#but i would probably listen to everything without complaining

[starryfox0]

when i say that i listen to every music, then i mean EVERY music

[maskedbyghost]

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

--------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212

[cressidagrey]

The Witnesses

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Felicity and Oscar’s Years at Haileybury School through the eyes of their classmates.   

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

I spent every free minute I had in four days writing this and you are getting it today because I'll be busy tomorrow ❤️

Also warning, about a mention of an eating disorder and a bruised sternum and pneumonia...I think that's everything? Wait, I forgot: Teenagers being horrible.

Samir Malik 

Oscar Piastri didn’t talk much when he first arrived at Haileybury.

Not in the way that most new kids were shy. No, Oscar was… quiet. Composed. Too still for a 14-year-old. He never cried. Never complained.

He was gone half the time for Karting, and the rest of the time he had his uniform perfect, his homework early, and his backpack zipped with the kind of militant precision that made most of them suspicious.

He was brilliant. 

Top marks in math and science by week two. Made the cricket team without breaking a sweat.

But he was always alone.

Some of the boys thought he was a bit of a freak. Too good. Too blank. It wasn’t cruelty at first—just curiosity turned sour when Oscar didn’t play along.

By week two, someone had called him Robot Boy.

By week three, it stuck.

Samir had never said it himself. But he’d laughed the first time someone made the joke in the dorms—when Oscar finished a physics quiz in four minutes flat and just… sat there blinking while everyone else panicked.

“Careful, Robot Boy. You’re gonna fry a circuit.”

Oscar didn’t respond.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

He just looked at them, impassive and too old, and returned to his notebook.

Samir remembered thinking: Jesus. Maybe he really is a robot.

Then came Felicity Leong. She had been there since 7th grade. Singaporean, sharp-eyed and scarily good at Latin. The kind of girl who corrected the teacher when the subjunctive case was wrong and then looked bored five seconds later.

And Robot Boy—Oscar—reacted.

Not big. Not obvious. But Samir noticed it.

Oscar sat next to her in every class. Lingered in hallways. Spoke softly to her in the library like he was afraid too many syllables would scare her off. It was weird. And tender. 

And completely recognisable from the stone-faced boy Oscar was around everybody else. 

Everyone saw it.

Everyone.

Which is probably why Josh Whitmore opened his dumb mouth.

They were fourteen. Sitting in the courtyard. Samir remembered it clearly—crisp day, grey skies, the smell of overcooked chips wafting from the canteen.

Josh was laughing about something, flicking bottle caps at a tree, and then said—loudly, and with the smugness only a 14-year-old bully can muster:

“Bet Robot Boy only likes her ‘cause she’s got no tits and doesn’t talk back.”

There was a pause.

Oscar, who had been two benches over reading some engineering book like a pensioner, stood up.

Walked over.

Didn’t say anything.

Just looked at Josh with this dead-calm expression that made the hairs on Samir’s neck stand up.

And , then—without a single word—Oscar shoved him. Hard.

Josh went stumbling into the grass with a yelp, more stunned than hurt, and Oscar just kept walking forward. Not fast. Not angry.

Controlled.

Like something had clicked inside him.

“Don’t talk about Felicity like that,” he said quietly.

Josh scrambled up. “Mate, it was a joke—”

Oscar’s voice cut through him like a blade. “Say it again.”

And the whole courtyard went silent.

Samir remembered Felicity arriving seconds later—hair pulled back, eyebrows furrowed, voice soft with warning.

“Oscar. Stop. It’s not worth it.”

And the moment she spoke, the tension snapped. Oscar took a step back. His fists unclenched. He looked at her like gravity pulled him in place.

And then he walked away.

Oscar didn’t get detention—Josh didn’t dare to report it.

Samir sat on the edge of the Year 9 dorm windowsill that night, watching the courtyard disappear into dusk, chewing the inside of his cheek and thinking about the look on Piastri’s face.

Not rage.

Not even anger, really.

Just… defense. Like he’d been wired to stay calm until someone touched the single thing he wouldn’t let them ruin.

And then he snapped.

Samir had seen blokes lose their heads before. Shouting, flailing, posturing. That wasn’t what Oscar did.

Oscar had moved like someone protecting something. Like something old and silent and raw had cracked open, and all that ice they joked about—Robot Boy and the Circuit Board Brain—had turned into fire instead.

He didn’t look robotic anymore.

He looked like he cared.

Which, to be honest, made everything a bit awkward now. Because once Samir saw it—really saw it—he couldn’t unsee it.

The way Oscar sat on the floor beside Felicity in study hall, backs to the radiator, knees just brushing. The way he always knew if she was too quiet. The way she’d pass him a protein bar without looking, or rest her head against his shoulder when she was reading.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t a performance.

It was just… them.

And suddenly all the stupid jokes—the beep boop, the Emotion.exe not found memes, the Robot Boy name—felt wrong.

Small.

Because Oscar Piastri wasn’t a robot.

He was just the kind of kid who didn’t trust the world enough to show what he felt.

Not until someone gave him a reason to.

And Samir had a feeling that reason had a Singaporean accent, an encyclopedic knowledge of Classical literature, and a deadpan stare that could kill gods.

Oscar made his point.

Nobody called him Robot Boy again after that.

***

The thing about Oscar — and Samir had said this more than once, usually while watching another one of their classmates fumble the bare minimum — was that he had better emotional range than half their year combined.

Because while the rest of them were fumbling through breakups and making disasters out of almost-relationships, Oscar Piastri had already picked his person. And he didn’t waffle. Didn’t wander. Didn’t flirt for fun.

It was ridiculous, really.

Unfair.

Downright confusing at times.

They were sixteen, surrounded by the usual chaos of boarding school — boys who thought vulnerability was weakness, who treated relationships like status badges or games, who ghosted girls because they didn’t know how to talk about feelings without making it a joke.

And then there was Oscar. Unflappable. Quiet. Surgical with his logic. And somehow the most emotionally well-adjusted, devotion-wrapped-in-a-Haileybury-blazer boyfriend any of them had ever seen.

By the time they were 15, Oscar Piastri and Felicity Leong were a couple. 

And Oscar just… adored Felicity. With the steady, unshakeable devotion of someone who knew.

Most guys in their year didn’t know what to do with girls like Felicity. Too smart, too composed, too quietly self-possessed. The kind of girl who could skin you alive in debate club and do it politely.

Oscar, though?

 He adored her. Out loud. No hesitation.

It wasn’t the loud kind of high school obsession, either. He didn’t brag or trail after her like a puppy. There was no performative PDA or “look at us” hallway snogging. 

Oscar didn’t half like her. He didn’t flirt with other girls. He didn’t act embarrassed or annoyed when she beat him on mock exams.

He just… adored her.

Unapologetically.

Even at fifteen.

Samir remembered watching them once in the library — Felicity curled in a beanbag with a thick textbook in her lap, Oscar sitting next to her with his laptop open and a hand casually resting on her ankle like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like it was just instinct now. Like: here is the person I love, and here is how I stay tethered to her.

And he meant it. That was the weird part.

Oscar showed up to breakfast half-asleep but always saved her a seat.

 He remembered her test dates better than his own.

He didn’t need to say it every five seconds. He didn’t do public declarations or grand gestures. 

What he did do was carry her bag when her shoulder hurt. 

Robot boy, Samir thought again, watching as Felicity leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

It was him pulling her into his side when she was quiet for too long — not asking questions, just making room.

Oscar waited for Felicity after her lectures. Learn how she took her tea and get genuinely annoyed when someone else got it wrong.

Oscar brought her snacks during exam week. Walked her back from the library even when it was out of his way. Remembered her coffee order. Looked up random facts about things she liked just to talk to her about them.

Once, when she missed school for a week with pneumonia, Oscar handwrote her notes for every subject and stapled them with colour-coded tabs.

Samir remembered watching Oscar slip into the common room once, find Felicity asleep with her head on her textbook, and quietly set a blanket over her shoulders before sitting down with his own homework like it was just part of his day.

No show. No gloating. No performance.

Just a sixteen-year-old boy with a heart so obvious it didn’t need to be shouted.

“God, you’re like her golden retriever,” Aarya had joked once.

And Oscar, without missing a beat, had said, “Yeah. And I’d bite anyone who tried to hurt her.”

No hesitation.

Samir had seen a lot of boys fake maturity. Fake romance. Fake effort.

 But Oscar Piastri? He meant every word. Meant it with his hands and his actions. 

Oscar Piastri did things no other teenage boy would ever be willingly admit to doing.

He wasn’t embarrassed to sit in the front row of Felicity’s orchestra concerts, even if she only had a three-minute violin solo buried in the middle of a 42-minute program. 

He brought flowers, every time — not some sad petrol station bouquet, but little ones he clearly chose himself, wrapped in brown paper like a scene from a European indie film.

He knew when her auditions were. When her math competitions were. He even showed up to the Year 10 robotics club showcase — the one nobody went to except for teachers and bewildered parents — just because Felicity had designed the sensor rig for one of the projects.

And when Samir had casually asked why, Oscar blinked at him and said, "Because it matters to her."

It was that simple.

It always was, with Oscar.

It was the small things, mostly. The things most guys their age would've called "whipped" or "soft" or "too much."

Like how Oscar had learned to braid hair.

Not just ponytails or messy plaits — proper French braids. Fishtails. Crown braids. Because Felicity would get headaches during exam weeks and needed help when her hands were sore from writing too much, and Oscar — ever the problem solver — had simply watched a YouTube tutorial and figured it out.

He kept extra hair ties on his wrist for her after that.

Or the time she went through a stress baking phase and made it exactly three cupcakes before remembering she hated measuring.

Oscar took over the mixing bowls.

By the end of the term, he knew her favourite cookie ratios by heart — and the best way to sneak extra chocolate chips into the dough without her noticing.

The worst — or best — part?

Oscar even tried ballet.

Ballet.

Oscar Piastri, who had the natural grace of a brick in sneakers, signed up for a beginner’s movement class because Felicity once offhandedly said it helped her de-stress. Samir only found out because someone caught a glimpse of him in the dance studio trying not to fall over during a plié and asked if he was doing it for PE credit.

“No,” Oscar had said flatly, stretching his arms out in second position. “I’m just trying to understand why she likes it.”

And it wasn’t weird. Somehow it wasn’t weird.

Because Oscar wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t performing. He just… cared.

Cared for the things that Felicity cared about. 

***

It was two weeks before the Winter Formal when Samir walked into the common room and saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks.

Felicity Leong — calm, brilliant, terrifyingly precise Felicity — was in the middle of the room, humming under her breath as she corrected Oscar’s posture with both hands on his shoulders. Oscar, meanwhile, was standing stiffly like he was being prepped for battle, his expression somewhere between concentration and mild existential crisis.

“You’re not holding a steering wheel,” she said, deadpan.

“I feel like I’m about to crash anyway,” Oscar muttered.

Samir blinked. “Is this… dancing?”

Oscar gave him a flat look. “Apparently I have the grace of a traffic cone.”

“He’s not that bad,” Felicity said generously, adjusting his grip. “He just counts every beat like it owes him money.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “You try learning footwork after three hours of calculus.”

Felicity only smiled. “That’s why we’re practicing now.”

They had cleared space near the windows — moved the armchairs back, stacked textbooks on one end table, even pushed the coffee table into the hallway. The overhead lights had been switched off, leaving only the soft glow of lamps and the flicker of fairy lights someone had pinned up for the holidays.

Samir watched as Felicity placed one hand in Oscar’s, the other on his shoulder, and gently nudged him into motion.

“One, two, three,” she counted under her breath. “One, two—Oscar, stop anticipating.”

“I’m trying!”

“You’re panicking.”

“I am not—okay maybe I am.”

They stumbled a little — Oscar’s foot knocking into hers — but Felicity just laughed, soft and patient. She never lost her temper with him. Never seemed bothered that he learned slower than she did, or forgot the names of steps, or treated every turn like a math equation. She just… kept showing up. Kept teaching him.

And Oscar — to his credit — kept trying.

Even when he blushed. Even when he muttered under his breath about how stupid he felt. Even when he absolutely did step on her foot and looked so horrified that she had to reassure him three times that it didn’t hurt.

They danced like that for almost half an hour. Him counting. Her humming. The two of them spinning in slow, careful circles like they existed in their own little orbit.

By the end of it, they were both breathless.

Felicity smoothed her hands down the front of his jumper. “You’re not hopeless.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Oscar muttered.

“You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “It’s just dancing.”

“It’s not just dancing,” he said, meeting her gaze. “It’s you. I don’t want to mess it up.”

She smiled. “Then stop trying to get it perfect. Just hold me and move.”

And when the formal finally came around — when Samir saw them gliding across the dance floor in that same easy rhythm, Oscar whispering something that made Felicity laugh into her hand — he thought back to that night in the common room. To the effort. To the nerves.

To the way love didn’t always look like big declarations.

Sometimes it just looked like a boy learning to waltz because the girl he loved wanted to dance.

And sometimes, that was more than enough.

***

Oscar never bragged.

He never looked around to check if anyone noticed. He just did it — quietly, consistently, like loving Felicity was the most natural thing in the world. Like of course he’d learn basic hairstyling and baroque composer facts and pointe shoe padding techniques. 

Like he got how brilliant she was, and just wanted to make the world a little easier for her to keep being that brilliant.

It was also everything most girls in their year didn’t even dare ask for — consistency, care, quiet protection. Not flashy gestures, but a soft kind of loyalty that said, I choose you. Every time.

Samir once watched Oscar press a cold bottle of water to the back of Felicity’s neck after an exam because she looked faint. No drama. No “look at me.” Just calm, practiced concern. Like he knew her body better than she did.

They called him “Robot Boy,” but Samir was starting to think the rest of them were the malfunctioning ones.

Because Oscar had cracked something early — something the rest of them hadn’t figured out yet. That being soft for someone wasn’t weakness. That loving your person out loud didn’t make you less cool. That being emotionally available wasn’t some humiliating thing you had to disguise with bravado.

Oscar didn’t pretend he wasn’t in love.

He was in love.

He knew it. Felicity knew it. Their entire year group knew it.

And Oscar Piastri didn’t give a shit.

Samir once saw Felicity walk into the dining hall in one of Oscar’s hoodies, three sizes too big and clearly stolen that morning. Oscar just smiled at her like she was the sun.

Fifteen years old and that boy looked at her like he’d already found the rest of his life.

And somehow, Samir thought, he probably had.

And when someone once dared to suggest that he was “whipped,” Oscar had looked up from his physics homework and said, without a trace of embarrassment:

“I’m in love. That’s not weakness.”

And Samir, for the first time, hadn’t had a comeback.

Because somehow, the most emotionally competent teenage boy in their entire school… was the one they all thought had no feelings to begin with.

Robot boy, his ass.

Oscar Piastri was the gold standard of emotionally intelligent teenage boys since 2016.

***

Aarya Patel 

Aarya had come to Haileybury on a scholarship.

The full-ride kind. Interviews, essays, and recommendation letters from teachers who had to dig their nicest shirts out of the back of their closets just to help her prepare. 

Aarya knew the weight of price tags, the stress of term fees, the exact moment each of her shoes started to fray. She knew how to patch the inside hem of a school blazer so no one noticed. Knew how to say no when her friends wanted to go into town for sushi.

So she noticed things. She had to.

She noticed when girls wore real gold instead of plated. When someone's watch wasn’t for fashion, it was family inheritance. When a hair tie cost more than her whole pencil case.

Which was why Felicity Leong had confused the hell out of her.

Because Felicity was rich.

Not new money, not dad’s-got-a-tech-startup rich. ​​ Not the noisy kind. Not the constantly-proving-it kind.

She was old money. Singaporean old money. The kind that whispered.

That quietly owned real estate portfolios on three continents. 

The kind that came with family foundations. 

The kind that embroidered initials into silk pillowcases.

The kind that never checked price tags and had luggage that matched — properly matched. 

Aarya had heard the whispers early on. 

Leong family. Raffles Girls. Mandarin spoken like silk. Designer uniforms tailored to fit better than any off-the-rack brand. Someone had once said her mother wore Van Cleef like it was costume jewelry. Another claimed Felicity had pearls for every mood.

Felicity’s family didn’t have money. 

Felicity had capital-W Wealth.

It was the kind of old, Singaporean, intergenerational wealth that didn’t need to prove itself. The kind that came with century old family trees, and museum-grade jade quietly worn under school jumpers.

Felicity Leong had the kind of posture that came from years of ballet and finishing school, the kind of enunciation that sounded like every word had passed inspection before being spoken. 

Her family, Aarya overheard once, lived in an estate in Bukit Timah. Had staff. Flew private when they visited Europe. Somebody once said they had an art collection they anonymously lend to museums. 

And Felicity had things.

Tiny pearl studs that had to be real — the soft lustre gave them away.

Blouses that always sat just so at the collarbone. 

A cashmere jumper in Year 11 that no one ever commented on, but Aarya had once googled out of spite. It had cost more than Aarya’s family paid for rent in three months. 

Felicity had real diamond studs tucked in velvet-lined boxes, pristine skirts that probably cost more than Aarya’s entire wardrobe, and a collection of tailored trousers that could’ve walked straight out of a Vogue editorial.

Silk hair ribbons. A monogrammed Smythson planner. A designer school bag Aarya had only ever seen in glossy fashion magazines.  Her shoes were always leather. Her pens were engraved. Engraved. 

Felicity had matching pyjama sets. She had a vintage Cartier tank watch she never even bragged about. She had cashmere socks for winter term. She packed her designer shoes in individual dust bags when they went home for the holidays. Her luggage had wheels that actually worked. 

Felicity probably didn’t even know how much her shampoo cost.

And she didn’t show off any of it. That was the worst part.

She didn’t flaunt it.

Felicity walked around like all of this was normal — not curated, not performative, just part of the atmospheric pressure of her life.

And at first?

Aarya hated her for it.

She hated Felicity for how effortless it looked.

 For how quietly beautiful Felicity was, in a way that didn’t try.

For how softly she spoke. 

For how her handwriting looked like it had been lifted out of a calligraphy book. For how teachers always nodded when she raised her hand — not indulgently, but with interest.

For how Felicity could be so nice and still walk around in tailored coats and diamonds.

Aarya couldn’t even afford a coffee from the library vending machine. Felicity carried tea sachets in a silver tin and never even mentioned it.

It burned.

It seethed.

Because if you’re going to be that rich, Aarya thought bitterly, at least have the decency to be horrible.

But Felicity wasn’t horrible.

She was polite. Warm, in a quiet, shy way. She said thank you to staff.

She offered her umbrella to someone once during a sudden downpour — someone she didn’t even know. 

She tutored a Year 9 boy in maths after he cried in front of the headmistress. She knew the names of the cleaners and left sticky notes for the librarian when she borrowed extra books.

And the worst part?

Felicity never talked about the money. Never even alluded to it.

Aarya had been waiting — waiting — for the moment the mask would slip. When Felicity would say something out of touch or condescending or make a comment about “the lower sets” or sniff at a secondhand jumper.

But it never came.

Aarya hated that more.

Because if Felicity had been awful, mean, or arrogant, it would’ve been easier. She could have ranted about privilege, weaponised her bitterness into snarky commentary.

But Felicity just... was.

She tucked herself into study carrels like she was trying not to take up space. She said thank you to the dining hall staff. She read novels between classes and didn’t raise her hand in lectures unless she was sure she wouldn’t dominate the conversation.

She turned up to group projects with colour-coded folders.

And when they got partnered in chemistry for three weeks, Felicity had quietly brought extra gloves because Aarya’s had a hole.

She didn’t say anything. Just passed them over with that quiet kind of grace that made Aarya want to scream.

It wasn’t just that Felicity had wealth.

It was that she had elegance. Ease. A kind of unbothered generosity that made Aarya feel every frayed seam and secondhand paperback like a flashing neon sign.

And the worst part?

Felicity didn’t even seem to notice.

She wasn’t trying to make anyone feel lesser. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. She had just... grown up differently.

With rooms named after ancestors and furniture older than some countries. 

With a family who collected art, not Air Miles. With a mother who’d taught her how to arrange flowers and match emeralds to skin tone.

And despite all of it — all of it — Felicity still sat beside Aarya in physics and offered Aarya her muffin from lunch without blinking.

Felicity still invited her to study sessions. Felicity still lent her a scarf when it got too cold in the dorms.

Felicity didn’t try to be likable.

She just was.

And that, eventually, was what made Aarya stop hating her.

And the resentment, eventually, turned into a grudging admiration.

Then into friendship.

Then into the kind of quiet, no-bullshit loyalty that only happened when two girls survived adolescence together — one of them with patched seams, the other with pearls and perfect grades, both of them brilliant in entirely different ways.

Even if Aarya still thought the pens were a bit much.

***

It started with a hoodie. 

A battered blue thing with a cracked HP TUNERS on the front. It looked like it belonged to a mechanic. It even had frayed cuffs. 

Felicity had the sleeves pulled over her hands like she didn’t even realise she was doing it, the drawstring half chewed from stress. It didn’t match anything else she wore — not the fine-strapped watch, not the clean ballet flats, not the pearl earrings tucked discreetly into her lobes. 

Felicity was, by all accounts, elegant. She wore her school uniform like it was custom-tailored. Her hair was always neatly pinned or knotted or braided, and her posture could make a royal court jealous.

And that hoodie also was…huge. Like, swamp-her-entire-body huge.

Aarya squinted.

And then Oscar Piastri walked into the study room, said, “Hey, you found it,” and tugged at the hoodie’s shoulder playfully.

Aarya blinked.

 Oh.

Felicity didn’t blush. She didn’t really do that kind of fluster.

 She just shrugged and muttered something about “cold lecture halls” and kept reading.

But after that, it became a pattern.

Every couple of days: a hoodie that was too long in the sleeves. Sometimes even one of Oscar’s t-shirts in the common room in the evening…or while working out — old and soft and worn thin from washing. 

And always, always, Felicity wore them like they were hers. Like she forgot they weren’t.

Felicity could’ve worn Chanel to breakfast if she wanted. Could’ve wrapped herself in silk and cashmere and hand-stitched blouses from Orchard Road boutiques. 

She had worn a Hermes scarf last year, that had made a couple of girls nearly choke with jealousy. 

But somehow Felicity Leong always ended up in something that belonged to Oscar—like she’d rather have cotton that smelled like karting fuel and shampoo than diamonds on her collarbone.

Felicity’s favourite thing in the world seemed to be Oscar Piastri’s hoodies.

She wore them like a clockwork.

Like a habit.

Like comfort.

Aarya remembered watching her slip into one after cross-country practice—hair damp, trainers muddy, too tired to talk. The hoodie was washed soft, practically shapeless, sleeves pulled over her knuckles like armor.

Felicity had a Burberry coat in her wardrobe. A cashmere trench. A silk blazer with the tags still on. But she reached for Oscar’s hoodie instead.

Always his.

It unsettled Aarya. 

 Because she didn’t get it.

 Didn’t understand how someone who had grown up in private jets and penthouses would choose something so ordinary. So threadbare. So unpolished.

So… him.

And Aarya couldn’t help thinking about that. 

***

It was a rare quiet Saturday.

Most of the boarding house had scattered…library, practice fields, town runs. Aarya had stayed behind to finish a chemistry write-up, tucked into the corner of the common room with Felicity, who was curled up in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, reading something with six bookmarks and a page full of margin notes.

She was wearing one of Oscar’s hoodies again.

Navy blue. Faded print on the front. Sleeves too long, cuffs tucked between her fingers.

And below it—her skirt and dainty chanel flats.

The contrast struck Aarya like it always did.

“You know,” Aarya said, “I’ve always wondered something.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Is it the secret to cold fusion? Because if it is, you’ll have to wait until I finish this chapter.”

Aarya huffed a laugh. “No. Just—” She gestured vaguely toward the hoodie. “You always wear his stuff. But everything else you own is, like, designer. Hermes. Dior. Chanel. Your school coat’s got pearls on the buttons.”

Felicity slowly lowered the book and met her gaze with a raised brow. “And?”

Aarya shrugged. “Just wondering why. You don’t have to wear secondhand hoodies. And you obviously don’t care what anyone thinks, so… why do you?”

Felicity was quiet for a long moment. Not in a dismissive way. Just… careful.

Then she said, very simply, “Because I picked the hoodies.”

Aarya blinked.

Felicity looked back at her book, fingers absently smoothing the creased corner. “The rest of it? The labels, the cuts, the colours? My mother picks all of that. I’ve been wearing what she tells me to wear since I was born.”

Her tone wasn’t bitter. Wasn’t even resigned. It was like Felicity was describing the weather.

“She says it’s about presentation. About honouring the family, and making the right impression. I don’t get a say.”

Felicity paused. “But Oscar’s hoodies? Those are mine. I choose them. They don’t fit right and they don’t match and she’d probably faint if she saw me in them—but I chose them. No one else.”

Aarya sat back, something slow and sharp settling in her chest.

“And he never asks for them back,” Felicity added, softer this time. “Not once.”

She didn’t say what that meant.

She didn’t need to.

Aarya got it.

The hoodie wasn’t just fabric. It was freedom. A small rebellion. A claim staked quietly in a world that tried to dress her up and keep her still.

And Oscar—quiet, loyal Oscar—had just let her take it. Again and again. Without question.

Aarya didn’t ask any more questions that day.

But she never looked at those hoodies the same way again.

Because Felicity Leong had everything money could buy.

 And she chose something that couldn’t be bought.

 She chose a boy from Melbourne with karting calluses on his hands and softness in his eyes.

 She chose his hoodie.

Over pearls. Over diamonds. Over all of it.

***

Lara Pearson 

Felicity was that girl.

Not in the mean, perfect-blonde-hair, head-girl-with-a-clipboard way. No. She was terrifyingly quiet, borderline surgical with her pens, and once corrected a Year Nine on their French conjugation without looking up from her sudoku.

Here’s the thing about Felicity Leong:

She wasn’t just smart.

She was unreal.

Lara had known it since Year Seven—since the first science lab, actually, when everyone else was still figuring out how to hold a test tube without shattering it, and Felicity was calmly correcting the teacher on which dilution would give the most accurate result.

At eleven.

With pigtails.

And a voice like honeyed ice.

Lara remembered turning to Samir afterward and whispering, “Did she just—”

And Samir, wide-eyed, had nodded. “Yeah. She did.”

By Year Nine, Felicity had memorized three Shakespeare plays for fun and was tutoring older students in calculus.

By Year Ten, she’d won the national science fair, debated a university professor on climate policy (and won), and casually designed an app to help Aarya’s dyslexic younger brother learn phonics.

And by Year Eleven?

Well.

By Year Eleven, Felicity could walk into a room and silence it with nothing more than a glance and a perfectly worded dismantling of someone’s half-baked argument about capitalism.

But it wasn’t just her academics.

It was everything.

The way she saw the world—like it was a system of interlocking parts, and if she looked long enough, she’d figure out the code. Like she could disassemble reality and rebuild it better if she only had the time.

Felicity Leong was terrifying in that quiet, precise way genius often is.

People underestimated her sometimes—mistook her silence for shyness, her neat clothes and high-achieving record as nothing more than that. But Lara had seen behind the curtain.

She’d been there when Felicity, at thirteen, explained quantum entanglement using toast and jam. She’d watched her annotate the entire syllabus of a new elective subject over one day, then act like it wasn’t a big deal.

She once caught Felicity solving a university-level maths problem on the back of a napkin at lunch. Just because she was bored.

Lara had always done well in school. Top sets. Good grades. Solid work ethic.

But Felicity?

Felicity operated on a different plane entirely.

It wasn’t just brainpower—it was how her mind moved. Fast and sharp and endless. Like she could zoom out to the big picture and zoom in to the minutiae at the same time. Like nothing ever truly surprised her because she’d already run every possible version of the conversation in her head.

***

But Felicity’s intelligence was why Lara didn’t get it.

She really didn’t.

It wasn’t that she disliked Oscar Piastri — he was fine, in that blank-expression, too-polite, probably-a-robot way. 

But if you’d asked her in Year 8 whether the smartest girl in school would end up with the guy who spent weekends elbow-deep in axle grease and came back smelling like burnt rubber, she would’ve laughed in your face.

Felicity Leong was dazzling. Quiet, yes — but only in the way old libraries were quiet: full of brilliance and backbone. 

Felicity Leong was elegance and sharp wit and competence in every form. Her handwriting looked like it belonged in a museum. She’d fixed Lara’s broken laptop charger with a paperclip once and had taught herself enough German to read Goethe in the original by the time she was fifteen.

Oscar Piastri, by comparison, was… a boy. A nice boy, sure. A talented one, okay. But still just a boy.

What Lara didn’t understand was why Felicity — of all people — had chosen to orbit him.

It wasn’t that Oscar was awful. He wasn’t. He was fine. He was kind, soft-spoken, occasionally funny when he forgot to overthink it. And it was clear he’d rather set himself on fire than say anything cruel. But he was also… well, kind of boring.

A “karting wonderboy,” sure. But what did that even mean? Half the school didn’t know what F4 was, and the other half thought racing was just glorified Mario Kart.

Meanwhile, Felicity was Felicity. Lara had watched Felicity take down Year 11 boys in ethics class and build model bridges like she was auditioning for a structural engineering firm.

And now Lara was watching Felicity:

Felicity reminded Oscar of deadlines. 

Edited his physics papers. 

Built him an study schedule complete with snack reminders. 

Used highlighters to colour-code his flashcards.

Taught him how to waltz before the formal. 

She once hand-sewed a new velcro patch on his racing gloves because he didn’t want to replace them before the season was over.

Once, Lara had caught her baking cookies. When she asked why, Felicity had said, “Oscar hasn’t been eating properly again. He’s stressed about qualifying.”

Qualifying. Like this was Formula One. Like the boy with the still-cracked phone screen and perma-oil-stained hoodie was actually Lewis Bloody Hamilton.

Felicty bought extra headphones because Oscar kept losing his.

Wrote out study notes for both of them in neat, annotated colors. 

And the worst part was, Felicity didn’t even seem to notice she was doing it.

“She could be doing anything,” Lara muttered to Aarya once. “She could build rockets. Or code AI. Or date someone who doesn’t smell like petrol.”

Aarya just shrugged. “She wants Oscar.”

“But why?”

Lara didn’t get it. Couldn’t get it. 

Not when she watched Felicity spend hours printing laminated flashcards for Oscar’s media training, or reorganizing their entire joint Google Drive so he wouldn’t have to fumble around for assignments while competing. Not when she skipped out on a party because he had food poisoning in a hotel halfway across the world and she wanted to FaceTime him through it.

Lara noticed all of it. The little ways Felicity folded herself around Oscar’s life — like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And it drove her mad.

Not because she didn’t like Oscar. But because she couldn’t see it. Couldn’t understand why Felicity wasn’t bored out of her mind dating some karting wannabe who barely looked up from his data logs.

“Why him?” she asked once, in a rare late-night moment when it was just the two of them brushing their teeth in the bathroom.

Felicity paused. “What do you mean?”

“You could have anyone. Like, literally anyone. You’re… you. Why Oscar?”

Felicity blinked, then smiled a little — that soft, steady smile that meant she’d already thought about this a hundred times.

“Oscar listens,” she said simply. “He makes space for me.. He’s kind. I don’t need to be brilliant for him.”

Lara frowned. “That’s it?”

Felicity laughed. “That’s everything.”

Lara didn’t get it then. Not really.

***

Lara had always assumed that Felicity’s thing with Oscar was a phase.

A soft rebellion. A teenage distraction. Something tender and temporary — the kind of first love you always remember but eventually outgrow.

Because surely Felicity Leong — with her perfect grades and National Science Fair medals — wouldn’t tether herself to a life that revolved around… motorsports.

But the thing was, Felicity didn’t tether herself to Oscar’s world. She learned it. She mastered it. She made it her own.

At first, Lara thought it was just a phase as well.

Felicity started watching every single race Oscar was in — even the low-res, buffering-on-a-good-day livestreams from some freezing karting track in Belgium. She could quote qualifying lap deltas off the top of her head. 

Lara thought Felicity would get over that as well. That she'd stop rearranging their study sessions around free practice and qualifying streams. That she'd eventually tire of kart gear ratios and F2 team hierarchies and why certain drivers struggled in wet conditions. 

But she didn’t.

If anything, it got worse.

By the time they were sixteen, Felicity could name every FIA junior formula, describe the mechanics of a front wing configuration, and explain the difference between a wet setup and a quali setup like she’d invented them herself. She talked about tire degradation the way most people talked about poetry.

Felicity watched every livestream — even the terrible, stuttering ones from F4 UAE, or the Renault Eurocup feeds that froze any time there was contact. She knew the race engineers by name, the team principals by accent, and she corrected Oscar’s telemetry notes when he was too tired to spot his own oversteer correction patterns.

“I didn’t even know she liked motorsport,” Lara said once, baffled.

Aarya had just raised an eyebrow. “She doesn’t.”

“Then why—?”

“Because he does.”

That was when it hit Lara — the sheer scale of it. Because Felicity Leong never did things halfway. Not for school, not for people, not for love. Especially not for Oscar.

Felicity never said it aloud. Not in a performative way. There was no “supportive girlfriend” act. No posts, no attention-seeking, no fake fandom.

She just... learned. Every single detail. Every rule and reg. Every pit strategy and suspension tweak. Quietly, methodically, fiercely.

By 17, she was the only girl in their year with a solid working knowledge of torque curves and Marxist literary theory. 

***

It happened on a Thursday.

Lara would remember that forever, because Thursday was chicken katsu day in the dining hall, and she had just sat down with a plate she was emotionally invested in when Thea dropped the bombshell:

“Felicity and Oscar are graduating next year.”

Lara blinked. “What?”

“They’re doing all their A Levels in one go. Like—next year. And then they’re out. Bye-bye, Haileybury.”

Lara looked down at her tray, then back at Thea. “That’s not a thing people do. That’s not legal.”

Thea shrugged. “It is if you’re both freakishly smart and barely sleep.”

“That’s—what? No. No. They’re in Lower Sixth. We’re in Lower Sixth.”

Thea gave her a look. “Felicity has been in Upper Sixth since she was twelve, spiritually. You know that.”

Lara stood up, plate forgotten. “No, I’m sorry, what do you mean they’re graduating?”

“Ask them.”

So Lara did.

She found Oscar and Felicity exactly where she expected to: curled up together in the corner of the Sixth Form study lounge, surrounded by papers and highlighters and a bottle of cold jasmine tea. Felicity had one leg slung over Oscar’s and was annotating a textbook with deadly precision. Oscar was typing something on his laptop while absentmindedly twisting a strand of her hair around his finger.

“Is it true?” Lara demanded.

Oscar looked up. “Is what true?”

“You’re graduating this year. Both of you.”

Felicity didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“HOW?”

Oscar yawned. “She made a study plan.”

“She made a—”

“Calm down,” Felicity said mildly. “I just doubled up our course loads. With enough independent research modules, the board approved it.”

Lara stared at her. “The exam board approved it.”

“Of course they did. I wrote a proposal.”

Oscar added, “And she’s been ghostwriting half my essays, so I’m fine.”

“You WHAT—”

“Not ghostwriting,” Felicity corrected. “I just build the argument outlines and annotate the sources. He still writes them.”

“She gave me a quote bank last week that was 36 pages long,” Oscar added proudly.

Lara made a noise that was not human.

Felicity finally looked up. “You know this place isn’t built for students like us, right?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve had to correct the teachers twice this term already. And I edited the chemistry revision guides because they had typos. And Oscar needs more time for racing and less writing brain numbing essays for computer sciences.”

Lara sat down slowly, like gravity had finally caught up with her.

“You two are insane.”

Felicity offered her a chocolate from the stash hidden in Oscar’s pencil case. “Thank you.”

Oscar smiled around the bite of his protein bar. “Hey, on the bright side—you get to keep the top spot in the year. We’re gone in May.”

Lara took the chocolate like a woman defeated.

“Do your parents know?” she muttered.

Oscar just shrugged. “Mum said it sounded like something we’d do.”

Lara looked at them—two overachieving academic weapons, casually breaking the rules of reality with matching stationery—and groaned.

“I swear to God,” she said. “If you both end up solving world hunger and winning a Nobel Prize by twenty-five, I’m going to riot.”

Felicity smiled faintly. “I don’t want a Nobel.”

Oscar raised a brow. “What do you want instead?”

“I want a family. And a kitchen that’s mine.”

Oscar leaned over and kissed her cheek.

Lara watched, sighed, and leaned back in her chair.

“Fine,” she said. “But if you graduate early and still come first in everything, I’m slashing your tires.”

“Fair,” Felicity said, already back to highlighting.

***

The thing about Felicity Leong was that she didn’t do things halfway.

That applied to everything — coursework, violin practice, her color-coded study calendars, the banana bread she baked to perfect moisture ratio — but especially, especially, to Oscar.

It was easy to assume Felicity had fallen into Oscar’s world — that she was the brilliant girlfriend dragged into a boy’s motorsport pipe dream. Lara had assumed that, once.

But she’d been wrong.

Because Felicity didn’t fall into things.

She researched them. She learned them.

And when it came to Oscar, she practically earned a damn degree in motorsport before she ever turned 18.

She didn’t just support Oscar’s career. She understood it. She translated it.

And somewhere between late nights watching practice footage on a shared laptop and Oscar ferrying between boarding school weekends and regional races, Felicity changed her future for him.

Not theoretical physics. Not aerospace. Not architecture, even though she had a mind for structural form that made half the teachers beg her to apply to Cambridge.

Mechanical engineering.

Because, as she later explained in the most matter-of-fact voice imaginable: “If he’s going to race cars, someone has to make sure the people designing them aren’t idiots.”

Lara had wanted to laugh. To shake her and say you don’t have to build your life around some boy in a helmet. But she didn’t.

Because Felicity wasn’t building around him.

She was building with him. Every skill she added, every race she studied, every piece of obscure motorsport knowledge she collected — it wasn’t submission. It was strategy. Partnership.

That was the thing about Felicity Leong.

Felicity never asked for recognition. Never asked for thanks. She just poured everything she had into a boy she’d picked at fourteen years old — all the brilliance, all the discipline, all the love she didn’t know how else to express.

And that boy?

He kept every handwritten note. 

Every flashcard. 

Every time she’d saved his arse with last-minute essay corrections. 

He memorized the way she liked her tea, the sound she made when she was tired but trying to hide it, the exact point of her back that hurt after a full day in the ballet studio.

He knew.

He always knew.

And Lara, watching them from the outside, had to admit — even if she never quite understood it, even if it had seemed ridiculous once — that it wasn’t about karting. Or racing. Or obsession.

It was about building a world around each other.

And somehow, Felicity and Oscar had managed to do exactly that.

***

Theodora “Thea” Wheeler: 

Thea didn’t really notice it at first.

Not in the way that mattered.

Because Felicity Leong was the kind of girl who did everything right. Always neat. Always on time. Always top marks and clean shoes and perfect plaits in her hair. She didn’t miss things, and nothing about her looked broken.

But then there was the pancake.

It was a Saturday morning at school, and brunch had been served in the big hall with the sunny windows. Everyone had queued up in pyjamas and slipper socks, because it was the weekend and the rules were a little looser, and someone had convinced the kitchen staff to make pancakes with chocolate chips.

Thea remembered being excited.

She remembered how good it had smelled. How the syrup had pooled just right on her plate. How loud the hall had been—laughter, clatter, sugar-fuelled chaos.

She also remembered looking over and seeing Felicity with a plate in front of her.

Empty, except for one plain pancake.

No syrup. No toppings. Just sitting there, going cold.

Felicity didn’t touch it.

She was talking to someone—Samir, maybe—and smiling politely, like everything was normal. Like she wasn’t hungry. Like she wasn’t supposed to be hungry. Her fork didn’t even move. Her hands were folded in her lap like she was trying not to be seen.

Thea frowned. “You’re not eating?”

Felicity looked over. Blinked once. “I’m not really hungry.”

Which… okay. Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she’d had toast earlier. Or maybe she didn’t like pancakes. But it happened again.

And again.

Over and over, Thea would see her at meals with only a few bites of food on her plate. Or skipping dessert. Or picking at soup with a spoon like it was some kind of science experiment.

She started making excuses.

I had a big breakfast. My stomach hurts. I’m fine.

Always with that same quiet voice. That same polite smile.

Thea tried not to stare. Tried not to wonder, too hard, why Felicity would leave halfway through lunch and come back ten minutes later with red-rimmed eyes. 

Or why Oscar—new, quiet Oscar—had started appearing next to her at meals, always coaxing, always gentle, always watchful.

By the time they were 14, Thea had stopped offering her sweets. Felicity never said no outright. She’d just look at them, like they were something too loud, too bright, too much.

Oscar Piastri arrived in Year 10 — quiet, weirdly calm for a 14-year-old, brilliant in the kind of way that made the top sets nervous. 

He didn’t talk much. Not at first. But he sat next to Felicity one afternoon in Maths, and by the end of the week, it was like they were always together.

Always.

At meals. In the library. Walking between classes. Doing study in the common room, two heads bent over one laptop with her notes and his logic and some weird telepathy that meant they barely even had to speak out loud anymore.

And then there was the toast.

It was a rainy Tuesday morning when Thea walked into the common room and saw Felicity curled up in her usual corner of the sofa, Oscar beside her with a plate balanced on one knee.

He handed her a slice.

She took it.

Ate it.

Just like that.

Thea tried not to stare.

And over the months that followed, it kept happening. Toast at breakfast. A tangerine at break. Half a sandwich at lunch. Then a whole one. Then soup and salad and seconds. Slowly. Carefully. Like she was relearning hunger and safety in the same breath.

It wasn’t perfect. Some days, Felicity still picked at her food. Some days she was quieter than others, her hands shaking just slightly as she tore a muffin into a hundred pieces and only ate two.

But Oscar always noticed.

Always passed her water. Or offered a bite of whatever was on his plate. Or distracted her with quiet jokes or flashcards or that look—the one that said, I see you, and I’m not going anywhere.

And slowly, Felicity changed.

Her face rounded out. Her jeans fit better. She started wearing Oscar’s oversized hoodies more often—not to hide, Thea thought, but because she liked them. Because they smelled like comfort and safety and someone who never made her earn softness.

It hadn’t been school that helped. Or housemistresses. Or whispered conversations between girls who didn’t know how to help.

It was Oscar.

Oscar, who never pushed but always stayed. Who never made her a project, just held space. Who gave her quiet things: time, food, choice.

It was slow, the way she changed.

But steady. Stronger, somehow.

Like someone finally gave her permission to be a person again. Not a perfect doll. Not a flawless student. Just… Felicity.

And Thea?

Thea didn’t say anything. Not then.

But she smiled more when she looked at them. And saved them seats in the dining hall.

Because not everyone gets someone who sees the storm and still stays.

But Felicity did.

And thank God for that.

***

Jian Chen: 

Here’s the thing about Oscar Piastri:

He wasn’t loud.

He didn’t announce his feelings, didn’t broadcast his loyalties, didn’t write grand gestures for the world to see. He mostly kept his head down, did his work, and blended quietly into the fabric of Haileybury life, except for weekends when he’d disappear for races and come back holding another trophy.

But when it came to Felicity Leong?

Oscar was something else entirely.

Jian first noticed it one grey, rainy afternoon in the common room. It was supposed to be revision time—half the year group crammed onto sofas and beanbags, surrounded by textbooks and lukewarm cups of tea—but nobody was really paying attention.

Felicity had claimed one end of the sofa, curled up small and quiet, eyes closed, a pale crease between her brows like something hurt.

Jian had seen that look before—his sister had cramps like that sometimes, the kind that made her shrink into herself and hiss out quiet breaths, counting down seconds until they passed.

But Felicity didn’t say anything. Didn’t complain. Didn’t ask for sympathy.

She just sat there, curled around her discomfort, trying to make herself invisible.

And Oscar?

He didn’t even ask. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t wait for her to explain.

He just walked in, glanced at her, and without a word, fetched a hot water bottle from his own room. He placed it gently into her hands, as if he’d done it a hundred times before. And then he sat beside her—not too close, not crowding her—but quietly there. A solid, steady presence.

Jian watched him reach into his bag and pull out a little packet of painkillers, nudging it towards her with his knuckles. Felicity murmured something too quiet for Jian to hear, but Oscar nodded anyway, looking at her like she’d made perfect sense.

Felicity settled the hot water bottle against her stomach and finally let her head rest on Oscar’s shoulder, eyes shut tightly, breathing carefully.

Oscar didn’t move.

Not when Samir shouted something about the rugby game. Not when someone accidentally dropped a textbook and everyone laughed. Oscar just stayed there, shoulder steady beneath her cheek, his own textbook forgotten, his posture relaxed but watchful.

And Jian realised something important then:

Oscar wasn’t just taking care of Felicity.

He was guarding her quiet, letting her rest, silently building a wall around her so the world couldn’t touch her until she felt better again.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t obvious. It was just Oscar—steady, calm, gentle Oscar—doing exactly what Felicity needed without being asked.

Jian never said anything about it.

He just knew, quietly, in that moment, that Felicity Leong had someone who cared about her in a way most people never experienced at sixteen.

***

It had looked bad on the livestream.

Jian hadn’t been watching the race — not live, anyway — but by Monday morning, the clip had already made it to their year’s group chat. A hard hit to the barrier, fast and sharp. Everyone winced when they saw the replay.

“He’s definitely hurt,” someone had said.

“Maybe just winded?”

Jian hadn’t been sure.

But when Oscar walked — no, shuffled — back onto campus with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a tight grip on his ribs, it was obvious.

He was doing that thing where boys tried not to look in pain. Jaw clenched, back straight, breathing shallow. Stubborn. Stupid. Trying to out-think biology.

Jian was coming back from the vending machine when he saw them: Oscar moving stiffly toward the dorms and Felicity, already heading toward him from across the quad like she’d been waiting all morning. Not hurrying. Not running. Just moving with this terrifying sense of purpose.

She didn’t say anything when she reached him.

She just looked him over, eyes scanning his posture, his expression, the way he held his bag. Then she reached up, gently tugged the strap from his shoulder, and took it for him.

Oscar let her.

That was the first sign something was properly wrong — not the bruising, not the wince, but the fact that Oscar Piastri let someone carry his karting bag.

“Chest?” she asked softly.

“Sternum,” he admitted.

“Show me.”

“Fliss—”

She was already guiding him off the path, out of sight. Not dramatic. Not performative. Just decisive. And he followed her.

Jian didn’t mean to watch. But he did. From behind the hedge, from just the right angle, he could see Oscar unzip his hoodie, slowly and carefully, and pull it open just enough to show the purple-green bloom of bruising across the center of his chest.

Felicity inhaled sharply. Not loud — not even really angry. Just that soft, immediate breath that said: that’s worse than I thought.

She didn’t scold him.

She just pulled a small, square cold pack from her coat pocket — who just had those on them?? — cracked it to activate the chill, and handed it to him.

“Ten minutes,” she murmured. “Then I’m getting you a wrap.”

Oscar nodded like she was the team physio. Like she was the only one allowed to call the shots.

Jian watched her wrap a hoodie around his shoulders, help him sit carefully on the edge of the planter, and sit beside him without saying a word. Her hand hovered near his elbow — not touching unless he needed it.

And later that night, when Jian passed the study lounge, he saw them again.

Oscar was half-reclined on the couch with a pillow behind his back, wrapped snug in a hoodie and blanket. Felicity had brought him tea. Actual tea. Like from a ceramic mug, with honey.

She was retyping his notes for him — because writing hurt — and every few minutes, she’d reach over and tap his side, reminding him to breathe properly.

He didn’t even flinch anymore.

They talked softly. Shared a few bites of biscuit. Argued gently over whether or not Oscar needed to skip gym the next day.

And it wasn’t romantic in the hearts-and-roses kind of way.

It was just serious.

Two teenagers acting like they’d already figured out what commitment looked like.

***

Jian remembered the first time Felicity didn’t show up to class.

It was Year 11, early winter. Frost bit at the windows and the whole school smelled faintly of overboiled radiators and wet wool. Normally, Felicity was the one person you could count on being there — with her pens neatly aligned, hair pinned back, eyes alert like she’d memorised the textbook the night before.

But that Tuesday, her desk was empty.

Oscar showed up late. Which was already weird. He looked like hell — hoodie zipped all the way up, jaw set, hair damp from rushing across campus.

He didn’t say anything when he dropped into his seat. Just opened Felicity’s notebook alongside his and took notes for both of them.

By Wednesday, people were whispering.

“She has a cold,” someone muttered. “Nothing serious.”

“She’s just resting.”

But Oscar looked worried. Not anxious. Worried. That quiet kind of dread that sat behind the eyes and didn’t leave room for anything else. He stopped responding in group chats. Barely ate at breakfast.

Jian finally caught him in the library, elbows deep in a pile of flashcards that clearly weren’t his.

“She’s not just sick, is she?”

Oscar didn’t look up. “She can’t breathe right.”

Jian froze. “What?”

“She’s got this rattling sound in her chest. Can’t sleep. Keeps saying she’s fine, but she passed out in the bathroom yesterday.”

“What the hell—did she go to the nurse?”

Oscar’s jaw clenched. “The nurse said it’s a bad cold. Told her to hydrate and rest.”

“But it’s worse?”

“She couldn’t stand up long enough to brush her teeth this morning.”

Jian swallowed. “Shit.”

Oscar finally looked at him, eyes bloodshot and furious. “Her family thinks she’s being dramatic. Her mum called and told her to stop being soft.”

That made something cold crawl down Jian’s spine.

“She’s got pneumonia,” Oscar added quietly, voice like steel.

Jian blinked. “How do you know?”

“I looked up the symptoms. She should be in a hospital. She needs antibiotics and oxygen.”

“Did you tell the school?”

Oscar gave him a look. “Do you think they’ll listen to me? Or to her surname?”

It was the first time Jian truly understood that something wasn’t right in the Leong family.

Two days later, the air outside was the kind that turned your fingertips numb within five minutes. Jian was walking back from the dining hall when he saw someone pull up to the front gate in a sleek black car — too expensive, too polished, definitely not a school-run vehicle.

Out stepped a man in a sharply cut coat. Mid twenties, maybe. Cold expression. Perfectly gelled hair.

Henry Leong.

Jian had heard of him. Older brother. Oxford grad. Worked in finance. Apparently one of Singapore’s “most eligible bachelors” if the gossip was to be believed.

Henry Leong walked into the reception office like he owned it.

Jian didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But the walls were thin, and Henry wasn’t exactly quiet.

“My sister is exaggerating,” he said crisply. “She does this. I’m just here because Mother insisted someone check. Is she actually ill, or just emotionally delicate again?”

Jian felt something clench in his gut.

He slipped around the side entrance. Oscar was with Felicity in the common room, holding a bowl of lukewarm soup with one hand and adjusting her blankets with the other. She looked pale — really pale — her lips tinged slightly blue. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were glassy.

She still said, “I’m sorry I didn’t clean up,” when she saw Henry in the doorway.

Oscar muttered, “Don’t apologise,” and touched her forehead gently. “You’re burning up again.”

That’s when the door banged open.

Henry walked in like a storm in cufflinks.

“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. “Why are you wrapped up like some invalid?”

Felicity blinked at him, confused. “Henry?”

“I told Mother I’d come. You didn’t pick up your phone. What’s this I hear about you being bedbound over a little cold?”

Oscar stood up.

Jian didn’t know what he expected from Oscar Piastri — the quiet, methodical one. But it sure wasn’t the way he stepped between Felicity and her brother like it was instinct.

“She has pneumonia,” he said flatly.

Henry raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

Felicity coughed weakly. Henry turned toward her. “You always do this. Turn minor problems into some dramatic cry for attention.”

Oscar’s voice went quiet.

“I think you should leave.”

Henry blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

“I’m her brother.”

“And I’m the one who’s been here while she can’t stand without help. I’m the one who held her when she couldn’t stop coughing. And you showed up days late with condescension and talking to your sick sister like she is some kind of burden.”

Henry’s expression twisted. “You’re just some scholarship kid with a go-kart.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Maybe. But I know what love looks like. You clearly don’t.”

The silence that followed was icy.

Henry left within five minutes.

Jian didn’t say anything. He just sat quietly while Oscar rubbed gentle circles into Felicity’s back until her breathing evened out.

It happened the next morning.

Jian had just made it to the dining hall, still groggy and halfway through buttering his toast, when Samir came in wide-eyed and pale.

“She collapsed.”

The knife slipped out of Jian’s hand.

“Felicity?” he asked, already on his feet.

Samir nodded, winded. “Oscar found her on the floor. She tried to get to the bathroom and—he said she couldn’t breathe. They’re calling an ambulance.”

Jian didn’t remember running, but the next thing he knew, he was outside her dormitory block, shoulders heaving, the gravel scraping under his shoes. A crowd was already gathering. One of the teachers was ushering students back like this was some normal incident and not something serious.

But Jian could see Oscar through the glass door. Kneeling on the floor, arms around Felicity, talking to her in that soft, steady voice like the sheer force of his calm could pull her back from the edge.

She was barely conscious. Her lips were bluish. Her head lolled.

She looked nothing like the girl who used to correct teachers’ maths on the whiteboard. Or the one who wore pearls with her hoodie. Or the girl who could keep five group projects afloat by sheer force of will.

She looked tiny.

Like a girl who had been telling everyone she was in pain and nobody had listened.

Someone—maybe the new nurse—tried to take her pulse, but Oscar didn’t move until the paramedics arrived. And even then, he rode in the ambulance.

Jian watched them go with a kind of hollow, stomach-dropped dread.

Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not her. Not Felicity.

The fallout came fast.

That afternoon, the head of pastoral care called an emergency staff meeting. People were whispering in the halls. The school nurse who had told Oscar it was “just a cold” didn’t come in the next day.

And suddenly, all the teachers were tripping over themselves — asking if anyone had noticed anything. If there were signs they missed. If perhaps Miss Leong hadn’t been given the appropriate care plan.

Jian nearly laughed when he heard that.

Because everyone missed it. Everyone except the boy with the quiet voice and the karting calluses on his fingers. The one who showed up with ginger tea in his thermos and sat through every night reading beside her bed.

They called Felicity “stoic.” “Well-mannered.” “Mature beyond her years.”

What they meant was that she didn’t complain loudly enough to be taken seriously.

Oscar never once said I told you so.

But Jian could see it in the stiffness of his shoulders when he finally came back onto campus, two days later, looking like he hadn’t slept at all. His hoodie was wrinkled. His jaw was tight.

“She’s okay,” he told Jian quietly, like he’d been rehearsing it. “They’re keeping her a few more days for observation. But her fever’s gone down. The oxygen’s helping.”

And then, for the first time in all the years Jian had known him, Oscar’s voice cracked.

“They didn’t listen,” he whispered. “She told them she couldn’t breathe, and they still didn’t listen.”

Jian didn’t know what to say. So he just sat down next to him.

Because it wasn’t just that Felicity had been sick.

It was that she’d almost disappeared in front of everyone — and they’d let her.

But not Oscar.

Never Oscar.

***

Jian wasn’t sure when it happened.

When Oscar Piastri — robotic, unflappable, ice-cold-under-pressure Oscar — became the kind of boy who let his girlfriend tuck a tissue packet into the sleeve of his school jumper.

It was week six of term. Cold season had arrived like a tidal wave. Half the year group was coughing like they were on the brink of death, and Oscar — who rarely got sick — had finally succumbed. He was pale and sniffling, his voice a little croaky, and he kept blinking like his head was full of fog.

But he still showed up. To every class. Even cricket conditioning.

Jian watched, slightly baffled, as Felicity intercepted him between classes with a packet of throat lozenges and a thermos of ginger tea that very obviously wasn’t from the dining hall.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she muttered, dragging him by the elbow toward a bench in the quad.

Oscar flopped down obediently. “I tried. My nose betrayed me.”

“You sound like a gremlin.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

Felicity made a face but pulled out a folded blanket from her bag anyway — a blanket, for god’s sake — and tucked it around him like he was a grandparent in a chilly church pew.

Jian blinked. He wasn’t even surprised anymore. 

That was when Oscar’s phone rang. He fished it out of his blazer pocket, glanced at the screen, and handed it straight to Felicity without a word.

“Hi, Nicole,” she said, already standing up and pacing away, the phone pressed to her ear. “Yeah. I’m with him. No, it’s not the flu. Just a head cold. Yes, I made sure he’s drinking water. Yes, I made him soup yesterday. No, he didn’t like the ginger but he drank it anyway. I’ll make sure he sleeps early.”

Jian just stared.

Because Oscar was sitting there under a blanket. Sneezing into a tissue. Looking more exhausted than usual. And still — still — he watched Felicity pace the quad with that tiny half-smile he only seemed to wear when she was around. Like he liked being taken care of. Like he trusted her with all of it.

By the time Felicity returned, she handed the phone back and crouched to check Oscar’s forehead with the back of her hand. It was so natural. So practiced. Like this had happened a dozen times before.

“Your mum says she’s going to mail you a care package,” Felicity murmured. “Also, that I deserve a medal.”

Oscar leaned his head against her shoulder. “You do.”

Jian watched them quietly — the boy who always smelled like karting fuel, and the girl who wore cashmere socks with chanel boots — and thought, Okay, maybe this isn’t some weird co-dependency thing. Maybe it’s just… love.

The strange, soft kind.

The kind that comes with tea, and tissues, and phone calls home.

***

Group Chat: Haileybury Survivor Squad 2020

Jian, Samir, Thea, Lara, Aarya

Aarya: guys GUYS I HAVE NEWS 🚨🚨🚨

Jian: this better be good it’s 2 am, Aarya

Samir: omg did Mr. Forrester finally admit Felicity was right about quantum physics?

Aarya: EVEN BETTER

Lara: Aarya if this isn’t genuinely life-changing I’m kicking you out of this group chat

Aarya: Oscar and Felicity got married

Thea: 😂😂 very funny no seriously what happened

Aarya: No I’m dead serious Felicity literally just texted me

Samir: WHAT NO WAY HOW??? THEY GRADUATED LIKE 3 WEEKS AGO??

Aarya: She sent me a picture of the certificate They legit got married YESTERDAY

Jian: Oscar? Like Oscar PIASTRI? our Oscar? Oscar “I once put almond milk in béchamel sauce” Piastri??

Aarya: YES THAT OSCAR OUR OSCAR FELICITY’S OSCAR

Lara: hang on… I thought they were joking about Vegas???

Samir: wait so that entire convo about Elvis marrying them at a drive-thru chapel was serious? bc I laughed for a week about that

Aarya: not Elvis (sadly) but yes, very real, very married she sent me a selfie she’s wearing Oscar’s hoodie over her wedding dress

Thea: Omg of course she is She probably married him for unlimited hoodie access

Lara: this tracks tbh they graduated early bc they were bored of A-levels got married early bc they were bored of being the smartest teenagers in Britain

Samir: honestly if they weren’t disgustingly cute I’d be so annoyed rn like how do you top getting MARRIED at 18??

Jian: “oh what did you do over summer?” “just got married, no biggie” — Oscar, probably

Thea: Jian, remember when you thought you had a shot with Felicity for exactly 12 minutes in Year 8 😂😂

Jian: STOP THAT NEVER HAPPENED IT WAS TEN MINUTES MAX

Aarya: anyway, Felicity wanted me to tell you guys bc we are “Oscar-and-Felicity-certified not-annoying people”

Lara: that’s genuinely the nicest thing she’s ever said about us I’m touched

Jian: same but also still processing that Oscar “let me just casually carry my wife-to-be across campus” Piastri is an actual husband now

Thea: do we call Felicity Mrs. Piastri now??? or do we call Oscar Mr. Leong bc that’s actually hilarious

Samir: I vote Mr. Leong

Aarya: it’s Mrs. Piastri actually Felicity said so herself and she sounded very smug about it

Lara: OF COURSE SHE DID Oscar’s probably already changed all his racing gear to say “Property of Felicity Piastri” anyway

Samir: ok but imagine their babies tiny little brilliant creatures raised on soba noodles and karting strategies

Thea: they’re probably already planning their kids’ GCSEs as we speak

Aarya: honestly wouldn’t put it past them

Jian: this group chat is now dedicated to tracking Oscar and Felicity’s completely ridiculous married life all in favour say aye

Samir: AYE Lara: AYE Thea: AYE Aarya: AYE

Samir: it’s unanimous long live the Piastris ✨👑✨

[empty-promises-too-much-to-count]

Airplane is the best An Ding Peak Lord because he knows exactly how to allocate the budget. He lived alone, probably in a box of an apartment, living on whatever the writing gave him, eating instant noodles while everything else went carefully into water, electricity and other bills. Probably also rent, i don't think the guy had money for his own apartment (i can be wrong tbh, maybe in his extra there was info on his living situation, I haven't read it for a while).

So yeah, even after becoming a Peak Lord, probably really wealthy, he still is very humble about the money. Probably doesn't even complain about the plain rice porridge they're eating, he's just glad he won't fucking freeze in the winter because the heating was shut down cause he didn't pay on time.

But then the plot ends. He's still alive, everyone knows he's a spy and are weirdly okay with it (they don't want to lose their super competent An Ding Peak Lord) and he gets a fucking Ice Demon King Husband. How cool is that?

But old habits die hard, so every time he walks around the market he buys the cheapest thing for himself (even though he doesn't even need to, the kitchen staff cooks for him!). He refuses expensive gifts and gets nervous when he buys a gift for someone, not sure if it's too cheap or too expensive cause for him everything that costs more than two pieces of silver is gut-wrenchingly expensive.

Mobei-jun tries to do something. He throws rich furs and priceless jewels at him. His clothes made of finest silks, his shoes have golden threads in them and sapphires on them. He doesn't fucking wear it. Mobei-jun confronts him, of course, and, stumbling and blushing, Qinghua says he doesn't want to ruin them. What if he dirties them? What if he, gods forbid, tears them? It would be such a waste of money, such inconvenience for the king. Who spends so puch on this poor consort.

Mobei-jun doesn't listen, of course he wouldn't. Without a care he undresses Qinghua, who mentally prepares himself for being thrown onto the bed, and also thinks about it he can sew back the robe Mobei-jun just fucking tore. Instead Mobei-jun dresses him in three layers of deep blue silk and drapes a fur of some vicious demon-beast on his shoulder.

"Peoole will think of me as a bad king if my husband looks like he works here instead of living."

Mobei-jun never cared for such thing as other's opinions, but... Well, Qinghua definitely can't disobey his king and embarrass in front of his people. Maybe he'll start wearing some of the clothes he gives them. He'll definitely at least rearrange them from most expensive to the least, so he could only wear the former to big occasions, but he will definitely wear them.

Only for the king's reputation.

[eternityofend]

BOOTHILL HEADCANONS

> Reminder that this is not canon/accurate to his personality (this is before Boothill gets released.)

+ contains nsfw (Is labeled)

( Art credit: @ Luvmybabygirl0 )

SFW

I'd like to imagine, that this man just does a hair flip every time he's offended at what you said.

Ex.

"My Love, I know you're jealous but it's just a cat.."

Boothill looks at you for five solid seconds, and then hair flips to let you know he's really offended. "Tell the cat to move then, that's my place."

Does not skip leg day, would probably kabedon you using his LEG or if he does work out he'd probably want to use you as weight, like letting you sit on him while he does push-ups.

Loves going on little trips with you using horses, if you don't have your own horse he'd definitely let you ride his horse but you're in front of him.

Bonus points if you're shorter than him cause he'd put his chin on top of your head while his hands go around your waist to grab the rein.

Would flex to everyone about you, like- he's in a fight with someone? "You weak cutie(bitch), my lover hits harder than you."

Would call you petnames like "Sugar", "Honey", "Darling" , "Babe/Baby" , "Sweetheart" , "Love" , "Love bug" , "Sunshine" , "Pretty (boy/girl/thing)"

Listens to Lady Gaga, I'm sure of this, he would so rock it out on the dance floor and get you to dance with him.

Has eaten a bullet in front of you and was incredibly confused at your reaction that was just like 😰, until you tell him that you were surprised he ate a bullet he'd just be like 🤨 but if you did tell him straight away, he'd cackle at you.

Sometimes forgets he was originally a human so he does the craziest things knowing he can get fixed up anyway (he once jumped off a 13 foot building to chase after an enemy)

Loves to cuddle you, he wants to feel your warmth while he sleeps or relaxes.

Lets you braid his hair or comb it if you want to, once he gets used to you combing or braiding his hair he'd just walk up to you at random times with a brush in hand and let you do what you want with his hair.

Really reckless and causes a lot of trouble sometimes but there are days where he's really calm and all he wants to do is spend time with you, like he just acts like a cute little kitten who just woke up when he's calm.

If JoJo existed in their world, he would be a big fan of it.

Would let you name his gun or horse, does not complain at all even if you name it "princess twilight sparkle cookie crumble" he'd just laugh, completely accepting the name.

Even says the name during fights, he'd say "Your time's out, time to die by my princess twilight sparkle cookie crumble." 😭😭

Looks at his reflection in the mirror a lot while practicing poses, even getting you to watch from the bed or couch while showing you a new pose he likes.

Kisses you a lot, even in public he's really affectionate and touchy, cause no way is he letting other people look at you and think you're single.

You're hot and he knows you're hot so he's trying his best to make everyone know you're already taken.

If someone TRIES to flirt with you in front of him, he's already got you by the waist, against the wall, making out while he flips off the one who tried to flirt with you.

Would let you pick his earrings, always excited when you say you bought a new earring for him.

Looks good in an apron, like, really good. Househusband material frfr.

Plays with your hair a lot, twirling it, and even kissing some strands while he looks at you in the eye.

Easy to get flustered but it always leads to him making you more flustered, he takes everything like a challenge but he does love it every time you sass him back or flirt with him.

Causes a lot of trouble for you and with you, if its for you it's going to be super romantic however it'll make some people irritated, but if he's causing trouble with you, its more chaotic and a LOT of people will 100% get pissed.

Cannot sleep without you in his arms, he'll walk over to your room (if you guys aren't sharing one), hair all messy from tossing and turning because you weren't in bed with him. He'll just plop into your bed, it doesn't matter if you're even awake or not he just wants to hold you while he sleeps.

NSFW

Definitely takes off his hat and puts it on you BUT only when he's letting you ride, if you're having normal sex he'd probably just keep it on or let you bite on it while he fucks you from behind.

Probably says something weird during sex which I would love to imagine would just be "Yeehaw" because he can't curse.

Probably into roleplay where you're a criminal and he's a cowboy who successfully hunted you down or the opposite, has a bunch of handcuffs just to use it for roleplay.

I feel like he'd just be the type of person to use sex toys, not dildos though cause he wants to be the only dick inside you, something like collars, leashes, handcuffs, whips, ropes,

He'd be into gags, bondage, dirty talk, lactation, blindfold sex, spit, both praise and degrading kink, spanking, anal, lap-dances, fingering (he'd be conflicted about receiving), oral (receiving and giving), sensory deprivation, and gun play!

If he doesn't have a dick, he'll probably have a bunch of straps, he's good at giving oral but would still prefer fucking you with a dick than fingering or eating you out. (Unless he's the one getting fucked)

I feel like he's a switch but more on the dominant side, he's super open to submission as long as his partner can pleasure him real good.

This man walks around technically naked all the time, so he's got to have imagined having public sex here and there, but most likely in bars where everyone's busy and doing their own thing. Like it'd turn him on if you were just on his lap humping his erection while you both are in a bar but everyone else is just too drunk to notice at all.

Super vocal, grunting, moaning, sometimes even whining and whimpering, you got it all, bonus points because he does it all straight into your ear.

Uses his sharp teeth to mark you all over your body and then sucks on it to leave hickeys, would likely be a little menace and leave his marks somewhere visible even if you're wearing clothes so people would know your his

Wants you to pull on his hair while fucking, he wants to be able to know how good he's making you feel and hair pulling would be his goal to make sure you're getting actual pleasure.

When he kisses you or makes out with you, it'd always involve tongue, has a little hand that sneaks over to your waist stopping at your hip or your ass.

Slaps your ass loud, especially in public, he just smacks it while you're in mid-conversation and the sound just ECHOES, it doesn't hurt it just sounds like it does, he just stands there smirking while you stare at him.

He's an ass guy, boobs are nice to him cause he can suck on the nipples but definitely an ass guy, you cannot tell me he doesn't fuck you from behind solely to see your ass jiggle with every thrust he does.

Flat? Nuh uh, he's making that shit bounce no matter what.

Likes playing with you using his gun, frequently flicks the handle of his gun over your nipples or dick/pussy, sometimes he shoves a little bit of his gun in and if you get your cum on the muzzle, he'd lick it right in front of you.

Likes praising you and getting degraded, is into getting whipped too, he secretly wants to be on his knees begging for you, worshipping you, while you're standing over him with a whip in your hands. (The whip doesn't actually do any damage)

Does not care what gender you are, sometimes he'd misgender you on purpose and call your ass a pussy or if you're a girl, he'd probably call you "pretty boy" just to get you riled up.

His favorite positions when bottoming would be cowgirl, and his favorite position if he's on top would be Doggystyle.

(Edit: I just realized how much of a power bottom he is, but it's up to you, the reader whether you want to fuck him or be fucked by him 😇)

Please do remember everything is just a headcanon and is not actually linked or accurate to what Boothill's like in canon.

( Art credit

1st: Kradebii on Danbooru

2nd: Tei (@2hwe1) on twt

3rd: 2월14일 (Valentine_DD_) on twt )

Please tell me if I got the artists wrong!

[missdaddycool]

Joel miller x wife reader

Summary : Joel work everyday for creat the most perfect room for their baby

A/N : hi lovely people, i decided make part two of my last short story you can find on my masterlist if you want read the p.1 tell me what you think in comments and if I should make p.3 :)

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚ʚ🧸ɞ˚‧｡⋆ ⋆｡‧˚

Jackson 📍

The first hammer strike came just after dawn.

The sky was still bruised with night, the kind of pale indigo that never quite turned blue anymore. The kind of morning where the silence pressed in. But Joel was already up, sleeves rolled, work gloves tight on his hands.

Y/N heard him moving around before the sun had fully risen. She turned in bed, hand slipping over the swell of her belly, and listened to the low mutter of tools being moved, wood scraping against stone. He’d started without breakfast. Again.

She pulled herself upright, every movement slow, careful. At seven months pregnant, her body wasn’t hers anymore—it was a house being lived in by someone else, and she was just the walls creaking. But she didn’t complain. Not much use for it. Joel had taken on all the worry in the room and then some.

Out in the main room of their house in Jackson, Joel was hunched over a spread of rough wood slats, measuring and marking, the furrow between his brows already carved deep. Sawdust floated in the shafts of light like falling ash. He was building a crib. From scratch.

“Morning,” she said softly.

He looked up, startled like she’d caught him doing something wrong. “Shit—did I wake you?”

“No louder than the kid kicking me in the ribs all night.”

He gave a tired smile, barely there, and wiped a hand down his jaw. “Almost done with the frame. Thought I’d get the sanding started today. Wanna make sure there ain’t no splinters.”

Y/N leaned against the doorframe, hand resting on the top of her belly. “You’ve been working on that thing like it’s gonna be inspected by the goddamn president.”

Joel didn’t laugh. His hands stilled. “Just want it right.”

She could see it then—underneath the worn denim, the rough hands, the permanent scowl—he was scared. Joel Miller wasn’t a man easily shaken. But this? This shook him. Not the building. The becoming.

“I know you do,” she said gently, crossing to him and laying a hand on his shoulder. “But you don’t have to do all this alone.”

Joel shook his head, eyes on the crib’s unfinished railings. “I do.”

And that was the truth of it. He needed to. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was love, but either way, it kept him up at night.

He hadn’t said it out loud, not once, but Y/N could feel it in every screw turned too tight, every piece of wood planed down to a shine. He remembered Sarah in everything he touched. And Ellie, too—somewhere in the ache behind his eyes. This time had to be different. He wasn’t gonna fuck it up again.

By midday, he’d moved on to painting. A soft sage green, hand-mixed. The color didn’t scream baby, but it was peaceful, quiet. Like he hoped their world could be—at least in one room.

Y/N brought him water, sandwiches, sat nearby in the rocking chair he’d dragged in the day before. She watched him work, watched the tension in his back, the way he squinted at every edge like he was afraid it might bite.

“You think the kid’ll sleep in it?” he asked finally, voice low, like the question might splinter the silence.

“Probably not right away,” she said with a smile. “But eventually, yeah. They’ll love it.”

He gave a grunt that could’ve meant anything.

“Joel,” she said, “they’re not gonna care if the crib’s perfect. They’re gonna care if you’re there.”

His shoulders tensed. Then dropped. “What if I ain’t enough?”

“ You are.” She said it without hesitation. “You’ve already done more than most would. You’re here. You stayed. That’s everything.”

He looked over at her, eyes shadowed with something old and worn but still open—still trying. “Don’t wanna let ’em down.”

“Then don’t. Be here. Change diapers. Lose sleep. Love them hard.”

He looked at the crib, now painted, drying in the corner like some kind of promise. Then he looked at her. And the smallest, realest smile touched his mouth.

“I can do that.”

She smiled back, reached for his hand. His fingers were calloused and rough with work, but he held her like she was the only soft thing left in the world.

Outside, the wind picked up. Snow would come soon. But inside, in that small nursery of wood and paint and sweat, there was warmth. Not safety—not in this world—but something like hope.

Joel squeezed her hand. “I’ll finish it tomorrow.”

Y/N leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’ve got time.”

And for once, they believed it.

[maidragoste]

Hiiii!!!! I (18) was wondering if you could write a Jace x his mothers handmaiden reader, where they have a secret relationship 🤙🏼🤙🏼❤️❤️

anon, sorry for taking so long to write your request. I hope you enjoy it and thanks for reading 🥰💖💖

btw it wasn't clarified so I didn't write reader as a low-born handmaiden (that is, the ones who clean the urinals and that) but as a high-born one.

likes, comments and REBLOGS are always greatly appreciated 🥰💖

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

A frustrated sigh left your lips as you tried to break free from Jacaerys's grip only for the prince to press your body even closer to his so you couldn't get out of bed. You turned to demand that your lover let you go but you remained silent, watching Jace's face. Even though he had his eyes closed you were sure by the lazy smile on his face that he was awake. He looked beautiful. He always looked beautiful but these moments only belonged to you. You wanted to wake up every day next to him but you couldn't. Your duty was to Princess Rhaenyra, you cannot allow yourself to be distracted. Besides, if she found out that you were having a secret relationship with her beloved son, she would throw you out and your family would be very disappointed in you for having wasted the opportunity that the princess gave you to choose you as one of her handmaidens. Not only that but your reputation would be ruined, if rumors spread that you no longer possess your virtue then it would be impossible for you to get a husband. You are a fool to continue with this romance, someday Jace will marry a girl from an even more important house than yours and you will have to sit silently watching everything. There is no happy ending to this.

“My prince, I have to go,” you said, hoping he would stop playing dumb and let you go.

“No,” he complained, lengthening the “o.” Your place is at my side” he moved his face closer to kiss you but you moved, he tried again but you avoided him again “What's wrong” he asked, letting you go so he could sit properly on the bed.

"It's late, I should go. At any moment your mother will wake up, I have duties to do” you responded without looking at him as you got up. You didn't even have a chance to look for your shoes when he tugged on your arm making you return to the bed. He turns you around so that you both face each other.

“What is wrong?” asked again the prince. “Talk to me, please, my lady,” he asked, looking at you with concern while gently taking your face in his hands.

“I think we should stop seeing each other, my prince.” The uncertainty in your voice was clear but still, your words were a dagger for Jacaerys.

“Why?” Your heart ached as you heard the confusion and anguish in his voice. “. I don't understand, yesterday we were fine”

“Yes, we were. But we won't always be. Someday you will have to get married and you will leave me. “I think the easiest thing for my heart is for us to finish our thing now,” you said, closing your eyes without being able to see the sadness in his eyes anymore. If you continued seeing him you were afraid you would go back on your decision.

Your heart skipped a beat when you stopped feeling Jacaerys's hands. You froze as you listened to him get out of bed and get dressed. You should take the opportunity to leave, it's probably what he wanted but you couldn't move. You really had finished everything.

You opened your eyes as you felt the prince's hands in your hair. Your heart raced as he carefully untangled the knots. Once he finished, he kissed your shoulder. “Finish getting ready so we can go talk to my mother.”

“We?” you repeated.

"Yes. I have no intention of marrying anyone but you,” Jacaerys said calmly as if his words wouldn't change your entire world.

“Jacaerys, marrying me is an idiotic move, my house is not that important, and the lords” your chatter was interrupted by the prince's lips capturing yours. You should be firmer and move away, but you can't, so you surrender to enjoying the taste of your lover's lips, feeling more loved than ever.

"I love you and if my mother wants me to be her heir, she will have to accept it," Jace declared and there was no room for argument in his voice. “You are the only wife I intend to take,” he promised before kissing you again.

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[pacofprunes]

my mom always told me,

warnings. — noncon, namgyus pov, incel namgyu, namgyu calls women females, baby trapping, mentions of gangbang and 3some, reader is called a slut and a whore, choking, victim blaming

by clicking read more, you consent to reading 18+ content

my mom always told me not to stare. but it’s hard not to when you got a bitch so hot sitting across from you. it’s even harder when your pupils almost cover your entire eye color from how big they were from the drugs. as a kid i listened, but now? psh, i’m starting to forget about that silly lesson. still staring right at you from across the bar.

my mom always told me not to point. but my mom didn’t understand. how am i supposed to show someone something without pointing? how could i show my friend the girl that i wanted by just speaking? nah. and maybe just maybe, i’ll point my finger lower, and lower, and then my friend will point as well, his finger also going lower and lower, tracing your pretty little ass. god i wish i could actually feel it.

my mom always told me to walk a lady home at night or to stay with her until someone else could arrive to pick her up. keep her safe from the people that may try to hurt her, weather i knew her or not. she said it was the right thing to do, and that’s what i’m doing! i was the one keeping you, my pretty slut, safe. i just have my own way of doing things. if it wasn’t me it’d be someone else, don’t kid yourself. thanos would jump at the chance to get between your legs. he’s probably going to do the same thing as me. i might let him or he might just help himself too.

my mom always told me to be kind to others. well, clearly your mom didn’t teach you that. over here pounding on my chest and kicking at me. that shit wasn’t very fucking kind. i’m just helping a women out. sex is normal, it’s healthy, it’s important. so when you think about it, i’m just trying to help you. i’m being kind. just like my mom told me to. couldn’t you show some gratitude? my mom always told me to say please and thank you, did yours? she clearly didn’t teach you to be kind, i don’t expect a thank you, but i sure as hell deserve one.

my mom always told me that women like a strong man. so why when my hands are squeezing your tiny throat and i flex my arms to show every muscle, you still don’t find me attractive? why when i move you so effortlessly, easily holding you down with one hand while you try to struggle, why don’t you find me attractive? shit, i could probably hold you down with one finger, i’m clearly strong, so could you quit your fucking whining bitch? i have the best dick you’ll ever get in your life.

my mom always told me that you females like when a man takes control of a situation. likes when a man takes care of all the problems, the bills, everything. so why when i take control of your pleasure, your pain, the breaths you take with my hand wrapped around your throat, why are you acting like you don’t like it? are you trying to be different from the average female? you’re all the same. you ask for a man to take care of you, to take control, but when he does it, when i do it, you act like a whiny fucking bitch and complain like you don’t want it. don’t bullshit me. i can see right through you.

my mom always told me that she wanted me to have grandkids, that she wanted me to start my own family. and she always told me that most women want a family too. so why when you feel my dick tense in you and start to twitch and feel my cum leaking down your legs, all the way to your toes, why are you screaming at me? why are you crying? quit fucking yelling at me bitch! i know you wanted a kid, i know you wanted a family, i just fucking gave it to you, so how about you quit being ungrateful and just fucking suck my cum back in you. don’t waste a single drop.

my mom always told me not to hit a women. she said, “namgyu, you should never hit a lady, okay? it’s wrong. you should protect the lady you love, not hurt her.” but mom, this wasn’t a lady. she, you, are a slut. a filthy fucking whore. you were begging for it so quit shaking your head no. the outfit you were wearing, the alcohol you were taking to make yourself more compliable for me so that you couldn’t back out or get away, you wanted me to do this. you wanted me to fuck you, wanted me to fuck a baby in you. there’s no need to act so indifferent now. mom. she’s not a lady, she’s a slut, okay? so don’t be mad at me. you said women like when you give them what they want so i gave her what she wanted and i gave you what you wanted mom! you wanted a grandchild? well i just got you one.

my mom always told me a lot of things. the only one i didn’t listen to was “namgyu, don’t get involved with those drugs that you see the other kids around you take. i don’t want you to go down that path.” but what did she know? she clearly knew nothing. you reacted like nothing how she told me. but then again, she told me women, like this that blah blah blah. she told me ladys like this that and the third. you weren’t a lady. you weren’t a women. you aren’t any of those things. you’re a slut, a whore, a cum dump. my slut.

my mom always told me to share. she said sharing is caring. so how about you open your legs for me instead of me having to pry them open, and share that dirty little cunt with me and then i’ll call thanos and i’ll share with him! maybe he’ll fuck a baby in you too. maybe he’ll call up a friend as well, did thanos mom teach him manors as well? did she tell him sharing is caring? your mom clearly did you wrong. how could you spread your legs open for a man you didn’t even know? come on, have some more dignity…i’ll teach you something.

i, namgyu, says that sharing is caring, okay? there’s a lesson for you. one your mom should’ve taught you. so how about you share your body with me, not that you already haven’t, but i took that from you. you didn’t share. i had to take it myself. so listen to me slut, spread your legs, lay still, and share with me, kay? be a good slut and i’ll ask thanos to share some pills with you when he gets down here. and you better not say no. don’t you know that if you’re offered something you should say yes and then thank you? so, do you want my dick in you? careful, there’s only one right answer. yes? now say thank you namgyu and shut your fucking whiny mouth.

[0cta9on]

Moon Rabbit

Length: +12k words

Genre: Smut

Gfriend/Viviz Eunha x Male Reader

(Author's Note: This is like 90% story and 10% smut, but I hope y'all enjoy anyways :> Thank you to @msafterhours for beta, this story wouldn't be alive without you <3 Enjoy!)

【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】★【☆】

Amongst the monotonous drone of the harsh fluorescent lights and the mysterious smell emanating from the bathrooms, it’s hard not to feel a little pessimistic about life. It would be so easy to air out your long list of grievances to anyone that’ll listen, but complaining to the kind of people this place attracts—late night travelers who’d struggle putting two and two together— is always more trouble than it’s worth.

“Welcome to 7/11!” 

The ring of the entrance chime followed by the soft yet enthusiastic voice of your coworker is a constant that you have yet to get used to, even after a whole three weeks of hearing it nonstop. You told Eunha plenty of times before that she doesn’t have to greet the customers, yet she continues to do so anyway, something about “responsibility” and “upholding the company’s image”—as if the company’s image isn’t rotisserie hot dogs and gallon-sized slushies. 

At best, she’ll get a polite nod, at worst, they scoff and act as if a simple gesture is the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. Her greetings might be more suited to the morning crowd, but she insists that she’s not much of a morning person. You don’t exactly care enough to verify her statements, so you’re content with her keeping you company during the night shift.

“Let me know if you need help with anything!” Eunha calls out to the customer as he aimlessly wanders through the aisles. You’ve grown accustomed to the late night visits from these kinds of people, guys in their early 20’s who seem either too drunk and/or faded to respond properly; hopefully, he’ll just quietly pay for his things and leave without any trouble.

“Yo,” he utters, carelessly dropping a single beer can and a box of large condoms onto the counter. You give him a curt nod, trying not to make a face as the violent stench of weed attacks your nostrils. Figures.

“$7.50.”

“Hey bro, do you know if that chick over there has a boyfriend?” He looks over at Eunha as she stocks the shelves, baggy eyes tracing her body through a half-lidded gaze. You simply shrug. Whatever she does outside of work is none of your business.

The man chuckles to himself, grabbing his things off the counter. “Watch this.” He saunters over to her and engages in a conversation that you can’t quite make out. Even as you try to distract yourself with other work, you can’t help but tense up slightly, stealing glances towards your coworker. 

Eunha puts on her signature smile, nodding her head to everything he’s saying. Occasionally she’ll laugh, more so out of politeness than anything. If you would have to describe her with one word, “polite” would probably be enough. Maybe overly so, but hey, who’re you to judge her of all people about small talk?

Then, you notice a small crack in her expression. The corners of her lips drop ever so slightly. Her eyes widen just a smidge. Now he’s walking towards her, backing her up into a corner, like a predator stalking its prey. 

You’ve learned not to stick your nose into other people’s business; even the simple act of lending an ear has cost you time and energy that ultimately led you to getting kicked to the curb the second you’re no longer of use. It’s exhausting. You’d do anything to forget that kind of pain, even if it means your existence is a bit lonelier. And yet, despite your better judgment, you grab a spare broom and begin sweeping towards the problem, stepping in between them right as Eunha’s back hits one of the fridges.

“Excuse me,” you mutter, your eyes never leaving the ground.

“Bro, what the fuck are you—”

“I’m trying to do my job,” you state, jerking your neck to glare at him. The man scoffs in annoyance before stomping towards the exit, grumbling incoherently while he knocks a couple chip bags off the shelves.

“Thanks,” Eunha says, breathing a sigh of relief. “He kept asking for my number and wouldn’t stop after I said ‘no’. I don’t know what would’ve happened if you weren’t here.”

You shrug, continuing to sweep the rest of the store. In hindsight, there might not have been a need for you to intervene in the first place; Eunha is a grown woman that can probably take care of herself, and what kind of damage could a guy like that do anyways? Yet, despite everything, you still chose to play the hero. What’s done is done.

As you go back to your place by the register, you notice Eunha beaming brighter than ever before despite no one else being around.

______________________________________________________________

Eunha groans, face planting into the counter. “I’m bored.”

“You could deep clean the coffee machine,” you suggest, eliciting an even louder groan from her.

You think about telling her to switch to the afternoon shift, but refrain from it in the end, figuring she probably has her own reasons for wanting to work this late. You chose the night shift out of necessity more than anything. Countless sleepless nights led you to the conclusion that you might as well get some compensation for your suffering.

Eunha’s face suddenly lights up as she goes over to the fridges and grabs two beer cans. “We should drink!” she says.

“Those are for the customers,” you state.

“I’ll pay for them, dummy. Besides, there’s literally nothing else to do. No one has stopped by for hours.”

You stare at her pleading face, slightly impressed by how well she manages to pull off “puppy-dog eyes”. You don’t consider yourself much of a drinker—going down that road only left you with an unbearable sickness that made “taking the edge off” not even worth it—but a hunch in the back of your mind tells you to go for it anyways. Maybe “puppy-dog eyes” actually do work; maybe the boredom’s gotten to you too.

“Woohoo!” she cheers. “Let’s go sit out front! I wanna look at the stars.” Eunha grabs the cans and a large bag of chips from the shelf before running out of the store with the excitement of a kid in a candy store. With a sigh, you follow behind her.

Your breath catches in your throat as the outside chill hits you like a speeding train, sending an unpleasant shiver through your spine that makes you regret even considering this stupid idea. You turn to retreat back to the warmth of the store, but a brief glimpse of Eunha waving you down with such genuine enthusiasm pulls you in, and before you can even think to stop yourself, you’re already grabbing the beer can from her outstretched hand. 

“Isn’t it beautiful tonight?” she comments, gazing up at the stars above. It’s… nice. Better than the harsh fluorescent lights of the store, for sure.

“Yeah,” you utter, taking a swig from your can. You grimace at the bitterness, a reminder of why you stopped in the first place.

“Woah pal, I don’t need to hear your life story,” she quips, chuckling at her own joke. “Isn’t this better than being stuck in that smelly old store all night?”

You shrug. “It’s… alright, I guess.”

She stares at you for a while, studying your expression with a focused squint.

“...What?” you mutter, suddenly feeling self-conscious under her gaze.

“Nothing, sorry.” She shakes her head, her gaze falling to the unopened beer in her hands. A tense moment passes before she finally clicks it open and takes a small sip, wincing as she swallows the bitter liquid. “Um, do you… hate me or something?”

You turn to her in confusion. “Hate” isn’t a word you associate with Eunha. Truly, you don’t think anyone could hate someone like her. Maybe you get a little irked by her inability to set up the shelves properly, but nobody’s perfect, least of all you. In fact, you don’t have any strong feelings about her one way or another. She’s just your coworker. 

Just that. 

Nothing else.

“No, not at all,” you reply.

A small grin forms on Eunha’s lips. “That’s good. I was worried that maybe I did something and that’s why you never talk to me.”

Huh? “I talk to you.”

“Yeah, no, I mean, like, really talking. Not just about work and stuff,” she explains. “We’ve been working together for, like, months and I barely know anything about you!”

“It’s barely been three weeks,” you correct her, earning a dramatic eye roll. “Do you really need to know anything about me to work here?”

Eunha grimaces at your answer. “I guess not, but it would be nice to know if I’m working with a serial killer or not.” She takes another small sip from her can, tension seeping into the frigid air between you two.

“I’m not a serial killer,” you state.

“Well, I wouldn’t know that if you didn’t tell me.”

“I could be lying.”

She turns to you, studying your expression with an intense focus. “Hmm… I don’t think you’re lying.”

“You think?” You raise an eyebrow at her.

She shrugs. “For starters, aren’t most serial killers supposed to be charming to lure in their victims and stuff? No offense, but you’re the least charming person I’ve ever met.”

“Better than being a serial killer I guess.”

She chuckles to herself, dissolving any lingering tension in the air. “So you have a sense of humor. That’s good to know.”

“I guess I do.”

Eunha lifts her can towards you, flashing you a warm smile that wards away the bitter winds. You watch as the corners of her lips curl at a certain angle, her eyes squinting ever so slightly to make room to smile even wider. How impossibly white and symmetrical her teeth are, as if god or whoever is up there took their time creating her. In hindsight, she’s probably perfect for this job - kind, inviting, instantly putting you at ease with a single glance. A smile seems so natural on her, it feels like the sky would fall if it disappeared from her face for even a moment.

“Hello?” She waves her hand in front of your face. “My arm is getting tired here, are you gonna cheers me or not?”

You shake your head. “Right. Sorry.” You clink your can against hers before bringing it to your lips. The bitter taste of alcohol is nonexistent at this point, replaced by subtle yet present undertones of sweetness. You peek through the top of the can, confirming that it’s still the same old cheap beer it was mere seconds ago. Yet, for now, it’s just a little more bearable.

______________________________________________________________

To put it lightly, this fucking sucks.

The shadows dance and jeer at you from your ceiling as if to celebrate your misfortune. All you can do is watch the show play out as you barely cling to life. An earlier Google search of your symptoms tells you that it’s just “a common cold”, but you’d swear Death itself has a personal vendetta with you, cursing you with rusty lungs and cinder blocks for limbs. Regretfully, you retrieve your phone from your nightstand, sending Eunha a text that you aren’t able to make it to work tonight.

A sudden weight jumping onto your chest causes you to drop your phone onto the floor. Two yellow marbles coldly stare at you through the darkness, silently judging your poor condition.

“Y-Yokai, please… I can’t b-breathe…” With weak hands, you try to gently push your cat off of your chest, but it’s no use. Every time you try to get close, the little beast nips at your fingers. 

This is it. This is how you die. You never believed in the superstition about black cats, but perhaps you should’ve heeded its warning. Maybe this is his way of telling you that he never liked you in the first place, in spite of all you’ve done for him as his caretaker. Years from now, when someone finally notices that you’re missing, they’ll find your corpse with Yokai resting right on top, like he’s gloating about outliving you. You shut your eyes, quickly accepting your fate. On the brightside, maybe you’ll finally get some sleep for once.

A knock on your front door causes him to jump off your chest to inspect the noise. You silently thank the stranger at your front door as your lungs finally fill with air. As far as you’re concerned, they just saved your life.

WIth a blanket wrapped around you, you struggle against your headache and stumble towards the door. The person on the other side makes you wonder if you should add hallucinations to your list of symptoms.

“Hi!” Eunha beams at you, a plastic bag in her hands. “I brought you some stuff to help with your cold!”

“H-huh?” You stand there in shock, a million questions floating through your head. “What about the store?”

She shrugs. “I closed it for a bit. I’m sure the two customers that would’ve shown up tonight will live.”

Never in a million years did you expect anyone, aside from the occasional delivery man, to show up to your doorstep, let alone with the purpose of providing you aid. It’s… nice. You’re probably better off with a good night’s rest, but god knows you’ll never get one.

“Are you gonna invite me in? It’s rude to keep a woman waiting, y’know,” she teases.

“R-right.” You step aside, allowing her into your apartment that hasn’t seen another human soul the entire time you’ve lived in it. As luck would have it, another person arrives on the one day that you’re unable to clean anything. “Sorry about the mess.”

“It’s alright—Oh!” Yokai leaps from the shadows, stopping just a few feet in front of her to inspect the stranger entering his home. “Hi there! Oh my gosh, you’re so cute!”

Eunha kneels down to his level and offers her hand towards him. Taking the invitation, Yokai approaches her with cautious yet curious steps, his eyes dilated and ready. After a seemingly tense moment, his pupils soften as he presses his small face into her palms, accepting her enthusiastic pets.

“I can’t believe you never told me about your cat!” she playfully berates you. “What’s its name?”

“His name is Yokai,” you answer, collapsing haphazardly onto the couch. “Found him on the street when I first moved here.”

She raises an eyebrow at you. “You named your cat after Japanese demons?”

You shrug. “It seemed fitting at the time.”

Eunha chuckles, giving him one last pet before placing the bag on the table. “I brought you some cold meds, green tea, and a can of chicken soup. Is it alright if I use your kitchen to heat up the soup?”

You wave her off. “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

She rolls her eyes at you, grabbing the can and walking over to the kitchen in defiance. “If I didn’t want to do this, I would’ve just dropped it off and left.”

With barely any energy left to argue, you resign yourself to resting your head against the armrest, listening to the clanging of metal and the creaking of wood as Eunha searches your cabinets for a pot. Three flickers followed by the gentle poof of the stovetop bring you back to simpler times when your mother would cook meals for you as a kid. That comforting feeling of knowing that everything would end up okay even if the current times are tough. 

A feeling you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope isn’t something you like to cling onto; you know at this point that hoping for something as supposedly inevitable as sleep is a waste of time. Some nights you’ll get lucky, the stars will align and you’ll fade into bliss as soon as your head hits the pillow, but those nights are so few and far between that they might as well be nothing but coincidences. It was much harder during the earlier days. Countless checkups, thousands of desperate Google searches and Reddit posts, downing melatonin like the next gummy could solve all your problems.

And yet, as the savory scent of chicken soup lingers closer, you can feel your eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Eunha says, nudging you gently. “The soup is gonna get cold if you don’t eat it now.”

“Right.” You sit up, finding yourself mere inches from her bright smile, the steam from the soup wafting in between you two. She brings a spoonful of the warming liquid to your lips, blowing on it first to cool it down.

“Open wide,” she says.

“I can feed myself.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Humor me for a sec. Besides, when’s the next time a pretty girl like me is gonna spoon feed you soup?”

You stifle a chuckle at her shamelessness, reluctantly parting your lips. The saltiness washes over your tastebuds, warming your entire body as the liquid slides down your throat. It’s the same cheap chicken soup you’ve eaten before when money was scarce, yet something about it feels different; like it’s healing your heart, not your stomach. Perhaps your illness is messing with your tastebuds, but whatever the reason, it tastes way better than it normally would.

“See, was that so hard?” Eunha teases. A buzz from her pocket interrupts her from giving you a second spoonful. “Sorry, I need to take this real quick, it’s my boyfriend.”

So she does have a boyfriend. 

“Yeah, go ahead,” you say, retrieving the bowl from her. She gives you an appreciative grin before walking over to the kitchen and answering the call.

Whatever goes on in Eunha’s personal life is her business, not yours. Yet, you can’t exactly stop your ears from catching onto glimpses of words, attempting to decipher some kind of meaning through the fog. None of it is coherent, but her disappointed sighs and harsh whispers don’t exactly paint a pretty picture—certainly not one you expect from a loving couple.

After a brief moment, Eunha walks back into the living room, her expression noticeably darker than before. The smile that she usually dons is jarringly absent and her eyes are glossy, as if she’s on the brink of tears.

“Sorry, um… I have to go,” she mutters, unable to meet your eyes. “I have to pick up my boyfriend, he’s, uh… been drinking again.”

You can’t help but feel worried at her sudden downtrodden look, unfamiliar on her face. “That’s alright. Will you be okay?”

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be fine.” She tries to put on a reassuring smile, but the look of dread dripping from her eyes and the lack of soul in her expression only leaves you more anxious than before. “He gets like this sometimes. It’s… nothing, really.”

An unfamiliar feeling grows in the pit of your stomach, an urge to provide some ounce of comfort. But this isn’t your place to intervene; that’s what you keep telling yourself, at least.

“I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow then? Or whenever you feel better.” Eunha quickly gathers her things and heads towards the door, but Yokai jumps in front of her.

“Bye, Yokai. I hope this isn’t the only time I see you,” she says, offering him a few gentle pets. Right before she disappears behind the door, Eunha looks back at you, holding an expression you can’t quite read. The door shuts with an audible click, and the vast emptiness of your apartment envelopes you once again.

Suffice to say, you don’t get much sleep that night.

______________________________________________________________

“So…” Eunha tilts her head to give you a better look. “What do you think?”

You shrug. “It’s… pink.”

Her lips curl into a pout, unsatisfied with your answer. “This is the first time you’ve seen me dye my hair and that’s all you can say?”

It’s another quiet night at the store, somehow quieter than usual. These late night chats with Eunha have become a sort of tradition between you two, a tradition you’ve grown decently fond of these past few weeks. Nowadays, she doesn’t even bother with the alcohol, instead simply asking you if you want to watch the stars with her. The chilly nights are still a bit bothersome, but the company more than makes up for it at this point. 

Conversations mostly consist of listening to her talk about things in her personal life, her school, her friends, and occasionally, her boyfriend. Sometimes she’ll ask questions about your own life. You try your best to answer, but frankly, you don’t consider there to be anything worth noting. She’ll pry a bit, but respects your choice to be quiet about these things. A gesture that you’ve come to appreciate.

“What am I supposed to say?” you ask her.

“Anything,” she says. “Whatever’s on your mind. I just wanna know what your opinion is.”

“But it’s your hair, why should my opinion matter?”

“Maybe it doesn’t, but that doesn’t make me any less curious.” She shifts herself towards you, giving you a good view of her new look. “So, tell me. What do you think?”

A loaded question for sure. You know better than to be too honest about these kinds of things, but you also know that she won’t be satisfied unless you put effort towards a real, honest answer. You lean in to better analyze her features, tracing every single detail of not just her hair but the visage that it crowns.

She’s cute, you think. You know. The bright pink of her hair brings out the porcelain of her skin, giving her the appearance of a doll, well crafted and loved by its creator. Every single feature is perfectly and meticulously placed, down to the spacing of her eyelashes and the angle of her nose. It’s no surprise the amount of stories she has about getting hit on in random places. Maybe if you had a bit more confidence and a bit less sense, you would’ve ended up like one of those stories. But you know better than to indulge those kinds of thoughts, especially one about a coworker.

“It looks… nice,” you utter after a moment of thinking.

Eunha softly chuckles to herself. “I guess that’s about as good of an answer I’m gonna get from you.” She leans back against her palms, releasing a deep breath into the night. “You’re pretty fun to talk to.”

You raise an eyebrow at her. 99% of your conversations consist of her talking while you listen and offer the occasional nod. She might as well be speaking to a brick wall with a conscience.

“I’m serious,” she says, laughing at your expression. “Y’know, a lot of girls like a guy that can listen as well as you do.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Her lips quiver in hesitation before speaking again. “Do you… have a girlfriend?”

You shake your head no.

“Boyfriend? Partner? I don’t judge.”

No again.

“Hmm…” She nods, her mind falling into deep thought. “That’s surprising.”

“Is it?” you argue. “If I remember correctly, you said I was ‘the least charming person you’ve ever met’.”

“That was a joke!” she exclaims. “I’m sure there’s someone out there that thinks you’re charming.”

You shrug, letting your gaze float to the stars in contemplation. You’ve had your fair share of relationships in the past, good and bad. You thought you would spend the rest of your life with the last girl, but as fate would have it, that just wasn’t in the cards for either of you. The days spent lazing in each other’s arms suddenly turned into nights where being in the same room was unbearable, and the minor quirks you once adored became the topic of all your shouting matches that punctuated the end of your relationship.

So now you’re here, working at a convenience store during the ungodly hours of the night and going home to a cat that likely wants you dead.

“That’s a possibility,” you say, not wanting to sound too nihilistic.

“Come on, give yourself some credit.” Eunha pats your shoulder supportively. “I’ve seen how some of the female customers look at you.”

You can’t help but grimace at her words. “They’re not really… my type.”

“Then what is your type?” she asks, eyes wide with intrigue.

Another loaded question, one that you honestly don’t know the answer to. Or perhaps, an answer that you don’t want to materialize, for fear of the can of worms it would open, so you take the easy way out.

“I don’t know. I’m not really interested in dating right now.”

“That’s lame, dating is… Well, it should be fun,” she says. A glimpse of something hides beneath her expression, nigh imperceptible if it wasn’t for that brief glint in her eyes. “I’m going to a club with my friends this weekend for my birthday, you should come! Maybe I can set you up with one of them.”

“No, absolutely not,” you adamantly refuse. A club is the last place you would ever want to go to on a weekend. Bumping against sweaty strangers in a cramped space while bass boosted garbage spews from the speakers isn’t your idea of fun.

“Please, it’s for my birthday!” she begs. “It’ll be fun, I swear!”

“Eunha.”

She clasps her hands together, pouting her lip and flashing you those large puppy eyes. “Please~”

You don’t consider yourself to be spineless or a pushover; the exact opposite, in fact. The less you do for others, the less issues you’ll have going forward.

But it is really, really difficult to say no whenever she gives you that face.

You sigh, averting your gaze to hide the blush creeping against your cheeks. “...What does your friend look like?”

Eunha squeals in delight, fishing her phone from her pocket. “Here.”

She hands you her phone, displaying a photo of a woman around your age. Long, wavy hair cascades perfectly down her shoulders, framing her delicate features, while a dress made of fiery purples and reds clings to her slim frame, giving her an air of class and maturity. A woman that’s, to put it bluntly, way out of your league.

“Her name is Yuju,” Eunha explains. “She’s really into music, and she takes pole dancing classes on the weekends. Pretty hot, eh?” 

“I suppose,” you say. “You think she’ll find me ‘charming’?”

“Ye—Hmm… I guess we’ll find out.”

Not reassuring in the slightest. You’ve gone and doomed yourself to a weekend of brushing backsides with the worst people you can imagine, people who have no regard for personal space or public perception, all for a woman you don’t know.

Well, not a woman you don’t know. It’s for Eunha’s birthday, after all. Her and those damn eyes.

______________________________________________________________

Eunha is good company. You like having her around, even if you’ll never admit that to her. She’s good—decent at her job, and in between the stench of hot dogs and the occasional rude customer, there’s comfort in knowing that there’s someone like her on this godforsaken planet.

You can’t say the same about her friends.

“Hey~!”

“OMG, you’re so tall!”

“Eunha, your friend is so handsome!”

Skip the pleasantries entirely, you’d rather be anywhere but here right now. They don’t even try to hide their early signs of intoxication as they sway to the muffled beats leaking through the walls of the club and onto the streets outside. Eunha, seemingly sensing your discomfort, stays by your side.

“They can be a handful at times, but they’re nice,” Eunha says.

“Eh… What about her?” You discreetly gesture towards one of her friends that’s been sending you death threats through a not-so-subtle glare the second you arrived.

“Oh, that’s SinB. She’s, uh… She’s friendly once you get to know her.” Eunha gives you a small yet reassuring grin, which honestly does little to comfort you. You appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

The line creeps ever closer towards the entrance of the club, signified by the trashy music growing louder with each step. Just a peek through the door and you’re already grimacing at the thought of having to spend a single second in this wretched haven of hedonism.

“Which one is Yuju?” you ask, trying to get your mind off of the impending dread building in your stomach.

“She’s running a little late, stuck in traffic.” Eunha smirks at you, waggling her eyebrows. “You excited to meet her in person?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I guess?”

She rolls her eyes at you. “Word of advice, try not to be too much of an emotionless robot in front of her.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the bass blasting from the speakers drowns out anything you try to say. Not like you can even think of a proper argument with how overwhelming everything is. 

As you follow Eunha deeper into the club, you instantly regret not making up some lame excuse at the last minute and bolting. You can barely take two steps without bumping into anyone, a task made more difficult with the lack of proper lighting and the disorienting stench of some unknown substance floating around. The smell emanating from the hot dog machine at work is more favorable to this.

“Here you go, girl!” one of Eunha’s friends exclaims, gesturing towards a seating area sectioned off with velvet rope. On the table sits a light up centerpiece reading “Happy Birthday, Eunha!” surrounded by an abundance of expensive-looking alcohol. Her friend must be loaded because there’s no way Eunha could afford any of this with a convenience store salary. Consequently, your present for her pales in comparison to this kind of extravagance.

“Oh my god!” Eunha squeals, hopping with excitement, “Thank you so much, this is insane!”

The way her face lights up with happiness almost makes coming here worth it. So, you do your best to endure, downing shot after shot with everyone else while trashy music bleeds into your brain. Eunha steals glances at you from the far end of the booth, offering an apologetic look as her rowdier friends bombard you with incoherent words and shot glasses overflowing with poison. You meet each look with a smile and a simple wave, yet it’s becoming an increasingly herculean task to not let the lingering burn of alcohol in your throat manifest itself onto your visage.

A woman with long wavy hair approaches Eunha, and the two pull each other into a giddy embrace, exchanging words and excited giggles. You can’t quite make out their conversation—not like you’re trying to eavesdrop—but with the way Eunha is pointing at you and the vaguely familiar silhouette of the other woman, you’d have to guess that she’s probably Yuju.

“Hello!” she hollers, her voice straining against the distorted thump of the speakers. “Are you Eunha’s friend?”

“Yeah.”

Yuju extends her hand towards you, sporting a polite grin. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

In any other scenario, maybe you could’ve had a decent conversation with her. Hell, maybe you could’ve even fallen in love with her. You’re not blind; she’s certainly an attractive woman. But in a place like this, where you’re constantly fighting the urge to up and leave, it’s impossible to try and form any kind of connection. And you genuinely try. More for Eunha’s sake than yours, but the attempt is still there.

Halfway through the barely discernible wall of words, you feel a pressure on your thigh. It creeps upwards slowly, inch by inch, stopping just shy of your crotch. Yuju bites her lip at you, her eyes half-lidded and heavy with seduction, leaning in until you can feel the heat from her breath against your ear. Thus far, you’ve been guessing her words and trying to formulate a response based on what you could lip read. But what she whispers into your ear rings true, like the whole world went silent just so you could hear her.

“Let’s cut the bullshit already and get to the fun part. I haven’t had dick in so long, I just need to feel you inside me.”

The rush of adrenaline sparked from her words alone leaves you reeling as you feel yourself being tugged around by this woman you just met, struggling to keep balance in the sea of faceless strangers. The sounds, the sights, the fucking everything about this place melts reality like goo seeping through your fingers, where the only constant is the fire in your windpipe and the sign for the women’s bathroom growing larger with each step.

This kind of spontaneity is probably good for someone like you. These days, you barely make an effort to make friends as it is, the thought of going out and actively trying to date didn’t even cross your mind until recently.  It’s not like the thought of having sex with Yuju doesn’t excite you a little, you are human after all. With all the bleak memories you have from your last relationship, maybe it’s time that you let it go and let something good happen to you for once.

But is this good? You’re about to have sex with a woman you just met, in the bathroom of a club of all places. Exciting, sure, but good? You don’t even have a condom on your person, and judging by her current state, it doesn’t seem like Yuju has one either. All you have is your wallet and Eunha’s gift.

Eunha.

By some act of divine intervention or your own instincts, your eyes snap to the middle of the dance floor. Through the sea of drunken silhouettes, you see Eunha, frozen against the continuous wave of moving bodies. Her smile is gone. There’s a man there, slowly encroaching on her. Maybe they’re just talking. Her friends are around, surely they can protect her if she’s in any danger.

But they’re not there. Most are still at the booth, inhaling bottle after bottle without a second thought, while one pulls you towards the bathroom, too horny to consider the consequences of her own actions. 

The man touches Eunha’s shoulder. She tries to swat him away, but he’s bigger than her. Much bigger. Like a vicious wolf cornering a poor rabbit.

Without another moment of hesitation, you break free from Yuju’s grasp, shoving your way through the crowd with complete disregard for everyone except Eunha. Most people will think you’re the biggest idiot for throwing away an opportunity with a woman like Yuju, but you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if you choose meaningless sex over the safety of your only friend.

You grab the man’s wrist, pulling Eunha behind you. “Get away from her,” you growl.

“Fuck off.” He tries to shove you aside, but you stand firm, refusing to budge in the slightest. You’re probably—no, definitely—a fool for trying to stand up to a guy built like a fridge. The scrawny guy at the store is nothing compared to this giant meathead. But as you feel Eunha cling onto the back of your jacket, her hands trembling in fear, you know that you’ll stand before the wolf time and time again to protect the poor rabbit.

Before things can get even more heated, you grab Eunha and make a dash towards the exit, knocking over a few people in the process. Even so, you don’t stop running until the cool air of the outside bites at your cheeks.

“Shit,” you pant, leaning against the wall of a neighboring building to catch your breath. “Are you ok—”

Eunha wraps her arms around you, pressing her face into your chest. Every breath she takes quivers like the last leaf on a dying tree, desecrated by a furious storm. All you can do is hold her, trying to provide some ounce of comfort as she sobs in your arms.

The world is cruel to you, a fact you came to terms with long ago. It’s stolen many of the things you held dear, leaving you to cling to the pieces left behind and try to rebuild your life out of nothing. You built walls, avoided people entirely, did everything you could do so you never have to feel that kind of pain again. And after all that, you’re left to simply exist. Survive. Not ‘live’ in the way people somehow wake up with the sun and breathe in the dawn of a new day with hope in their hearts. Just be.

And then Eunha came into your life, walking into the doors of the convenience store with her bubbly smile and boundless energy. All the time you’ve worked alongside her, listening to her greet every single customer with such enthusiasm, enduring her brutally honest criticisms of your personality, succumbing to her demands every time she flashes those damn eyes at you, she’s made you look at life differently, whether you liked it or not. She didn’t even have to chip away at your walls at all—you tore them down yourself and built a grand entrance into your soul just for her. Because you wanted to. Because you like the way she smiles like nothing bad could ever happen, you like how she manages to find the good in everything and everyone, and you like that she still wants to talk to you despite your brick wall of a personality.

To see her like this, breaking down in your arms, on her birthday of all days, is nothing short of soul crushing.

“Thank you for that,” Eunha murmurs, her voice tiny and fragile. “Um, can we go?”

“Sure,” you reply in a calming tone. “Where to?”

“Anywhere but here.”

The two of you wander the streets in silence, nothing but the muffled hum of faraway chatter and the occasional car passing by to keep you company. She stays deathly quiet, a state you’ve never seen her in. With everything that just happened, you don’t blame her, but you can’t help but feel chills at her solemn expression. It’s like the sun’s gone dark, leaving the whole world in a forever winter.

You pass by a 7/11, not thinking much of it, but Eunha stops underneath its glowing sign. “...You wanna drink?” she asks, giving you a small yet hopeful smile.

Alcohol is probably the last thing either of you need at the moment, yet you find yourself nodding anyway. It’s hard saying no to that face.

______________________________________________________________

Time ticks by at a pace more glacial than the frigid winds buffeting you as Eunha chugs down her second can of cheap beer, crumpling it in her hands as if to release all her pent up emotions inside. On a normal day, you would’ve found it a little funny, maybe even cute, to think that the living embodiment of a summer day has inner turmoil that she can only externalize through the crushing of an aluminum can. But on tonight of all nights, the shrill crunch becomes a harsh reminder that life’s cruelty shows no mercy.

“Are you okay?” you utter, unable to move your gaze from the ground. Of course it’s a stupid question—who would be okay after almost getting assaulted?—but, it’s a start, if anything.

“Um… I don’t know.” Her despondent voice is punctuated by the metallic crash of aluminum against concrete. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”

“I have time.”

Eunha inhales deeply, letting the chilling winds of the night fill her lungs, before breathing it back out into the elements. “No. I’m not okay, and I haven’t been for a long time. I know, it sounds a bit dramatic, but it’s just…” she sighs, “It’s just how I feel.”

“I don’t think you’re being dramatic at all,” you reassure her, earning an appreciative grin in response.

“Um… God, I really don’t know where to start with this,” she says, her face falling into her hands. “School has been kicking my ass lately, which isn’t that big of an issue in the shitstorm that is my life, but it’s there. Last week, one of my professors chewed me out for accidentally submitting the wrong file for an assignment, so I spent the entire day just crying in bed.” A small laugh leaves her nose at the fact, void of any humor.

“And then my friends. They’re great and I love them with all my heart, but they can be such a handful.” With each word, she sinks deeper and deeper into herself as the burden she’s been silently carrying threatens to end her. “Sowon—the tall one that paid for the table—she has a reputation for sleeping around campus, which is fine, I’m not gonna tell her what she can and can’t do with her own body. But her life is filled with so much drama, and I end up having to play therapist for her, and it just gets so exhausting.”

You nod in understanding, keeping silent as she spills out her grievances. It’s not a pleasant sight, but pain rarely is. This image that she’s built up for herself as this happy-go-lucky fairy of a person, the image that you’ve consumed without question because doing otherwise would be like the sky falling around you, tears itself down to reveal the ugly truth underneath: That she’s human. And all humans suffer, even the ones that you wish didn’t.

“You remember the night I came into work with my hair dyed?” she asks after a long pause, her gaze fixated on the crumpled can below. “I broke up with my boyfriend that morning. I just… couldn’t handle all the hurt and neglect anymore, so I left.”

The revelation comes as a shock to you, even if all the signs were there in hindsight. “I’m sorry to hear that,” you offer, nervously fidgeting with the tiny box in your pocket.

“Y’know, he always hated when I dyed my hair. Said I looked like a slut whenever I did it.” The word sounds so crass against her gentle voice, like a grisly wound on unblemished skin. You feel an unfamiliar anger boiling inside of you at the notion that someone would even think to hurt her.

“And with how things turned out tonight, maybe he was right—”

“Hey,” you lightly interject. “I don’t think you look like… that at all.”

Her dejection cracks a little, giving way to a small smile accompanied by the faint hum of a chuckle. “Thanks. Maybe if that other guy thought the same as you, I wouldn’t feel like this.”

With a deep breath, you retrieve the small box from your pocket and hand it to her. “Here.”

“What’s this?” Eunha takes the box from your hand, her brow raised in curiosity.

“Your birthday present. It’s not much, but… yeah. It’s not much.”

Tentatively, she opens it up, revealing a necklace with a rabbit pendant hanging from it. Her face lights up, and for a moment, you forget that she was ever sad in the first place. A newfound sense of determination wells within you, and something that you’ve kept hidden deep inside finally comes to light: you would do anything to protect that smile.

“This is so cute, I love it!” she remarks, fiddling with the chain as she tries and fails to put it on. “Uh, a little help?”

“Sure.” You take the necklace from her, and as she pulls up her hair to reveal the delicate skin of her neck, your hands begin to tremor nervously, making it nearly impossible to secure the necklace.

“Is everything alright back there?” she teases. “I can feel you shaking.”

“Y-yeah, no, it’s fine.” The stutter in your voice dashes any attempts at trying to sound natural. It’s a simple act, putting a necklace around your friend, but something about it feels so intimate, like the first hint of warmth after a long and arduous storm. Once you finally secure the clasp in place, a breath you didn’t know you were holding empties from your lungs.

“Thanks,” she says, admiring the rabbit pendant. “Thanks for everything, really.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“But you did something,” she reasons, her voice lilting with an air of melancholy, “You did a lot more than anyone else ever did for me.”

Eunha’s eyes wander upwards to the stars, the same ones you’ve spent nearly every night under, listening to her talk about everything and nothing all at once. Tiny blips of light a billion miles away, the only witnesses to your midnight conversations about the mundanities of life. To them, your little exchange of words seems small and meaningless, but to you, these talks with her mean everything.

“I’ll make sure to pay you back one day,” Eunha utters.

There’s no need. Your existence is more than enough.

______________________________________________________________

In a past life, you used to curse how consistently time seems to move without regard for anything else. After one of the worst nights of your life, how dare the sun have the audacity to rise up in the morning like your whole world hasn’t just collapsed? The lights peaking through your blinds felt like a big “fuck you” from the world. Everyone struggles, get over yourself, you lazy prick. Before you realized it, the negativity took up every corner of your mind, constant noise rattling around your head every second of your existence, bleeding into the nights that seemed endless as you could do nothing but stare at the ceiling.

But nowadays, those thoughts seem so long ago, like a vague memory. Maybe it hasn’t gotten easier to sleep, but it’s quieter now. Peaceful, even. It barely even occurred to you how much time has passed since then until a certain coworker of yours decides to remind you.

“Happy birthday!” Eunha pops up from behind the counter, donning a dingy party hat and holding a cupcake with a single lit candle embedded in it.

“H-huh? W-what—”

“Make a wish!” She pushes the cupcake in your face, a potential fire hazard if your hair was just an inch longer. Confused by the sudden onslaught, all you can do is stand there like an idiot, eyes tracing over the silly hat adorning her rosy head. It’s cute though.

“It’s your birthday, right?” Eunha pouts, reading your confused expression. “Or did the calendar lie to me?”

You pause for a moment, running the numbers in your head as you try to remember how much time has passed. “Right,” you utter, not quite meeting her eyes. “Yeah, it’s my birthday.” Without another word, you grab a broom and begin sweeping as a couple approaches the store, hoping their impending presence will get your mind off the topic. With how life has been going these past few years, it’s getting harder and harder to find a reason to celebrate.

Was. 

The gentle chime of the entrance rings throughout the store, yet Eunha’s cheerful greeting that usually follows is hauntingly absent, you nearly greet the customers yourself just to fill the unusual silence. Before you can check to see if she’s alright, you’re interrupted by a male voice.

“Hey, you know where the beers are?” the guy asks. You silently gesture towards the fridges, taking the opportunity to eye the couple. The girl seems generally unremarkable, not unlike the usual customer at this hour, but something about the guy feels oddly familiar, despite his face not matching anyone in your recent memory. Something about the way he drapes his arm carelessly over the girl like she’s an accessory rather than a person, or the way he doesn’t even bother to look through the tiny store for more than two seconds before asking for the answer just pisses you off. 

“Thanks, pal,” he says, clapping your shoulder in a way that feels anything but friendly as he passes by. Out of all the expletives, middle fingers, and death threats that have been thrown your way by people far worse than this guy, none of them have managed to strike such an anger-inducing chord with you as that simple pat on your shoulder. But why?

You look over at the counter to check on Eunha, only to find a lone cupcake and a party hat peeking out from behind it. “Are you alright?” you ask, brows furrowed as you peer over the counter at her. All you receive in response is a panicked look and a harsh “Shhh!”.

“Hey pal, can you ring me— Eunha?” The two of them lock eyes in some weird staring contest, while you and his girlfriend or whoever she is are left completely out of the loop. You glance back and forth between them, trying to gain some semblance of understanding in their eyes for what feels like an eternity, until it finally clicks in your head.

The hint of familiarity despite never meeting him and the abundance of bad vibes he exudes all make sense — he’s Eunha’s ex-boyfriend.

You hastily scan his pack of beers and his box of condoms. “$20.55.”

“Why don’t you go wait outside for me, babe?” you hear him whisper to his new girl, unashamedly staring at her backside as she saunters out of the store. Eunha sighs, standing up from her hiding spot and leaving the party hat to dangle sadly in between her fingertips.

“So,” he continues, not even sparing you a single glance, “You’re still working in this shit hole?”

“Yup,” she replies, gaze glued to the floor. “Gotta pay rent somehow.”

He scoffs. “If you just come back to me—”

“I’m sorry, what the fuck?” You freeze at her sudden outburst, not used to this side of her. “Are you seriously asking me to come crawling back to you after everything you fucking did!?”

“Look, babe—”

“Don’t fucking ‘babe’ me, you asshole!” Her breath starts to get heavier as tears well up in her eyes and her fingers turn white around the dainty string of the party hat. “And don’t you have a new girlfriend anyway!? What the hell is wrong with you!?”

“What, you mean her?” His head flings back in a guttural laugh at the insinuation that he would find himself in a committed relationship with his “new girl”. Hell, if things weren’t so tense, you would be laughing at that idea too. “She’s just who I’m banging for tonight since you fucking left!”

“For fuck’s sake,” she groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just pay for your shit and leave. Please.”

He scoffs. “Quit being a fucking bitch and—”

“If you leave now, I’ll let you have everything for free,” you interject, each breath heavy and quivering with anger. For the first time since this whole altercation, he acknowledges your presence and simply scoffs, eyeing the two of you back and forth. With a smirk, he grabs his things off the counter and backs away, chuckling to himself like there’s some kind of inside joke that neither you nor Eunha are a part of. As the door chime rings to signal his exit, you hear the huff of a harsh syllable underneath his breath that turns the next few moments into a vague blur.

“Slut.”

You’ve never considered yourself to be particularly athletic—average at best, but still decent enough to not be picked last during childhood games. Yet, as you grab the cupcake from the counter and haphazardly chuck it through the air, you swear that Shohei Ohtani himself would’ve been impressed at the accuracy of your pitch as it arcs perfectly and splatters against the back of that asshole’s head. You freeze in disbelief of your own actions, barely registering the pink frosting-covered look of rage stomping towards you.

Eunha pulls you out of the doorway and quickly locks the door before pulling you into the break room, away from the view of the windows. Banging glass and muffled expletives are soon replaced by the monotonous whir of the fluorescents as she shuts the door behind her.

“Oh my god, are you insane?!” Eunha exclaims, trying and failing to suppress a grin.

“I-I, uh… I don’t know. Probably.” A breathy chuckle escapes your lips. And then another one. Soon, you’re keeling over the floor in laughter, replaying the impact of the cupcake over and over in your head.

A second chorus of laughter mixes with yours in a symphony of hysterics as Eunha joins you on the floor. Your head starts to ache and your stomach grows sore, but the first bout of genuine joy you feel after years of nothing but cold isolation overpowers any kind of pain. 

Being here, in this moment with her, is the best birthday gift you’ve ever received.

______________________________________________________________

Even after the clock passes midnight and your birthday officially ends, Eunha still insists on doing something to celebrate. That sweet piece of payback against her ex was more than enough for you, but as always, it’s hard to say no when her eyes light up with so much excitement.

You wait in the solitude of your living room, with nothing but Yokai to pass the time. He purrs contently on your lap, being oddly well-behaved for once. Maybe he knows Eunha is coming and is in a better mood than usual. Are black cats telepathic?

As if on cue, he jumps off your lap and scurries towards the front door, a millisecond before a barrage of knocks and a muffled “Ayo!” sound off from the other side. It doesn’t take a genius to know who the owner of that voice is.

“Surprise!” Eunha exclaims, balancing a store-bought cake and a champagne bottle in her arms. 

“I’m not sure if it counts as a surprise if I know that you’re coming,” you joke, taking the contents from her arms.

“Yeah yeah, whatever you say, birthday boy.” Yokai impatiently nuzzles his head against Eunha’s leg, practically begging for her attention. “Well, hello again, cutie! Did you miss me?”

He purrs in response to getting showered by Eunha’s affection. You place the cake on the dining table and peer curiously at the champagne bottle, only to find the words “Sparkling Apple Cider” written in fancy gold lettering.

“Apple Cider?” you question.

“Yeah,” Eunha responds. “Did you want actual champagne or…?”

“No no, this is great.” You flash her a reassuring grin, which she returns in kind, punctuated by the cute swell of her cheeks.

“Phew, I’m glad. I thought I read you wrong for a second.” She plops comfortably onto your couch like she’s been to your apartment a thousand times before, Yokai swiftly taking his place onto her lap. “So, what do you usually do for your birthday?”

“Nothing, really,” you sheepishly admit. “If it wasn’t for you, I probably wouldn’t have remembered it was today.”

“Whaaat? That’s no fun.”

“Yeah, well…”

You trail off as the ghosts of your past come back to haunt you. Each year, the faces around the table seemed to become fewer and fewer until it was just you and the cat. Eventually, you just stopped bothering with it. It’s just another day, indiscernible from every other one. Sure, you could go on about why no one bothered to contact you, but It’s not like you’re completely blameless—why didn’t you reach out? Every night spent with your eyes forcibly pried open, you basically had all the time in the world to one, single message to anyone. And yet, you didn’t.

It’s your fault alone that things ended up this way.

You feel a soft pair of hands suddenly wrap around yours, forcibly pulling you out of the black hole in your mind that threatened to envelop you.

“Why don’t we make this one extra special then?” Without waiting for you to answer, Eunha pulls you towards the kitchen and pushes you down into a chair.

“What are you doing?” you ask, confused yet charmed by her usual antics.

“Just wait a sec,” she says, rummaging through your cupboards like a mouse looking for cheese. You watch in amused silence as she searches through every nook and cranny for… whatever it is that she needs. You can’t quite wrap your head around why she’s going through all of this effort, in the dead of night, for you of all people. You’re just her coworker in a dingy little convenience store.

Although, it’s hard not to feel insanely lucky when she turns to you with that impossibly bright smile that only you get the luxury of seeing.

“Okay, here we go!” Eunha exclaims, taking the plastic lid off of the cake and fiddling with a single match.

You tilt your head curiously. “Is that a—”

“I forgot to get candles and this is all that you have, alright?” she playfully snaps at you. Finally, once the match is lit, she places it gingerly in the center of the cake. “Make a wish, birthday boy!”

As you gaze into the small, singular flame before you, it dawns on you that you have no idea what to wish for. Money? A bigger house? The ability to have a good night’s sleep? Blowing out a silly little candle isn’t going to magically change your life overnight, no matter what the occasion is.

But as you look past the flame, you see Eunha gleaming back at you, waiting with bated breath for you to make that wish. The passion, the excitement, the hope swirling around in just her eyes alone sends a wave of warmth throughout your body that seeps deep into the fibers of your bones. A wish finally forms inside of your head.

You blow out the match, extinguishing the flame and letting your wish float into the air along with the smoke.

“Woohoo!” Eunha cheers. “What did you wish for?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you suddenly feel sheepish under her gaze. “I-I, uh—”

“Wait, don’t tell me!” she frantically interjects. “I forgot, if you say your wish out loud, it won’t come true!”

A chuckle brushes past your lips. If there’s even a tiny chance that what she said is true, then you’ll gladly take a vow of silence just to keep your wish close to your heart.

Eunha cuts two generous slices of cakes for the both of you while you pour the sparkling cider into mismatched mugs - the only drinkware you have that even comes remotely close to fitting the occasion. Your apartment becomes enveloped in a comfortable silence, save for Yokai’s content purring on the couch and an occasional “Mmm” from Eunha in-between mouthfuls.

As you peer to the side, you notice a small glob of frosting on the corner of her lips. “You have a little something here,” you chuckle, gesturing to the area. She tries to wipe it off, but somehow completely misses the mark.

“No, it’s still there,” you say, unable to hold back a smirk at her failed attempt. Without thinking, you reach out and gently wipe the frosting from the corner of her mouth with your thumb. The soft warmth of her cheek sends a jolt through your body, and only then do you realize just how close you are. Her eyes widen slightly in surprise, but she doesn’t pull away. For a moment, time seems to stand still as you gaze into the deep obsidian of her irises, your thumb still lingering on her lips.

Eunha’s cheeks flush a rosy pink that mimics her hair, and you quickly retract your hand, clearing your throat awkwardly. “Um, got it,” you mutter, avoiding her gaze.

“Thanks,” she says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

The air between you feels charged, as if closing the distance even a little bit would shock you. You steal a glance at her and find her doing the same, quickly turning away after a mere whisper of eye contact. For that split second, you notice her eyes shimmering with an emotion that you can’t quite place. The silence stretches on, growing heavier with unspoken words.

Eunha breaks the tension first with a soft chuckle. “So, uh, how was your birthday? Sorry I couldn’t do much more than this.”

“N-no, it’s fine. I thought it was great, actually,” you admit, a small grin tugging at your lips.

“Yeah?” she says, beaming at you. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

She stands up and begins to gather her things. “I should probably head home now. It’s getting—well, I guess it’s already late.”

A pang of disappointment hits your chest. “Right.”

Each step feels like you’re wearing cinder blocks as you walk her to the front door. Yokai perks up from his spot at the couch, mimicking your own feelings of panic as Eunha nears the exit. Why are you acting like this? You’ll see her at work tomorrow. Despite your attempts at rationalizing, the growing urge to stop her is becoming harder and harder to ignore.

As she takes a step outside of your apartment, she turns to you. For a moment, she simply gazes into your eyes. You can’t quite read them—it’s hard when you’re too distracted by how unbelievably pretty they are—but it feels like she’s waiting. Waiting for you to say something, maybe? With the thumping of your heart growing louder in your ears, the ability to focus suddenly becomes an uphill battle.

“I, uh, I had fun tonight.”

You take a breath. “Y-yeah, me too.”

“I guess I’ll see you at work then?” Her voice lilts up, as if she’s asking a question. A loaded question, even. An answer sits on the tip of your tongue, desperately waiting to be heard by her ears. Just a couple words, and yet it feels like overlooking a cliff with no end in sight. A free fall into new, terrifying territory.

But, as you’ve learned time and time again, it’s hard saying no to that face.

“A-actually,” you begin, your voice almost getting caught in your throat, “it’s late and it might be unsafe tonight, so… I was wondering… do you want to stay the night?”

If you had more than just pure adrenaline pushing you forward, you could’ve probably used a better choice of words. Something smoother and less uncertain. Something more charming, as Eunha would put it. But all of these thoughts sink to the back of your mind when you’re suddenly attacked by the softest lips you’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Like muscle memory, your hands wrap around Eunha’s delicate waist, gently pushing her into the door until it shuts with an audible click. 

All the second guessing, the worrying, the negativity, everything is completely thrown out the window as you sink into her lips. You let yourself get lost in her touch, pulling her close to you like she’s your matching puzzle piece. In the midst of needy touching and sharp breaths, a wave of calmness washes over you. Like all of this is meant to be.

“W-wait…” Eunha gently pushes you off of her, worry filling her expression.

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “Do you not want thi—”

“I do want this. I want you, more than you could ever imagine, but I just…” she sighs, her grip on your shoulders weakening slightly. “I really like working at the store and talking to you every night and feeling like my life isn’t a constant trainwreck. I need that consistency in my life. If we do this, no matter what happens tonight, I need you to promise me that nothing will change between us.”

She looks up at you with desperate, pleading eyes. You know, probably more than anyone, just how much pain she holds inside, invisible to the outside world. The two of you are alike in that way. The only difference is that she kept on trying to live despite her scars, while you stopped trying because of them.

“I’m not a perfect person by any means,” you start softly, gently caressing her cheek. “Before I met you, I felt like I was barely even human. I was just a body without a soul, wandering aimlessly. But then, I met you and everything changed.”

Eunha sinks her face into your hand, peering at you with those damn eyes. You’ve seen them light up like fireworks during her highest highs and pour like a perilous storm during her lowest lows, but you’ve never once seen them completely empty, void of any emotion. For once, you feel hope that things can get better, and she is the living, breathing reason why.

“Whenever I’m with you, nights don’t feel as cold and the stars seem to shine brighter than I thought was possible,” you continue. “Breathing becomes easier and I laugh harder than I ever have before. Life doesn’t just become bearable—it becomes enjoyable. And that’s all because of you.”

As your words linger in the gap between lips, you feel the haze that clouded your mind for so long finally lift, making way for light to shine through. A pure, warming light with pink hair and porcelain skin and cheeks like puffed up marshmallows.

“I take back everything I said before,” Eunha says with a smirk. “That was the most charming thing I’ve ever heard.”

Before you even have time to roll your eyes, she’s kissing you again with a newfound passion. You’re quick to follow her lead, running your hands over the curves she’s been hiding underneath her work uniform and taking mental notes of the spots that produce a cute moan. Each sensation feels like a spark of lightning being shot through your veins, driving your every movement. You want—no, need to please this woman, show her exactly just how much she means to you.

With all the adrenaline in your system, you end up pinning Eunha against the front door with an audible thud. “Someone’s eager to get things going,” she teases, short-breathed and rosy-cheeked.

“How can I not be when you’re so—”

“MRRAAOOOUWWWW!!!” Yokai cries out, his yellow eyes full of judgement as he looks at your crude display of affection from the couch. Attention whore.

Eunha chuckles. “Maybe we should—”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” 

You take her hand and practically drag her to the privacy of your bedroom, her excited giggles trailing behind you. As soon as the door shuts behind you, Eunha is already laying on your bed, resting comfortably as if it were her own.

“Got room for one more?” you quip.

“If it’s you, definitely.”

With an easy smile, you make your way towards her, fingers grazing up her thighs to her toned stomach and around the sensuous curve of her bosom before resting right next to her head. The moonlight peaking through the window illuminates her eyes, allowing you to see the passion and the neediness aimed directly at you.

“You’re so beautif—mmf!“

Eunha suddenly claps her hand over your mouth. “Listen, you’re very cute, but I desperately need you to take my clothes off. Now please.”

You waste no more time, diving into the crook of her neck and producing a yelp from her throat as you pepper it with kisses. Excitedly, your hands slip under her shirt to massage her full breasts. You’d be lying if you said you never imagined it would be like to cup her breasts, but actually getting to feel them in your hand is a different sensation entirely. So soft yet so firm, and perfectly bouncy. By the noises she’s making, it’s safe to assume that she’s enjoying this just as much as you are.

Eunha reaches down and strokes the outline of your cock through your jeans, her movements fueled by a primal lust. “Oh my god, I can already tell you’re so much bigger than my ex. Please, I need you inside me right fucking now,” she begs, already fidgeting with your belt.

You chuckle, not used to her lovely voice spewing out such heinous demands. Whatever the princess wants, she’ll get.

Loose clothing begins to decorate your room while a symphony of pleasurable cries and wrinkling fabric accompanies the scene. Moonlight casts shadows on your walls, depicting the beautiful act of debauchery taking place. This room, which only harbors memories of dreadfully sleepless nights, becomes a haven for you and Eunha to begin something new and wonderful.

“Can’t believe I almost let Yuju have all of this for herself,” she giggles, eyeing your length as it nears her dripping sweetness. 

You lean down to briefly take her lips in yours, running your hands over her now unclothed body, bare in all its glory. “I don’t wanna think about any woman other than you right now,” you say in a low, growly tone.

“Mmm, good answer.” Eunha abruptly wraps her legs around your waist. “Now fuck me, birthday boy.”

Your cock drags against her folds, lubricating it with her juices. You feel her shiver underneath you as you lightly graze against her clit. She’s so beautiful. Completely exposed and vulnerable, all for you. With a single movement of your hips, you enter her honeypot, the two of you sharing a moan as the tip slides in. 

“Shit,” you groan, drawing in a heavy breath, “We forgot a condom—”

“We work at a convenience store, we can just get a Plan B tomorrow!!” Eunha snaps before donning an apologetic look. “Sorry, I just mean—”

You interrupt her with a peck on the lips, smirking at her. “I know what you meant. I’ll shut up now.”

Pure instinct takes over as you begin to buck your hips into her, years of pent up energy and the desire to make her feel loved fueling each thrust. The crescendo of her voice every time your bodies meet is a tune like no other, and you do everything in your power just to hear that noise again and again and again and again. Sink your fingers into the meaty flesh of her thighs, lap at her perky tits, pin her arms over her head so her only choice is to succumb to the overwhelming sensation of lust.

“Perfect” doesn’t even begin to properly describe Eunha. From her bubblegum optimism that managed to melt your cold heart to the velvety tightness of her pussy as she takes you in so fucking well, there aren’t enough words in existence to explain just how much she means to you. So instead, you do your best to deliver the message through every movement. The fire in your pelvis as you fuck her heat, the soreness of your tongue as you worship every inch of her body, everything you do is testament into making sure she knows just how much you mean to her.

Love her in a way that her ex could never do.

Love her until all the pain and suffering she went through is forgotten.

Love her the way you’ve been unknowingly aching for her since the moment you laid eyes on her. Repay her for all that she’s done just by existing.

“K-keep going! Just like that!” she groans, the grip of her pussy tightening with each second. You do as she says, fucking her at the pace that she likes and hitting every spot that produces that oh-so-pretty noise from her lips. With how amazing she feels, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the building feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“Eunha…”

She grabs your face, forcing you to look at hers. “Inside me, baby. Please. I need to feel you. I want to feel you.” She peers at you with those eyes, glimmering with the light of a full moon, and pleads for you to stay inside her. How silly. Why would you beg when I would give you the whole world at the drop of a hat?

In one final thrust, you climax in her arms, wave after wave of pleasure rushing through you. Eunha shoves her face into the crook of your neck, a guttural moan escaping her lips as she experiences her own orgasm. Months of working alongside her and getting to know her, culminating into a beautiful moment of release for the both of you—and this is only the beginning.

“H-holy… shit…” Eunha pants, tracing lazy circles on your shoulder. “That was… better than I could have ever imagined.”

“Are you saying you’ve imagined this before?” you tease.

“What, you think I’m gonna work with someone that’s as sweet and as awkwardly-cute as you and not occasionally think about fucking him?” she retorts with a smirk. 

The both of you share a laugh in each other’s arms, bathed in the moonlight and sweat of passion. Before long, the exhaustion of today’s events gets to the both of you, and you feel your eyes grow heavier and heavier—a sensation you haven’t felt in a long time. A final kiss marks the beginning of many more nights to come. Nights where the shadows are still and the morning becomes a moment to look forward to.

[yukioos]

APOCALYPSE

SUMMARY: jayce talis x reader // after dealing with much criticism from heimerdinger and complaints from viktor about hextech, he finally walks home and ends his day peacefully lying on your chest.

AUTHORS NOTE: hi guys! i’m working on a viktor x vampire reader fic so that’ll probably come out this or next week. happy holidays, have a good day! this is 1.6k words

WARNINGS: not proofread, angst, jayce is going through a lot, depression, stress, anxiety, reader n jayce are married, pet names, reader is referred to as ‘mrs.’ and ‘wife’

jayce had to sit in a room and listen to heimerdinger criticize and critique his work for three hours. three whole hours were spent listening to him complain about hextech, and the professor wouldn’t let the scientist utter a single word. eventually, he just tuned out the sounds and words from the elder, and instead tried to think about you, his wife.

most of his days were spent thinking about you anyway. but sometimes your relationship would go through rough patches because of how little time jayce was at home. you understood he couldn’t be home all the time, he was a scientist, after all. the city of piltover heavily depended on him, and you knew this put major stress on the man.

sometimes he would become distant, and you would become worried for him and his health. days without hearing a word from your husband were common, you became accustomed to it. because of this, you cherished your days with him, and continue to do so whenever you encounter him.

jayce didn’t know how much of an impact he had on you by not being in your life as often as he wanted to. you were everything to him. you were the reason he did everything for piltover, it was all to protect you.

but he didn’t know how unhealthy it was for him to skip meals and hardly get any sleep just to keep the city safe. he knew the city wouldn’t be as developed without him, but he always felt the need to do better. when heimerdinger critiqued his work constantly, he began to feel overwhelmed and anxious with every step he took, in fear of not pleasing someone.

he once snapped at viktor for incorrectly solving a formula used for the hextech. unfortunately, he hadn’t noticed how agitated he had become because he was too focused. he began to hate himself more and more with every mistake he made and overworked himself past his limits.

as the days passed, you hardly heard from jayce. worry clouded your mind, and your heart raced quickly once your phone rang. you picked it up and glanced around your bedroom.

“um, hello?” you stuttered, seeing professor heimerdinger’s contact on the screen. you tilted your head and thought to yourself why the professor would be calling you at this time, at eleven at night.

“ah, mrs. talis! i wish we could speak on better terms, it is nice to speak to you again. however, eh, your husband has… collapsed. i was wondering if you could bring him back to your residence once we wake him up?” his chirpy voice seemed duller than usual, with a hint of dissatisfaction. he glanced at viktor, who gave him a halfhearted smile as he continued pacing around the room.

“wh— huh? i’ll pick him up but why has he passed out? i’m confused, professor, is he—”you began to ramble, overthinking all the scenarios that could have happened to your loved one. he hasn’t come home in days, you should’ve been at the academy with him. you should’ve been by his side, maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you were.

“please, mrs. talis, do not worry. i believe he hasn’t slept for a healthy amount of time, so he just passed out. no biggie, do not feel frightened for him. he is okay, he may just be… taking a power nap.” another voice is heard on the other end of the line, and the professor pauses, “ah, i apologize. i must leave now, as i have more work to do. please head over to the academy and pick him up. thank you, goodbye!” he replies, speeding up his words near the end of the call. he hangs up, leaving you with unanswered questions.

you slowly take the phone away from your ear and stare at the frame on your nightstand. it’s a photo of you and jayce getting married, and he looked as handsome as ever. tears were visible on both of your faces, mascara ran down your cheeks. it was the happiest day of both of your lives.

you really hoped he was okay.

when you arrived at the academy, you walked up to the professor’s lab, as you had studied there years ago. your heels clacked against the tiled floor, having to use a flashlight to see through the dark hallways. you gently knocked on the professor’s door and were met face-to-face with jayce’s lab partner, viktor.

“hello, mrs. talis. it is nice to meet you. as the professor also said, i wish it were under different circumstances.” he smiled and turned his head toward jayce, who ashamedly looked down at the ground. heimerdinger was gently speaking to him, but it seemed as if jayce wasn’t listening, like he was in his own headspace.

he had dark eyebags and had lost weight, his skin became more pale and ghostly. it was clear he wasn’t taking care of himself.

your eyebrows turned upwards, and you slowly approached your husband with worried eyes. heimerdinger cleared the path to him and nodded, permitting you to speak to him.

“jayce, sweetheart,” you mumbled, looking up at his form as he sat on the stool, you bent down so his eyes would look at yours. you brought your manicured hand up to his face and rubbed his cheek.

“we’re gonna go home, okay? you gotta take a break,” you persuaded, continuing to comfortingly rub his pale cheek. it was always one of the things that made him feel warm and cared for.

he nodded and mumbled an, “okay,” before slowly standing up and waiting for you to lead him outside. you gently placed your hand in his, and he weakly curled his larger hand around yours. you mouthed a ‘thank you’ to viktor and heimerdinger, then walked the path toward your shared house.

once the two of you arrived, jayce slipped his shoes off, and you did as well. you lead him up to your bedroom, where you suggested he’d properly sleep for at least eight hours.

the both of you slipped off your clothes and changed into comfortable ones, but what bothered you was that jayce hadn’t said a word since you brought him to the house. so when you dimmed the lights and laid on your side of the bed, you were surprised to see jayce hadn’t curled up into your side yet. he was normally a cuddle bug, but maybe he’s changed.

his eyes looked sullen as he stared at the ceiling. he sighed and turned his head towards you without a smile or word, staring deep into your soul, as if he was trying to tell you something.

you could guess what he was thinking, so you opened your arms up to him. he slowly moved to your side of the bed, and laid his body on yours. he let out a large sigh and perfectly laid his head on your chest. his breathing suddenly became more relaxed once you began to scratch his scalp, a gesture he loved ever since you two settled into a romantic relationship.

you began to feel cold drops of liquid on your chest, ones that you could only guess were tears. when you glanced down, you saw him biting his trembling lip. his body was shaking and holding onto you for dear life, and your heart broke at the sight. you would never want your husband to feel whatever he must’ve been feeling at that moment.

“jayce, baby, what’s wrong? i’m getting worried about you,” you mumbled, tilting his head up with your free hand. he began to let out sobs and whimpers, trying to hold them back but failing miserably. his walls broke down just at the caring words from his wife.

“‘m sorry ‘m not good enough,” he gasped, trying to take in more air. you and his mother always told him he was perfect, that he didn’t need fixing. hell, he even started telling others that, but he never would’ve believed he would’ve stopped thinking he was good enough for himself. his world came crashing down, all the stress plummeted to his heart, and in his lover’s arms.

“jayce, you’re perfect. you’re good enough for me, you’re good enough for the city, you should be good enough for yourself. you’re amazing, do you even know how much you’ve done for this city? you should be proud of yourself, honey!” you praised, causing his whimpers and sobs to become quieter, as he felt loved by your words.

“do you have an idea on how to not… dive into the headspace you’re in again?” you asked, wanting him to have control over the situation. maybe he would feel a bit better that way.

“can you make that decision for me?” he mumbled, not wanting to think too much. he just wanted to rest on your plush chest, with your warm arms trapping him in your hold.

you giggled, “mhm. how does a couple of days or a week off work sound? i’m sure the professor would let you have a break, baby. you need it.” you felt a smile and nod against your chest, and glanced down to see his almost asleep figure. his grip on your body became loose, even as his hand lingered on your thigh.

you were glad he was back home and safe. hopefully he would feel better and take it easy by the time he got back to working on the hextech.

even though he was almost asleep, you murmured soft praises to the man, including quiet ‘i love you’s,’ hoping it eased his mind. he fell asleep happy and peacefully in your arms, knowing he was loved and perfect in your eyes.

[tammyu-2]

hiiii. can you write hc for the turtles (if you do) for femreader with large breasts, like larger than normal, and has neck, shoulder, back pains, etc. with either rise or 2012 pleaseeee?? feel free to ignore, loves ya<33

Oookey however I won't do Mikey. I hope that's okay with you

2012 TMNT WITH A S/O THAT HAS BIG BOOBS

Some vulgar innuendos, sorta perverted on raphs side, trying to make this kinda pg but not that much, swearing, feminine pronouns

Let's hop right into it!

LEO

When Leonardo first caught had his eye on you he didn't really think much of it. He wasn't really the type to go for those physical attributes and more or less your smile would catch him before your tatas.

I think if he gets to a point where his crush is so bad then he will probably fantasize you with your boobies. Like full on dreaming about holding you as he used your built in pillows while you cuddle watching his favorite action show.

When you two stated dating it's a bit more..noticed. Especially since you often jump around whenever you see him because your excited to see your boyfriend. And since you've grown to ignore your jugs bouncing you barely take note... Leo however prays for forgiveness at even the slightest peak that happens to last longer than 10 minutes.

"Leo my eyes are up here."

Leo calmly looks up at you as if he hadn't felt like he was sinning hard as hell right now

"That is exactly what I'm looking at starlight.."

Whenever you wear boob windowed tops of revealing cleavage outfits it doesn't go unnoticed. He tends to be more clingy with you without trying to. It's just a natural response for him!

However, as much as you were blessed- it also had its flaws. Like the endless amount of back pain, you felt like you were a camel in the dessert carrying a heavy ass man. You tend to complain about it alot and Leo does small things like leaving extra pillows on the couch before you arrive and asking you to lie on your back alot when cuddling him. He makes sure there's heating pads at your disposal and little things like that.

"We all set for movie night?"

"...can I have another pillow-"

Not even waiting for the words to finish falling from your mouth. Leo tucks a fluffy pillow under you.

"Better?"

"Much."

He avoids touching them out of showing respect for you. Even if you say it's fine- this baby boy is NOT doing that. His papa raised a gentleman.

DONNIE

When Donnie first had his eye on you ofcourse he took in everything about you. That includes your girls. I feel like he would be the type to draw overly dramatic anime styled sketches of him saving you with you tatas doubled. When you jump? Honey listen to me.. when you feet touches the ground so does the back of his head...

They jumpscare him. Like he could be not paying attention and you appear out of nowhere and he visibly jumps at the sight of them suddenly entering his peripheral vision.

When you two start dating he is still the way he is. Just toned down. Like he is still overly flustered when they jiggle alot and he is still blushes madly at the mere MENTION of them. But he is controlled a little to a different degree.

If you wear cleavage revealing outfits then you best believe his nose be bleeding every single time. Even if it's the same outfit you wore 3 times in a row. He is GONE. If he ever gets the chance he will sit down and praise then for an hour and a half- summarized.

If you complain about your pain of having constant melons to carry around like a pregnant lady but longer than 9 months. Then our little genius will get to work. He will create gadget and gizmos. He will also leave around body pain medication and heating pads for you. He will also give you snacks thinking that sometimes it might be your menstrual cycle.

"Vuala! I present to you this magnetic gift for you darling!"

"Donnie this is a corset?"

"Not just any corset but the world's first ever comfortable corset. It is embroidered with built in cushioning along with a flat like table to rest your....assests on to. Gently gving you stylish fashion AND giving you comfort that a bra could do but better!"

".... WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU IN THE VICTORIAN ERA-"

Please let him sleep on them... he litrally is on cloud 9- like it's marshmallows but better. He would 100% Hint at it because he's too shy to ask upfront ot he will go full on 2018 Y/N on you.

"C-c-c-c-a-a-"

"Just lie down Donnie.. "

RAPH

We all know where this is going right? It's bright as day. The first that caught him about you were your little friends, thing 1 and thing 2, and he is SHAMELESS. You guys aren't even dating and he is relentless with it.

"I have a secret talent."

"Oh yeah what's that?"

"I can guess any girls bra size all you have to do is just jump"

"I'd rather jump off a bridge."

"Can I record it atleast? We can do it like a topless-"

"RAPH SHUT UP!"

Your taste is questionable. And you two end up dating. Now it gets worse because before it was sorta empty promises. Now there's nothing TO promise cause he knows he can anyway.

He will wrap his arm around you wast and just grab them like stress balls. He will put his face in it after a long day of being a ninja. He will just grab one to feel the warmth of it.

He cat calls you whenever you wear revealing clothing that show of the powerpuffgirls. Like full on construction worker type cat calling. He will get you attention and just stare. Your eyes are up where? No silly they are down here.

Whenever you have pain her doesn't know what to do cause he normally isn't good with being sympathetic. So he asks april bluntly which leaves him with a slap to the face and a scolding on manners. He will get you heating pads and pain meds but that's all. Other than ofcourse-

"Ugh my back is sore.."

"You want me to hold them for you?"

I don't feel comfortable doing Mikey sorry...

Hope you guys enjoyed that I'm going to try post 2 more but here is some food for yall. Once I finish Monkie Kid I will add that onto my masterlist and you guys will now have the option of request cookierun kingdom!

Okay baiiiii

~Tammy<3

Not proofread

[bigmasterpiece4444]

Success Story

Even though I’ve manifested many things, when they actually happen, it still feels like a dream. Lately, I haven’t been sleeping well, and I usually clean my house during the early hours of the morning because I enjoy doing it while listening to music.

This morning (after spending the whole night cleaning), I took a shower and laid down to rest. In that moment, I thought, “Some biscuits are about to arrive” (I was thinking about a breakfast promo at a restaurant I really like). Then I thought that after that, I would shift into my desired reality.

I went to ask my mom if she could take me to get them, but she said no because it was too early. I got really upset (not at her of course, I love my mom) but at the universe, for making me feel like my manifestations never come true. I felt like my plans were ruined and that I wouldn’t shift into my desired reality. So I went back to my room (very annoyed) and started watching a show.

When I started getting sleepy, I turned on the fan (I live in one of the hottest cities in the world, probably in the top five. Here, 45 degrees Celsius is normal and in August it can go above 48). At that moment, while thinking about how hot it would be later, I told myself, “What are you talking about? It doesn’t get hot in my city,” and I fell asleep.

The day before, I had told my parents and my sister that there would be rain and cloudy skies. I said that because the only way it cools down in my city is when it gets cloudy (which almost never happens, since I live in a desert where it rains maybe once a year). Nearby there was a hurricane that later became a tropical storm, and I felt really bad because there’s a hurricane so close, and in a way I manifested it or at least shifted to a reality where it’s happening.

Three hours after I had fallen asleep, my parents came into my room with a burger from the same restaurant I wanted the biscuits from (and honestly, it was even better because I like burgers more). They told me, “Remember when you said it was going to rain and be cloudy? Well, there’s actually a tropical storm nearby right now.” That means the next few days will be cloudy.

I couldn’t believe it. Everything felt so fast and random (like a dream). And to top it all off, the day before I had also thought about how I wanted new colored pencils and oil pastels. Later on, my dad came and asked if I wanted something as a gift for my good grades, and without hesitating, I told him that’s what I wanted. Honestly, the universe always ends up shutting me up in the best way.

It’s funny how, the moment my mom said no, I started complaining to the universe, completely doubting my ability to manifest anything. That same morning, while I was scrolling on Tumblr, I saw a post from someone on day nine of the @hrrtshape challenge (When I started having intrusive thoughts, I quickly stopped them and said, NO, I’ve already decided that I always manifest everything I want. So I thought I’d follow this day four challenge a bit since that’s where I left off. And honestly, I think everything worked. Thanks to @hrrtshape because you really changed my thinking). I felt sad thinking I didn’t start on day one. I thought everyone else would shift successfully after the two weeks and I wouldn’t, just because I didn’t follow the challenge exactly. But then I reminded myself that I can manifest what I want instantly. I don’t really work well with routines. I’m spontaneous and I like to improvise. It’s really hard for me to stick to one strict routine from start to finish, and honestly, that’s okay too.

Believe me, it is absolutely easy to manifest something because reality works based on your thoughts (and I have proven that myself). Just think about one thing and in the next few hours or days, you will start to see many things related to it. You don’t need anything more than to snap your fingers.

The only limit that exists is your own belief that something is holding you back. Even in that state, the law is still working.

[beelinx]

heyyaaa! If you have time in ur schedule, could you please do ‘protective boyfriend’ head-cannons or a blurb for Tsukishima and Osamu? (I humbly ask of you if you’re able to and if you can Matsukawa or Tendo as well😔🙏ONLY IF YOU WANT TO THO)

remember to drink water heh

haikyuu men as protective bfs <3

ft. tsukishima, osamu, matsukawa, and tendou !

note: honestly it was sm fun to write this, but i think most of this is ooc and over exaggerated 😭 anyways chat think of this as a new year's gift ! 🥳 warnings: annoying men... mention of tits in osamu's. use of babe, bitch, and prude in tendou's. use of babe in matsukawa's. ooc tendou and matsukawa probably 😖 fem!reader !!

✧｡ kei tsukishima

going to your boyfriend’s volleyball matches was always a fun experience. the electricity and passion some players exuded was truly contagious. 

also, you got to see him being all hot and sweaty.

definitely an amazing time!

everyone in the sendai frogs were always incredibly welcoming to you, too. his teammates even ask about you when you’re not there (or, at least that’s what tsukishima tells you). regardless of whether or not he’s telling the truth, you would say you do feel truly welcome and comfortable around there.

today was match day. you made sure kei had everything ready, though it’s not like he’s the type to be forgetful or anything. still, he lets you fuss over him all you want without uttering a complaint (which you know must have been truly difficult for him).

once you got to the location where his team would be playing, he bid you goodbye with a short peck on the cheek. his teammates waved to you, too. there were two new teammates, just as kei had told you. you recognized kentaro from highschool, and though he still had the same grumpy attitude, he was nice enough to you. the other guy, though… you had no clue who he was.

settling on a seat with a decent view of the match, you prepared yourself for the exhilarating time you were probably about to have.

and that you did.

the sendai frogs won 2-1, and you really couldn’t have been happier. well, actually, it felt as if you were about to have a heart attack throughout the duration of that whole game. everytime kei jumped up to block a powerful spike you felt your heart jump. you imagined any doctor would think you’re close to having your heart malfunction.

you basically raced out of the audience seats, already ready to jump into your boyfriend’s arms and congratulate him with many kisses and hugs that he will probably complain about. whatever —he can mutter all the complaints he wants about pda and stuff, but you’re too happy to not smother him with love.

one problem, though.

you could not find him anywhere.

no matter, you figured he was probably in the changing room or something. you could just wait outside for him for a bit, and if he didn’t come out, you’d go look for him.

meanwhile, tsukishima was trying his hardest to not blow up at his new teammate.

“is she your friend, then?” he asked him. it was probably his 100th question regarding you at this point, and he was well past his tolerance limit.

“no.”

“so… your sister?”

tsukishima scoffed, you two didn’t even look alike. “no.”

“jeez, no need to be so harsh, dude. i just think she’s hot,” the guy stated, while changing into a clean shirt.

koganegawa, who’d been listening in, cheerfully piped up. “well, she’s his girlfriend! so i don’t think tsuki appreciates that very much.”

the guy’s eyes widened. “oh. i didn’t know dude, my bad.”

tsukishima cast him a cold glare and resumed changing without another word.

you were getting antsy waiting for him. what is taking him so long? you were bored. well, you figured enough time had passed that it’d be okay for you to go looking for him, so you did. but, while you were heading his way, you bumped into a man.

“oh! i’m so sorry! i was distracted,” you apologized deeply.

“it’s no problem, really. i-” the man said, before stopping abruptly.

“...is something the matter?” you asked, noticing the way the man’s wide gaze roamed over you.

a sudden grin appeared on his face, his expression resembling one of someone who’d just won the lottery ticket. 

“you’re absolutely gorgeous.”

you sputtered, taken aback by his directness. “oh uh… thank you?”

“can i have your number?” he asked, smirking at you.

“i have a boyfriend so uh…”

“awe come one, he doesn't have to know, right?” he chuckled. suddenly, you recognized the man in front of you. this was tsuki’s new teammate, the one you didn’t know anything about. he saw you with tsuki before the match, so why would he be asking you out? surely he knew you were his teammate's girlfriend?

“come on, just your number, yeah?” he persisted. “you’re allowed to have friends, aren't you?”

you laughed awkwardly, “well i um…”

“move.”

your boyfriend's harsh voice saved you from answering. the guy’s head snapped back, towards his teammate who was now towering over him. he suddenly seemed incredibly flustered, as if he hadn’t been expecting to be caught.

“oh, sorry man. i was just-”

“hitting on my girlfriend?”

“n-no! we were just talking, right?” he said, directing his question towards you.

tsukishima didn’t have to wait for your answer, he knew well enough what this man’s intentions were. “i would suggest you leave her alone, unless you’d like to make this a bigger problem than it has to be.”

the guy hesitated for a second, before he finally spoke. “y-yeah, of course. my bad.”

he scurried away, not without taking a few looks back at you two. your boyfriend scoffed, seemingly angrier and more upset at the situation than you were.

“that was hot.”

tsukishima’s widened as he snapped his head towards you and stared as if you were the most insane person he’d ever met.

“excuse me?”

“you’re hot when you’re protective,” you giggled. “do that more often.”

he raised a brow at you. “you’re crazy.”

“aww, that’s mean!” you fake pouted. “you have to make it up to me now.”

he tilted his head quizzically at you, deciding to humor you. “how?”

you grinned from ear to ear. “let’s go shopping!

noticing the way your eyes sparkled as you suggested that, he couldn’t possibly say no.

he rolled his eyes and adjusted his glasses. “fine,” he agreed. “but we’re eating first. i’m starving.”

✧｡ osamu miya

most of your dates with osamu were indoors, in a private space where the only people around were you two. just relaxing with you is his favorite type of date. still though, he loves to spoil you. so, that’s exactly what he’s doing today.

“‘samu this is too much,” you’d told him.

“nonsense,” he replied simply. “i’m your boyfriend, therefore it’s my duty to spoil ya, isn’t it?”

“but this,” you said, signaling to the expensive outfit he’d bought you. “this is too expensive.”

he simply shook his head. “get dressed, yeah? i’m taking ya out.”

all you could do was roll your eyes and try to smother the grin that was threatening to come up.

the outfit he’d bought you was nice, really nice. you’d seen it at a store before, and you couldn’t help but think it was incredibly beautiful. he’d noticed, apparently, as he’d bought it without even taking note of the price tag. it was also kind of revealing, but nothing all that scandalous. you felt beautiful, really. you took note to make sure to be extremely grateful to him.

osamu loves cooking for you, he really does. he’s basically become your private chef, which works out since you also adore his cooking. tonight, however, he was temporarily relinquishing his title and taking you to some expensive restaurant. though he’d try to deny it, this was more a treat to him than to you. after all, he’s the one practically drooling as he looks over the menu.

you giggled as you looked at him, quickly scanning over the menu and deciding on what you’d be having.

“hello, are you both ready to order?”

you tilted your head up to look at the waiter, straightening your back as you realized you’d been slouching. “oh, yes, thank you,” you replied, quickly listing off your order, pointing at the items in the menu.

when you turned to look at osamu, he was staring daggers at the waiter. you frowned and kicked his leg under the table. he coughed awkwardly and listed off his order, too.

“what was that?” you asked, both concerned but also slightly amused.

“my order?”

“don’t mess with me, ‘samu.” you threatened.

“he was starin’ at ya.” he answered simply.

“well. yeah. i was ordering.”

“no, i mean like… staring at ya,” he emphasized. osamu sighed, “put this on.” 

he took off his jacket and handed it to you. “ya can take it off when we leave. or we can ask for a different waiter.”

you scrunched your eyebrows. “‘samu i really don’t think-”

“he was starin’ directly at your tits.”

your eyes widened. “oh!”

“yeah, so unless ya want me to bust open that guy’s head, please wear this for now.”

it was impossible to smother your grin as you put on his jacket. you giggled softly, “you’re so cute when you’re mad.”

he rolled his eyes lightheartedly, “sure.”

“oookay, here we go,” said the waiter as he returned minutes later. he gave osamu his food wordlessly, maybe too intimidated by the way he was glaring at him, or maybe just because he didn’t care.

“and food for the beautiful lady!” he chuckled as he placed your food in front of you. osamu’s jaw tightened. you looked down to your plate awkwardly.

“...thanks,” you said, starting to eat.

the waiter didn’t leave. it seemed he was waiting to say something, but didn’t. he hesitated, and once it finally seemed as if he was going to get the words out, osamu cleared his throat.

“we’re all done here, no need to linger,” he grumbled.

the man seemed taken aback by osamu’s hostility. you kicked him underneath the table again. “of course. right. i’ll be back later with your check.”

osamu hummed in reply. when he turned back to you, he was scowling. his silly face almost made you forget immediately about the awkward interaction that just took place. almost.

“you looked so mad, ‘samu. i almost thought you were gonna walk out of here.”

he looked at you as if you were a lunatic, then turned his gaze towards his food. “no jerk could ever make me waste food.”

you laughed. of course, nothing could ever come between osamu and his love for food. not even an annoying waiter. you suspected that, if an apocalypse ever took place, he would also prioritize his food over anything. except maybe you.

“when we’re done we should go get dessert. not here, though. i don’t want to see that fucker again.”

all you could do was laugh and roll your eyes at his pettiness.

✧｡ issei matsukawa

matsukawa is an easy going guy. he doesn’t lose his temper that easily. he doesn’t get mad over silly jokes. he lets maki tease him, doesn’t he? he tries his best to keep his composure during games. he even keeps his cool when his little brother is being all pissy. and yeah, he might get pissed at kentaro every once in a while, but who wouldn’t, what with that guy’s attitude and all?

that is the mantra he keeps repeating to himself over and over as he watches some jackass try to put the moves on you.

okay, well, that jackass is actually a really good friend of yours.

…which actually might make it all worse for him.

he can’t insult the guy or fight him, he’s your friend after all. at least that’s what you think. you seem blissfully oblivious to the guy’s painful crush over you.

matsukawa figures he can either break the news to you, or let you remain happily unaware. 

or better yet, a secret third option!

he can just break the guy’s jaw and make him never bother you again.

actually, that one might be a little extreme.

well, he had to do something. watching that jerk trying to get all touchy touchy with you pissed him the fuck off. even more than kentaro’s snarky comments.

“babe,” he called.

your head snapped towards him, your mouth immediately twisting into a delighted grin at the sight of him.

“issei!” you exclaimed. “i didn’t know you’d be here today. i thought you were hanging out with maki?”

he was, but maki had to leave early for a job interview. the detail didn’t matter, though. “oh, i just missed you so much i had to come back to you.” he snaked his arms around your waist, burrowing his head on your neck.

you slightly scrunched your eyebrows at his odd behavior. it wasn’t like him to act this way.

“i hope maki isn’t upset that you ditched him to hang out with me.”

“oh, not at all! he knows how important it is for guys to hang around their girlfriends.” he said, adding emphasis on the last word as he pulled away from you. he stared down the guy and pushed his shoulders back to appear taller. though it’s not like he needed to, mostly anyone can confirm how intimidating matsukawa can be thanks to his height.

your friend laughed nervously. “y-yeah.”

matsukawa wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “we should go on a date, then. what do you feel like eating?”

“oh, we were actually just about to go have lunch,” your friend chimed in, his voice suddenly sounding sure of himself.

matsukawa cast a dismissive glare towards him. “well she’s my girlfriend, isn’t she?”

your friend scoffed, “i don’t think-”

“perfect, then!” he interrupted your friend before he could object. “let’s go, babe. we can go to your favorite place. my treat, of course.”

“o-okay?” you replied, confused at the interaction that had just taken place.

you let matsukawa drag you all the way to the parking lot before pulling your arm away.

“what the hell was that?” you exclaimed.

“what was what?” he said, already seemingly back to his normal attitude.

“you were so rude to him!”

“i don’t think you should be friends with him anymore.” he simply answered, not exactly taking into account your previous comment.

you sputtered before finally saying, “since when do you have a say in who i’m friends with?”

he cast his gaze on you, soft, despite the current conversation. “i just don’t think he’s good company to have around.”

“what do you mean?”

he sighed, before finally admitting, “he’s in love with you.”

you blinked repeatedly at him in shock. “he is?”

“yes, and i don’t like that.”

you opened and closed your mouth, unsure on what to say.

“i didn’t know.”

“i know.”

both of you stood silently in the parking lot, before he finally gave in and spoke first. “i don’t want to control who you are or aren’t friends with. it’s not my job,” he sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “but i don’t feel exactly comfortable having you around him, knowing his intentions and all.”

you stared at him before meekly replying, “okay.”

he tilted his head, “okay?”

you nodded. “i understand what you mean. i, uhm… i’ll have a chat with him, to see if he does have feelings for me. i’ll cut him off if he does, because i don’t think i’d feel very comfortable around him then either.”

matsukawa nodded too. “alright. let’s go have lunch then. i think the place closes earlier today.”

you paused, “actually… can we go to the new place that just opened up nearby instead? i’ve been wanting to try it out.”

he laughed, “sure, whatever you say.”

✧｡ satori tendou

parties are fun, aren’t they? all the people, blasting music, drinks, and more, make an amazing atmosphere for those who enjoy it. and halloween parties are even better! who doesn’t enjoy a fun costume?

tendou can’t really say it’s his atmosphere. he also wouldn’t say that he fits into the group of people who don't like them. he’s just… okay with them. though, for you, he’s more than okay with them.

he let you put him in some cheesy halloween costume. a chef, you told him. you were dressed as some rat, though he thought you looked way too gorgeous to be called that. you had insisted the idea was cute, it was from a movie, after all. and, while he wasn’t entirely against the idea to begin with, all your insistence convinced him he had no way out of it either way.

“don’t you like it when i pull on your hair?” you had teased him. “it’s the perfect role for you.”

“and that is why i’m buzzing allllll my hair off.”

“don’t you dare!”

so, here you were. a big halloween party, both of you matching in a couple’s costume. he looked okay, but you… you looked absolutely breathtaking. before you left you had made a comment about being a sexy mouse, chuckling afterwards. a reference, he figured. he’d have to make you watch the movie with him later.

he definitely wasn’t the only one who thought you looked amazing. you know, taking into account the guy that was practically hanging onto you for dear life.

immediately, once he noticed that and how uncomfortable you looked, he rushed over to save you.

“ohhh, what do we have here?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light to hide his clear annoyance.

“oh, hey dude,” replied the man, having a noticeably slur to his words. “just tryna convince this babe to give me a little kiss, or come to the bathroom with me for some fun, ya feel me?” the man laughed, the smell of alcohol so strong he bet everyone in the party would have smelled it. 

tendou narrowed his eyes. “personal space sure is a fun thing, huh!” he said as he grabbed the man from his shoulders and tried to get him away from you.

the man pulled away and got closer to you once more, making you scoff in irritation, trying to pull him off once more. “ugh, this asshole just grabbed onto me while i was getting a drink!” you complained, turning your attention back to the man. “and i already told you, i have a boyfriend!”

the man faked being upset. “he doesn’t have to know, gorgeous. now stop being a prude bitch and-”

tendou’s fist moved faster than the man’s mouth.

the man stumbled back, caressing his jaw in shock. you scurried far away from him, standing behind tendou, whose fake cheerful attitude was long gone. 

he turned back to look at you, his face laced with concern.

“i’m fine,” you told him. noticing his doubt, you added, “i promise, okay? i’m fine.”

he nodded, seemingly convinced for now. and turned his attention back to the man.

it was almost like a switch turned on, really. first he was sweet and worried about you, then he returned to his mocking face. you figured it was an act, though. he wasn’t the type to get incredibly angry at others. but he messed with you, so tendou would probably murder the guy if he could.

the man spit into the ground and scoffed, “what the hell is wrong with you, man?”

“ohh, you know, i was just testing my theory on how many hits it would take for a pervert to get knocked out!” he fake-giggled. “do you want me to keep going?”

the man’s scornful gaze was casted onto tendou, who didn’t really seem like he was joking.

“you’re creepy as fuck man,” coughed the man, “and you’re insane. dunno why she’d choose you.”

“well i know why no one chose you,” tendou said, dragging the last word in a mocking way.

“let’s go.”

tendou snapped his head toward you, his wide eyes curious as he tilted his head.

“huh?”

“i’m tired. i just want to get some sleep,” you said, your voice so quiet you could’ve been an actual mouse. it broke his heart, really. how excited you were for the party, just to have your mood destroyed by some random creep.

he blinked at you, then blinked at the man, before abruptly standing tall. he decided it was best if he let the man be, and put his focus towards bettering your mood. you could watch that movie you referenced before, but you’d have to stop and buy snacks first. no matter, you are in dire need of more snacks in your pantry, so it’d work out. 

his looming frame towered over you as he replied, already set on his plan, “okay, let’s go!”

[j-nope-not-today]

HP characters reaction to s/o being a muggle

Harry Potter

He does not care

Literally doesn't have an opinion on the subject

Bc he loves youuu and not your magic or non magical abilities

I really feel that his main concern is some snobby witch/wizard being rude to you

But could give a fuck less if anyone commented on you being a muggle

"Okay and? So what if she/he can't do magic. She's/he's still great in bed."

10/10 will say some snarky/sarcastic ass shit if someone is rude to you about it.

He is THE Harry Potter

He would probably love for someone to point it out so he can say some shit back about it.

He will defend you through thick and thin.

May god have mercy on whatever poor soul wants to be prejudice against you.

Will love doing muggle things with you. I mean he did grow up as a muggle.

Otherwise though he loves you and your muggleness very much. It reminds him of home ❤️

Ron Weasley

Aww your his little cutie patootie

Will brag about it to anyone who will listen

"Oh? Well my gf/bf made me dinner from scratch."

He'll brag about literally anything he can. It could be the simplest shit too

Is very impressed that you do everything and without magic too

He'll start doing things without magic just to appreciate the simplicity of it

But yeah..definitely tells everyone and their mom about how proud he is to be with you

Ain't no one gonna be rude about it either. He will guaranteed shut that shit down as soon as it starts.

Fred Weasley

He loves it.

Loves absolutely everything about it

Not to mention he loves it even more because romancing you is so much more fun for him

Will always pull a fancy magic trick from out of his sleeve to impress you or flirt with you

"For you beautiful"

Does complain about doing things without magic

But will begrudgingly do so to please you

But yes. He will complain about it the entire time

I don't think anyone would be ballsy enough to insult you or say some rude shit about you being a muggle

Knowing fred that would start world War 3

But he looooves you. Vv much

George Weasley

Admires you so so much

Bc how do you do it?

Will watch you do the simplest most mundane shit and come out of nowhere with a

"My god you look so fucking gorgeous right now love."

Wouldn't complain about helping you do stuff without magic

I think he finds he enjoys it much more without magic. It's more rewarding

Will beg to do muggle things with you absolutely wants to experience it all

Just like with fred. Ain't no one ballsy enough to say something lest they want to die

But he absolutely adores you and everything about you

And will remind you every day how much he loves you

Draco Malfoy

He didn't expect to end up with you

But he sure isn't complaining

And he'll be damned if you lift a single beautiful fucking finger when he's around

He will 100% dote on you in his every waking moment

For a second you might be convinced you aren't a muggle

He uses magic for just about everything and will not let you do something when he can do it for you

"Listen dear it's just simpler this way. Let me do it."

Your spoiled and he'll make sure you know how appreciated and loved you are

Can never wrap his head around muggles.

Thinks you make everything way more complicated than it needs to be

And should anyone be insulting or rude. They might find themselves hexed or cursed.

Neville Longbottom

This man LOVES you

Will not for a second let you think otherwise

And he'll probably absolutely love doing muggle things with you

And you will have a garden

I can just see him loving gardening with you. The muggle way.

Will randomly whip out flowers and small little gifts for you

Just to impress you

And he'll definitely have words for anyone who wants to be rude to you because how dare they?

To him. Your absolutely perfect

[jeonginsleftcheek]

Cuddling with Stray Kids

pairing: ot8 x reader

genre: fluff, suggestive

a/n: mentions of sex, mentions of anxiety, this is just my opinion, not proofread, hope you enjoy!🤍

additional notes: i have 12 things in my drafts and they're all over the place but i wanted to post something

Chan:

I feel like Chan gives the best and biggest hugs so you will probably be drowning in his arms with your face buried in his chest or neck. It's probably late at night when you cuddle, and first you talk about your day and complain about your work or studies. Chan will listen to you and throw in a few quips here and there as he holds you and caresses your hair. Then you ask him about his day and he'll talk about his members and funny things they did or said. As it gets later, you both get quieter and Chan's favorite thing is when you put your leg around him and pull him even closer, leaning in and leaving kisses everywhere on his face. Every time you do that it makes him blush, no matter how long you've been together. Even though he usually says he can't sleep, he will fall asleep first in your arms because he feels relaxed and safe. Then you can admire his beautiful face before you drift off to sleep too.

Minho:

I feel like Minho would also love facing you and talking to you while cuddling, but he would love to bury his face in your chest and leave little kisses everywhere. Most of the times he will also leave small bites and nibbles and you always warn him not to start anything cause you really want to take some rest. He always smirks and leaves a few more kisses on your neck. I think he would also love pressing his lips into yours, as his hand slides under your shirt and rests on your back. He would draw little patterns on your skin and his hand would always without a doubt slide down to grip your ass. Can you blame him though, you're hot and he loves you, he just can't help himself.

Changbin:

Changbin would love it if you lay on his chest. He would put his arms around you and caress your hair and face. The sound of his heartbeat will always calm you down, any anxiety of the day will be wiped away as soon as you feel his big arms wrap around you. He would kiss your hair and forehead gently and ask you if you were okay and if you had a good day. You would talk with him but your eyelids would get heavy, it's hard not to fall asleep when he's touching you so gently like he's afraid to disturb you. His presence is calming to you and you feel so loved and safe.

Hyunjin:

Hyunjin would love to be the big spoon and he'd hold you so close to him and so tightly that you think he might want to merge into you. His face would be buried in your hair, he just loves to inhale your sweet shampoo because it calms him down. His hands would be roaming around your body, and he would squeeze you gently a few times. But, Hyunjin can't help himself being this close to you while your perfect ass is pushed up against his middle so cuddling sessions almost always end with lazy sex.

Jisung:

I think Jisung would love being both the big and the little spoon. If he's the little spoon, he'd love it if you held him real tight and also hold his hands at the same time. But, if he was the big spoon, I feel like he'd just grab and hold your boob. Nothing sexual, he just finds it relaxing to hold it and squeeze it like it's a stress ball. On some days, I feel like he wouldn't stop yapping while you cuddle and you would be playfully annoyed at him, so he would annoy you even more on purpose. He'd probably start talking nonsense or he'd start singing with an annoying voice. You would smack his butt and he'd just laugh because he enjoys teasing you. On other days, when he's really tired and in his head, he'd be quiet and he'd let you talk about everything and anything because the sound of your voice calms him down.

Felix:

I think Felix would love to rest his head on your chest or tummy. This boy will be clinging to you like a koala, limbs all wrapped around you so you don't ever think of escaping. He would nuzzle his face in your chest or neck, and if he's laying on your tummy he will bury his face there and leave kisses on your skin. His hands will be all over you as will his lips, he can't help it, he adores you. I think cuddling sessions with him can go either way. Either he's falling asleep as you caress him or because he's a horny little thing he will end up with his face buried between your legs.

Seungmin:

Okay so, I feel like Seungmin would love facing you while cuddling. Even though he's shy and it's hard to maintain eye contact for him, he loves the way you look at him, the admiration in your eyes. He loves the way your eyes crinkle when you smile at him, and the way you caress his cheek and hair. He would hold your waist and run his fingertips on your skin gently. If it's late at night, he'd probably sing you a gentle lullaby, especially if you had a bad day. He'd sing for you whenever anyways. I feel like he'd also love to exchange a few gentle kisses before both of you drift off together, holding onto each other tightly.

Jeongin:

I feel like he'd be the most restless out of everyone while cuddling. He would love to spoon you, but after some time he would just start feeling jittery so he would play with your hair, poke your cheek or start tickling you. Your cuddling session would probably turn into play wrestling, as you both tried to tickle and annoy each other. When you're both almost breathless Jeongin will lean down to kiss you and let's just say that you're not going to sleep soon.

[reidsmanuscript]

Sweet echoes of the past

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had been a monster.

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

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

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

You definitely needed a bath. A long one.

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

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

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

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

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

That wasn’t good enough.

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

You weren’t so sure.

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

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

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

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

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

But then, the little things started adding up.

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

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

But nothing prepared you for this.

The moment you stepped inside, something felt wrong.

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

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

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

A piece of candy. Then another. And another.

Everywhere.

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

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

Candy. Candy. Candy.

Crinkling wrappers, glinting under the dim light.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

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

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You followed it into the kitchen. More candy.

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

Your fingers twitched. Your jaw clenched.

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

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

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

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

A folded note.

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

Candy. Candy. Candy.

You reached out.

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

Your knees locked. Your pulse pounded in your ears.

Candy. Candy. Candy.

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

The paper crinkled between your fingers as you unfolded it.

Miss me, sugarcube?

—Dr. C.

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

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

“What's up, Woody?”

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

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

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

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

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

Spencer felt his pulse tick up.

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

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

Something was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The apartment felt wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan frowned. “Who is that?”

“He was my foster father.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in you snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t know which was worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question made you tense up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The numbers weren’t in your favor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He recognized it instantly—Dostoevsky.

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

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

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

“The c-candy… we have to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let us help,” Emily stated firmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course! Totally on it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me do it,” he offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see hesitation in his eyes “Please?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until the last room.

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

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

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

Your fingers barely brushed against it when— crack.

A footstep. A snap of dry wood behind you.

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

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

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

Then it hit.

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

The world lurched.

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

Your foot slipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Woody!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The low whistle from Morgan saved you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sharp gasp from Caleb cut him off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caleb, I don’t think thi—”

You never got to finish the sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hand closed around it.

But Caleb was faster.

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

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

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

No. No. No.

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

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

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

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

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They were too late.

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

A fingernail. Lodged between the wooden floorboards.

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

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

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

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

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

Something wasn’t right.

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

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

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

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

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

That was why his phone hadn’t worked.

That was why Morgan’s call had cut out.

You were gone.

And they had walked straight into it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had been drugged.

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

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

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

The warehouse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You never tried to hide the candy again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was on his knees, bleeding, vulnerable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan’s expression hardened.

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

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

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

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

Something inside you cracked.

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

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

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

But it was you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Spencer appeared at your side.

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

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

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

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

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

But you were a monster. Weren't you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

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

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

“Check in two,” you announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He extended his hand. “I’m Spencer.”

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

You smiled. “I’m Woody.” Your voice was soft but steady.

“I’ve been told you’re good at chess.” He smiled at you the way the sun warmed the park—quiet but certain.

“Well, wanna see for yourself?” You began arranging the pieces.

He did the same, his fingers moving with practiced ease. Maybe the odds suggested otherwise, and maybe you didn’t believe in destiny—but if Spencer ever confessed how he had felt inexplicably drawn to the park that day, you might just believe him.

Dostoevsky once wrote, “To love someone means to see them as God intended them to be.” And Spencer, ever the atheist and man of science, found himself willing to believe in God every time he looked into your eyes.

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FINALLY MY BABYS ARE TOGETHER. the request for them are OPEN. And the series is going to take a jump in time, next time i post about them, they are going to be already together

Feedback feeds motivation! Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated <3

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