#file under scripture

[gratiae-mirabilia]

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood.

1 Corinthians 13:12

[dukeofriven]

So often alt-Earth worldbuilding falls apart under the slightest bit of pressure: what if every human on earth from birth had a sentient, speech-capable, physical manifestation of their soul that could shape shift and eventually settled on a form that revealed some inner truth about your person would that not radically alter the course of human history? To which the answer, apparently, was 'not in any meaningful way, no.'

Live theater in the His Dark Materials universe must be wild. Surely an actor's daemon also has lines to recite, so their daemon's form probably also factors into casting decisions. Maybe some plays have vague character descriptions for daemons, but I bet other plays have really specific or central daemon characters. And sure, big-budget theaters can afford to hire a separate actor with a particular daemon to stand backstage while their daemon plays its part onstage, but community theaters don't have those kinds of resources.

Like if you're casting for Julius Caesar, surely the real historical Caesar had a pretty iconic daemon, right? Are you going to cast an actor with a pigeon daemon as Caesar and just have everyone suspend their disbelief that it's Caesar's lioness, ἁμαρτία?

[danysdaughter]

After Hours

pairing | au!bucky x teacher!reader

word count | 7.8k words

summary | when bucky barnes keeps showing up early to pick up his nephew from school, it’s definitely not just about being a good uncle—it’s about the sharp, no-nonsense kindergarten teacher who won’t give him the time of day. one desperate club night and a locked bathroom later, you finally do.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, semi-public sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), dominant!bucky, flirty!bucky, modern au, cocky!bucky, no-nonsense!reader, slow burn to smut, mutual pining, enemies to lovers-ish, no description of reader, BUT reader does have surname (racially ambiguous as always), ABBOTT ELEMENTARY CROSSOVER (this is fanfiction so I can do whatever I want)

a/n | this is filthy you guys, based on this request, and after reading this if you haven't I beg you to watch abbott elementary, literally rewatching for the fourth time, it's everything and changed my entire personality

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“You do realize we’re ten minutes late, right?”

The voice came from the backseat—small, unimpressed, and filled with the kind of quiet disappointment usually reserved for tax season and slow Wi-Fi.

Bucky glanced at his rearview mirror and caught sight of his nephew, Danny, hair flattened oddly on one side from sleep, Superman backpack twice the size of his torso, and the most judgmental frown a five-year-old could possibly muster.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”

[chanelrolls]

oops! accidentally touched your...

PAIRINGS. rafayel, sylus, zayne, xavier, & caleb x gn! reader (separate)

SYNOPSIS. how would the LADS men react to you unintentionally landing your hand on their crotch (dick)?

CW. mdni! mdni! mdni!

RAFAYEL

it wasn’t supposed to happen, your hand had just slipped while the two of you were squeezed together on the small velvet couch in his studio, sketchbooks scattered everywhere. you’d leaned in to point something out on his page, and in the process, your palm landed right on his bulge. there came a beat of silence, before... “...excuse me?” rafayel's voice cracked slightly as he shot you a look, one dark brow twitching upward like he couldn’t believe what just happened. you then froze, hand still firmly planted where it shouldn’t be. his face flushed, not quite red, but a heated pink crawling up his neck like his body had betrayed him by reacting. he didn’t push your hand away, though. instead, he dramatically tossed his pencil aside and let out a wounded sigh, flopping back against the couch like you’d just personally offended his entire bloodline. “oh, sure,” he muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes. “go ahead. touch me all you want. clearly i’m just...furniture now.” you blinked, abruptly pulling away, “rafayel, it was an accident!” he peeks at you from under his arm, mouth twitching like he was holding back a grin, though the tips of his ears were still suspiciously red. “an accident,” he repeated, “how very convenient. what’s next? falling into my lap?” then he huffed, sitting up straight again and brushing imaginary dust off his trousers with a little pout. “honestly, if you’re going to get handsy, at least have the courtesy to date me first...” and then he bumped his thigh against yours deliberately, just enough to fluster you right back. payback.

SYLUS

the meeting room was too quiet, filled only with the soft clicking of your laptop keys and the occasional turn of a page from sylus, seated beside you. he’d insisted you review the latest contract drafts together, and you’d agreed, even though being in close quarters with him made your thoughts stutter more often than you’d like. you then shifted to grab your pen, leaning a little too far over, and your hand brushed his crotch. firm. warm. solid beneath tailored fabric. you froze but sylus didn’t flinch, he didn’t pull away. instead, he slowly turned his head to glance down at your hand still lingering on his leg. there was a pause long enough to make you panic a little. then, his lips tugged into a slow, smug curve. “...comfortable?” he asks, voice low and calm, a glint in his eyes like he’d caught you red-handed and was already savoring it. you yanked your hand back, mortified. “i-it was an accident.” “mm,” he hummed, leaning slightly closer, his cologne brushing your senses like silk. “of course it was.” he made no effort to move away, letting the silence stretch before casually flipping the page of his binder. “you’re lucky i like you,” he murmured under his breath, like it was a quiet indulgence he didn’t usually allow himself. “next time,” he added, eyes still on the paper but voice dipped low, “ask me before touching. you might be surprised at the answer.”

ZAYNE

you weren’t even supposed to be there. zayne had told you to wait in the hall, but you wandered in anyway, curious and stubborn as always. he was seated at his desk, looking through patient files like they were ancient scriptures. you sat down beside him without asking. “you’re in my space,” he said calmly, without looking up. “you’re in mine,” you said back, not moving either. he sighed through his nose. a small, familiar gesture of restrained exasperation. “childish.” you leaned forward to peek at the papers, elbow brushing his. and then, in the smallest, dumbest accident of the day, your hand fell, and landed squarely on his crotch. zayne didn’t move, but his whole body tensed under your hand like a wire pulled too tight. you pulled away instantly. “ah sorry! that was... yeah. not on purpose.” his pen hovered midair for a second longer before he placed it down carefully, like he didn’t trust himself to keep writing. “...it’s fine,” he says huskily. but it wasn’t fine. you could see it in the way his jaw shifted, in how his fingers curled ever so slightly on the desk. “zayne?” he didn’t look at you, still staring at the desk. then, quietly, “you shouldn’t touch me like that.” "i said it was an accident.” he lets out the faintest breath of a laugh. humorless. “i know. that’s why i’m still sitting here.” a beat passed. “if it wasn’t, we’d have a much bigger problem.” you couldn’t tell if it was a threat, a warning, or something else entirely. but his ears were red.

XAVIER

the two of you had been reviewing documents at a quiet corner of the office. it was late, the only light coming from the soft glow of the overheads and xavier’s laptop screen. he sat beside you, perfectly upright, posture impeccable as always. “can you pass me the stapler?” you asked. he nodded, not saying a word and just handed it to you with that usual robotic grace. but then, when you reached to take it, your hand slipped. blame the fatigue or maybe the awkward angle, but instead of grabbing the stapler, your palm landed firmly on his bulge. you froze. he froze harder. you looked down. your hand still there. “...oh my god.” his face stayed neutral. too neutral. “sorry—i didn’t mean to, i was—” he cuts you off, “it’s alright,” he said, voice calm. but it was not alright. you looked up at him. his eyes were fixed somewhere in the distance, like he was analyzing the molecular composition of the wall. but there, there it was. that tiny twitch in his left brow. a faint shift in his jaw. and oh, his ears were turning a little pink. you slowly pulled your hand back, feeling the tension in the air like static. “xavier,” you said, “you sure you're okay?” “mm.” he nodded once, a bit too quickly. “do you want to… talk about—” xavier shooks his head slightly, “actually, do you know if the printer’s working?” he blurted out in a sudden. you blinked. “...printer?” “yes. it’s important. very important.” you squinted at him. “we’re not even printing anything.” he didn’t respond. just kept staring forward like an android who had glitched halfway through a social routine. but under that cool, unbothered front, you could see it: the faint, chaotic panic behind his eyes. the internal crisis. the “i’m pretending this didn’t happen but i’m also not normal about it” energy. you leaned in, voice playful. “xavier. you’re blushing.” “that’s a malfunction,” he muttered. “really?” “uhuh, a mild overheating issue, meaning you should do it again.”

CALEB

(usage of meimei and gege)

you were sitting on the bleachers after practice, the gym mostly cleared out except for the sound of bouncing basketballs echoing from the far side. caleb sat beside you, towel slung around his neck, jersey sticking to his skin from the sweat. he looked tired, but still had that smug, lazy grin on his face. “you’re always watching me when i play, huh?” he teased, nudging your side with his elbow. “don’t think i don’t notice.” “i was just... trying to study your form,” you mumbled. he chuckled. “sure, sure. call it what you want, meimei.” he leaned back, palms resting behind him for support, his thigh just a little too close to yours. and when you shifted to adjust your bag, your hand accidentally landed right on the... crotch. you froze. his leg tensed under your touch. “...oh.” you blinked. “s-sorry, i didn’t mean to—” he didn’t say anything at first. his grin was gone. he turned his head slightly to look at you, eyes sharp now. “did you like what you touched?” he asked, teasing, but there was a dangerous undertone laced into it. you tried to pull your hand away, but his hand caught your wrist. “gege—” “what?” he tilted his head, mock innocence in his tone. “you touch me like that, then look at me like you didn’t mean to?” he leaned in, close enough that you could feel the heat from his skin. “you sure it was an accident?” you swallowed hard. “caleb…” he smirked again, like a switch flipped back. “relax, i’m just messing with you,” he chuckled, ruffling your hair like always. but that gleam in his eye didn’t fade. he finally let your wrist go, stretching like nothing happened. “you should be more careful where your hands go, though,” he added, smiling as he looked forward. “i might not be able to control myself next time, meimei.”

[jacksabbotts]

✧ the eye, the alter and the apostate — ❪ part one ❫

pairings .' aaron hotchner x consultant!reader summary .' the bau is called to investigate a string of ritualistic murders in a small arkansas town—each victim posed with disturbing religious symbolism and marked with an eye carved into their back. the killings are steeped in obscure scripture, apocryphal texts, and performative theology—well beyond the team’s usual scope. with tension thick and the case spiraling fast, hotch does something no one expects: he calls back a civilian consultant who hasn’t been seen since the missouri incident. trigger warnings .' lowercase intened!!! \ blood \ murder \ postmortem mutilation \ carved symbols (open eye motif) \ sensory trauma ( burned eyes, ruptured eardrums ) \ mouth trauma ( rosaries forcibly inserted ) \ religious symbolism \ distorted scripture and catholic imagery \ brief discussion of torture ( medical examiner’s report ) \ reader discretion is advised \ mdni 18+

masterlist | series masterlist | dividers by @cafekitsune | join the taglist

the bau wasn’t usually this quiet. not that it was ever especially loud but a murmur was expected. the team sat around a circle table in the conference room. sitting across one another silently.

the cause for their silence—the brutally graphic crimes photos sprawled out across the table and on the board. papers brushing file folders, spencers foot tapping nervously under the table and the sound of penelope’s clicking pen.

little cross, arkansas, had met its match in death. the kind if touch where the church had its claws everywhere and in everything. the kind of place you’d loathe since you’d last escaped your own version of catholic small town hell.

there had been two victims so far. one male, early thirties, a handyman and a woman, mid forties, a school teacher. both had been found in or near abandoned religious buildings—old churches and chapels.

each crime scene had been prepared in advance. set up with candles scriptural passages scrawled in chalk or blood, a hand-built altars.

but his calling card is what ultimately tied the two victims together. an open eye with a tear drop, carved into the center of both of the victims backs—between the scapulae. a rendering done with extreme obsessive care.

the bleeding confirmed it was post mortem—the carving was the final act.

its the unsubs own twisted version of divine surveillance—the all-seeing-god. he always arranges them pointing east with their arms crossed over their chests like old burial sites, eyes burned shut, ear drum ruptured beyond repair and their mouths sewn shut with rosaries shoved down their throats. they couldn’t sin if they couldn’t use their senses.

the medical examiner had concluded that the sense damage was done while the victim was still alive and thus the unsub was classified a torturer.

pages upon pages was scrawled around each of the victims. several different scripture cut and pasted together misshapenly to covey some sort of message he thought the world needed to know. and at each victims feet, their own handwritten sermon telling the sins that had called for repentance.

the mans—a lesson in wrath—a death sentence he’d earned for his domestic violence.

the womans—a lesson in lust—a punishment for a stillbirth pregnancy out of wedlock.

emily was the first to speak up, breaking the carefully curated silence. ‘okay, tell me i’m not the only one getting vatican exorcist vibes.’ she flipped through the digital case file, her brow furrowing.

‘those aren’t exorcism rites,’ reid muttered, tapping at his physical file ( because only reid would request a paper file ).

‘some of the latin is from revelation, but the rest is… fragmented. there’s a phrase from the book of jubilees, and what looks like an apocryphal psalm that’s not in any catholic scripture i've ever read.’

essentially what he is trying to say is—it doesn’t make any sense ( even to his genius eidetic brain ).

‘victim’s a local handyman,’ jj added. ‘no criminal record. lapsed catholic. attended mass as a kid, confirmed at thirteen, dropped off the radar after.’

rossi leaned back in his chair. ‘he wasn’t just killed. he was… prepared. like an offering.’

morgan narrowed his eyes at the image. ‘this feel like us to you? because it isn’t really our wheelhouse, hotch.’

another silence passed through the room like a breeze before a storm. every gaze shifted to hotch, standing with his arms crossed near the screen. he stared at the photos for one more beat, then spoke with quiet finality.

‘it’s not,’ he said. ‘that’s why I’ve requested a civilian consultant.’

that made heads turn.

before Hotch could explain, the glass door hissed open.

garcia entered in a flurry of curls, rings, and caffeine, holding a mug that read ‘i serve looks and justice’. she froze halfway across the room and gasped, wide-eyed. morgan blinked. ‘you serious? after missouri?’

garcia gasped again. ‘tell me you did. tell me my dark darling of the divine is going to walk through those doors in heels and bad decisions.’

hotch didn’t move. not when garcia had said your name. not when she had started grinning like it was christmas morning and you were the gift. but his jaw ticked once.

‘garcia—,’ hotch started.

she spun toward him. ‘don’t garcia me! this is the good kind of office chaos. we’re talking sacrilegious brilliance and a wardrobe that slaps harder than a morgan backhand. be still my blasphemous little heart.’

prentiss grinned, clearly amused. ‘you brought her back?’

hotch’s jaw flexed. ‘we need her.’

rossi raised an eyebrow, trading a glance with jj. reid, ever the innocent, frowned. ‘what happened in missouri?’

jj didn’t look up from her coffee. ‘it’s classified under ‘none of your business.’

garcia stage-whispered, ‘it’s classified under ‘heartbreak and unresolved tension.’

morgan chuckled and elbowed prentiss. ‘bet you five bucks she still makes hotch’s blood pressure spike.’

‘only five?” she asked. ‘have some faith.’

‘she already accepted the case,’ hotch said flatly. ‘strauss signed off. she’ll be on the plane.’

‘thought you said you’d never bring her in again,’ rossi murmured.

hotch didn’t blink. ‘I didn’t think I’d have to.’

from across the room, garcia was already halfway to the exit, heels clicking. ‘i’m going to grab the spare visitor badge. and maybe a crucifix. and some sage. you know, just in case.’

‘don’t forget the fire extinguisher,” morgan muttered.

prentiss leaned closer to hotch. ‘how long’s it been again?’

‘seven months,’ he said, eyes fixed on the screen.

the room fell into silence again, tension stringing them all together like barbed wire.

then, the elevator dinged. heels echoed against tile. the glass doors slid open.

and you walked in like you’d never left.

[wetdarkprincess]

Burn the City for Me- Jay Park

✦ CONTENT: nsfw! smut, mafia au, dom!Jay, cuffs kink, power imbalance, intense makeout, bloody rescue mission, guns & violence, possessive behavior, deep emotional tension, unhinged love, clothes still on sex, chain kink, aftercare, blood-stained kisses, criminal lovers, dangerously in love

✦ WORDCOUNT: 2k (English is not my first language, so forgive any grammar mistakes or weird phrasing)

✦ NOTES: mdni. adult content. don’t like, don’t read. this is dark romance dipped in gasoline and kissed by fire. unhinged love story between two people who would literally kill for each other. soft hands and hard crime. you're not ready.

We’re not innocent. We’re not clean. But we’re real. And we’re together. And that’s enough to burn everything else.

The white lights of the interrogation room burned my eyes.The cuffs dug into my wrists, and my face stung from the blows.I was exhausted. My legs ached from running from the police.Everything had gone wrong.I just wanted a new dress.I was even going to pay cash.

Agent Olinsky walked in with that superiority complex of his, a file under his arm.He threw it onto the metal table with disgust and leaned in with both hands.

—Miss… welcome back.

I looked up and smiled as best I could, lips cracked. —Hello, Mr. Suit. What brings you here?

—Besides your never-ending record? I want you to give him up. You could get a reduced sentence.

—You think I’m going to turn in my fiancé?-I lifted my cuffed hands to show him the most expensive diamond on the market, still shining on my ring finger.—We’re a promise. We’re a pact.

He frowned in disgust.Ripped the ring off without hesitation.

—Hey! —I shouted, trying to stand, but he shoved me back into the chair. The metal dug into my spine.

—Stay put, you damn rat. No more talking. You’ll give him up, and you’ll both rot in separate prisons. You don’t deserve to be happ-

He never finished the sentence.A bullet ripped through his skull.His body hit the table, bleeding all over my Chanel outfit.

The alarms blared.The lights flickered.The door opened.My fiancé, Jay, stepped into the room like a god of war.

—Hello, gorgeous —he whispered.Dressed all in black, bulletproof vest hugging his torso, the gold chain I gave him gleaming like a promise.And that smile.That smile that could take down governments or make my legs shake.

—Baby… —I stood as best I could, thighs trembling, heart pounding.

He rushed to me, reading the pain in my body like scripture, and wrapped me in his arms.His mouth met mine, and time shattered.He kissed me like he had just saved me from the end of the world, like I was his home after chaos.When we pulled apart, our foreheads touched, breaths mingling.He reached for my hand and frowned.

—Where’s your ring, baby?

—That idiot took it —I glanced at the bloodied corpse on the table.

Jay walked over, silent.He spat on the body and kicked the man’s head.Snatched the blood-soaked ring and slipped it back on my finger with brutal tenderness.

—Let’s get out of here. I’ll leave the cuffs on you... might use them later.

A gasp escaped me. My panties were already soaked.

Jay swept me into his arms like a groom, and we ran through the shadowed corridors of the station beneath screaming alarms. Sirens exploded like cursed fireworks in the dead of night.

Red and blue flashed against the walls like someone had turned hell into a nightclub. Jay carried me like I weighed nothing, dodging bullets, officers, and shouts like this was all part of some deranged choreography. His grip was a vow: You’re not slipping away now. Not after this.

Rain poured as we burst into the courtyard. Hot, thick, mixing with gun smoke. Two black cars smashed through the front gate. A dozen of our men jumped out with rifles. It was a dance of chaos and gunpowder. Concrete shattered beneath our feet. The sky roared like it approved our madness.

—Cover her! —Jay yelled, laying me behind an overturned car, his whole body shielding mine, every muscle tight, every heartbeat screaming protection. Glass exploded. Blood painted the asphalt. An officer charged and Jay shot him without hesitation. His face didn’t flinch.

I watched him move —shoot, duck, reload, scream orders.

My king.

My damn hero.

A black car slid to our position like a loyal beast. Jay threw open the door, pushed me inside, and jumped in after. The tires screeched. We left behind a symphony of death and freedom. Bodies fell like raindrops. I panted, soaked in sweat and adrenaline.

My wrists burned from the cuffs. My thighs burned from the bruises. My chest burned from being alive. He didn’t speak for a while. Just drove.

Fury, desire, and devotion burning in his eyes.Until finally, he reached for my hand.

—Got you, baby. It’s over. He pulled me into his lap, and I buried my face in his neck.

His scent. His skin. His promise that everything would be okay.Outside, it was still raining, but I didn’t care. The world was behind us.

The drive to the safehouse was short and silent, heavy with the buzz of fading adrenaline and unspoken desire. The property was surrounded: armed guards, armored vehicles, men stationed at every corner. But to me, the only thing real was that he was still here. Alive. Mine.

He carried me inside like I was breakable, precious. We climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, where our trusted doctor was waiting.

Jay laid me down on the bed with hands that lingered. He looked at me one last time.

—I’ll be back soon, baby. Let him patch you up. Don’t take off the cuffs —he smirked, and I burned.

He left without a rush, but his presence stayed thick in the air. His scent. His fire. I let them tend to me. The doctor worked fast. They cleaned the wounds, helped me change. I couldn’t move much—not with my wrists still cuffed in front of me. But I didn’t care. He did this for a reason. He always did. Then I heard him return.

The doctor nodded and left. Jay closed the door slowly, deliberately. His eyes roamed my body like I was a map he’d memorized and still couldn’t get enough of. He was barefoot, shirtless, the gold chain gleaming over his chest like a vow.

—Look what they did to you —he murmured, stalking forward. I sat on the bed, wearing his shirt, wrists still chained, lips swollen from the earlier kiss.I tried to say something, but his eyes stole the breath from mine.He knelt before me, resting his forehead on my knees .—I thought I lost you, baby. Five fucking hours not knowing if someone was hurting you, yelling at you, touching you — His voice cracked as his hands brushed my ankles.—I swear to God, if I hadn’t made it in time...I cupped his face with my shackled hands and forced him to look up. His eyes burned.

—But you did —I whispered, smiling through the cracks—. And I always knew you would.

He rose, eyes locked on mine. Pushed me gently back on the bed, knee between my thighs, mouth crashing against mine like we were still running. He kissed me with rage, with devotion, with promise.

He pulled the shirt over my head and looked at me like stolen art.Untouchable by all, but his.

—Look what you do to me —he growled, voice low, vibrating in my chest—. I’ve never been this fucking hard. You looked so damn beautiful, blood on your face, fire in your eyes. So mine. So perfect. His mouth claimed my chest, slow and reverent. His hands, possessive. Starved.— Seeing you in those cuffs… so helpless, but your eyes still ruling the room. He dragged a finger along the chain.—You’re staying like this all night. Got it? I want to remember you like this. All mine. Can’t touch me.

—And if I want to touch you? —I whispered, breathless.

—You can’t. Not until I say. Tonight, I’m in charge —his fingers slid between my thighs, making me tremble—. I’m going to break you until you beg me to take the cuffs off.

And even then… I might not. His mouth lowered.nAnd the rest of the night was fire .Time blurred. His hands. His mouth. His voice. Each kiss was a mark. Each command, a sin. He stripped the rest of his clothes, ripped me open with reverence, stared at me like I was a treasure chest and he was starving.

—I keep thinking you can’t get more beautiful. And then this.His fingers moved inside me with perfect memory.I moaned, cuffed, powerful despite being bound —because he looked at me like I was invincible.—You’re so wet you’re gonna make me lose my mind —he muttered—. I don’t know if I deserve this. But I swear I’ll give you everything I have.

He thrust into me slow, deep, then harder. Each movement a brand.Each breath, a prayer. Each fuck, a promise. l begged, called his name, pleaded. The cuffs stayed on. And it only made me crave more.

We were sin.

We were fire.

No one else could love me like this. No one else could touch me like this.Only him. His rhythm broke, wild, and he kissed me with his teeth, with his tongue, with his soul. He tore me down. Built me back up.And when we came, we did it together—like fugitives outrunning the world with nothing left but love and ruin.

The silence after was intimate enough to hurt.He unlocked the cuffs, kissed the red marks.—Sorry, baby —he whispered—. I won’t do it again… unless you ask me to.

I laughed, still trembling. He held me like we were teenage lovers and not the country’s most wanted. I buried my face in his neck. He smelled like gunpowder and luxury. Like home.

—Are we safe?

—For now. Tomorrow we vanish. New names. New city. New life.

—But together

—Always together, baby.

And if the world tries to tear us apart again,I swear I’ll burn it all down.We stayed like that.Marked by love, sex, blood. The gold chain on his chest catching the light.My wrists still burned.And outside, the night fell over the city like a promise.One we were going to break.

Together.

© wetdarkprincess 2025

[incognit0slut]

Right Kind of Wrong (16)

SERIES MASTERLIST Part Summary: Spencer is faced with a dangerous confrontation.

Series Warnings: 18+ explicit content, graphic details of murders, mentions of suicide, mentions of SA

A/n: this part went through so much editing until I was satisfied with it, also, can't believe this is ending soon!!

-

EVERYTHING FINALLY FELL INTO PLACE. Although it took longer than it normally did to solve a case, Spencer finally gathered every piece of information, every obscure clue, and every small detail he unfortunately missed before to make a clear profile.

Eric Adler—or Henry Wyatt as Garcia discovered through her meticulous sleuthing—was a master of disguise. He had concealed his identity under a different persona, changing his name the moment he packed his bags and left the town he grew up in. Oliver confirmed this discovery when Spencer visited the hospital the following day, once he had regained consciousness.

"Eric... he's a stranger to me," Oliver had said, his voice carrying a tinge of disbelief, a foreign look gleaming in his eyes. "Henry, on the other hand, was one of my closest friends."

"I'm assuming something happened for you to drift apart."

Oliver's gaze shifted. "We grew up in a very tight community. Religion was all we were taught," he began, his voice tinged with defiance and nostalgia. "I guess we became close from our rejection of those traditional values and practices."

Spencer acknowledged his words with a nod. "Your files showed there were a lot of crimes you committed in the past."

"I-I was very rebellious."

"I would say forcing yourself on a young, innocent girl was more than rebellious."

Oliver winced. "Listen, I'm not proud of my past," he confessed, his voice carrying a hint of regret. "But yes, my friends and I grew up doing things that were out of morals."

Spencer studied him. "What happened then?"

"A lot of pointing fingers," he admitted. "Our community leaders eventually found out and threatened us with severe punishment. From the outside, it was simply community service, but from the inside, it involved a lot of restraints and, well, whips."

Silence stretched between them. "It was how they punished the bad," Oliver explained further, his eyes searching Spencer's for comprehension. "They always say it whenever they were going to abuse us; 'The wicked will not go unpunished, but those who are righteous will go free.'"

"Proverbs 11:21," Spencer mumbled under his breath, recognizing the scriptural reference.

A hint of surprise flickered across Oliver's face. "Are you a religious person?"

He shook his head, implying a depth of knowledge that surpassed the boundaries of religious beliefs. "Was that what made you drift apart?"

"Partly, yes," Oliver answered with a sigh. "We didn't admit to it at first, but then under the pressure and the constant threat of punishment, I guess I became weak."

"Did you betray him?"

Oliver acknowledged the truth with a slow nod. "We were both punished, along with the others who were involved, but our leaders always wanted one name whom they could sacrifice, a name who held all responsibility. The initiator of all sins."

"So you put the blame on him," Spencer summarized, understanding the dynamics that had led to the fracture in their friendship.

"It was the only thing I thought of doing to save myself," he confessed. "He became a sacrifice. All the punishment turned onto him until he was cast out of the community. When his family didn't even try to interfere, he eventually left town. Never heard from him ever since."

"And then years later you saw him again."

His shoulders lifted in a nonchalant shrug.

"I didn't even recognize him at first. He had a different name, different hair, different style—he was practically a different person. When I realized who he actually was, I tried to confront him  but he never acknowledged me." He then looked away, the emotion in his gaze concealed. "I just thought he didn't want to be associated with the past anymore."

It explained everything. The revelation about Eric's past and the harsh punishments he had to endure shed light on the motivations behind his actions. It explained why he felt compelled to punish people, as it was the only method deeply ingrained in his brain.

Their shared upbringing, the weight of betrayal, and the scars of their past had shaped his sense of justice, leading him down a dark path of vengeance. And with that new knowledge in mind, Spencer passed on the information he had discovered when he came to work the next day.

Everyone was gathered by the round table, an unusual thing to happen given that they were typically scattered in their assigned tasks, but all of them were present for once. Morgan leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing in contemplation after Spencer finished his thoughts. "So let me get this straight, Eric's vendetta against Oliver is personal. Goes beyond just catching a killer then."

"It's a cycle of betrayal." JJ, standing by the door with crossed arms, agreed aloud. "He attempted to shift the blame onto Oliver, something he also went through in the past."

Spencer nodded as he started to pace around the room. "Psychologically speaking, his actions seem to be rooted in a need for retribution, a manifestation of the punitive measures ingrained in his upbringing."

"So we're dealing with a man who sees himself as a guardian angel dispensing justice, even if it means resorting to extreme measures."

"A guardian angel while simultaneously executing his revenge," Emily mused from the other side, her words laced with a blend of contemplation and concern. "Very personal indeed."

Hotch crossed his arms as he stood by the table, and scrutinized his team with his usual detached and professional expression, devoid of any visible emotions. "We need to understand his patterns," he began. "If we can predict his next move, we might be able to intercept him."

"He clearly has a deep affection towards Y/N." Morgan offered, prompting Spencer to halt his pacing and turn his attention toward him at the mention of her name. "He probably has a list of people who he thinks have hurt her in the past."

Rossi studied everyone in the room, attentively listening to their thoughts. He tapped his finger against the wooden table, directing his focus on Morgan. "We should find out who might be on that list. It could give us insight into his next move."

Hotch agreed with a curt nod. "Morgan, Rossi, work on compiling a list of individuals connected to Y/N. Garcia, cross-reference it with Eric's history. Let's see if we can predict his next move based on the people he might target."

Garcia instinctively rose from her chair and nodded. "Yes, sir," and waltzed out of the room with determined steps, making her way to her office.

The others shifted from their spots, while Morgan, unlike the rest, kept his gaze on Spencer. He observed the frown stretching across his face and pondered whether to voice what he had in mind. He hesitated, acknowledging that Spencer's involvement with their witness wasn't strictly his business. Yet, considering the recent events, he felt compelled to express his thoughts.

"I don't want to be that kind of person to bear bad news, but I think—I think—there's a high chance that pretty boy here could be a target," Morgan declared. Spencer quickly met his gaze.

Everyone else, momentarily suspended in a collective pause, turned their attention toward him. He could feel their penetrating gaze, which started to make him uncomfortable as the seconds ticked by. He didn't want to entertain that possibility, but it made sense. Considering Eric had been with her right after he had hurt her, he could very well be the next target.

JJ, breaking the silence, voiced what lingered in everyone's thoughts as she took a step closer to him. "We should keep you safe then. If you're a potential target, we can't afford to overlook any possibility."

Spencer glanced over at her, noting the concern in her eyes. He sensed a silent plea in the way she looked at him as if she were urging him to agree, to step back and act on what seemed to be the logical thing to do. However, despite that, the gears in his mind were turning. If he was a potential target, it could offer an easy opportunity to get closer to their Unsub.

"No," he said, a conviction in his voice. "You can use me as bait."

The room held its breath as his unexpected proposal hung in the air. The team, still processing the revelation of his potentially being a target, turned their focus to his daring suggestion.

JJ simply stared at him, dumbfounded by the audacity of the idea. "You're crazy."

"No, think about it." He turned towards Hotch, knowing the older man would at least consider his idea. "We can get to him by luring him in."

Hotch held his gaze. The weight of leadership rested on his shoulders as he considered the risky proposition. "Reid, it's too dangerous. We can't—"

"If Eric believes he has a score to settle with me, then let's use that to our advantage. We set up a controlled scenario, anticipate his moves, and ensure we have the upper hand."

Emily looked at him with worry, taking a step forward from the other side of the room. "Reid, it's too risky. We don't know how he'll react, we can't even guarantee your safety."

"Yes, you can. You'll keep an eye on me." His eyes traveled around the room, meeting each one of their concerned gaze. "It's not something we haven't done before; we've used this method to lure an Unsub, and right now, we have no clue where he is. The only way we can draw his attention is by using me."

Hotch's gaze shifted between Spencer and the rest of the team, weighing the potential outcomes of such a high-stakes plan. It was undeniably risky, but Spencer was right. This wouldn't be their first time baiting an Unsub, and given their past success, a part of him believed the outcome would work out according to plan.

After a moment, he slowly nodded. "Alright, but if we proceed with this, we have to ensure everyone's safety." He gave Spencer a pointed look. "Especially yours, Reid."

He quickly nodded as a moment of understanding passed between them. The room suddenly filled with noise, and amidst the bustling movements, he felt a desperate grip on his arm, pulling him away from the group.

"Spence." JJ's grip tightened as she voiced her concern. "You could be putting yourself in danger. What if this goes wrong?"

That was the thing. It was the nature of their job—there would always be different outcomes. There was no certainty about what could transpire. But with nothing else to do, Spencer was growing desperate for more answers, so he held her gaze, determination etched in his eyes.

"If it means stopping him and knowing her whereabouts, I'm willing to take any risk."

-

It was raining when it happened. It had been pouring for the past few days as they started to plan the operation. The team decided to elevate the stakes by choosing his apartment as the bait location, aiming to create a scenario that would be emotionally charged for Eric, potentially triggering a faster and more decisive response.

They studied Eric's patterns and behaviors, gathering insights into his actions and motivations. Garcia, constantly stationed at her desk, continued to monitor social media, public records, and any other available data to gauge Eric's movements. She had identified potential triggers that might prompt Eric to act, such as media coverage or public discussions related to her.

In addition to electronic surveillance, Morgan and JJ conducted physical surveillance on locations connected to her past, anticipating that Eric might revisit places with emotional significance. They strategically placed themselves in key positions, ready to observe and intercept any suspicious activity.

And then the clock ticked away, the minutes stretched into an agonizing waiting game, every second pregnant with anticipation. 

Until it finally came to that night.

Everything felt strange. His apartment. The weather. Himself. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, and Spencer watched the raindrops hit his windowpanes from his couch.

Weeks ago, he sat in the same place where he was now. The only difference was that he was alone. There was no faint smell of chocolate or the sweet melody of laughter. She wasn't here, gracing him with her smile as she nestled on his lap. Her whispers of his name were absent, and the cruel thing was, he didn't even know where she was now. 

He had never felt so much pain before, the ache of not knowing where someone was, all the while having to keep his head up high. It was a facade he learned to put on. Pretending that the hidden cameras strategically placed in his apartment didn't unsettle him, or the discreetly wired microphone, or the inconspicuous headpiece nestled in his ear. He had to act as though the looming potential danger didn't faze him.

But then it finally happened, a sudden shift in the atmosphere permeated the air—like the calm before the storm. And in an instant, Garcia's voice crackled over the communication devices, urgency lacing her words. "I've got movement. Eric's online activity just spiked."

Morgan and Prentiss, stationed discreetly around the apartment complex, receiving the signal, tightened their surveillance. The external cameras around his building captured a figure approaching, shrouded in the shadows of the rainy night. 

Within the confines of his home, his senses heightened. The rain outside intensified. A streak of lighting flashed through the window. A loud sound of thunder echoed in the background. Spencer waited with bated breath, his gaze fixated on the front door. Then, with a creak, it slowly swung open, revealing a silhouette of a figure in the doorway.

Water dripped from his clothes, leaving a trail of wetness as he crossed the threshold. Their eyes briefly locked, and a smile played on Eric's lips as he observed the way Spencer scrutinized him, closing the door behind him.

"Dr. Reid," his sinister tone sliced through the silence, his words dripping with a twisted sense of satisfaction. "I see you've been waiting for me."

Spencer watched him, maintaining a composed exterior despite the tension in the air, and met his gaze with a steely resolve. "And I see you've been busy."

Eric cocked an eyebrow.

"Carving your path of justice one victim at a time."

His expression remained unyielding. Stepping further into the room, Eric left a trail of dirty shoe marks on the floor as his eyes observed the dimly lit apartment. "I'm just doing what needs to be done."

Spencer slowly rose from his seat. "And what is that?"

"Punishing those who have wronged her."

"You're not her savior. You're a vigilante with a distorted sense of righteousness."

"And that's where you're wrong. You don't know the pain she's been through. I'm the only one who can protect her."

Spencer silently watched as he continued to survey his apartment. Eric's eyes swept through all the framed certificates on his wall, his finger delicately tracing the edge of each frame. When he was met with silence, Eric turned back to him, narrowing the distance between them.

"You were always the one she trusted, weren't you?" He shook his head with disdain. "Yet you're the one who hurt her the most."

Aware that each word could either defuse or escalate the situation, Spencer continued to engage him. "I haven't hurt her," he responded carefully. "I've been trying to protect her from someone like you, someone who's lost sight of justice."

Eric let out a scoff. "You think I've lost sight? No, Dr. Reid, I've found clarity. I've seen the darkness that lurks in the hearts of those who pretend to be righteous."

"Your version of justice is a perversion. You've become the monster you claim to fight against."

The room crackled with tension as they held each other's gaze. "Do you even listen to yourself?" Eric retorted, his eyes narrowing with accusation. "You claim to protect her, yet she's left alone in the darkness you couldn't save her from."

The air in the room seemed to thicken as the weight of his words hung between them. His heart quickened its pace while he tried to maintain a calm facade. "Where is she?"

Eric's laughter cut through the air. "You think I'll tell you voluntarily?"

Spencer's gaze remained steady on him. "What do you want?"

The sinister grin on Eric's face revealed a gambit. "You." He took another step closer. "Come with me and I'll take you to her..."

There was definitely a but. It was never that easy, and the way he trailed off his words prompted Spencer to ask, "On what condition?"

He smiled, eyes narrowing as he conveyed a sense of menace while he delivered his proposition.

"Cut off all communication with your team."

Tension lingered around the room like an invisible web, each word contributing to the growing stakes. Eric's laughter, a haunting sound, followed the slightly alarmed look on Spencer's face. 

"You think I didn't know?" he taunted. "Two of your agents are outside this building, and come on, you could've hidden that earpiece better than that." He pointed towards the device. "Your hair might be long, but it's not that long."

Eric then picked up a framed picture sitting on his shelf. It was a photo of him and his team casually smiling to the camera. He remembered that day, it was one of the many times they visited Rossi's house for dinner, and Garcia decided it was the perfect time to capture the moment. To preserve the happy times, she had said, and true to her words, he was happy that day.

His mind suddenly raced, considering the options and potential consequences of complying with his demand. He finally responded. "What if I refuse?"

"Then you'll never find her," Eric retorted, looking back at him. "It's a simple choice. Sacrifice your precious communication or lose her forever."

He wanted him to step into his trap willingly. It was a cruel choice, and it seemed he wasn't the only one who agreed. As Eric's demand hung in the air, the team's voices crackled urgently through his earpiece. Panic and concern infused their words as they frantically implored him to reconsider.

"Spence, step back!"

"Reid, don't do it."

"Stand down, Reid. We're coming through."

The chorus of concerned voices reverberated in his earpiece, each team member contributing to their worry. Despite the chaos of emotions echoing through the line, Spencer remained outwardly composed, his mind working swiftly to navigate the dangerous situation.

"Don't—" he urged, his gaze piercing on Eric while his voice pointed towards his team. "Stay where you are."

Eric watched him with a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Seems like your team is in quite a frenzy there. Are you really willing to risk her safety for their voices in your ear?" He continued with a sinister grin, reveling the chaos he had stirred. "Strip away your lifeline, Spencer. The battle is between you and me."

Spencer stood there, calculating his next move. He weighed the possible outcomes of his choices and realized that nothing good would come from either of them. Eric, observing his contemplation, smirked with a twisted satisfaction.

"Come on, Dr. Reid, time is ticking." He tapped the watch around his wrist. "Make up your mind."

Spencer inhaled a sharp breath. Eric was right, there was no time to waste. The more he contemplated his answer, the more danger she was in. He needed her safe. He needed to see her. He needed to know where she was. And there was only one way to find out.

At the other end of the line, Garcia, stationed at her desk, watched Spencer through the screen with a growing sense of urgency. His gaze slowly swept over the room, and she could sense the critical decision looming. Her heart raced as his eyes fell on one of the hidden cameras.

"He's onto us," she muttered to herself, her fingers flying over the keyboard. She tried to maintain the connection as he walked over to the device and unplugged it.

Garcia cursed under her breath. "No—" She pressed on her intercom, her voice tinged with frustration. "I'm losing him."

One by one, the video feeds from the hidden cameras in his apartment turned black. The loss of visual contact with each camera felt like a punch to the gut. Her frustration mounted as the screens blinked out, leaving her staring at a grid of darkness.

"No, no, no," she muttered, fingers dancing over the keyboard in a desperate attempt to reestablish connection. But there was nothing else she could do.

The earpieces crackled with an ominous quiet before a sudden crash echoed through, the sharp sound of impact reverberating. A groan. A thud. A grunt. The team exchanged alarmed glances in their respective locations as the audio crackled with static, and their heart raced at the uncertainty hanging in the air.

Then, abruptly, there was nothing else but silence.

>> NEXT PART

.

taglist #1

@tereresrock @casthings @vader-is-hot @maevethelesbian @whereintheworldisspencerreid @reidverseq @niyahwhoreworld @l4venderia @theintrovertedthespian @lovelyxtom @tayzerr-72 @mulbsstuff @dorothleah @stevenknightmarc @prettyboyspenceee @gracesmusings @kalulakunundrum @fearlessmoony @r5court @simp4f1 @thecrazytealady @nyeddleblog @ghostheartbeat @comfortzonequeen @iiheartbowie @louderfortheback @busy-buzzing @alexis-exe2008 @imtherealslimmoony @baeofevery @elamultistan @lyxennz @avid-fic-reader-05

@cowstealer427 @thollandsdarling @ghxst-heart @cashtons-wife @kyuupidwrites @you-sunshine @comboboo @sebastiansstanswhore @panic-monster @marimorena06 @alice-ace299 @uncle-eggy @bollzinurmouth @julezs-bl0g @ruhrohragu @eternally-passionate @kazuumii @spencerr3idd @withered-rxse @broken-pieces @siredtomsgilbert @kaiya3333 @furiousbanditnickelknight @pinkangelavenue @slay-and-gay @woahnotmecryingoverafanfiction @zeysartzone @frxcless @sadroses98

PLEASE READ: If you already asked me to be added but you're not on the list OR you want to be added in the future, please comment on this post so I can see it. But make sure your blog can be searched or I can't tag you. Or if you want to be removed you can also tell me. Thank you :)

Don’t forget to interact with the story!

[hughiecampbelle]

Wraith (Will Graham Oneshot)

Character/s: Will, Hannibal mention

Word Count: 1,307

A/N: I'm so sorry this was a day late my loves!!! I'm trying my hardest to remain on schedule, but of course things come up and December is very busy. Not to make excuses, just a little clarification. I loooveeeee bringing religion and beliefs and prayer into the horror genre!! It's what I live for my loves!! Lol I am really excited for this fic :) I love yearning, I love religious issues, I love everything about this and I wanted to make it absolutely perfect before I posted it!!! Feedback is always appreciated!!! ❤❤❤❤

WRITING EVENT ❤️🔪🩸

He loved you the way men love Gods. By kissing the ground, the gravel, the earth that you have gifted him. Perhaps not the soil itself, but the bannister in which your hand caressed as you climbed the stairs. The rugs you placed in the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom. To make it cozy, you beamed, and he could do nothing but melt. The blankets you placed across the bed when the weather grew cold and dreary. Not the ground, but the places you poured yourself into making the house – your house – a home. By creating a shrine, a sanctuary, an altar in your image. Pictures of you, of him, together and not, scattered across every surface. Stills, photographs, of the collective you at the lake, in the woods, shouldered together with the dogs, your family growing every few months. His favorites – the ones you never realize there was a camera at all. Nose in a book, hands wet and soapy, body over the dishes. Asleep, in bed, on the couch, ease etched into your features. Your back to him, in the snow, the grass, the sun kissing your face. Your silhouette stitched into his mind. He studies your scriptures. Pours over them when he cannot sleep, when he cannot eat or think of anything but you. Your file, your autopsy report, the notes in the margins of the books you love, following your swooping handwriting with his eyes. Read until his eyes sting, strain, until he has to take his glasses off and close them for a very long time. Even the death certificate sits on the dressed, unfolded, worn from his hands running over the edges to smooth it out. The last evidence of your existence. Your final testament. He loves you the way men love Gods – their Gods – because e=he believes you are still out there. Waitting. Watching over him. And if he prays, and if he observes, and if he believes hard, rough. You might show yourself to him again. 

It’s difficult to put into words, sentences, to utter to any other living being without being mistaken for a fool. He sees you. Not in the clothes you have left behind, Will unbothered to move, to clean out, desperate for your scent. Not in the soaps you used that sit in their dishes, untouched, afraid to move them, to get rid of you. Not in the pillows you slept on, the same ones he has not smoothed, your indentation sacred within them. No, not the usual places one might look for signs of you. There is nothing emotional about this. This is not dream-like or imaginary. There is nothing metaphorical about the way he has become your witness. You are real. You are in that house. And he holds his breath in anticipation for the next time you will visit. 

A shadow cast in the middle of the bathroom. He wipes the steam from the shower, but just as you have appeared, you are gone. Your face, your eye following him, between the semi-closed doors of your closet. In the dark of night he will see the white of your eye – moon-like – but when he tries to get closer, throwing the doors open, exposing you, there is nothing there. Footsteps in the snow leading from the house, not towards. He follows eagerly, desperately, forgetting the time constraint he under to appear at work on time. Through the woods, the fields, but when he feels in his heart he is getting close, you are nearby, they stop in the midst of the trail. He searches, but they never pick up again. Your voice, he hears, humming from the next room. He used to drop what he was doing – the dishes, a hobby, a meal – and interrupt your song with his presence. The music stops just before he enters the threshold. Now, instead, he listens carefully, unmoving, wondering how long you could go on. Hours, he hopes, though you’ve only ever reached a couple of minutes. Growing louder, closer, until you are right behind him. It takes everything in Will not to turn around, to reach out and expect you, your body, in his arms. In his ear, your voice. On his neck, your breath. But when he finally lets go, when he gives in, he is met with silence. Open air. The feeling that something crucial is missing in the middle of his chest. 

Are you having any suicidal thoughts? Hannibal is careful to ask. It isn’t like that, he clarifies, wondering what he means. He would never. He would. No. Stop it. He doesn’t have to, he reminds himself. You visit him now, you visit the living. Their death is recent, Will. . . But he stops listening. He is stating the obvious. Again. You are grieving, Will. You lost someone you loved, someone you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with. It was sudden and unexpected. A terrible accident. It had all been spelled out to him before. The reality of the situation, of this new version of his life, his future, settling across his skin where it bubbles and burns. Sessions Jack ordered, prescribed, since the funeral. He wants not to yell and scream. That would be childish. It would show them they are right, that he is unstable, but he is more aware than ever. He wishes to invite them over. To sit at the kitchen table and wait, wait as long as you need, to hear your song. To follow the steps in the snow. To smell your perfume, your cologne, as if it had just been sprayed. Walk through the phantom mist. Crawl on his hands and knees. Begging, crying out to the house where you might hear him. Please, he says, please just show yourself y/n. Please, I need you. Falling into a fitful sleep. Are you still imagining things? He asks delicately and Will wants to smash his porcelain words with a hammer, a bat, his fists. It’s real, he wants to plead, but knows better. He must hide the truth. He must pretend you are truly gone when you come back to him, visit him, protect you and him. Protecting what you have. Not anymore. 

He’s been cleared. Deemed stable enough for light duty. Minimal fieldwork. Lectures mostly, paperwork. If he cared more he would have fought tooth and nail for his regular workload. But he doesn’t. He thanks Hannibal for the work he’s done, the work he’s put into him. He stops for flowers, replacing the ones he left at your grave just days before. The snow had covered them, cradled them how he wished to be held by you. He locks himself in, shutting the door, welcomed by the dogs. He will make dinner, something quick with few dishes. He will go over the cases Jack had given him. Only a few, light reading, though the crimes themselves are as gory and bloody as ever. He pats his face dry and spits toothpaste from his mouth. He dresses with ease, throwing his clothes in the basket, opting for a t-shirt and boxers. He anticipates when you will show up, when you will make yourself known, doing everything in his power to invite you back. Hopeless, he pulls the covers over him, turned on his side. Did denouncing your existence, your presence, make you go away? Were you even real to begin with? And just as he begins to doubt, to panic, he hears a shuffling noise behind him. Something tugs as the blankets. A weight sits, then lays, the bed creaking on your side. He thanks a nameless being that you have come back. That you still love him, need him, exist. He falls asleep to your even breathing, grateful you have spent another night with him.

[the-most-humble-blog]

---

“BIOESSENTIALISM? NO, BITCH — I REFUTE YOUR PREMISE.”

No, this isn’t bioessentialism.

This is a nerve. And I hit it.

You want me to debate from your framework?

As if the cage is the conversation?

No.

> I don’t argue from within the institution.

I burn the syllabus and let the smoke write new scripture.

---

You’re uncomfortable not because I’m wrong —

but because I said it without flinching.

And your worldview depends on flinching.

---

> I don’t essentialize the body.

I reveal that your disdain for biology is just another kind of fear.

And I don’t write for the fearful.

I write for the awakened.

---

You can’t cage me with terms you learned in a seminar taught by someone who never made a soul bleed from syntax.

What I am isn’t essential.

It’s contagious.

---

I am the cough in the lecture hall that won’t stop.

The dream you can’t explain that still makes you sweat.

The phrase you wish you hadn’t read because now it’s living in your spine.

---

Bioessentialism?

No, bitch.

This is psycholinguistic revolt.

You felt it in your thighs before your degree kicked in to shame it.

You called it problematic

because you couldn’t call it liberating without unraveling your whole identity.

---

So be mad. Be confused.

But don’t ever think I’m asking for your rubric.

I vent because the literary cage is real.

Because the machine tried to file me under “unpublishable.”

Because you mistook unfiltered rage for unearned confidence.

What I vent is just.

Because you were warned.

---

You wanted truth?

You got thunder.

Now go ahead. Tag it. Whisper it.

Tell your circle he’s dangerous.

You’re goddamn right I am.

---

[gratiae-mirabilia]

I charge thee, before God and Jesus Christ, Who shall judge the living and the dead, by His coming and His kingdom, preach the word; be instant in season, out of season; reprove, entreat, rebuke in all patience and doctrine. For there shall be a time when they will not endure sound doctrine but, according to their own desires, they will heap to themselves teachers having itching ears: and will indeed turn away their hearing from the truth, but will be turned unto fables. But be thou vigilant, labor in all things, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill thy ministry. Be sober.

2 Timothy 4:1-5

[apnourry]

this IS a political post so if you need to scroll, feel free💜

for the most part I think I'm definitely preaching to the choir on this but like..I just wanna type things out.

so many of the people I know who voted for him didn't expect him to win. they seem disappointed even. I think they knew that they didn't agree with him but couldn't admit it and saw that at WORST their lives would mostly be unchanged under a dem president so they were quietly relying on her to win while maintaining face(if you can call it that) by staying on the trump ship. it obviously emboldened hatred and vitriol and we've known that since last time, but now there are so many /we can disagree and still be friends/ posts amidst SO many filings for divorce because that is true and this isn't that. it's not "disagreement" to erase a person's humanity and strip away human rights more easily. it's not "disagreement" to think no one's life should be marginally easier if yours isn't also getting easier. it isn't "disagreement" to openly and loudly say you're happy that people are frightened and upset and hurt. it isn't "disagreement" to say everyone should have to live according to your own religious beliefs (which may or may not be aligned with what is explicitly written in your religion's scripture). we can disagree about if pineapple belongs on pizza. we can disagree about which lotr movie is the best. we could even disagree about whether the dress is black and blue or white and yellow. it feels asinine to think that everything would be fine when at the time it mattered most to someone you call a friend or family, you could look at them and choose to send the very clear message that you do not see them as a person worthy of living a good life and having hope for the future. when it came down to it, you chose someone who will never EVER see you as respectable or look out for you over people who gave you chance after chance after chance and finally chose peace.

anyway, I love you to everyone who feels uneasy and apprehensive about the future. I hope the next 4 years and some change is boring as hell.

[poiscns]

( benjamin wadsworth / cis male / he/him ) — NICOLÁS SERRANO has been living in Port Leiry for THEIR WHOLE LIFE. They currently work as a EMPLOYEE OF THE AVIARY GUN STORE AND RANGE, and are TWENTY-SIX years old. No one is sure if they’re actually a HUNTER or if they’re connected to BROTHERHOOD. They tend to be quite VOLATILE and RECKLESS, but can also be DAUNTLESS and RESILIENT.—

( tw: death, murder, gun mention, violence, general psychopathy )

TL;DR - chaotic evil hunter that bows to no one but the brotherhood; would rather die than monster-fuck, a walking molotov cocktail of a person, clown blood only, 3oh3!soundtrack follows them everywhere. Think of them as the team spirit for the brotherhood. can’t talk, but can sign and communicate telepathically through the witch charm he has. good luck!  

about under the cut I penned by rey

ORIGINS: 

name: nicolás serrano

age: twenty-six

alignment: chaotic evil, there is no two ways about this 

species: hunter 

hometown: port leiry

sexuality: bisexual

affiliation: the brotherhood till he dies, and fam, that might be pretty soon with the way this man lives his life 

creative touchpoints: jason todd, harley quinn, tom sawyer, peter pan, and if i said ODYSSEYUS CIRCA THE ILIAD THEN WHAT, cerberus the guardian of hell 

occupation: employee of the aviary gun store 

family members of note: if you’re brotherhood then you’re a bro. everyone else can choke! 

BACKSTORY:

PSYCHOPATHY IN SEVEN SYMPTOMS - THE SERRANO FILE

1 ▸ GRANDIOISE NARRATIVE DISORDER

(aka “Of course the thunderstorm was my birth announcement, duh.”)

Tell Nico the universe doesn’t revolve around him and he’ll grin, lean back, and start rotating the room. Since diapers he’s treated reality like a choose-your-own-demolition comic: panel one, lightning hits the crib; panel two, baby Nico coos “try harder.” So when the Brotherhood’s door-kickers found a one-year-old booby-trapping his playroom, he didn’t feel “rescued.” He felt summoned.

Snatched from the wreckage by Brotherhood hunters, his parents ghosted out by something with claws and monster eyes. The vacancy that swap carved in his chest still crackles—an ember he can’t shake loose. His creed: “Main-character energy or spontaneous combustion, whichever comes first.”

2 ▸ ZERO AFFECT MIRROR

(raised by a crowd, reflected by none)

No mom, no dad, just a rotating cast of grizzled mentors whose parenting style was 30% ballistics and 70% black coffee. Nico studied them like reruns, then bootlegged their best lines. Sympathy? Smile like Sergeant Mule-Kick. Sarcasm? Steal Captain Side-Eye’s eyebrow quirk. Tears? Never tested; the Brotherhood doesn’t do wet work that way.

Internally he’s radio silent; externally he’s a jukebox of borrowed emotions. One minute heart-wrenching sincerity, next minute dead-eyed apathy—needle scratch, new track. Brotherhood recruits say, “Wow, Nico really gets me.” Nico signs back, “Totally (who are you again?).” Emotional authenticity is for civilians and fruit salad; he prefers steel and stage lighting.

3 ▸ IMPULSE WORSHIP

(boy meets love, boy drop-kicks the brakes)

Somewhere between improvised rocket sleds and rooftop molotov cocktails, Nico tasted the high-proof cocktail called love. It wasn’t gentle or gradual; it detonated—red smoke and ringing ears—stamping a shape into his ribcage he’s never managed to sand down. He main-lined the sensation the way other people breathe. Stole city skylines for moonlit rendezvous, tagged rooftops with neon hearts, fired bottle rockets that spelled their initials because Romeo never thought big enough.

When the lover ran—grief, terror, plain survival instinct—Nico’s pulse red-lined. Rejection translated directly to MORE GAS. He doubled the stunts, tripled the risk, and torched every street that still smelled like their cologne. Lesson branded into bone: affection is a collision you schedule yourself. Ever since, raw impulse is his holy scripture; hesitation is blasphemy. If the angel on his shoulder whispers “maybe slow down,” Nico tears off its wings and repurposes them.

4 ▸ SENSORY REDLINING

(one witch, one tongue, zero speed limits)

Fifteen. He leapt a salt ring, got tongue-napped by an elegant sociopathic witch with excellent manicure game. Poof—his tongue gone. Shock lasted half a beat; then colors spiked, sounds weaponized, skin turned into an over-amped car alarm. Most folks would faint. Nico got better.

Wordless, he invented Serrano-sign—half gang tag, half interpretive stab dance—and snagged a sketchy mind-voice pendant that crackles like broken radio. When it glitches, he carves sentences into drywall, or forearms, whichever’s closer. Losing speech didn’t hush him; it uncuffed him. Now every thought arrives raw and jagged straight into your cortex: “Hi, welcome to my TED Talk on Screaming.”

5 ▸ MORAL COLORBLINDNESS

(Brotherhood = technicolor, everything else = grayscale targets)

Morality for Nico is a one-bit graphic: Brotherhood pixels glow neon; the rest could be static for all he cares. He’ll rescue a rookie he hates because family, then leave an entire apartment block to burn because not family. Ask him about collateral damage and he tilts his head like you just questioned gravity.

He does love—fiercely, protectively, violently—but only inside that ring of neon. The supernatural stole his parents; the Brotherhood filled the vacancy. Anyone threatening that math is pre-approved for liquidation. Ammo’s expensive; your life is cheaper.

6 ▸ STRATEGIC SADISM

(classes now in session—dissection tools provided)

Nico doesn’t hunt; he hosts field trips. Newly minted hunters join for “extended learning,” which translates to: busting through windows, zip-tying nightmares for close-up study, pop-quizzing rookies while the monster is still twitching.

Educational highlights include:

“Map That Artery” — label spurting veins before they stop.

“Fear Is Just Data” — Nico fires live rounds near trainees’ ears; if they flinch, next quiz is closer.

“Group Project” — everyone gets a scalpel and a stopwatch; teamwork grades curve toward brutality.

The cruelty is calibrated; the syllabus written in blood because red ink fades too quickly. Command sanctions the curriculum—casualty rates plummet among hunters, spike among monsters. Everyone passes or bleeds trying.

7 ▸ CHARM OFFENSIVE

(team mascot, chaos DJ, walking liability)

You’d think constant mayhem would sour morale. Nope. Nico is the Brotherhood’s living meme—part hype-man, part demolition derby clown. He zip-lines into meetings wielding glitter bombs. He programs the gun range coffeemaker to play “3OH!3” and dispense espresso spiked with holy water.

Even the brass chuckle (nervously) because recruitment numbers spike every time he uploads a hunt highlight reel: Nico riding a ghoul like a surfboard, flipping the devil horns, hearts doodled on screen. The Brotherhood's HR ulcer would throb, but they don't have an HR department.

EPILOGUE ▸ BANG, GIGGLE, RELOAD

Nicolás Serrano is TNT packed in a clown car: multicolored, music blaring, fuse already lit. He lives three inches ahead of the present tense, convinced God gave him nine lives and a coupon for ten more. Psychologists might slap diagnostic stickers across his file; Nico would peel them off to make confetti.

He’s chaos with loyalty, violence with a punch-line, a machete wrapped in gift paper. The Brotherhood keeps him around because victory tastes better dipped in wildfire—and because some monsters need to be out-crazy’d before they die.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

TBD, but I'll tell you this, no monsterfucking for this one. give me situationships of hunter or human nature. give me brotherhood. give me people who hate him and people he hates. give me chaos.

[arcane-fanfic]

Beneath the Crown - Act VI

Chapter 1 - “ Let the world watch. Let it burn bright.”

The city didn’t sleep anymore. Not since the first article dropped.

Caitlyn’s face, defiant, clear-eyed, stared back from every screen and newsstand. The words she’d spoken to Juliette had been printed nearly verbatim, and the world had read them like scripture. “ The Crown fears progress,” it read in bold, “and they’d rather bury the truth than face their reflection in a modern mirror.”

The public was divided. Protests ignited near the palace gates, some holding signs of support, others blinded by tradition. But one thing was certain, no one was looking away.

In the dim light of their shared apartment, now a sanctuary and a war room, Vi scrolled through footage, eyes narrowed. Her fingers clenched around her phone, jaw tight.

They’re circling the wagons, she muttered. “Palace reps spinning the story, saying you’re ‘emotionally unstable,’ 'influenced,’ 'manipulated by fringe elements.’”

“Fringe elements?” Caitlyn laughed quietly, buttoning her crisp white shirt as she moved past Vi. “Is that what we’re calling love now?”

Vi looked up at her. She hadn’t seen Caitlyn like this before, she was centered, calm, steeled like a blade fresh from the forge.

“You’re different,” Vi said, barely above a whisper. “Sharper. Unshakable.”

“I think I’ve always been like this,” Caitlyn said. “But you...you gave me permission to stop apologizing for it.”

Vi stood, stepping into Caitlyn’s space, her fingers brushing her waist. “And you gave me something I didn’t think I deserved. Peace, trust, a reason to stop running.”

They stood there, the weight of the world pressing in from the windows, but neither moved.

Then Caitlyn whispered, “Let’s take the next step.”

Vi blinked. “You mean...”

“I want the whole truth out. Not just about us.” Caitlyn moved toward the desk, pulled open a drawer, and slid a file onto the surface.

Vi opened it.

Documents. Old coronation schedules. Medical reports. Obituaries. Royal correspondences with names redacted in thick ink. And beneath them, something that twisted Vi’s stomach.

“Is this...?”

“A cousin,” Caitlyn confirmed. “She was forced to marry into another royal bloodline. She was abused by her husband for three years. Everyone knew. But when she took her own life, the papers said it was a 'sudden illness.’”

Vi’s knuckles turned white around the page.

“There’s more,” Caitlyn said. “The Queen’s brother was addicted to opiates. He disappeared for a year, and when he came back, they said he’d been in retreat for 'spiritual renewal.’”

“And this...” Vi picked up another document, her voice hardening. “This girl… sixteen? She overdosed at a palace event?”

Caitlyn nodded. “Swept under a rug of charity donations and PR like when the cherished drunk heir of some pompous title hit someone with their car and ran leaving the poor victim in a wheelchair for the rest of his life…”

Silence wrapped around them like fog.

Vi finally looked at her. “So what’s next?”

Caitlyn’s voice was quiet but laced with fire. “We go public. Everything. We take these stories and proofs, these buried truths and let them breathe. If they want to paint me as a rebel, fine. I’ll be the revolution they feared.”

“And me?” Vi asked, softer now, vulnerable in a way only Caitlyn ever saw.

“You,” Caitlyn said, drawing her close again, “are the reason I can finally breathe. The world can watch me fight, but it’s you who reminds me why I fight.”

Vi rested her forehead against Caitlyn’s. “Then let’s go, Cupcake.”

“No,” Caitlyn whispered, cupping her cheek. “Call me Caitlyn. Just this once.”

Vi’s breath caught.

And this time… not by mistake, she said it like a vow. “Caitlyn.”

Chapter 2 – “The First Surrender”

Her name echoed like a promise and as the door to their room clicked shut behind them, for the first time in days, there was silence, no political shadows creeping in, no duty, no damage, no threats. Just the golden dusk light pouring through the high windows, painting Caitlyn’s features in soft, commanding hues.

Vi stood still in the middle of the room, unsure of what to say or do. She’d followed Caitlyn through fire, loss, and defiance...but this was something else. This was… the moment after the battle, when all that was left was truth.

Caitlyn turned slowly. Her voice was quiet but firm.

“You’re shaking.”

Vi exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Guess I’m not as tough as I look.”

Caitlyn stepped closer. There was something in her now, something calm, assured, and unshakably present. No longer the royal heir haunted by duty, she moved like someone who had chosen her path, and would not be turned away.

“You don’t need to be tough with me, Vi.”

She reached up and gently undid the buttons of Vi’s shirt, one at a time, not rushed, not tentative, just deliberate. Vi didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her breath caught when Caitlyn’s fingers brushed the bare skin of her collarbone.

“You’ve carried so much on your back for so long. Let me carry you tonight.”

The words hit Vi like a flood. No one had ever said that to her. No one had ever meant it.

Caitlyn kissed her and not softly this time, but with an intensity that swept all the broken pieces between them into something whole. She guided Vi backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss. Vi let herself be moved, let herself be led. The last of her armor slipped off like cloth.

When Caitlyn pushed her gently down onto the bed, Vi didn’t resist. Her hands found Caitlyn’s hips as she climbed over her, settling astride her thighs with elegant confidence. Their eyes locked.

“You trust me?” Caitlyn whispered, bending low to kiss just beneath Vi’s ear.

Vi’s voice was ragged. “With everything.”

And so she gave in.

Caitlyn’s hands traced every line of Vi’s body like a map she had finally claimed as her own. She didn’t rush. She explored, tender, reverent, but entirely in control. Vi had never felt more vulnerable. Or more safe.

No one had ever touched her like this...like she was not a weapon to be sharpened, but a soul to be cherished.

At one point, Caitlyn paused, forehead resting against Vi’s, breathing fast but steady. “I don’t just want you,” she whispered. “I love you. I think I have since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t in a cage.”

Vi’s chest rose, then trembled. And the words came out, broken but whole.

“I love you too. I just… didn’t know what to do with it.”

“Let me show you,” Caitlyn said.

And she did.

They moved together like they had always known how, like their bodies had memorized each other in another past life. It wasn’t about dominance or surrender anymore, it was about truth. Caitlyn’s truth, finally free. Vi’s truth, finally safe.

When it was over, they stayed tangled in the sheets, the air around them warm and still.

Vi turned her head, brushing Caitlyn’s hair from her face. “You made me feel like I belonged to something good.”

Caitlyn smiled, the most honest smile she had ever worn. “You are something good. The best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And in the silence that followed, there were no more doubts. Just two women, holding each other as the stars came out, their hearts bare, their future unwritten - but finally, theirs.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Greg Owen at LGBTQ Nation:

On February 26, 2015, the California Attorney General’s Office stamped “received” on a cover letter from Huntington Beach attorney Matt McLaughlin, acknowledging receipt of a proposed initiative for the November ballot that would authorize the mass murder of gays and lesbians in the state. McLaughlin called his proposal the “Sodomite Suppression Act.” Kamala Harris was the state attorney general. Harris had just won reelection — overwhelmingly — in November, and three weeks before McLaughlin’s measure landed in her inbox, she had declared her intention to seek the U.S. Senate seat occupied by Barbara Boxer, who announced her retirement that January. Now Harris was confronted with a hateful proposal she had no choice but to deal with: under California state law, the attorney general has zero discretion to disregard a properly proposed initiative filing, no matter how intentionally provocative, discriminatory, or felonious.   The “Sodomite Suppression Act” was all three. And prophetic, too.

What came to be known as the “Shoot the Gays” initiative detailed several steps to eliminate the gay and lesbian population of California based on McLaughlin’s interpretation of Scripture. “The abominable crime against nature known as buggery, called also sodomy, is a monstrous evil that Almighty God, giver of freedom and liberty, commands us to suppress on pain of our utter destruction even as he overthrew Sodom and Gomorrha [sic],” McLaughlin wrote. “Seeing that it is better that offenders should die rather than that all of us should be killed by God’s just wrath against us for the folly of tolerating-wickedness in our midst, the People of California wisely command, in the fear of God, that any person who willingly touches another person of the same gender for purposes of sexual gratification be put to death by bullets to the head or by any other convenient method.” The proposed measure would outlaw “sodomistic propaganda directly or indirectly by any means to any person under the age of majority.” Violators would be fined “and/or imprisoned up to 10 years, and/or expelled from the boundaries of the state of California for up to life.”

[...] Harris wasn’t having it. “It is my sworn duty to uphold the California and United States Constitutions and to protect the rights of all Californians,” Harris said as a deadline for action loomed. “This proposal not only threatens public safety, it is patently unconstitutional, utterly reprehensible, and has no place in a civil society.” For the first time, a California attorney general sought relief from her sworn obligation and petitioned the state’s highest court to dismiss it. “If the court does not grant this relief,” she said, “my office will be forced to issue a title and summary for a proposal that seeks to legalize discrimination and vigilantism.” There was little-to-no chance McLaughlin would collect the 365,880 signatures of registered voters required to make the ballot, and even less that Californians would approve it or that it would survive the inevitable court challenges if it did pass.

In 2015, a few months before Donald Trump made the infamous escalator ride to announce his presidential run and SCOTUS’s Obergefell ruling, then-California AG Kamala Harris found a way to reject a bigoted referendum item from making it onto the ballot.

That ballot measure was called the “Sodomite Suppression Act.”

Portions of what was in the act later became standard GOP policy against LGBTQ+ Americans.

[dealervel]

SILK ROAD : VELVET MARKET

» handler: VEL

» do not ask what’s behind the locked tabs

“files are final. touch with caution. click with consequence.”

⸻

CONFESSIONALS

✦ ITEM: sex with me — gojo

TAG: confession | STATUS: live

DESC: he praises like a preacher. and you scream like scripture.

✦ ITEM: awkward — eren

TAG: confession | STATUS: raw

DESC: you left. his memory didn’t. he kisses your name in sleep.

✦ ITEM: under your spell — sukuna

TAG: confession | STATUS: touched

DESC: ritual sex. crimson candles. his voice under your skin.

✦ ITEM: he loves me — nanami

TAG: confession | STATUS: glowing

DESC: love locked in a lecture. but his hands never lie.

✦ ITEM: gift from virgo — kaneki

TAG: confession | STATUS: unwrapped

DESC: ribbons drop. he doesn’t wait. but he whispers thank you.

⸻

THE FILES

✦ ITEM: acid drip — sukuna

TAG: file | STATUS: unstable

DESC: hallucination-coded filth. you forget your own name first.

✦ ITEM: psycho bf — gojo / nanami

TAG: file | STATUS: sealed

DESC: you’re being watched. softly. roughly. constantly.

✦ ITEM: stranger — sukuna

TAG: file | STATUS: summoned

DESC: new face. old hunger. your moans get recorded.

✦ ITEM: chanel — sukuna

TAG: file | STATUS: luxe

DESC: designer grip. purse on the floor. hands in your throat.

✦ ITEM: throw sum mo — gojo / nanami

TAG: file | STATUS: rotating

DESC: they pass you like a bottle. your lap is the battlefield.

⸻

WORSHIP MATERIAL

✦ ITEM: be with you — nanami

TAG: worship | STATUS: sacred

DESC: soft control. house keys. collar invisible but tight.

✦ ITEM: clouded — gojo

TAG: worship | STATUS: fogged

DESC: he needs you like breath. you leave him gasping.

✦ ITEM: kisses down low — law

TAG: worship | STATUS: oral

DESC: tongue first. hands last. kneeling in prayer.

✦ ITEM: she — gojo

TAG: worship | STATUS: cracked

DESC: love like a haunting. you moan. he shatters.

✦ ITEM: living room flow — kise

TAG: worship | STATUS: domestic

DESC: sunlight, couch burn, lazy praise.

⸻

EXPIRED DROPS

✦ ITEM: cam confession — gojo

TAG: expired | STATUS: corrupted

DESC: static over moans. the camera doesn’t blink. he never looks away.

✦ ITEM: voicemail — sukuna

TAG: expired | STATUS: looping

DESC: “mine.” always at 3AM. never deleted.

✦ ITEM: redacted — nanami

TAG: expired | STATUS: blacked

DESC: file missing. bruises logged. name unknown.

⸻

SILK ROAD ARCHIVES

✦ ITEM: oh — gojo & sukuna

TAG: archive | STATUS: legacy

DESC: you sit in his lap. and his. they toast to your downfall.

✦ ITEM: one of the girls — gojo

TAG: archive | STATUS: claimed

DESC: jealousy in heels. he buys the ring. you buy the lie.

✦ ITEM: the party & the afterparty

TAG: archive | STATUS: blackout

DESC: glitter, glass, regret. the night never ended.

✦ ITEM: throw sum mo pt. 2 — gojo & nanami

TAG: archive | STATUS: reloaded

DESC: new panties. same chair. same smirk.

ITEMS: sold .

TAG: sold | STATUS: no longer available

DESC: old masterlist

⸻

ROOM 33

handler log: “these weren’t meant for the shelves.”

✦ ITEM: psycho bf — nanami

TAG: room 33 | STATUS: obsessive

DESC: you dance on him all night. he doesn’t blink once.

✦ ITEM: drug lord — sukuna

TAG: room 33 | STATUS: dangerous

DESC: blood on his rings. his name on your lips.

✦ ITEM: club owner — nanami

TAG: room 33 | STATUS: locked

DESC: he watches you onstage like you’re currency.

✦ ITEM: kingpin — gojo

TAG: room 33 | STATUS: classified

DESC: gold teeth. gloved hands. his kiss tastes like secrets.

🕷️ signed, Vel

Silk Road Dealer 09

“Inventory updated after nightfall.”

[pompomqt]

Journey to the West Chapter 37

Tripitaka using his scary dog privilege at every opportunity:

This chapter of Journey to the West with @journeythroughjourneytothewest we get to find out what the threat of the week is going to be, so let's get into it shall we?

We begin this chapter with Tripitaka falling asleep at his reading desk while reviewing scriptures. And before to long, a spooky ghost decides to take this opportunity to visit the local ghost buster! Tripitaka however isn't to pleased to be visited by the freak of the week and threatens him that he has very valiant and powerful disciples who will reduce him to dust if they see him, so they should take Tripitaka's mercy and bail before they see him. Pity he can never compliment them like this when he's awake.

The ghost however manages to convince them that they aren't a monster here to eat him or anything, turns out the ghost is actually a king. A ghost king. Or rather just a king that's a ghost I guess. Anyways Tripitaka is horrified at his own rudeness in the face or royalty and is much more willing to hear out the king's story now. Said story goes a little something like this: Five years ago his kingdom faced a severe drought and nothing they did could fix it. However one day a Daoist came to their kingdom, and he had the ability to summon wind and rain and even transform rock into gold. When he was able to summon three feet of rain and even added an extra two inches for them, the king was so impressed he became bond brothers with him. However two years later said daoist pushed the king into a well and buried it, even planting a tree over it, which is how the king died and became a ghost.

Tripitaka asks how nobody could notice that their king was missing and the king explains that the daoist copied his form and took over his kingdom. Tripitaka then asks why he doesn't just file a wrongful death lawsuit with the ten kings, and the king explains that the Daoist isn't just powerful he is also a rather important person. A relative of the Dragon Kings and bond brothers with the kings of hell. And honestly this sort of thing is starting to sound familiar, someone so important and powerful that normal people can't do anything against them... in fact if Sun Wukong didn't have an alibi of protecting Tripitaka and being trapped under a mountain for the last five years, I'd be worried that they might be talking about him.

Luckily they aren't talking about Sun Wukong, and are actually here to ask for his help. I guess they'd rather deal with Tripitaka's diplomacy rather then taking it straight to Monkey though. And what better way to deal with a powerful, well connected usurper, then getting help from the original? Anyways, Tripitaka is more then happy to loan out Wukong's fiend seizing abilities, but worries that he might have trouble with this particular task. In a straight fight Sun Wukong would win of course, but Tripitaka is more worried about the legal battle that would follow since the Daoist is currently pretending to be the king after all.

Luckily the king has a plan for this, or at the very least an ally that will be able to help them. The prince of kingdom is still living in the palace but has been kept away from his mother to stop the two of them from talking and potentially figuring things out. Anyways the prince will be out of the city on a hunting trip tomorrow giving Tripitaka a chance to meet with him. The king also give Tripitaka proof to show the prince in the form of a jade token. When the Daoist took the kings form he didn't take the token and instead just accused the Daoist of stealing it. So Tripitaka having it could prove his words true- or you know, completely backfire and make the prince think that Tripitaka is the evil Daoist. Either one.

Anyways now that the Ghost King has fulfilled his NPC role and has given Tripitaka his side quest for the week, he takes his leave and Tripitaka awakens from his dream. So Tripitaka immediately starts yelling for his disciples which of course immediately leads to Pigsy bitching that they can't get even a moments peace on this journey! Tripitaka just ignores him and tells his disciples about the crazy dream he had. Luckily Monkey is more then happy to take commissions for his ass kicking abilities and is more then happy to beat that guy to a pulp.

Tripitaka then remembers that the King left him something and looks around for it, when they find the Jade Token from the dream outside the door that serves as proof that the dream was real. With that settled the group enters into planning mode. Monkey already has a plan in mind and asks if Tripitaka will be willing to face three unlucky things, those three things being 'Take the blame, take abuse and catch the plague. Tripitaka tries to ask for more details about those alarming three things but Monkey just tells him 'don't worry about it' and proceeds to change one of his hairs into a fancy box and putting the token into it.

Monkey then proceeds to tell him the plan. Tripitaka will wait here in his fancy cassock and recite some sutra's while Monkey scopes out the city. If he see's the fiend he'll just kill him and save them all the trouble, but if not he'll instead just lead the prince to Tripitaka. Once the prince show's up, Monkey will announce him before shrinking himself to fit inside the box. After that Tripitaka is to ignore him until the prince gets pissy and tries to arrest him, which is where the whole 'take the blame, beating and catch the plague' part of his plan comes into play.

Tripitaka is quite understandably nervous about this plan, but Monkey assure him that he will never let anything ever actually hurt him. When the prince interrogates him Tripitaka is to tell him about his journey from the east. And when the prince asks him about his treasures, Tripitaka is to say that he has the cassock which is a third class treasure but that he also has a first and second class treasure. When the prince asks for more info, Tripitaka is to tell him that he has a treasure that knows about the past 500 years, the present 500 years and the future 500 years- said treasure being Monkey who will take the opportunity to tell the prince about Tripitaka's dream. If the prince still doesn't believe them they can then show him the jade token as proof. Tripitaka thinks this is a wonderful plan and asks what he should call the third 'monkey treasure'. Monkey suggests calling him 'King-Making thing.'

With the plan set, all that's left to do is wait till morning when they can put the plan into motion. When morning comes Sun Wukong leaves to scout the city as promised and see's that it is surrounded in layers of eerie mists and battered by constant gusts of wind, and generally just has bad vibes, a sure sign of a fiendish ruler. Once Monkey takes a good look at the city, the gates open letting out the prince's hunting party. Monkey uses this opportunity to lure the prince away by transforming into a rabbit and pretending to let the prince shoot him with an arrow and scampering away. When the prince see's that the arrow hit it's mark, he chases after his pray on horse back and Monkey is able to successfully lure him all the way to the Monastery where Tripitaka is waiting.

Now that the prince is here, they enter into phase two of their plan. As promised Monkey alerts Tripitaka to the prince's presence before shrinking in size and diving into the box. Speaking of the prince he arrives and is startled to see his arrow but not the rabbit he shot. He assumes that it must have been a spirit and leaves it at that, and decides that he might as check out the monastery while he's here. Meanwhile the rest of the prince's entourage arrive and take a self guided tour of the temple, all the monks of the temple kowtow to the prince, but when they reach the room Tripitaka is in, he doesn't acknowledge the prince in anyway. Incensed by this rudeness the Prince orders for Tripitaka to be seized. As promised however, Monkey isn't going to let any harm come to Tripitaka, and he accomplishes this by threatening all the gods that are Tripitaka guard duty. Monkey is sure to inform all the guardian deities that if they allow Tripitaka to be bound, he will find them all guilty. So of course the gods step in and make it so the guards can't even touch Tripitaka.

Seeing that Tripitaka can't be touched the prince immediately starts interrogating Tripitaka, and Tripitaka follows the script he and Monkey had worked out earlier. Tripitaka also takes this opportunity to introduce Monkey as the treasure called the King-Making Thing. So Monkey exits the box in his tiny form, but grows immediately back to his normal size as soon as the prince calls him a midget. So Monkey tells the prince all about the drought and the doaist as proof of his knowledge of the past. Then Monkey has the prince dismiss his entourage before telling him that the king on the throne is not actually his father but instead the doaist.

The Prince of course isn't to keen to hear that his father is an imposter so Monkey decides it's time to use their trump card. He has Tripitaka hand him the box, and takes back his hair which leaves only the Jade Token. Of course as should be expected the Prince immediately starts accusing *them* of being the Daoist as soon as he see's that they have the Jade Token and once again tries to order them to be arrested. While Tripitaka is freaking out that their plan has gone completely sideways, Monkey simply introduces himself and tells the Prince the whole true story about what happened. After hearing Monkey's explanation about his ghost father, he believes them, but still isn't sure what he can do about the whole situation. Monkey however encourages the Prince to speak to his mother the queen, in secret.

And so we end this chapter of Journey to the West with the prince heading out to have a conversation with his mother.

Current Sun Wukong Stats: Names/Titles: Monkey, The Stone Monkey, The Handsome Monkey King, Sun Wukong (Monkey awakened to the void), Bimawen (Banhorseplague), The Great Sage Equal To Heaven and Pilgrim Sun. Immortality: 5 + 94,000 years. Weapon: The Compliant Golden Hooped Rod Abilities: 72 Transformations, Cloud-Somersault, Ability to transform his individual hairs, super strength, Ability to Summon Wind, Water restriction charm, and the ability to change into a huge war form, ability to duplicate his staff, ability to immobilize others, the ability to put others to sleep, and the Fiery eyes and Diamond Pupils, intimidating horses, churning large bodies of water, sleeplessness, seizing the wind, enhanced smell, discerning good and evil within a thousand miles, Spirit Summoning, lock picking, object transformation, distance reduction and vanishing in a flash of light. Demon Kill Count: 9+ Unknown Number of Minions Human Kill Count: 1006 God's Defeated: 22 + Unknown number Defeats: 4 Crime List: Robbery, Murder, Mass Murder, Arson, Theft, Coercion, Threatening a Government Official, Resisting Arrest, Assault, Forgery, Employee Theft, False Imprisonment, Impersonating a Government Official, Treason, attempted murder, failure to control or report a dangerous fire, desecrating a corpse, breaking and entering, trespassing, violating Tree Law, looting corpses, trading counterfeit goods and Criminal Threat Cry Count: 6 + 2 fake cries Mountains Trapped Under: 4

Current Tang Sanzang stats: Names/Titles: River Float, Xuanzang, Tang Sanzang, Tripitaka Abilities: Curing Blindness, making branches point a certain direction (allegedly), reciting sutras, pretty privilege, memorization and Heart Sutra. Cry Count: 18 Tight Fillet Spell Uses: 27 Paralyzed by fear: 5 Bandit Problems: 2 Kidnapped by demons: 4 Falling Off Horses: 6

Current Bai Long Ma Stats: Names/Titles: Bai Long Ma (White Dragon Horse), Prince of the Western Ocean, and third prince jade dragon of the dragon king Aorun Abilities: Transforming into a human, a water snake, and a horse, eating a horse in one bite, flight, Magic of Water Restriction, Singing, and Sword Dancing. Cry Count: 1 Crime List: Arson, and Grave Disobedience. Contributions to the plot: 2

Current Zhu Wuneng Stats: Names/Titles: The Marshal of the Heavenly Reeds, Zhu Wuneng (Pig who is aware of ability), Zhu Ganglie, Pigsy, Idiot and Eight Rules. Weapon: Rake Abilities: 36 Transformations, parting water, fighting underwater, cloud soaring and size enhancement Demon Kill Count/Kill steals: 2 Kidnapped by Demons: 1 Human Kill Count: 1 Failed Flirtation/romances Attempts: 3 Cry Count: 1 Crime List: Sexual Harassment, Murder, Kidnapping and arson.

Current Sha Wujing Stats: Names/Titles: The Curtain-Raising General, Sha Wujing (Sand Aware of Purity), Sandy and Sha Monk Weapon: Monster Taming Staff Abilities: Fighting underwater and Cloud soaring. Demon Kill Count: Unknown number of minions. Kidnapped by Demons: 2 Human Kill Count: 1 Crime List: Breaking a Crystal Cup, murder, and desecration of a human corpse.

Previous - Masterpost - Next