbh

im not saying free works arent necessarily above criticism. but this is just. fucking wild. its common courtesy to just enjoy stuff (or fucking leave if you dont, the back button is free) and if the artist specifically asks for critiques, then give one - constructive that is, shitting all over someones work is not proper criticism, mind you

i just find it fucking wild people are treating art and archive sites as social media these days like this and everything needs to be policed and ~catered to the algorithm~ like. no. ao3 doesnt have an algorithm. you should be able to fucking tell what you like and what you dont like and steer away from that kind of content and let people fucking be with their art. they dont owe you anything (except trigger warnings i'd argue, but i know some people disagree with that as well for some reason), and imagine how much more energy you'd have if you only engaged with things you liked and spent time looking at instead of going to places where you dont enjoy yourself. let alone spending time telling other people you dont enjoy what they enjoy. what a fucking life

[cacodaemonia]

I was unfortunate enough to come across this ask from someone I don't follow a while back. It was one of those wtf moments that was so strong, I had to show the screenshot to a friend who isn't in fandom and never has been. They know the basics of how fandom works, and I've told them about the pro-censorship people in fandom, but this post really required some extra explanation, and I thought I'd share how I broke it down for them:

Obviously, most antis are very young. We all know this. That doesn't mean that all young people are anti-sex, pro-censorship, or unable/unwilling to distinguish fiction from reality, but it's much easier for young folks to get caught up in dangerous and toxic communities—in both real life and online.

From what I've seen over the years, there are all kinds of reasons why antis campaign against fiction they don't like and why they harass other fans and small creators. But I think a key point is that they seldom target big name authors, movie studios, or other media companies who make 'problematic' things.

That right there tells you a lot about one of their primary motivations: power over others.

They want to feel morally superior to people who create art (including writing, etc.) that they dislike. And because they can't influence powerful individuals and companies, they turn their personal disgust and outrage on people who are their relative equals or on those who have even less socioeconomic power—especially marginalized groups like queer and disabled people, who make up large portions of fandom.

There are plenty of other factors that impact this radicalization, of course, but I really think that the power aspect and feeling like they're one of The Good People are the most important elements.

But anyway, the screenshot above got me thinking about how someone could reach the point where they genuinely believe that government censorship of fanworks is necessary to... what? Prevent people from making (subjectively) 'gross' art because... that will lead others to commit actual real life crimes?? That's what the anti above seem to be suggesting with the slippery slope comment, and when I got to this point in the explanation to my non-fandom friend, they were BOGGLED. They simply could not comprehend the massive leap of 'logic.'

So I paused for a moment and considered how I could explain it, based on the various stages of indoctrination I've seen among antis over the years.

I think that a lot of these young people are probably very new to fandom. They find out about fanfic and go onto AO3, and they likely assume that some algorithm will handfeed them what they want—even though they haven't bothered to learn how an archive like AO3 works and haven't used any search filters to include or exclude things they like or don't like (this required a whole explanation about AO3 filters to my friend btw).

So anyway, these people who have grown up on sanitized mass media fail to heed any of AO3's many warnings, including creators' tags, and they come across something that they think is gross or that makes them uncomfortable. For example, "Ewww, fics about underage characters having sex is gross and makes me uncomfortable." That's fine. Hit the back button and use filters to avoid that. Problem solved!

But then maybe they go on social media and complain about someone making art they don't like, and they rapidly get sucked the echo chambers of cult-like anti communities. And this is where they all amp each other up by exchanging conservative talking points dressed up in ostensibly progressive language. They begin to feel angry and self-righteous and certain that they have to do something about this issue they've collectively fabricated. After all, "Think of the children!!"

I should also point out that most antis don't seem to even understand the words they use. For example, in that screenshot, it's pretty clear that the op is using 'censorship,' 'glorification,' and even 'slippery slope' as emotional catch phrases rather than words that have useful and concrete meanings outside of fandom.

Finally, their crusade against the fiction they dislike becomes such a huge part of their identities and 'friend' (more like mutual purity surveillance) groups that they just keep building it up into this huge moral panic until they're unironically saying things like, "Writing a fic about a 17 year-old and an 18 year-old kissing is actual pedophilia and the author should be harassed and doxxed and imprisoned."

When I got to that point, my friend was still boggled, but it was more of a horrified sort of boggled, where you just stare into space and contemplate the merits of a giant space rock hitting earth in the near future.

I really wish people getting sucked into anti mindsets would take a moment to consider how bathshit their beliefs sound to the average human being on the planet who doesn't spend huge amounts of time on social media.

[olderthannetfic]

I keep being baffled by the amounts of readers who seem to have fits whenever a fic doesn't have chapters. How do they deal with all the Real Literature TM that doesn't have chapters?

Apart from the very simple "don't like, don't read" approach, if it's because you lose your place because the browser reloads, several options have already been suggested, and I sincerely hope it helps whoever feels that was the big problem.

I am one of those who post all in one go, regardless of the length, so I don't see the point of chapters. Yes, I know, "Post chapter by chapter anyways to improve readership and max your comment count and be more popular" or whatever the equivalent of "Game the algorithm" is on AO3. It feels like cheating to me; it's already all written down, and I am not here to play a numbers game. I crave feedback and interaction, of course; that's why I'm posting, but I don't want to use that kind of trick if it's already, well. All there already. Readers can take breaks whenever they want if they like breaks; I'm not their parent.

I also don't like reading WIPs because I will not have the immersion I prefer, or will forget half of what happened before, and I don't have time to reread everything each time I pick it up again, so I guess I don't see the appeal. You do you, etc. To each their preferences. (As a reader, I am team finished work + full_work or, more often, just download it all. That's how *I* roll; it doesn't mean *you* have to do the same, you know?).

I did try to post chapters a few times. Once, I inverted two of them while posting (still smarting over that years later), and another time, I was posting once a day to follow a daily prompt list… which gave me Big Angst because what if I dropped dead partway? (Yes, someone had access to my AO3 to post the drafted chapters if I croaked). Each time, I was really anxious about where to put the cutoff, or change the POV - at this point it makes the chapters more balanced length-wise, but it would be more interesting to have this scene from X's POV! This scene ends a chapter's subplot, but thematically goes with the next chapter's prompt! It might be stupid, but it is what it is, and I don't see why I should choose to torture myself for something I, as a reader, couldn't care less about.

I just… don't know when to break things up. I write linearly, and while I know the rough idea of where I'm going, I don't have a definite plan and sometimes things will be shaken up as I write. I use visual markers for scene changes and POV changes (not the same markers, actually), but sometimes a scene or POV will be much longer/shorter, so it would all make chapters super unbalanced, so??? Choices? I have to make choices? Nope. Visual marker it is, and I can breathe.

If that's grounds for muting/blocking me, then go for it, I guess? I just don't get the virulence of some of these anons on the topic - it's a you do you situation, and sometimes we just don't get why people do things differently, but that's how it's like sometimes. No need to be mad at people for not doing things the way YOU like.

--

I don't care about maximizing readership, but chapters are the norm in many styles of writing. I prefer to divide a longer work into them instead of using anemic little section dividers. I save those for a sub-chapter division, should I need one.

Honestly, genre fiction is mostly divided into chapters. Yes, there are famous authors who don't use them, and I'm sure you're about to pull five out of your butt, but I think their work reads more poorly than the many, many authors who do use them. Yes, even Mr. Extra Famous And Loved By Fandom, whomever he is this time.

I don't particularly care about non-genre fiction, but plenty of multi-POV literary fiction does use chapters to divide the points of view.

It is common for chapters to be different lengths—desirable even. If a writer can't figure out how to divide something, I think that's a failure of skill... but no, I don't think it's that big of a deal in fic, and I'll read whatever has my blorbos and looks good even if it's formatted poorly and/or in a way I don't prefer.

[cavernsandcod]

BELLADONNA - I

SERIES M.L | AO3 VERSION | NEXT CHAPTER

Johnny hasn't been the same since the tunnel. Life became hopeless, nothing left for him if not his team. Following the months of medical leave, evaluations, and therapy, he forced his way back in. But he's starved.

(It doesn't take long for him to develop a taste for someone his, and only his.)

CONTENT WARNINGS: fem!reader, stalking, obsession, invasion of privacy, violent ideations, strong language, elements of non/dub-con, but no smut, POV switching, reader is implied to be curvy, TBI johnny; a.k.a MWIII spoilers by default, not proofread. (stalker!soap x reader)

WC: 3.1k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: i apologize if this chapter has a lot of yapping and not a lot of action; there is a plan in place. i'm rusty, verging on new writing territory, this is my first attempt at a longfic in months, and believe it or not, i have not written that much Soap on this blog. anyhow, enjoy! if you like this fic, please consider reblogging it (as well as other creators!) since tumblr's algorithm is buns <3 // divider credit @/cafekitsune

The man is back.

In the third month of silence and less checking your shadow, you assumed it was all over.

He’d moved on, found some other sod to stalk, ended up liking her more than you. The thought alone was cruel, but you were just glad it wasn’t you anymore. It had been weeks of endless torment, and then nothing at all. Habitually there, but never in your line of sight. The sudden punch of cologne that makes your nostrils flare and burn—always ceasing with afternotes of leather and sweat. As if he was restless or something.

Strangely, you wonder what he looks like. If he is as ruffled as his aroma leads you to believe. On the move. Flighty. But never enough to be caught.

How many times had he stood inches from you, in the dark corners of your flat, studying your every edge? Has he touched you yet? Did you notice? You can’t tell if you’re dreaming when there’s warm breath ghosting over your lips, down your sternum. He sucks in deep before exhaling again. Finishes with a soft nudge on your temple, and then it’s gone.

That ritual is never often enough for you to figure out its validity. So you decide not to. To overlook it, like every other awful thing in your life.

But this, you can’t. He’s getting worse.

Your possessions are being moved overnight. Dressers and doors are wide open when you return from work. The gifts are the hardest to ignore because they force you to acknowledge that this is real. Not an evil spirit or bad karma. Perfume, candies, feathers, lockets—all undeniably worldly and passed from his hands to your doorstep.

Tonight is all the same. Another unmarked box sits on the mat, begging you to peel it open. It’s small, standard cardboard, and frayed twine replaces a decorative ribbon.

It’s slightly damp when it makes contact with your fingers, and it smells strongly of petrichor. Considering the dark, grey clouds that have persisted all day long, it’s not surprising. It’s been coming down all day. On your drive home, you could only see the sleek streets during a well-timed beam of lighting since, apparently, streetlights aren’t in your tax bracket.

You’re frozen in time as you gaze down at the gift. Something feels… off about it. This has to be the precipice to His next big thing, right? That’s how these things work.

If they don’t get bored of you, they get bored of your monotony. And if you were an outsider studying the timeline of your life thus far, it’s unremarkably monotonous, inclusive of the unwanted admirer cramming himself into it.

The constant patter of raindrops against your roof echoes like fingertips. A fervent man looming over you, waiting, and waiting.

The soggy flap wilts when you pull at the twine and peer inside. Spritz marks bleed into the weathered pages inside, distorting the lead and ink strokes. Instantly, the notable scent of His cologne overpowers the room, and you know you’re looking directly at the root of it. You thumb over the contents cautiously, prepared to spend another sleepless night decoding them in your head.

The foremost in the stack is what looks like a poem, but it’s been long distorted by the moisture. Too damaged to make any of it out, so you set it aside; it’s doubtful he’d make any more sense putting pen to paper, anyhow.

By the second, third, and fourth, you’re beginning to feel like you’re wasting your time. Nothing in here has enough substance to understand. It’s all tawdry.

Of course, you’re sick to your stomach—but you’ve allocated a special tolerance to His bullshit. From where your shaky knees are standing, this is nothing. He’s not standing in front of you, near you, brandishing a weapon. This is just… another senseless care package that’ll end up in the back of your closet. Nothing he sends is ever enough for you to report, and it’s quite obvious your admirer knows that. Without a threat or hard proof, the police won’t do shit. Going to a station with a collection of soggy sonnets would be a waste of time and downright embarrassing.

“Oh—? Another poem?” You grit your teeth as you rashly hold the next one to the light and squint at it. “Real fucking original.”

The box clatters onto the counter when you toss it aside, scrubbing a hand over your face.

But then it clinks. Like soft wind chimes tinkling through night air, subtle. You don’t know why, but you’re willing to see past your frustrations and give it another go. You’d missed something at the bottom.

The stack sits unevenly atop something round and glass, a small jar that makes your head tilt. 

Muted violaceous petals curve inward, concealing the glistening bulb in the center of the flower, which takes after a dark, tart berry. Your face would scrunch from the punch of it, no doubt, before the earthy aftertaste soothes the tongue. The petals have already started to wither, not likely to survive in their crystal confines more than a day. It doesn’t help that they’ve been manhandled into the small space with what you assume were meaty, brutish fingers.

After staring at the blossom for so long, you almost forgot who sent it. Your throat bobs as you swallow dryly, and suddenly, it isn’t so pretty anymore. Rather than tasteful, the tucked and jagged edges remind you of your own.

All the feelings and suspicions you’ve been hiding from every person in your life, how you haven’t had a proper wink of sleep in months—

Whatever, you think. Spiraling won’t help you. You set the jar down and move on, brows knitted together. The drawings aren’t as damaged, though they aren’t any easier to understand. Part of you has to admit He’s got some talent for capturing your likeness.

There aren’t just one or two in here, it’s… several. Some are of only your face, and others, your body. Parts of you only you or someone that’s gotten too close would remember. Your bust. The flare of your ribcage while you sleep. How your thighs crease when you lounge. Your head tipped back against the ledge of your tub.

The final picture makes your skin crawl. An illustration of you sitting on the train, in the very same outfit you’d worn to work today. Every wrinkle, all the posters, and strangers beside you are uncanny in their authenticity. Like the artist was sitting directly across from you as his gifted hands traced it into the sketchbook.

It dawns on you, arguably too late, that He was sitting directly in front of you today on the train while you obliviously stared out the window, watching the city pass. Your stomach gnaws, twisting and churning at the horrid scenarios your mind is running through. Had you unconsciously met his eye? Did that give him more fuel? The air is thick, coating your tongue with the unmistakable taste of dread.

This isn’t a gift. This is a warning; how many of those will you get?

Get out. Get out now. The thought hammers into the side of your head like a nail until it penetrates the thickness of your skull.

It ebbs and throbs until you obey.

This is his favorite spot: the rooftop across the street that gives a direct view of his beloved girl.

His jeans are soaked on the knees from crouching, arthritis screaming in protest from the positioning. But the discomfort didn’t matter while he was watching you. He had a new purpose now. Didn’t have anything to live for before you.

The soldier shifts slightly, squinting his eyes to savor every detail through the lens. You dropped the box, letting the pages fly around you like a deviant snowstorm. The pages scattered across your floor were his masterpiece—weeks of careful dogging, planning, and crafting the perfect pieces. Some were taken from afar; others... well, he'd gotten much closer than you'd ever realized. Too netted in your head to see what was in front of you. Your sleeping form had made for particularly beautiful subjects.

His bird seems to catch her breath after standing frozen for a bit, shaking, because she disappears from view in a flash.

“Just where are ye off to?” Johnny grimaces, smearing the rain from his cheek.

She passes by the window again, chewing on her cuticles with her phone in hand. Probably thinking about dialing 9-9-9 and barricading in the bedroom. Stupid fucking move. As fun as he imagines that to be, the last thing he needs is some uniformed do-gooder sniffing about. Handing you his card and ‘checking in’ on you. Fuck that.

By some miracle, she lowers the phone and stuffs it into her pocket. But her face looks anything but defeated, rather, resolute. She knows where she’s going, albeit clumsily, as she sifts through the hall closet and pulls out a bag.

His blood rushed with anticipation when she stepped before each window, tugging the latches and yanking the drapes to a close, killing his view of the entire flat. Johnny lowered the binocs, relying on muscle memory alone to disassemble and return them to his pack. As he descended each step of the fire escape, his boots squealed against the dowsed, rusty surface.

Scarred fingers drummed against his thigh as he navigated between the dark high-rises, brows furrowed. The play was changing—and while he loved a good chase, this wasn’t part of his plan. Not yet.

The shrill vibration of his cell willed his pace to a halt. He didn’t need to look at the Caller ID to guess who it was. “Christ,” Johnny snarls, swiping his thumb across the screen to answer the call.

“What? Now? Fer fucks sake—” His throat bobs as he takes in the information on the other line. Price has the worst timing known to man, but this takes the cake. Still, Johnny reminds himself that he’s got a place, and he needs to mind it. Being out here, tailing her, isn’t something he wants anyone to know about. He can’t risk any suspicions, especially from the Cap.

Traffic buzzes by as he makes it to the sidewalk, squinting at her building one more time before driving himself to turn away.

“Yes, Sir.” The words taste like poison on his silver tongue. “I’ll be there.”

You figure it's best to stop when the symptoms of white line fever start surfacing. Everything looks the same out here, so far from the dense smog of civilization. Hills, mud, and years of unmanicured brush. Clotted trees confine the sparse buildings out here, as if suffocating the folk scaping by along the outskirts.

You just need to get out of the city for a while, get your bearings, and hope that this all blows over. It’s not smart, and you know that—but damage control is the only card you have to play right now.

After killing the engine, you take a look at the place. It’s not much. Just some shithole motel. Perfect for lying low and figuring out what the hell your plan is. Which was the absence of one entirely.

The clerk doesn’t bat an eye from her magazine when you ask about a room, just lulls her head toward the faded signage. That’s what you need, though. Someone tepid enough to not ask questions or remember you were here.

 £215 - Single Lodging.

It’s tempting to scoff at the rate, but you’re in no position. Your eyes slice over your shoulder once more before flipping through the cash you packed with you. You have enough to stay here at least a week, but moving in the morning seems best. Some sleep and a vending machine dinner will set you straight. When you set the bills down in front of her, she digs through a drawer beside her, fishing out a key with a number chip on it.

“Thanks.” You mutter, and all she does is hum apathetically.

The neon sign casts a luminous green over the entire lot that flickers and strobes irregularly, making you rub your eyes. Your head is on a perpetual swivel as you head for your room, walking along the wall of doors until you reach the same faded number as on the key. 

This is for the best. No one is following you that you can see. He’s not here. You’re safe.

Of course, he knew where she was; he’s not a fool. He’d planned everything the first night he saw her. In hindsight, the airtag in her wallet was proving to be his best idea yet. But, with his team inches away, he hasn’t had time to check it.

Johnny’s leg bounced impatiently under the meeting table, bottom lip between his teeth as he gnawed at it until it was raw.

His mind was running a mile a minute, more than usual, now that she had run off. What if she’d run her mouth?  Decided to stay with friends, family? That would complicate everything. Force him to approach the situation completely differently.

Before the tunnel, he would have adapted however he needed to. Come up with a rational, calculated plan to see this through. Now, changes are agonizing; his head is too scrambled for it.

Price’s mouth was moving, but Johnny wasn’t sure he’d heard anything since he sat down. Garrick could fill him in on the details later. As long as he wasn’t being shipped off today, he could keep his mind on something better: her.

It seemed like the clock hadn’t changed in hours, but by some miracle, it did when Johnny looked up from his lap again. The shuffle of papers and feet finally means that he’s leaps and bounds closer to sneaking out of here. It proves more difficult than ever with all of them breathing down his neck, always checking in.

He’s got his phone in hand as soon as there’s room for him to squeeze into the hall. Head down, eyes pinned, he studies every movement of the small dot. His free fingers play with the scar tissue on his temple, tapping and digging on it with his nail until his ears stop ringing. Something he finds himself doing a lot whenever there aren’t eyes on him.

She’s further out than a few hours ago, but this is doable. This. Is. Fine. He’ll just have to… expedite his process, maybe find a way to—

“Soap.” The voice grunts, familiar and cavernous.

Johnny tucks his tail and turns to face it. “Lt?” He presses the off button on his phone and pockets it, hands at his sides stiffly.

“Forgot your book.” Ghost holds up the small notepad between two thick fingers, gaze uninterested. That alone makes Johnny let out a sigh of relief and reach for it. If he’d been caught glued to his phone, surely his Lieutenant would’ve been more direct about it. Forceful, probably.

As soon as his fingers brush against the leather, it gets jerked away from him, held above his head. “Ah-ah.” Simon needles, the fabric of his mask wrinkling from what Johnny assumes is a glare. The younger soldier parts his lips and reaches for it again, but it’s pointless. Ghost is a dog with a bone between his teeth ever since the tunnel.

“You’ve been in your head all day. Didn’t look up from the fucking table once.” He lowers the book slightly, but the conversation won’t be over until he gets a proper response. There’s no way to weasel away from Simon.

Johnny blinks, gesturing and picking at his crown again for effect. “I know, Lt. It’s just my bloody head— Can’t… I’ll—”

“Fix it.” There’s no question in his tone, nor his demeanor. “Fix it—” He finally lowers the pad and allows his Sergeant to reach for it, still leaning close, as if he gave a damn about who could hear him, “—or I will.”

The brute is gone before Johnny can figure out a way to save his arse. He truly believed he had been hiding it better than this, that nobody would notice how glum he’s been. But, on the bright side, he didn’t question the phone or the why of it all.

He could handle all this later. For now, though, there was a flighty, imprudent lass he needed to see about.

You aren’t sure you’re going to get any sleep here. Or that you should at all.

There’s no way this place is secure, either. The deadbolt is worn just like all the hinges, and the cheap plastic blinds are barely holding on. The place stinks of mildew and old cigarettes, the neighbors are less than considerate about going at it, and the TV only has three unamusing channels.

Only after you’ve double-checked everything else, and the mattress a third, do you decide to lay down. You peek at the grainy screen through heavy eyes, fighting the exhaustion of the long drive today.

The screen flickers, casting a cool glow across the room that highlights the corners, which gives your paranoid thoughts some ease. If someone was in here, you’d see them, hear them, smell them. The lumpy mattress digs into your flesh when you curl onto your side, tuck in your knees,  and face the blank, cream plaster. You can’t stop your lids from closing.

Everything is serene where your brain is. No rush—no pressure for anything here. You’re back in your apartment, cooking a warm dinner for yourself. The lights are warm and so is your flesh, like the perpetual hug of a soft blanket that’s just come from the dryer.

Someone is there with you, but you can’t see their face. They say something that makes you toss your head back and cackle, but the language is nonsensical. A sense of peace, the first in months, seeped through your chest. You belong here; you want to stay here until the end of time.

When you turn away from the stove, that person is close. It’s a man; you know it without being able to make out his features. His breath fans across your face, mint and tobacco. The fingers on your sides are hardening, beginning to shift to bite into your soft hips.

You part your lips to reply to his mutterings, and suddenly, this all feels real. A presence, a man.

Something is close—

The hand clamped over your mouth startles you awake.

Stocky fingers splay wide across your lips, thumb digging in beneath your ear until you let out a minuscule, pathetic noise against the smothering hold. Your wide eyes adjust to the figure hovering over you, knees bordering each side of your waist.

He leans forward to purr his words directly into your ear.

“Mornin’, bonnie.”

[zepskies]

What Does "Supporting Writers" Mean? ✍️

Apparently it's Fanfic Writer Appreciation Day! To all my fellow writers, I truly appreciate you for bringing me joy, making me smile on rough days, and giving me my weekly/daily dose of escapism and warm fuzzies. (Shoutouts to you personally below.) 💓💓

But what does it mean "practically" to appreciate your favorite writers, especially on Tumblr?

For example, I know some fanfic authors are starting to block "serial likers": people who'll go through someone's entire masterlist and hit the "like" button on 20-something stories without commenting or basic reblogging.

While I think blocking them is extreme, I understand the authors' frustrations. I've actually been asked if I'll ever leave Tumblr, since many of them have dropped off over the past few months, or even the past few years.

I'm still here for two very important reasons:

I love to write about my favorite characters. I write primarily because I love it, not just for the kudos.

I'm friggin' blessed to have a lot of friends and lovely readers on here and Ao3 who support me immensely on my writing and on this blog in general. I love and appreciate each and every one of you! Which is why I do my best to reply to your comments and reblogs. 💖💖

Of course, there are many reasons why a writer might take a break or stop writing entirely, but one of those reasons is also why the #supportwriters tag exists...

And why you'll see us include banners like this on our posts:

(Credits: cafekitsune, me, inklore)

That being said, here's my own rule of thumb on how I try to support my fellow writers when I read something I enjoy:

If I "liked" something, it means I had the time to read a story all the way through and I enjoyed it! (Or I'm bookmarking it for later in the day lol)

If I have the time to read it, I have the time to leave a comment on what I liked the most about it.

If I have the time to write out a comment (anywhere from a few seconds to a few minutes), I typically put that comment in a reblog -- maybe even add a gif or two for ✨razzle dazzle.✨ That way I can share it with the rest of my followers, so they can see it and hopefully enjoy it too...

Why? Because Tumblr isn't TikTok or IG. Reblogging is the best way to help a post gain traction on Tumblr. The algorithm doesn't care much about likes.

But on a more human level, supporting writers is just the basic thing of -- if you enjoyed something you read (that a writer shared for free), just let them know what you liked about it.

Remember that there's a person behind the content you enjoy. They might have been working on that story for weeks or months, or even years before they got the courage to post it.

They might really be putting themselves out there, writing about a topic or subject matter that they're not sure people will even like or engage with.

Maybe they're exploring something new, like a character or trope they've never written before.

Maybe they're expressing part of themselves that they haven't even told another living soul.

Maybe they just wanted to write something fun and smutty or angsty or fluffy and want to share the escapism with you.

Whether they've been writing for years or are just starting out, any and all is valid.

For me, as a writer and a reader, supporting my fellow writers often means supporting my friends. And 9 times out of 10, the way we became friends was by leaving feedback on their work and asking them questions, or responding to their awesome feedback on mine.

If you want a little jumpstart on how to leave feedback, whether encouraging or constructive, here's an awesome post about it (not mine).

Shoutout to some of my favorite writers 💞:

(In no particular order)

@waynes-multiverse @luci-in-trenchcoats @dean-winchester-is-a-warrior @thatonewriter15 @rizlowwritessortof

@waywardxwords @tofics @kaleldobrev @deanbrainrotwritings @deanwritings

@jawritter @deanwinchesterswitch @justagirlinafandomworld @ravengirl94 @waywardxwords

@spnbabe67 @deanwanddamons @ejlovespie @kittenofdoomage @venus-haze

@talltalesandbedtimestories @sam-is-my-safe-word @jacklesbrainworms @artyandink @princessmisery666 (I just starting reading your stories, but I'm continuing with Samnesia soon!) -- and I'm sure many more! 💋

[stychu-stych]

I know that by definition we will probably never get anything out of the "not meant for social media" narilamb pile, but that doesn't mean Im not deadly curious about it, like I want to know so bad it makes me look stupid

Plus I'll forever wander how bad it is. Is it just too embarrassing to share? Is it 'mildly bad and insane, but not enough to not have at least 10 to 20 different fics on AO3 with those same hcs' bad? Is it 'so bad that you CAN'T find it on AO3 of all places' bad? Secret kink you don't want to share with the internet (very valid tbh)? Secret third (technically fifth) thing??? I want to knooooow /hj /sillygoofy

Dhdhdhhd that post is kinda old, I put it on my tumblr when I was more afraid of posting things on the internet. Especially when a lot of people started to follow me in a very short period of time. Everytime I posted something more gore-ish or suggestive I've got reported and sometimes my posts were deleted (mostly on tiktok and instagram). I still don't know if that was just one person doing that or bunch of them, or I was some algorithm lottery winner djdbhdh Maybe people expected something different looking at my artstyle (I know it can be described as "cute") and they were mad when I started posting something else? Idk idc really but it was pain in the ass

I also heard a couple of times from not anonymous people that if I create something about toxic relationships (arts, headcanons etc.) that means I support this kind of behavior. Or "romanticize" is a better word. Some of them changed their mind and apologized so we're good now but still I've received so many of comments like this that I started to carefully select what I want to put on the internet and what I want to put into the closet

But it's better now, I'm not that scared of social media like I used to be, I'm also on therapy and it's going great (not only but mostly because of my growing visibility on social media that was scary for me at that time. Never really talked about that with anyone outside my close friends, this is the first time I'm talking about it publicly. Also don't worry, I'm getting better now 💖)

My headcanons are mostly about narilamb relationship that is super toxic, I'm just really into psychology, emotions and why people behave in some certain way. About hurting each other, being jealous, manipulating and controlling. I just like to analyze why brain can work like that and what has to happen for someone to make them act like that. And I like to put all of that in fictional characters

So yeah, now I think that my headcanons aren't that bad, people are just assholes jdbdhdh I'll probably post more about my Narilamb relationship, I just need to find some straight to write it *sob* And I'm not the strongest soldier if we talk about writing, especially in english sjdhdh but I'll try my best 💪

[kabr0ztrousers]

I would love to a part 2 to 61:Angels & Demons!! Maybe some angels go looking for him and get caught by the hell hounds and they end up forming a demon/hellhound orgy.

Idek I just want more corruption of angels tbh ;)

Kabr0z Writes Episode 150: Search Party

This episode will make more sense if you've read Episode 61

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

I swear I'm gonna update the AO3 eventually!

CWs: dubcon; coercion; corruption; pain; transformation; knotting; oral sex;

A/N: I feel like the CWs for these episodes are starting to get similar... Maybe I need a beta reader to help me catch stuff I don't. Although if any of y'all get a squick you weren't warned about, give me a shout and I can always amend them

###################################

Oriniel was missing. He had been for months, last seen three months ago descending from Heaven. A week later, the beurocracy started to notice his work piling up. An investigation was launched and agents dispatched to Earth to search. Scouring the entirety of creation for a single missing angel would take time though, and you wanted your friend back.

You'd worked with him for the last millennium or so, scouring the fiction sections of the humans libraries, recommending works to one another while waiting for choir practice to start. The other angels were understanding, but put too much faith in their systems. You weren't content to wait for a full search. You knew a faster way, it wasn't strictly permitted, but back channels exist for a reason.

Your first trick was writing a coded message. When you got down there you'd publish it to the internet in a story. The immaculate algorithm would immediately recognise it for what it is and send it to the celestial codebreakers. The story is unimportant, it exists to be decoded, the really vital thing was making sure it took at least a few days to break, and of course the content. Your name, where you're going, who you're meeting, and an instruction: don't look for me.

The flight to Earth was easy. Go down. Listen for a prayer, latch on to it. Follow it in. Someone's always praying for something, it doesn't matter who's praying, what they're asking for, it didn't even matter who they were praying to as long as they weren't trying to call up a demon. What mattered was the intention, the right intention and the prayer's all you need to slip into the mortal realm.

Sure enough you found one, someone praying for a new car to somehow land in their lap. It probably wouldn't be answered, but that didn't matter. You locked onto it, angling your flight down the metaphysical contour, slipping into the human's world a dozen or so miles above what you're pretty sure was Britain.

Always nice when you appear nearby to where you needed to go.

You zoned in on a desanctified church you were familiar with. Far enough from any collection of people that you weren't going to be disturbed. You flew unseen, millions of people lived on this rainy island, and not one of them ever seemed to look up.

The church was quiet, only accessible through a hole in the roof. Ivy grew in through broken windows, mouldering pews scattered the floors. You dragged the furniture, such as it was to one side, taking a couple of slivers of rotting wood as you did.

The ritual to call forth the demon was simple. A thimbleful of mouse blood and the pair of wooden chips, applied with just the right know-how, and you'd done it.

The thinned veil of the church bent, warping under the strain of the ritual, before it snapped altogether, and the demon stepped through the gap.

Silusirex, an augur of some repute. Not above working with angels, despite the aeons long cold war between your peoples. Calling him here was forbidden. If word got out you'd made a deal with him, you'd be demoted. Depending on the deal, that might be lenient.

Silusirex stood before you, examining his nails. He didn't have a face, merely a void where a face would be. If you looked straight into it, you could see the void extended far beyond the back of his head, into unknown space behind him, inky black, filled with stars. His skin was white as white could be, shadows refused to fall on it, though it emitted no light of its own. Instead, where he stood it seemed as though someone had cut a demon-shaped hole in the world, showing the pale nothing behind. His nails were long, and black, his feet bare, a crown of ivory atop his head, held in place by black iron horns growing through gaps strategically drilled in the yellowing bone.

As with so many demons, he didn't wear a stitch. Where you hid your feminine body under a shapeless cassock, not even cinching the waist to display your hips, he left nothing to the imagination. Indeed, the one detail of his torso he chose to draw attention to, the only part of him that didn't blend into the sea of flat, featureless white, was a sheath between his legs.

You found your eyes drawn to that sheath. You knew enough about demons to know you were probably going to become intimately familiar with it soon. An augur can answer a great many questions, but a price is exacted. You stared so long you didn't notice his gaze turn to you

"Why have you summoned me, angel? What would you ask of the Grand Augur of the Ashen Radiant?"

His voice was like a headache, ringing in the back of your skull.

You winced. You'd never felt pain before. It wasn't much fun. Then the pain subsided, and you wanted more

"I have come to find someone" you spoke clearly, putting the unbidden desire from your mind "A missing angel named Oriniel"

Silusirex laughed. You clutched the sides of your head as it thundered through you. Your mouth parted slightly, a trickle of bloody saliva, glittering and golden, dripped from your lower lip.

"I know where the one you seek is, and I will tell you. But you must meet my price, angel, or you will never hear it from me"

You stared into the void of his face, waiting for the pain to subside again. Your heart fluttered. You were anxious. You'd never been anxious before, not about anything. You were protected by the ritual, that much is true. If the price is too great, you'll just leave, let the demon slip back into Hell and be home before anyone's the wiser, with plenty of time before your code hits the beurocracy in order to take it back.

"Name your price, demon"

He smiled. You're not sure how a creature with no mouth smiles, but you know he did "Get on your knees, open your mouth, and don't resist"

You could see the tip of his cock poking out of the sheath. Blood red against white flesh. You swallowed hard, hearing him chuckle as you weighed up your options. You'd heard of angels giving head before and not falling, but you'd also heard about desire. How when it starts, it's hard to stop. How you could end up chasing it and chasing it until before you realised the path you're on it's too late.

The laughter bounced around your head. It hurt. You wanted more. You needed more.

Your knees hit the ground.

Your hands rested on your legs.

Your mouth opened.

He stepped into you.

The first thing you noticed was the smell. It wasn't bad. You'd always expected a cock to smell repulsive, of ammonia and old sweat. This didn't smell like that. There was a hint of something musky, like the smell that clings to someone after a run, and something else you couldn't place, sweet, sharp, savoury, all at once.

The next thing was the size of it. Silusirex's hand was at his crotch, working the length of his member free from the sheath. You watched with awe as it just kept growing in his hand. By the time the knot sprung free, it had gone from being an inch-long nub poking from the end of the sheath to a gross protuberance, well over a foot long and three inches thick in places, the knot even wider than that.

You steeled your resolve. You're here for Oriniel. You balled your hands into fists, gripping the hem of your robe and closed your eyes. You couldn't get the image of it out of your head though, nor could you stop your mouth from watering at the thought of it.

Long-nailed fingers gripped your hair. Only one hand, the other off doing Heavens know what. He pulled you in, sliding himself down your throat.

You gagged. The cock was already at your tonsils, seeping precum into your throat.

You could feel yourself blushing, only imagining how you look right now, a demon's cock not even halfway in your mouth. You couldn't help but picture it, an angel being towered over by a demon, feathery white wings twitching helplessly as she gags on his cock, him guiding her over just the last third. He hasn't even really forced you yet. He could if he wanted to. He could drag you down to his hilt, use your throat like a pussy: a warm, wet hole to fuck, to empty his throbbing, pendulous balls into.

Fuck. Why isn't he?

Your hand leaves your thigh, jumping to the one in your hair. Silusirex's grip loosened for a split second, before you curled his fingers between your thick locks. You took him as deep as you could, to the very edge, after which your body wouldn't let you continue, still holding his hand, guiding him.

"What's this? My my my, the angel wants more?"

Again, the pain in the back of your brain. It focused your mind, made you want it more, harder, every sinew in your body screamed for it.

You nodded.

He pushed.

Your hand wasn't needed any more. You'd altered the deal, and he'd accepted. You could feel him halfway down your throat. You couldn't help it. Your other hand strayed up your thigh. You felt wetness spreading over your crotch. Your fingers touched it. A strum of pleasure raced through you, like someone had plucked the lowest note on a guitar.

You lifted your hand to inspect it. A thin film of silvery liquid strung between your index and middle fingers. You held it up for the demon to see, you're not sure why.

"Why, little angel, you're enjoying this, aren't you?"

You moaned when the pain started, your eyes unable to focus. The wetness spreading beneath your clothing.

You nodded.

Silusirex pulled out of your mouth.

You gasped as he pulled you up by the hair, bending you over a pew.

He gathered your cassock in one hand, baring your ass and glinting pussy to him. His cock sat at the entrance to your cunt

"Only if you want it, angel, but I won't be held responsible for what happens next"

You whined for him, reaching backwards to stroke his cock, shifting yourself to tease the tip

"Close enough"

Hands closed around your waist as he pressed his weight into you. You moaned as his cock parted you, your hips working with him, riding him as he fucked you from behind. You could feel his tip knocking on the door of your cervix.

It hurt like hell. Wave after wave of pain flooded you, every grinding press into your cunt made him prod harder. You didn't care.

Your halo squealed above you. Your legs started to shake. Your mouth dropped open. Your hands gripped his.

Then

Release

You squirted when you came. First it was silver, then steel, then iron, then pitch. The screaming metal run over your head shattered, shards sticking into your head. Your skin bubbled and changed, your body becoming softer, more pliable. Sensation filled you as a thousand hyper-sensitive clits grew along the depth of your cunt, each one throbbing as you pushed back upon the demon. Your wings burned to ash, feathers blackening and falling as so much dust.

You were complete.

You wanted more.

You looked back at Silusirex, willing him on. You bucked your hips "fuck me, daddy, and make it hurt"

The demon behind you laughed. You groaned. He pulled your hair, he dug his stilleto-sharp nails into your back. He burned you with magic and slapped your ass. Every new punishment he gave you made you clench and leak around him. Every shock of pain brought you a little closer.

He stuffed his cock the rest of the way into you. You felt it slam into your back wall, forcing through the tiny entrance to your womb. The pain was exquisite, flooding you, making your eyes roll and your head spin.

Then he knotted you.

He was all the way in. His hips kissed yours, over and over again as he tugged the knot out, and slammed it back in. Every thrust stretched your ruined cunt harder. Every time he hit the top of your womb, sending waves of sweet agony through you. More inky-black squirt sprayed from you, soaking both your legs, pooling on the floor.

You collapsed, no longer possessing the energy to prop yourself up.

He knotted you for the last time, cum streaming from him as he held your waist, keeping your hips tight against his as he cooed to you.

He lifted you up, a new demon in the arms of her creator, and carried you to your new home.

He'd tell you of your friend's fate, of course, but that could wait until you woke up

[musings-of-a-rose]

I got an idea for a soul mate type thing with Benny and a girl who works at a coffee shop, as for the soul mate part, maybe every time one person is injured the injury appears on the other person’s in the same spot but as flowers. Oh! With Benny being an MMA fighter he gets punched a lot and it affects his soul mate, so when he goes to her place to tell her about his fight, he sees her covered in flowers that are similar to the bruises on him and it turns inti the soul mate thing dawning on him and him apologizing profusely and her telling him that it wasn’t his fault . Maybe just a tad fluffy at the end

(I also really like your one shots, they’re very good. Thank you

SoulMMAtes

Pairing: Benny Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 1865

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Sorry this took so long to get to! I've never written a soulmate au and then I wrote it but we all got sick! I hope this is what you're looking for.

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

→Tell Tumblr this should be shared with others by reblogging! That's what the algorithm loves (it's how it works here. I don't make the rules!)

**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Benny Miller Masterlist

“Cappucino for Keith!” I project out at the handful of people waiting, a middle aged man coming forward, phone glued to his ear as he snaps his fingers at me, yanking the coffee from my hand and leaving without a word to me. 

“You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath, moving to take the next order. 

I glance at the ticket and look for what I need, only to find the container empty. I sigh internally and head to the back room, my eyes scanning the shelf to locate the right syrup bottle. Which happens to be on the top shelf. I reach up to grab the bottle, my coworker, Amy, coming in behind me. 

“More flowers?” She points to where my shirt had ridden up, the bottom of a bloom of flowers just visible under the hem. I grab the syrup bottle and stand straight, lifting my shirt slightly to show her the rest. “Your soulmate is either clumsy as fuck or really loves to get beat up.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, that would be my luck.”

“Still no idea who it is?”

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Do they hurt still?”

I shrug. “They used to. Now I guess I’m used to it.”

I remember being told about soul mates and our attachment to each other, any pain the other receives will show up on their mate’s bodies in the form of beautiful flower tattoos. They did not mention that pain often comes with it. The first time they appeared, it was my right eye. I missed class and called out of work for a few days. Supposedly, the flowers are to give you a clue as to who your mate is. How it helps, I’m not entirely sure, since I still haven’t found my soulmate yet. 

I follow Amy out of the backroom, bottle of syrup in hand, swapping it out with the old one. Some time passes, and then I hear my favorite regular’s voice placing his order. I look up just as Benny walks to my end of the counter, all blue eyes and a big smile. 

“Hey, sweetheart! Do you ever go home?”

I smile, looking away from the intensity of his gaze for a moment. “Nah. I sleep in the back on top of the bags of beans.”

Benny chuckles and my stomach flips. “Is that why your coffee tastes the best?”

Fuck. Why can’t he be my soulmate?

“I sneak hard core drugs into yours so you’ll keep coming back for more.”

A smile stretches across his face, his eyes darkening slightly. “I’ll come for you anytime.”

I can feel the heat in my cheeks, spreading across my face. I turn, trying to hide it and the smirk on my face as I busy myself with his regular order. I feel a small tug at my heart, a yearning for this man that I know I’m not matched with. I school my face and turn back, handing him his coffee. 

“Well that’s good to know. It’ll save me money. But my dealer may not be happy.”

Benny laughs, his eyes twinkling as he opens his mouth to say something. But then another blonde man walks up to him, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You ready to go, Ben?”

Is it just me or does Benny look a little…sad? He turns towards the man and nods. “Yeah. Oh, Will. This my favorite barista in the world. This is my brother, Will.” 

He sticks his hand out and I take it briefly, noting the firm grip. “Nice to meet you, darlin’.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

Will turns to Benny, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “We gotta go now or you’re gonna be late.” 

Benny glances at his watch. “Shit. Yeah, ok.” He looks at me, a little sadness in his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

I feel like my heart is in a wrench. Get over yourself. He’s not even your soulmate. I plaster on a smile that I hope seems genuine. “I’ll be here!”

—----

That night was one of the worst nights in a while. I just barely make it home before the pains start, first across my ribs, then a knee, my cheek, and my eye. The pain is more intense than it has been, and I throw my bag down, kicking off my shoes just to drop my body onto my bed. Smaller flower tattoos erupt across my body for next few minutes, the pain eventually fading into the background as I curl in the fetal position, wondering what the hell my soulmate is doing. Eventually, somehow, I fall asleep.

—----

The morning sun shines through the blinds on my face and I blink awake, stretching my cramped limbs. It’s a moment before I remember why I was in this position. I drag myself into the bathroom, shedding off all my clothes and step in front of the mirror to assess the marks. There are small, lighter ones scattered around my body, mostly on my torso, with the one on my ribs bright and beautiful. Thankfully, the flowers on my face have faded, for the most part. Gently, I touch them, a tear slowly falling down my cheek, thinking about what might have happened to my soulmate. 

I reach for my phone and call my manager, explaining that I can’t come in today. They weren’t having it though, telling me that I’m closing and they’ll see me tonight. Sighing, I hang up the phone and try my best to cover up the gorgeous marks, wondering and hoping that my soulmate is ok. 

—----

The only thing that was getting me through my shift was the thought of maybe seeing Benny. The doors open and close, people coming and going, none of whom are the man I want to see. I shouldn’t want to see him, but I do. About 10 minutes from closing, the last of the customers file out, one of the men laughing loudly and punching his friend in the arm as the door closes behind them. I sigh, moving to start the closing routine, especially since I’m alone. It was so slow, I let the other employee go home early to be with her kid. The door opens as I’m about to dump the remaining coffee. I turn and am met with familiar bright blue eyes, sweaty hair plastered to his face.

“Did I make it?” Benny is trying hard to make it look like he isn’t breathing heavy.

I’m happy to see him, but also worried. “Yeah but..are you ok?”

He nods, slight pain in his eyes that he desperately tries to bury. “ ‘m good.”

There’s silence for a few moments as I watch him try to fight for his life with the breathing. “I’d make you our usual, but honestly that coffee has been sitting a while. You should probably have a decaf tea anyway.”

Benny nods. “Sounds good.”

I turn away from him, hearing him suck some air quickly through his teeth. A little sharp jab in my side reminds me that I’m nearly overdue for another round of pain killers. I head towards our tea shelf. 

“Slow night?” Benny asks.

“Yeah. It’s never busy on these nights.”

I scan the jars on the counter, naturally finding the chamomile on the highest shelf. Sighing, I stand on my tip toes, my arm outstretched to reach the box. My fingertips graze it when I hear Benny move, his shoes thudding across the floor as he comes around the counter. 

“What is that?” He asks, suddenly behind me and the closest he’s ever been. Fuck he smells so good. 

I glance back over my shoulder, tea bag in hand as I mange to turn in place. “Uh…what?”

Benny points to my back, where my shirt had ridden up while reaching for the tea. “The marks.”

My cheeks flush and I look away from him. “Oh, it’s uh…a tatt…too?” Great. That sounded convincing. 

“Show me.” It wasn’t a demand, but it didn’t feel like a request. I swallow the lump in my throat. I know that once he sees the marks, he won’t come back. Why would he waste his time when he could be finding his soul mate?

“It’s nothing, really. A dumb idea when I was younger.”

His eyes soften slightly, his eyebrows pulling together to do that stupid look that makes me go weak. “Can I see?”

We watch each other for a long moment before I nod, turning my back towards him and raising my shirt to show off the beautiful flowers that bloom across my ribs. His fingertips brush against the marks and my body tingles, shivers shooting through ever nerve in my body, my stomach feeling like it’s full of butterflies. 

“I…I am so sorry, sweetheart.”

I turn back to him as he takes a step back, my heart clenching at his movement. “Sorry for what?”

“I didn’t fucking think about…I didn’t realize…holy shit but yeah of course! Oh fuck this makes sense!” The concern is battling with a dawning realization on his face.

“Benny, what-” He grips the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head, his chest bare. 

And covered in bruises and nicks. 

My eyes widen as I see the darkest and most prominent bruise, splayed across his ribs exactly where my flower marks are. As my eyes roam across his torso, my hands touch places on my body where the marks are, each one of them identical to the bruises on Benny. 

“You?” I whisper, my eyes finally landing on his. 

He nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “Me.” He holds a hand up, palm facing me and I press my hand to his. The same feeling shoots back through me, my nerves alight, butterflies bursting from my stomach, but also a sense of coming home, being safe, warm, and loved. Benny steps closer to me, lightly gripping my ribs and pulling me close to him. With his other hand, he brushes some stray hair from my face, tipping my chin up to him as he places the softest kiss on my lips. Everything slides into place - the way I always felt drawn to him, why my body was physically reacting to him in more ways than one, why I couldn’t stop thinking about him once I’d seen him. His embrace feels exactly where I belong. 

I pull back, his eyes searching mine. 

“Are you a terrible ninja or something?”

Benny laughs, his whole body shaking with it. “Nothing cool like that. Just MMA.”

“Are you terrible or?” My eyebrow cocks up and he smirks. 

“I win every fight. I just know how to take a punch.”

“Well could you maybe take a few less from now on?”

Benny smiles. “No need, sweetheart. I’ll quit. I don’t want you in pain for my stupid mistakes.”

He presses his lips to mine again, moaning slightly into the kiss. But then he inhales sharply, hissing out. I feel the twinge in my ribs and I know he’s hurting. 

“Ok, let me clean this place up and then I’m taking care of you. Got it?”

Benny smirks, his eyes twinkling. “Yes ma’am.”

-------

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[covetyou]

performance enhancement

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist

pairing: Dieter Bravo & gn!reader rating: Teen (18+ only blog!) warnings: anxiety/stress, Dieter Bravo being a stubborn asshole, cute baby animals, vaguely fluffy word count: 1k summary: I couldn't stop thinking about that baby pygmy hippo and what Dieter would do if he saw it, so this fic was born. you're welcome.

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"I can't work in these fuckin' conditions!"

You hear him before you see him, sat scrolling through your phone as you wait the few hours still left until you have to pick him up. You'd got here early - as you usually did - even though Dieter was frustratingly late more often than not.

The door to the trailer is wrenched open a moment later, and you're raising your eyebrows in disapproval at the grumpy actor as he flings himself inside the trailer, slamming the door behind him.

"I can't do it," he huffs, turning anxiously in a circle, hands on his hips, running through his hair, balling into fists. "I can't fuckin' do it."

"Do what, Dee?" you say from your position curled up on the small bench seat in the trailer.

"This!" he yells, turning to face you gesturing in the vague direction of his face.

You make a face at him, still clueless as to what he's talking about. In a long line of things Dieter Bravo could be frustrated with "this" didn't really help to narrow it down.

"They want me to," he begins, fannining his eyes. "They want me to leak, and I can't."

"Cry?," you laugh. "Dee, it's in the script, of course they want you to. Have you tried the tear -"

The actor rounds on you, shaking his finger in your direction before you can even reach for your bag to see what you have to hand to help.

"No! I do not need performance aides."

"Dieter, it's just to help yo-"

"No!"

Dieter yanks off the thick knit sweater that makes part of his costume and dumps it uncermoniously onto a chair, shaking his arm in frustration as the sleeve just won't give up its hold on his wrist, growling at the garment when he's finally free. He rounds on you again when he's a little more bare, a little less claustrophobic, and flops down next to you.

"I'm not doing it," he says simply, as he tucks himself in beside you on the bench, and that's that, discussion over. You know better than to argue when he's like this so, with a roll of your eyes, you flip your phone back over and continue your aimless scrolling as Dieter's head finds its place on your shoulder.

He fidgets for a little while, the bench not really big enough for the two of you to curl up, until he's slumped down and half turned toward you, legs splayed out in front of him where yours are tucked beneath you.

"Can I watch?" he murmurs sadly a moment later, his face pressed into your arm and eyes screwed tight.

"Dieter, that's up to you. They're your rules, not mine."

Dieter didn't have a phone of his own. Not right now, anyway. That was locked away back at his house, awaiting the day it could be reunited with its owner. For now, all he had was an old send-texts-and-make-calls-only brick of a phone for emergencies, that he mostly used to bug you at all hours of the day. It was a rare day you weren't greeted with a "u up x" text in the morning, or a garbled jumble of letters as he forgot how to text with a number pad.

"I wanna watch," he mumbles into your arm, face pressed so tightly to you now you can feel his lips move against your skin.

"Then go ahead."

You watch then as he slowly opens one eye, peeking out shyly before opening the other and staring wide-eyed at your phone screen. You're only scrolling mindlessly, not really paying much attention to whatever the algorithm is throwing your way. Some stupid ads, spoilers for a show you're not even watching, the red carpet looks of a movie premiere Dieter was invited to, but couldn't make it, and endless shitty takes from random internet strangers. Just a normal day for the internet, but amazing for the man next to you who had kept himself away from the world of unsolicited advice and badly shot paparazzi pictures for weeks.

"Wait," he says suddenly, sitting up and scooting closer to you. "Go back, what was that?"

You scroll a little slower as you move back through the endless monotony on your phone, until Dieter goes stiff by your side and grips your arm.

"That," he says. "What's that? Is it fake?"

Something in you swells, oddly proud at the man for knowing to question something he'd never seen before rather than taking it at face value. More than once he'd come to you gushing over an image only for you to take one look, see the 8 fingers, and have to break the disappointing news to your employer.

"She's real," you say, opening the video for Dieter to take a look. "She's been everywhere the last few days."

"She's beautiful," he murmurs, transfixed on your phone screen. "Look at her. Get that girl an Oscar. Is there more?"

"Yeah, Dee, there's more."

"Can I see?"

You move to hand him your phone, but he refuses to take it, instead choosing to snuggle into your side as you search for the baby hippo that had taken his attention. A few minutes in you almost expect him to be sleeping by your side, but a small sniffle and the swipe of his hand tells you otherwise. Crying over baby animals wasn't new for Dieter, and each time he did it, you found it unbearably sweet. Eventually, he shifts by your side and squares off his shoulders, before standing, grabbing up his ugly sweater, and pulls open his trailer door with a determination to rival his earlier resignation.

"I think I can go back now."

You don't look up at him, transfixed on the tiny hippo staring back at you from your hands. A 180 flip like this wasn't unusual for Dieter. It probably wasn't even his first for today. Either way, you'd still be here when he got back from filming the last scenes of the day, ready to cart him back to the apartment he insisted you stay with him in.

"Do you need the tear stick? Drops? I've got some in-"

"No," he says with certainty. "No, I've got this. Just... just gonna think of that fuckin' hippo."

[serpentarius]

ao3 writers I love you and see you and I know it can be demoralizing when the fic you’ve worked so hard on doesn’t get nearly enough reception as you’d hoped. Whether that’s in the form of hits or kudos or bookmarks or comments. I know it’s frustrating, but just know… there’s often no rhyme or reason to it. no discernible algorithm at play here.

please remind yourself that low numbers are NOT an inherent reflection on the quality of your work. I’ve read incredible, downright masterful stories that have just a few kudos and a handful of bookmarks; and I’ve read extremely popular fics that I simply don’t vibe with. And everything in between. There are so many factors involved—how big the fandom is, how popular the ship is, what kind of tags are included, how other people filter and search for fics, etc. etc... the list TRULY goes on. all this to say, the stats absolutely shouldn't be the thing that keeps you from writing.

be kind to yourself. keep creating, if that's something you want to do and have the energy for. please don't get discouraged. your art matters and is worth so much more than you might think.

if you see this, I’d love for you to drop some of your favourite fics you’ve written in the comments or reblogs ♥️

[neysaadept]

Prometheus Chapter 9

Emily Prentiss x Female CIA Reader

Chapter 9 - Why Do You Keep Saying No?

Tags: Limited use of y/n but established last name. Swearing, mentions of the pandemic and human and sex trafficking. Canon typical violence. Sexual innuendos. Drinking. Smoking. Slow Burn. Murder. Depictions of Flaying. Implied Rape. Mentions of Date Rape Drugs. Strangulation. Restraints. Mental Institutions. PTSD. Childhood trauma. Psychological Trauma. Implied references to child abuse. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 6.6k (and I thought the last one was long)

AO3

Chapter 8

Two weeks have gone by since Indio and you turn inward, boxing up your feelings with a neat bow to return to status quo but you’re sure Prentiss wasn’t buying it. Thankfully, she was too busy with section chief duties to really bother you. Instead, you branch out and integrate further with the team at work. JJ found out you liked to run and meets you at Quantico a couple of days during the week once the kids were off to school to do it together. She took you around different parts of the campus to better familiarize the area. You and Rossi spend a lot of time talking about the history of profiling and the integration of its use into modern investigation techniques in his office as the two of you knock out paperwork. You also have a spirited conversation on why the Bears suck and where you were when the Cubs won the World Series. You, Tara, and Rebecca finally have a night together which you felt comfortable doing. You went to a nice Italian restaurant, knocked back a bottle of wine, and shared the basics on how you and Rebecca met, played pretend girlfriends as vengeance, and all about the HSC she was curious about.

You almost felt normal. But since you didn’t know what that was, perhaps you were just being human.

You and Brian kept in touch by phone and text since you weren’t needed face to face yet. He reminds you of your upcoming psych check in tomorrow which you send back an eyeroll emoji to express your disinterest but of course you would go. It was mandatory for as long as you said yes to joining the CIA.

Your side project with Penelope was also set up as FlamePit23 came up empty with any identifiable information. She ran an algorithm for most used words, phrases, and idiosyncrasies to assist the team pretend to be this woman. You, on the other hand, convinced Prentiss that it should be you posting as this user when the three of you talked about this in Garcia’s lair.

“It should be me,” you urged. “If this some how works and there’s a meeting, it needs to be a non-BAU related agent since Bailey outed you all at that fucking press conference. You know he’s looking into you if not already since the news of the shipping container broke.”

“Have you done this sorta thing before?” Penelope asks with that curious need that went beyond knowing a skillset. She wanted to know you!

You shake your head back and forth in debate before nodding. “Yeah.”

Her eyes widen and she squeals reading between the lines. “Are you a spy like Emily?!”

You lean back with a huff. “I can neither confirm nor deny this.”

“Oh my god! You’re a spy!” She points at you with excitement and then claps.

“I’m not not saying I’m a spy …”

Emily holds her hands up to stop the back and forth. “Regardless of how Whitlock came to possess these abilities, I’m authorizing her to make contact. But,” she looks sternly at the two of you, “you do this together and inform me the minute Sicarius takes the bait. Understood?”

“Yes Ma-!” Garcia was starting to say but the glare from Prentiss forced her to clamp her mouth shut.

You didn’t care. “Yes, Ma’am.”

And you so loved how Prentiss’ glare turned into a flustered eyeroll. Penelope noticed too.

There was also the case of Penelope blabbing out about your military training that piqued Luke’s interest since he was a former Army Ranger. Since there is downtime, he offers a chance to cut loose with you and spar instead of just beating on the heavy bag. With how you’re feeling, this was exactly what you needed. Not the psychiatrist. Good old fashion physical exertion with an opponent.

What you didn’t realize as you were getting ready in the locker room, is that the entire team, sans Prentiss, are going to be spectators … and there were bets. They knew Luke’s background and since yours was up in the air with how much military training you had coupled with what you learned from the CIA as a special agent, there was debate on who had the edge. Odds were 3/2 in Luke’s favor, but the team was split. JJ and Rossi bet on Luke and Penelope and Tara on you.

The four of them put out folding chairs at a safe distance from the blue sparring mat in a semi-circle, though JJ has her turned around to sit backwards on it for her own awkward comfort. There were other agents using the bags and practicing maneuvers scattered about the rest of the room, uncaring what the BAU was up to. Luke was first to arrive from the locker room with the appropriate red headgear and MMA boxing gloves, a black tank and shorts. You both decided on bare feet. He pats his chest and looks to JJ as she starts whooping. Rossi was amused.

Penelope was animatedly giving the double thumbs down as Tara booed. “You’re going down, Alvez! Whitlock’s gonna kick your ass!”

“Bullshit! My boy’s gonna drop her in five!” jeers JJ.

“Booooooo! A pox upon Alvez!” Penelope fires back.

“What in the hell’s going on here?” Prentiss’s voice carries over the trash talk. “I go looking for my team to check on deadlines and you’re all nowhere to be found. I only had this clue.”

She holds up a hot pink stinky note with the elegant scrawl of Penelope’s that said:

GYM AT 1200 MY LOVELIES

It was signed with a heart.

“Well,” she stood there with no answer and thrusts the note further, curling her other arm around her stomach. “Would someone like to explain why you’re all not at your desks working and Luke’s dressed like that?”

“Ah, just having some fun, Prentiss,” says Luke, knocking his gloves together. “Blowing off some steam.”

“And to be fair, you weren’t around to give a heads up,” explains Tara.

“You weren’t in your office,” says Rossi with a shrug. “We did look.”

“You all have access to my calendar to know where I’m at,” she shoots back while crumpling the sticky note, making Penelope pout. “Seriously. You all have better things to do-“

“Better things like what?” you ask, having joined the group after silently watching Prentiss berate the team. You watch as she turns around, her disappointing eyes switch immediately to surprise.

Like Luke, you wore the same red headgear and gloves but had your hair tied back in a ponytail. You also play with the mouthguard dangling from between your teeth as brown eyes look you up and down. You wore a blue sports bra and matching cross training shorts that showed off your lean, muscular build. The section chief never had a chance to see what was under all that clothing, unlike JJ who you ran with.

Rossi smirks and makes an educated announcement. “I think Emily’s in.”

“I, uh …” She has to tear her eyes away and looks at the expectant group. “Fine.”

You wonder why she gave in so quickly but shrug it off. “Hold on.”

Realizing Prentiss didn’t have a seat, you jog over to get another chair and set it up for her. Tara and Penelope raise a brow towards one another with interest. JJ commends the chivalry. “How nice of her to treat the boss right.”

“Oh, just shut it, Jareau.” But there wasn’t any bite in the words as she sat down and crossed her arms.

She ends up by Penelope who rocks side to side on her chair in thought before leaning towards Emily. “So, are you in on the betting since you’re all interested in the fight now?”

Penelope’s way of saying she was well aware of how quickly Emily’s tune changed after seeing Whitlock in different clothes without actually saying it. At least she wasn’t poking fun of her for it … yet.

Oh, what the hell, she thinks and nods. “What’re the odds?”

“3 to 2 favoring Luke. Me and Tara are on team cutie. Rossi and JJ are with Luke.”

Prentiss watches you and Luke discuss the terms of the fight. He had a height advantage and Ranger training, but you had similar training too. She had her suspicions that special forces were in charge of your training considering your secretive background. You clearly put forth effort into keeping in shape due to the demands of being a CIA operative, much to her wandering eyes delight. And since you were not not a spy, she was certain you had more in your bag of tricks than even those betting in your favor knew.

“Put me down for Whitlock,” she says without tearing her eyes away from you.

Penelope has to fight so hard that it wasn’t the only thing that Emily wants to go down on with Whitlock, but she behaves! She deserves a medal for that even though she should say it because Emily crumpled the cute note she wrote the team!

You and Luke tap gloves and both take three feet backwards to provide enough room to start. He put himself in a standard krav maga stance, relaxing his posture with a foot forward and his hands before him with his fingers spread out.

You just stood there, studying him, with your chin tucked down and standing similar to Luke. You were defensive without him easily reading you, which is what you want. You had been strenuously trained how to take down men like him in the field, and not just by military means alone. This would not be a flashy fight, but a fight to end quickly and decisively.

When you lock eyes you both nod as the agreed upon way to start the fight, and it begins.

Luke opens up offensively with straight punches that you anticipated. You duck down and back sweep Luke off his feet.

Rossi blinks in disbelief at what just happened in a few seconds. JJ looks the same but was able to verbalize what they both saw. “Holy crap!”

“She went all Karate Kid on him!” cheers Penelope but then has to admonish you playfully in the next breath. “But do not put him in a body bag! You are not Johnny Lawrence!”

Your brain was aware of the audience but as they were not a threat, it was background noise. The focus was Luke rolling off his back to stand up, which you allow. Now he knows you’re quick and would adjust his strategy, as would you. He lunges forward with an arm as a feint, but the true attack comes when he raises his dominant leg to kick into your side. You strike your forearm down for the block and with a focused yell, you thrust your palm forward and connect against Luke’s chest. You hear him wheeze at the sudden loss of air you force out of him as he goes down.

“What sort of training did you say she had again, Pen?” asks Tara. “Not that I’m upset that we’re winning so far, but this is pretty intense.”

“Just military.” She shrugs. “Nothing specific.”

“Looks like a bit of Marine training, maybe,” Rossi says offhandedly, but he wasn’t entirely convinced. Having served himself, he could see traces of the training he had but he could also tell you were drawing off other techniques in those few moves.

Prentiss wasn’t so sure that the military training you shared was what you were relying on either. You were anticipating Luke far too easily which indicated a more stringent martial arts training like Muay Thai or Jeet Kune Do. You were extraordinary to watch in these few moments with how you took command of the fight. You were stunning.

“Luke!” JJ shouts. “Stop falling on your ass and do something!”

His answer is a cough as you put more distance between him, allowing him a chance to get up. This is not how you would normally be out in the field, but this was a friendly fight and would give him one more chance. You watch as he puts an elbow to the mat to swing his body around and get to his feet. He sees you standing at attention, studying him.

“Okay …” he starts to say before taking several deep breaths while rubbing his chest. “That hurt.”

You remain impassive as you visualize dozens of scenarios that Luke could take. As he starts to come at you again, you block his punches with forearms, moving him around the mat with quick feet. You set him up how you want and fire back with two punches and a hook that he blocks but he misses how your heel turns at him, setting Luke up for a spin kick that connects right in his gut. Your feint works.

“Luke get up!” Which JJ does herself. She hopes that her voice will give him some strength to turn this fight around. Rossi is left shaking his head in amazement.

“Holy shit, girl!” Tara howls while clapping.

“She hasn’t won yet!” reminds Penelope.

“Eh, she will.” Emily points to you as you rush to the ground to hook one of Luke’s arms under yours and his head under the other. “Luke fell into her trap. She was playing him the whole time.”

With a firm grip of his tank, you tuck your head against his shoulder and plant your legs wide to counter any leverage he may have.

Luke struggles to find any give to overpower you. He tries to push up with his legs but is unable to flip over. Next, he tries moving his shoulders but with how you are able to control his upper torso, there was no momentum to even start. He grunts and pants, trying in vain to get off his back or get his legs around you, but your head was safely tucked in against his shoulder from any advantage he could find. As a last resort, he flails his arms to try and get a grip on anything, but your head was just out of reach as intended.

Rossi sighs, throwing his hands up. “I think we’re gonna have to call it.”

JJ sits down with a strangling groan as Penelope rises to her feet and applauds, cheering your name. “I knew you’d win!”

With controlling breaths, you confirm the victory with Luke. “You yield?”

He strains against your hold one last time before going limp. “Yes!”

And just like that, you untangle your arms free from him and hop up to stand. He looks up at you while catching his breath, arms flopping over his body to work out the tension your hold causes. “What the fuck, Whitlock...” His chuckle betrays his amusement despite his words sounding vicious. “I never had a chance, did I?”

“Kinda the idea to be underestimated.” You grin, offering a hand to help him to his feet. “Maybe you’ll have better luck next time.”

“Oh, you know it! Now I know what to expect.” He laughs, patting you on the back before you half hug each other with respect.

As Rossi and JJ were taking out money to settle the bet with Garcia, Tara and Emily were heading over to you. Tara playfully pushes your shoulder with a big smile. “That was impressive.”

You shrug and start feeling self-conscious. Prior to the CIA you would have bragged about your win and talked trash at Luke at how easily you won, but you have learned humility. “Thank you.”

Prentiss is surprised by the lack of bravado and found it quite interesting. This was a perfect time for playfully belittling Alvez losing after a commanding victory. But no. You were displaying genuine gratitude for showcasing your abilities.

One thing’s for sure, you can handle yourself in the field far better than I initially thought, she muses. “You had a lot more than military training.”

You blush and bring up a gloved hand, bringing your index finger and thumb together. “Maybe a wee bit.”

“Luke’s on to something, though,” she says, and you quirk a brow in question. “Think you can find time and pass some of this knowledge down to the team?”

“Uh …” you start rubbing the back of your neck at the unspoken compliment from Prentiss. It took you off guard and have to force your eyes to tear away from the intensely expecting brown ones that were fixed on you. You look around at the team and gently nod. “Sure. I, uh, I can do that.”

“Ladies!” Everyone’s attention was on Garcia now. “We have enough money to cover girls’ night tomorrow thanks to our CIA cutie de-mol-li-shing Lukey there!”

JJ comes up and punches her partner in the arm which makes him yelp. “Lucky I get drinks outta this but you!” She points at you. “You, me and darts.”

Prentiss smiles at the challenge. “My money’s on JJ then.”

You look quickly at Prentiss as you need to clarify something since the section chief hasn’t been acting like a sore loser. “Does that mean you bet on me?”

“I did,” she confirms with a nod. She knew who was going to win the moment you stepped into view, and it wasn’t just because she was caught off guard by how attractive you were. “I know a winner when I see one.”

“And this winner is finally going to go out with us!” Penelope joins the group flashing the wad of bills in the air in front of your face. “You flaked out last time.” Your eyes start to widen with apology, and she juts her lower jaw out petulantly. “No! You can’t bail on us again!”

“I’m sorry. I got CIA shit I need to deal with again,” The lie easily rolls off your tongue and the team accepts it. The only difference is that Prentiss was here this time when you said it and she was not convinced. She kept her poker face as you continue. “Full time consultant for the FBI still needs to go home and take care of things.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! You won us mad money to blow at the bar! You deserve to partake.” Tara says, trying to stroke your ego and win you over.

You half grin and shake your head no. “I’m really sorry. But hey! Think about it this way, there’s more food and drinks for all of you.” It was difficult for the BAU ladies to be upset with you for too long with that point. “I’ll even throw in another fifty as compensation for my absence.”

“Deal!” JJ swoops in to answer so fast to seal the deal.

“Good, now, I’m off to shower.” You look cheekily at Prentiss. “Think our boss might want us back working soon.”

“Astute observation, Whitlock. Fun’s over. Back to work. Except for you, Alvez.” She waves him off with a cringe. “You smell.”

The group laughs and he looks hurt. “What? And she doesn’t?”

Prentiss takes a hard look at you, and you fight a tremble that wants to erupt under her examination. Your skin was barely flushed with exertion, hair unkempt and loosened from the fight. There was just a small perceptible sheen of perspiration on your body or clothing, unlike Luke who had to work hard at trying to get at you or escape your hold. “Not that I can tell.”

Rossi whistles. “Take a hint, Luke, and go before you put the other foot in your mouth.”

Back at Langley, Brian was in his office between meetings working on getting his five recruits together for the holidays that were quickly approaching. It was going to be tricky as the other four were on various assignments around the world for the CIA just like you before Wilson roped you onto the BAU. He had to start pulling strings now and organize the right moves to get everyone stateside that would not compromise mission integrity. The other four recruits were not deep into a long-term op as you were so it would be easier, but not guaranteed. If he could pull it off, he knew it would make everyone happy, especially you and his wife. He started to think about this since mentioning it last month with you and instead of waiting until after your BAU assignment, he was trying to make it an earlier surprise.

Barton: Hey, I know you said not to bother you but there’s an Emily Prentiss from the FBI on the phone that wants to talk to you.

Eliza Barton was his executive assistant, and she knew that if Whitlock’s new boss wanted to talk, that she could inform Brian as she did just now over chat. Of course, he had to wonder what you did to prompt this call.

Korogoth: Go ahead and transfer the call.

His phone immediately rings and picks up. “I’m actually surprised it took you this long to call me. So … “ he leans back in his chair, “what did she do?”

“I’m sorry?” He heard Prentiss’ confusion.

“Whitlock. What did she do to prompt this phone call?” he clarifies.

“Oh. Nothing. She’s been a great addition to the BAU.”

That caught him by surprise, He wasn’t able to formulate a response because when people called him about you, it was due to your rough around the edge’s smartass remarks or skirting around orders that were still within bounds but questionable. Hearing a compliment was unexpected. Nice, but unexpected.

“That’s wonderful to hear. I’m pleased she’s acclimating herself to your team. Which makes me wonder what I can do for you.” The only other potential issue he could surmise was the stipend, but the money was easily allocated to the BAU budget. There were no issues with finance that he was aware of.

“The team and I want to know if you can reschedule her CIA commitments this weekend so she can join us for some socialization. Obviously matters of national security we understand.”

He had to think really hard what CIA commitments you had which ended up being none. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

There was a pause before Prentiss spoke up again. “She said last weekend and this she couldn’t come out to girls’ night because she’s unable to take care of all of her CIA duties being a full-time consultant.”

He rolls his head back in understanding. You were lying to the BAU because you didn’t want to hurt their feelings and used your non-existent CIA duties as a cover because no one would be able to verify it. You just didn’t know how tenacious Prentiss was when she put her mind to a task and clearly the section chief wanted you there with the team. It actually warmed his heart that the team took to you in this way and were disappointed you couldn’t be with them like this. And here he was worried that your gruff, humorous demeanor would rub your teammates the wrong way and cause friction as it had done with teams in the past. Which it did in the beginning, but Brian wasn’t aware of your fight with Prentiss yet.

“I think there’s been some mistake. She doesn’t have anything going on that requires her attention.” Yes, he was going to throw you under the bus and force you to be social. And yes, he warned you to be careful since you hadn’t been integrated into these situations in a long time, but this might do you some good as long as you kept the majority of your history quiet.

“None?” Prentiss sounded confused.

“Yeah, none. Her only obligation is to the BAU.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

He smiles against the receiver knowing that her mind was already working out a solution to your behavior. “Yeah. That’s one way of putting it.”

“Well, I won’t take up anymore of your time.”

“Nonsense. You can call me anytime regarding Whitlock if need be.”

“I appreciate that. Though that doesn’t surprise me.”

He furrows his brow. “Why’s that?”

“Oh, she let me know you recruited her.”

His chest tightened with surprise. You barely tell anyone that unless it was with good reason. What reason did you have to tell Prentiss this? “She did?”

“Yeah. She couldn’t go into the details, but it came up during an off the clock meeting.”

Since when did you have off-the-clock meetings? Brian was baffled by this odd course of events. “Well, she must trust you to offer that up. And considering we worked together once upon a time, Whitlock’s on target with that.”

“Isn’t that nice of you to say. But I do need to be going now. Too much work and not enough time to do it.”

He chuckles. “Same here. Oh, but before you go?”

“Yes?”

“It was complete bullshit that Bailey got the job, and you didn’t.” When he learned that Douglas Bailey was tapped to take the deputy director’s role instead of Prentiss, who made the short list, he was furious. He had to do his own reorganization of the CIA executive roles, but he put qualified candidates in place when the org chart was settled and not some bureaucratic tools of upper management that cared only for budget cuts, dissolving departments, and a whole lot of ass kissing. Yeah, there was a new normal after the pandemic, but there were ways to be efficient without favoritism.

There was a lengthy pause on the other end, but Brian was patient enough to wait it out.

“Thanks, Brian. That means a lot.” Another pause. “Actually, before we hang up, can I ask a favor?”

Friday night came and you are curled up on the couch reading Nona the Ninth with Metallica blasting through the surround sound at the safehouse. The condo was located in the Penn Quarter, one of many units in the seven-story complex. The unit you are occupying is available on loan to CIA agents that were displaced and needed short-term lodgings. This was never used for CIs* or anyone under arrest due to the high foot traffic in the area. Operatives had ample places to eat whether they were allowed to roam about or ordered delivery only. Public transportation was easily accessible to go anywhere in the DC area. Best part is you have a parking spot in the garage, a hot commodity in a city.

The condo was modern in design with white walls, hardwood floors and track lighting shaped in a V overhead. There were white chairs and a glass table close to the kitchen but left enough area open to walk through. The couch matched the design of the chairs with comfortable throw pillows, one that was cradling your head against the couch arm. A large screen TV was mounted on the wall to the left of the patio doors that led to a cramped balcony, but the view of the gardens below was spectacular. Generic pictures and fake plants rounded out the area to attempt hominess.

Living here for the last month has been nice but you didn’t commit to making it your own yet as you were still trying to come to terms with being in one place for an extended period of time in the states. As you are winding down from the day at Quantico, you treat yourself to a tumbler of Moscato. There are wine glasses, but you are not picky about what glass you use, just what is in easy reach. It is the perfect evening that you’re comfortable with … until there was a knock at the door.

You put the book down against your stomach with a concerning face. There was nothing on your agenda tonight so no one from the CIA should be here. Everything had to go through Brian for approval to set up a meeting here and if it was him stopping by, he would have texted you.

So, what the fuck?

You swing your legs off the couch to sit up, setting the book on the oval glass coffee table. You pad over barefoot to the open kitchen and grab your Glock that is holstered on the brown speckled quartz countertop. You pull it free and remove the safety, leaving the holster behind as you approach the foyer when another knock occurs. With your gun pointed parallel to the door, you lean forward to look through the peephole and see … Emily Prentiss?

What is she doing here and how the fuck did she find me?

You unlock the door and slowly open it unable to smooth your features away to look any less confused. Emily was dressed casually in two-inch flat-heeled boots, jeans, a red blouse that you couldn’t help noticing it accentuated her chest and had the usual long coat on. Your brain was finding this hard to comprehend right now that Emily Prentiss was standing at your door.

She returns the favor and studies you as the music shuffles to the next song - Training Season by Dua Lipa. You had positioned yourself in a defensive stance by the door, ready to bring your gun arm around if needed. Brown eyes enjoy the view as you had pajama shorts on and a black CIA tee which spoke of all the work you were supposedly doing with the agency – which was none.  She locks eyes with yours with a self-satisfied smile.

I need someone to hold me close, deeper than I've ever known

Whose love feels like a rodeo, knows just how to take control

When I'm vulnerable, he's straight-talking to my soul

Conversation overload, got me feeling vertigo*

She breaks the silence. “Busy working, huh?”

You scramble for an excuse, totally out of your element and comfort to be your cocky sure self. “I …Hey!” But that didn’t stop Prentiss from inviting herself in. “The hell, Prentiss!”

She strides through the foyer with hands in her coat pockets as you put the safety on your gun on the way to the kitchen. “Please, come on in!” you say venomously and place your gun back on the counter. You did not appreciate her behavior at all.

You could tell she was taking it all in to figure you out, but there was nothing of note to process as you still hadn’t brought your items in from storage. Everything was all chosen by the CIA as Emily soon surmised.

“Why did you lie?” she asks, eyes going to the tumbler and book on the coffee table. The only signs of you.

“Oh, no. You, first. How the fuck did you find me?” How dare she, how dare the BAU, break into parts of the CIA to find out where the hell she was. Penelope wasn’t doing that anymore!

She turns around and with one word shatters your anger into anxiety. “Korogoth.”

Why would Brian give up your location without your knowledge? That wasn’t the protocol you put in place. Unless … unless he fucking knew you’d run off and avoid a confrontation with Prentiss and come straight to him asking to be moved. Which really would only delay the inevitable conversation that you were going to have right now. You were well aware of the irony that you wanted to be included with the team at work but socially was fucking scaring you shitless. It always scared you shitless, which is why you’ve kept any personal involvement at work. Meeting Tara for dinner with Rebecca was different. It was a small intimate gathering and you would have done that with anyone that she was dating.

You once again stand before Prentiss with no retort because clearly your father figure wanted this to happen. As that shut you down, Emily continues. “So, why did you lie?”

You work your jaw and cross your arms, refusing to answer.

With a small tilt of her head, Emily nods. “Alright, you don’t have to tell me, but you’re going out with us.”

Your heart clenches as your eyes widen. “What? No!”

“You’re disappointing everyone,” she says, and you realize that meant her too. Because if she wanted to separate her feelings, she would have said the team.

“Won’t be the first time,” you point out petulantly.

Emily’s brown eyes squint. “And it won’t be now. You’re part of the team and the team’s going out.” With that declaration, she’s off to your bedroom.

“Hey!” You call out and stalk after her, but she already turned the corner.

By the time you made it into the main bedroom, Prentiss already opened the doors to your closet and was rifling through your minimal ensembles. “Geesh, Whitlock. You’re not giving me much to work with.”

“That’s fine because I think I made it clear I wasn’t going out,” you affirm before sitting on the queen size bed.

The bedroom was white and had hardwood floors like the rest of the condo, filled with basic modern furniture and pictures. Your personal duffel was stuffed under the bed that contained pieces of you and remained hidden. Nothing of importance was in the closet or in plain sight.

“And I think I made it clear you’re coming,” she says pulling out a pair of jeans to toss at you.

You set it aside with a huff. “This is ridiculous.”

“So’s hiding. Oh, this works.” Prentiss had to reach far inside to the back of the rack and finds a dark grey long-sleeved V-neck crisscrossed ribbed fitted top. She turns while taking it off the hanger and tosses it at you. “Get dressed.”

You look up at her with a scowl as you set aside the blouse. “Whatever you think’s gonna happen, regardless if Brian approves, it’s not.”

“Then tell me why not,” she presses and when you don’t respond, Emily comes to sit next to you on the bed. “I can’t help if you don’t tell me what it is you’re scared of. And I swear to god if you cite it’s classified, I’m going to bury you in so much paperwork that you’ll think your first three days with me was a vacation.”

Fuck, you couldn’t help laughing at that. “Well shit. Can’t have that.”

You look to Prentiss and realize that the two of you are almost brushing shoulders with how close you are, but what really caught your attention was the sincerity in her eyes. She was pushing this because she cared. Emily said it herself; you are part of the team, and she cares deeply for the team. This was quite the shift since those tenuous first days when you were seen as a threat.

She saw you as a member of the team. It was a bit of a mind fuck to wrap your head around that truth.

You think back to the last time someone took this much interest in your well-being and you had one answer. Brian Korogoth saving your ass at twelve years old and that was a long fucking time ago for someone to give a shit about you that wasn’t just in the best interest of your country or as a CIA asset. Your three brothers and sister were thrusted together under similar circumstances and became a found family because you needed each other to succeed with Brian being the strong, caring hand that guided you all to be better people.

Prentiss didn’t have to do shit and went above and beyond to track your ass down just for a social night with the team. There was nothing in it for her except for your well-being.

You lower your head and stare blankly at your lap because your eyes threatened to tear up with a surge of affection that came over you. “You may find this shocking, but I really suck at being part of a group.”

She leans forward a little to try and catch your gaze, but you wouldn’t look up. “I don’t find that surprising at all.”

Your brow furrows and in one blink, are side eyeing her. “Why?”

Prentiss fans her hands out as she speaks. “Well, you being a not not spy comes with a lot of loneliness and awkwardness. You get wrapped up in everything that you’re supposed to be and forget what it means to be you.”

Oh, if Emily only knew it went far deeper than that, though she wasn’t entirely wrong. She understood the pressure of undercover assignments where you never knew if a subtle fuck up would mean your death. “Not completely untrue, but not the entire picture either.”

“Fill it in for me. What am I missing?” she urges gently.

You blow out a strong breath between your lips while rubbing the palms of your hands along your bare thighs. You are displaying how vulnerable you are, but you blame Brian for putting you in this position. “What did he tell you. Brian.”

“Where you live an-.”

Your only focus is what she said first. “No one is supposed to know where I am. So, why’d he tell you?”

She purses her lips and shrugs. “Because I presented an important case.”

“Which was?” you ask warily.

“That you needed to take better care of yourself.”

Fuck it all, that’s what Brian wants too.

Great.

“Helps that I can flex my section chief credentials to get clearance,” she adds casually which made you blanch.

You look at her in a panic and had to stop from grabbing her shoulders to shake the truth from her. “What does that mean exactly?”

Prentiss straightens her posture and was about to intercept your hands but settles back onto the bed, seeing the unbridled panic in your eyes. “Hey,” she says your name soothingly, “just on the list to know where you live. Nothing more. I wouldn’t go behind your back like that. Neither would Korogoth.”

Your shaky breathing slowly calms, and your hands find a place in your lap and behind where Prentiss was sitting. “Oh, okay. Yeah.”

She looks at you curiously. “Is this about what happened with the AWOL situation?”

You laugh humorlessly. “If only.”

That made her brows raise with some concern. “There’s more?”

You shake your head. “No, nothing like that.” Then wince. “Not exactly. It’s… fuck …” You bring your hands up to rub your face and grumble. “Uhrr!”

“Okay, I get it,” Prentiss backs off knowing that the burgeoning trust that is going on between you was about to snap. “Don’t need to answer, but please let me tell you that Korogoth also confirmed what you told me a few weeks ago.”

You managed to peek through your fingers with one eye.

“He confirmed everything you said without my asking for it. And that your stipend isn’t from the AWOL mess. That you earned it as a long standing, and decorated, agent of the CIA.” she assures. “Since he cleared me enough to get your address, he wanted to make sure I knew how incredible of an agent you are despite the whole ….” She brings her hands up and gestures wildly, “… mystery surrounding you. But to be fair? I’m well aware of it now too.”

You bring your hands down. “He said that, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“And you really think that of me?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Huh. Okay.” You nod, making a decision.

“Okay?” she slowly rests her arms on her legs, waiting for clarification.

“Yeah,” you give her a timid smile. “I’ll go.”

Emily’s grin spreads brightly across her face as she reaches for your arm. “Great. I’ll let the girls know.”

“No, don’t,” you say, stopping her from reaching for her phone. The accidental brush of your fingers sends a rush of heat through you, and you drop your hand.

“I’m confused. Why not?” she asks, curling her hand away hiding the similar effect it had on her.

Chapter 10

You grin. “Let’s surprise them.”

*Criminal Informants

*Lyrics from Training Season, Dua Lipa. The song was not from 2022 but this fits so well. So canon divergent we go!

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