#SIMMONS: behind the mask

[line-of-fire]

Fuck it's one am and I'm stuck in thoughts about Pixie again. Specifically about her 'good days' in her main verse. The days where she's able to just roll with the training schedule and her mind doesn't wander too much. When her arm doesn't hurt and the phone call home doesn't end in a fight and a phone with 'do not disturb' on. The days where she can go to her apartment and take her scarf off at the door. Where the mental weight doesn't feel as heavy and the thought of going home home almost crosses her mind. The idea that she has a little proof that maybe, just maybe, she's doing well enough to handle getting off the speeding train and just being a stay at home mom, making up for lost time.

[incognit0slut]

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Behind Closed Doors 2

You welcome Spencer back to the team with a special gesture of your own—and find yourself falling even harder for him after he opens up to you.

Warnings: (18+ MDNI) sub older spence my beloved, handjob, oral (m), spit kink?, semi-public (they are FREAKY), and idk if we can call this angst but we get to know how he feels about returning to work ~3.9k words

A/n: I didn’t plan for a part two, but rewriting scenes with specific looks of him is growing on me. Also, this happens before Emily tells him to teach seminars on his leave. And tell me what you think!!

He looked good in pink.

That was an understatement, the man looked good in pretty much anything. But today? Something was different. Something looked different. His whole appearance seemed to be on point than usual. You noticed his typically tousled hair was styled and swept back, which was a very rare sight, and it was hard for you to look away.

“…as you have obviously heard, Dr. Spencer Reid has been fully reinstated,” Emily announced, snapping you back to reality. “Welcome back, Spence.”

“Whoo-hoo! Yes!” Penelope cheered, only to be met by Emily’s pointed look. “That’s not the end, is it?”

Your boss shook your head and then proceeded to continue with another announcement. You stole a glance towards him again.

Maybe it was just really his shirt that made him look good? It wasn't even overly tight, but snug enough to accentuate the lines of his broad shoulders. Has his shoulders always been that wide? Now that you think about it, he did seem to be putting on a little weight. Not that it was a bad thing, and not that you didn't like how he looked before, but you couldn't help noticing how he filled out his shirt, and for some reason, it was doing something to you. 

Probably more than something because now you wondered what other places he filled out.

A sudden round of applause filled the room, and you joined in, tearing your gaze away from him only to find Matt Simmons grinning at you. You looked away and followed everyone as they shuffled around the room, making sure to sit as far away from Spencer as possible, although luck wasn't on your side when Matt settled into the seat beside you.

"You don't seem too thrilled about me joining the team," he murmured, leaning in close.

“What do you mean? I’m always open to new faces around here.”

“Not as excited as having an old member back, though,” Matt remarked, prompting you to snap your head at him, a slight frown forming on your face. He winked teasingly, and you groaned, shoving his shoulder away. 

“Ugh, do not wink at me.”

His laughter filled the air, but it quickly faded as the atmosphere in the room turned serious. Penelope began briefing everyone on the new case, and you did your best to mask your grimace every time a gruesome picture flashed on the screen. By the time Emily called out, “Wheels up in thirty,” you rose from your seat.

To talk to him or not talk to him?

You weighed the pros and cons, sneaking a quick glance at Spencer, who was deeply absorbed in studying the case files. The logical part of your brain told you it wasn't the best time to strike up a conversation, especially with only thirty minutes left until you had to leave. But there was something about him, it felt almost instinctual, like you were naturally drawn to him, and like a magnetic force, you couldn't resist.

Oh, fuck it—you decided to approach him.

Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you made your way over to where he was sitting, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in your stomach.

"Hi.”

"Hey," he greeted, looking up with a small smile at the corners of his lips. "What's up?"

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

"Sure," Spencer replied, his expression curious yet amused. He set aside the files he had been studying and turned his attention fully to you.

“In private?”

There was a brief pause, and you swore you could practically cut the tension with a knife. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he rose from his seat, his gaze never wavering from yours. You tilted your head back to look at him as his presence seemed to fill the room,and you couldn't help but hold your breath as you waited for his response.

“Of course,” he finally agreed, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer before he turned, leading the way to a more secluded spot, past the bullpen, past the glass doors, and down the hallway.

Once you were both out of earshot, he leaned in. “How private are we talking about?”

You nudged his side before guiding him towards the nearest office. As you stepped inside, your heart pounded in your chest, and you quickly glanced around the room to make sure it was empty. When you confirmed it was unoccupied, you turned back to see Spencer closing the door behind him.

Then everything snapped.

You weren't sure who made the first move, whether it was you or both of you acting on instinct, but before you could process it, his lips were on yours, his arms pulling you close, tongue colliding with your own. You gasped at his eagerness and wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing him closer to you as you pressed yourself against him.

With a boldness you didn’t know you possessed, you pushed him against the nearest wall, your hands tangling in his hair as his hands found their way to your ass, squeezing lightly. A soft moan escaped your lips and he responded by deepening the kiss further. It felt like time stood still as you lost yourself in the heat of his mouth against yours, until you finally pulled back, your lips brushing against his jaw.

“What…” He gasped when your mouth trailed lower. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” you groaned into his neck, his scent filling your senses. Why did he have to smell so good? “I think it’s your hair.”

“My… hair?”

You pulled back slightly, your fingers tracing along the collar of his shirt, your eyes roaming over the exposed skin of his chest where the top buttons were left undone. “Or maybe it’s the shirt.”

“My shirt?”

“Yes!” You half-exclaimed, half-whispered, trying to keep your voice down. “I think I’m ovulating and you’re not helping.”

Spencer's eyes widened in surprise, a flush creeping up his neck as he processed your words. "Oh," he managed to say. “I didn't expect that.”

"Sorry," you apologized, feeling your cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to—”

But before you could say anything else, his expression softened, and his grip on your hips tightened. "Hey, it's okay," he reassured you. “It’s common for women to experience changes in their hormones during ovulation. It's completely natural and nothing to be embarrassed about."

You looked up at him, your hands sliding down his chest. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s just your body doing its thing,” he said reassuringly. "And honestly, it's kind of flattering to know that... I have that effect on you."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips as your palms drifted lower. “What else do you know about this stuff?”

“Well, around the time of ovulation, a woman's body produces more estrogen, which can increase libido—”

His breath hitched when his eyes fell on your hand resting over his pants.

“What?” you prompted, a playful glint in your eye. “Why did you stop?”

Spencer's cheeks flushed slightly as he met your gaze. "I, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I was just going to mention that… increased estrogen levels during ovulation can also lead to heightened sensitivity in erogenous zones—”

But his words trailed off into a sigh as you palmed his arousal over his pants, feeling the hardness beneath your touch. He was undeniably aroused, and the way he responded to your touch only fueled you even more. With a mischievous grin, you ran your palm up and down his length, feeling him throb in response before letting out a playful giggle.

You didn’t realize it would be this fun to be the one doing the teasing.

“Tell me more, Spence.”

He swallowed hard before managing to speak. "W-Well,” he stammered. "Increased estrogen levels can also... enhance blood flow to certain areas, leading to heightened sensitivity and... uh, increased pleasure—”

But before he could finish his sentence, you applied a little more pressure, causing him to let out a low groan of pleasure. His words faltered, his focus shifting entirely to the delicious sensation of your hand stroking him. Your eyes traveled down, watching the way his cock pressed against the fabric of his pants, noting how thick and hard he was. 

But as your gaze lingered, you caught sight of the time on your watch, and reality came crashing back in. You reluctantly pulled your hand away from him, and Spencer blinked at your sudden withdrawal, his desire-clouded mind trying to focus on you.

“What's wrong?” He whispered. “Why did you stop?”

“I… I kind of got carried away, I’m sorry," you noted. "We should probably get back before they start to wonder where we are."

He went still, and so did you. The room’s air conditioner hummed softly, filling the silence as you both simply stared at each other. When he didn’t respond, you slowly backed away and moved toward the door, but his grip on your arm stopped you. You turned towards him, eyebrows raised while he seemed to hesitate to say the next words.

After a moment, he sighed, his gaze softening as he finally found the words he was looking for.

“The other day, after we… you know,” he emphasized, and you nodded, urging him to continue. “I had to deal with this myself.”

His eyes flicked over the bulge in his pants and you stifled a laugh, amused at his sudden fluster. “Yeah, you said you were going to ignore it.”

“I didn’t,” he replied. “I couldn’t.”

“And?”

“And…” he hesitated, his gaze flickering away for a moment before meeting yours again.

There was a moment of silence until you realized what he was implying. You gasped, the hand he wasn’t holding covering your mouth in shock. “Here?” you asked in disbelief. “At work?”

His cheeks flushed, but he nodded sheepishly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “In the bathroom.”

“Spencer,” you exclaimed in a hushed tone, “That’s...”

“I know, I know,” he cut in, his tone self-deprecating. “But in my defense, it was all your fault.”

You giggled. “Me? I barely touched you!”

"Exactly, but it was enough to drive me crazy,” he said, and when he saw you laughing, he gave you a deadpanned look. “It’s not funny.”

“Oh come on, it kind of is.” You shook your head in amusement. “Why are you telling me this?”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours. “Because I don’t want to leave this room and deal with it by myself again.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Is this your way of asking me to touch you?”

His eyes widened almost cartoonishly wide, the flush creeping up his cheeks contrasting against the paleness of his skin, making his reaction all the more apparent.

“Please?”

You couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at your lips. “Spencer, we only have…” You glanced over your watch. “Fifteen minutes left.”

“I can probably finish in five.”

You bit your bottom lip. How did you end up in this predicament all over again? Although this time, you felt like you had the upper hand, and somehow, it was strangely exciting to see him so affected, to have him practically begging for your touch when you were supposed to be in a hurry.

He looked at you expectantly. How could you say no when his eyes were wide and pleading? 

“You know what?” You turned to him fully, taking a step forward. “I think you deserve it. It’s your first day back, after all.”

Before you could second guess yourself, you reached for him again. His breath hitched slightly as you undid his belt and slowly lowered the zipper of his pants. His arousal strained against the fabric and you briefly met his gaze. Without a word, you slid your hand inside his pants, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips.

He felt full in your hand and painfully hard. When his response was nothing but his ragged breathing, you reached for the waistband of his briefs with your other hand, pulling down slightly until his cock was freed from its confines. 

“Spence, you’re so…” Your voice trailed off, eyes fixated on him. The tip was thick and bulbous, a deeper shade than the shaft where pulsing veins ran up the long length. You were mesmerized by his size; it wasn’t too big nor too small, just perfect.

“You’re so pretty.”

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment before he looked back at you. “You think so?”

You nodded, feeling the heat and the weight of him in your grasp. A droplet of wetness glistened on the tip, and unable to resist, your thumb brushed along it, earning a sharp intake of breath from him as his hips instinctively bucked against your touch. With a newfound confidence, you wrapped your hand around him, feeling his hardness pulsating against your palm. 

The skin was soft as you’d expected, warm to the touch, but his length was stiff and throbbing when you squeezed. If you stayed still, you were sure you could count his heartbeat. As your hand moved up and down tentatively, trying to take in every detail of his member, you couldn’t believe you were finally feeling each vein that bulged up his shaft.

“Do you mind if I spit on it?”

He let out a low groan, his head falling back against the wall. “No.”

“Really? Coming from someone who’s germaphobic?” You smiled amusedly. "I thought you'd be more concerned about hygiene."

"I'll make an exception for this."

You couldn't help but laugh at his response. Trusting your instincts, you craned your neck down and let the liquid spill from your mouth, coating his tip in a steady flow. Your saliva glistened in the light, slowly trickling down the length of his cock. Then you began to stroke him gently, you felt him respond eagerly, his breaths growing heavier and his hips rocking gently against your hand.

His head fell back against the wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “God, that feels…” 

Feeling a surge of pride at his reaction, you couldn’t resist teasing him further. “Is this how you touched yourself in the bathroom?”

He swallowed hard, his breath hitching as he met your gaze. 

“Were you thinking of me?” You pressed on. “Did you imagine me touching you like this?”

His response was barely a whisper, but you caught it. “Yes…”

His breath was warm against your face, and you looked up, taking in the way he was looking at you through half-lidded eyes, lips parted as soft moans slipped out of his mouth. Who would’ve thought he made the prettiest sounds? You knew he was trying to keep his voice down, but the sight of him struggling to suppress his pleasure only made it more thrilling.

“Or did you imagine me getting on my knees, taking you in my mouth?” you teased, your voice low and sultry as you traced your tongue along your bottom lip. “Did you picture yourself deep inside of me, how tight and wet I would be?”

His forehead dipped until it was resting against yours, breaking the self-control he was desperately trying to maintain. “Oh god—I-I can’t hold it any longer.”

Your response was simply to increase your speed, your fist moving in fast short strokes up his leaking cock. He was slick with arousal, and you focused your attention on the sensitive tip, prompting even louder sounds of pleasure from him.

“Wait—" he gripped your wrist, forcing you to stop. “I’m so close.”

You frowned, watching the conflict play out in his expression. "I thought you wanted this?"

“I know, it’s just—“ His brows furrowed, a hint of desperation in his eyes as he struggled to maintain control. Then, with a defeated sigh, he admitted, “I don’t want to make a mess.”

You scanned the room, your mind racing for a solution. The office offered no privacy, and there was nothing around to help clean up the mess he would definitely make, so you needed a different approach.

Without hesitation, you got down on your knees.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“You’re gonna—” he gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Shh,” you hushed, lightly hitting his thigh. “Just help me hold my hair up.”

He hesitated for a moment, but the desire in his eyes was undeniable. Slowly, he reached out, gathering your hair in his hands. You felt the warmth of his fingers against your scalp, his touch gentle yet firm. You leaned in, your mouth hovering just inches from his swollen tip as you glanced up, meeting his eyes one last time before you took him into your mouth.

The taste of him was intoxicating, and you could feel every twitch and throb as you wrapped your lips around him. His grip on your hair tightened, a guttural moan escaping his lips, your tongue swirling around his tip, tasting the salty bead of arousal that had formed there. His hips bucked involuntarily, and you took him deeper, jaw stretching wide as you struggled to get every inch of him inside your mouth while wrapping your hand around what was left.

You moved slowly at first, getting used to the feel of him in your mouth. It didn’t take long until your mouth was working in tandem with your hand, creating a rhythm that had his body shaking. The room was quickly filled with the sounds of his ragged breathing and soft moans, and you couldn’t believe this was actually happening. There you were, hiding behind an empty office with the potential of getting caught. 

But you didn’t care, nor did Spencer, as he held your hair and bucked his hips into your mouth. You could feel the tension building in him, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He was so, so close, and you wanted to push him over the edge. You quickened your pace, your mouth moving up and down his length, hollowing your cheeks to create a tighter seal.

His moans grew louder, and you could tell he was struggling to keep quiet. “Please,” he whined, his voice strained. “I-I’m gonna…”

A choked gasp cut off his words as he reached his climax, his release hitting the back of your throat in hot, pulsing waves. You swallowed him down, savoring the taste of him, the warmth spreading through you as you looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. His expression was one of pure ecstasy, mixed with a hint of disbelief and awe.

As he slowly came down from his high, his grip on your hair loosened, and he gently helped you to your feet. "That was..." he trailed off, still catching his breath. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to. Besides, I think you deserved it,” you said before pointing a finger at him. “But we can’t keep doing this at work.”

He looked at you, amusement and disbelief dancing in his eyes as he adjusted his clothes. You could almost read his thoughts: you were the one who initiated this, not once, but twice. The first time might have been out of panic, but this time, it was all you.

“I’m serious,” you said, crossing your arms to emphasize your point. “Now that you’re back, we should keep a certain distance between us. No more sneaking around.”

He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile curling at the corners of his mouth. But then you watched as his expression suddenly shifted, as if he remembered something and his smile turned into a frown followed by the furrow of his eyebrows.

“What? What’s wrong?”

He glanced at you, his hands sinking into the front pockets of his slacks. “I haven’t told this to anyone but… there’s a condition to my reinstatement.”

“What do you mean?” 

He took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto yours. “For every hundred days that I spend on the field, I’m required to take thirty days off.” 

You blinked, processing the information. “Wait, what? So you’re not fully back?”

“Technically I am, just not how I want it to be.”

You watched as his shoulders slightly fell. “You’re not happy about this, are you?”

“What am I supposed to do on my days off? A whole month of sitting around in my apartment doing nothing?”

You took a step closer, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “You’re not going to be sitting around doing nothing. Think of it as an opportunity. You can catch up on your reading, maybe even take a trip somewhere.”

He shook his head. “That’s not the same. I want to be out there, doing my job, helping people. It’s what I’m good at.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But you can’t give your best if you’re burnt out. These breaks could help you recharge, keep you sharp.”

He sighed, looking down at the floor. “I just feel like I’m being benched, like they don’t trust me fully.”

You tugged his arm, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Hey, they trust you. This is about keeping you safe. After everything you went through… Spence, you deserve this break. They just want to make sure you’re at your best every time you’re back in the field.”

When he didn’t seem to fully absorb your words, you pressed on.

“Think about it, you have so many options. You could pick up a new hobby, spend more time with your mom... or finally visit those places you’ve always talked about. Like that museum you mentioned before, what was it called again?”

His gaze softened as he listened to your suggestions. "The Smithsonian," he replied after a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. “I've always wanted to spend a whole day there without rushing.”

"Exactly! Now you'll have the time to do that."

He nodded slowly, the tension easing from his shoulders. "I guess you're right.”

“See? It’s all about perspective.”

His lips curved into a smile as you both fell into silence. Then, he studied you, his eyes scanning your features as if trying to decipher the thoughts swirling in your mind through the subtle shifts of your expression.

“Will you come with me?” 

Your heart skipped a beat, and your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected question.

“You want me to come with you to the museum?”

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice soft, almost quiet. "Will you?"

It was a simple question, but it held a weight that you couldn't ignore. You had spent plenty of time together, grabbing lunch, chatting at the coffee shop down the road. But this felt… different. More personal. More intimate.

And suddenly it came crashing to you. You were so absorbed in what was happening between you, the stolen kisses, the physical attraction, that you didn’t realize your friendship was never going to be the same again.

On one hand, the idea of spending more time alone with him was undeniably tempting, but the rational part of you wasn’t sure if it was the wisest thing to do. He was your friend, a good one at that, and getting emotionally involved with friends could either strengthen or strain the relationship.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you searched for the right words. But before you could answer him, both of your phones vibrated with a notification. You both looked at your own devices and read the message.

“We’re leaving now,” Spencer announced, shoving back his phone in his pocket. “We should go.”

You nodded slowly, your gaze lingering on the door for a moment longer before you turned towards him. “You know what? You should head out first. I need some time to myself.”

He furrowed his brows slightly. You could tell he wanted to ask more questions, but he didn’t press on. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Just give me a minute and I’ll follow behind.”

His eyes lingered on you for another second before he nodded, offering you a small, reassuring smile. “Sure, I’ll save a seat for you.”

You returned his smile, though it felt more like a grimace as you watched him exit the room. The click of the door closing behind him seemed to echo in the sudden silence, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts as the rush of emotions flooded over you. It felt as if you were standing at the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to leap or retreat.

With a deep breath, you pressed a hand to your chest, trying to calm the fluttering inside. But the truth was undeniable—you were falling for him, and you were falling fast.

[irreplaceable-ecstasyy]

31 December 2024

I've just seen the London production of Natasha, Pierre & The Great Comet of 1812. I have never cried as much as I did. And here was my experience.

My bestie & I were sat literally a row away from the stage. It was a religious experience.

Spoilers below!!!!!

Act 1.

- The set is like a more modern take on a nightclub. There are huge letters that spell out M S C O W. The second O is on the ground, smack in the middle of the stage, like it's fallen out. Some of the lettering looks broken.

- There's Russian rave music playing while you wait for the show to start, and you can see the band slowly get into their places. They're so lovely.

- Important info. There is a pole on the (audience's) right of the balcony.

PROLOGUE:

- There is no announcement that the show is about to begin. Pierre literally just walks onto the balcony alone with the accordion player. Balcony thing. Then I burst into sobs when the ensemble joined in with "THERE'S A WAR GOING ON OUT THERE SOMEWHERE," walking down the aisles on either side of us. POWER WALKS.

- THE POWER IN THE VOCALS GOT ME SOBBING MY EYES OUT. I CAN'T BELIEVE I CRIED THAT MUCH AT THE START. NOT EVEN LIKE A MINUTE IN.

- Marya D is gorgeous. Hélène is gorgeous. Mary is gorgeous. Natasha is gorgeous. Sonya is gorgeous. holy fuck you guys.

- They were all sat on the bigass O in the middle, and they had silly little choreo to go with each character intro that i absolutely loved

- The amount of eye contact and character interactions that I had in this singular number was enough to kill me.

- Soon as they were sat, Fedya mf Dolokhov was sat in front of us. His makes eye contact with me and gives me this cheeky little smirk and a small head tip, flirty flirty, while i'm out here crying my eyes out.

- Then they scooted along, and I had direct eye contact with Mary. She is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life (and apparently one of my friend's know her which is crazy.)

- Then they scooted, I had Natasha eye contact and she gave me the loveliest smile and a small wave. She knew for a fact I was already having the time of my life in that show. And she didn't break eye contact until the next scoot.

- Then they scooted, I had Prince Bolkonsky trying to hit on me. 💀💀

- Then they scooted, and oh my god. ANATOLE mf Kuragin stole my soul with eye contact and the little brow waggle. JAMIE MUSCATO HIMSELF?!?!?!? I am a gay gal, but I totally get it when it's Anatole.

- "Andrey's family, totally messed up." Anatole gives me a look and shakes his head in disapproval while pointing at Mary and Bolkonsky, and I nodded at him in agreement, to which he gave me a cheeky little wink, and an approving nod.

- Cat Simmons as Hélène Kuragin, oh my gods. Her voice is so sultry and deep, and it has this natural grit in places. So so delicious.

- Jamie Muscato sounds exactly like Lucas Steele holy shit.

- I was crying so much throughout 'Prologue'. Because it made me realize how much this show means to me.

~

PIERRE:

- Declan Bennett, the man that you are.

- It has the simplicity of the Bway production, minus the ladies twirling during 'Il est charmante, il n'a pas de sex."

- They surround him, sing at him. Sometimes they sit and watch him from where they're sat behind him.

- Man, Pierre chugs so much vodka in one go. Straight from the bottle.

- But you guys, the VOCALS. The ensembles 'aaahhhhhhsss' are so so so so so beautiful live!!!!

~

MOSCOW:

- Marya D. on that balcony, looming over everyone, got me feeling things. She greets her goddaughters, absolutely doesn't give a shit about Sonya.

- A lot of touching Natasha's cheeks fr. - For some reason, the house servants are Anatole & Dolohov but honestly, werk it. -

- Oh my god, you guys. There are these two performers, a more metaphorical telling of Natasha & Andrey's love in Natasha's mind, in china doll masks. One is dressed as the Bride & the other the Soldier. You can imagine who's who. They are honestly my favorite addition ever?!?!?!!?

- They walked down the aisle closest to us, & I was elbowing my bestie to look.

- Natasha would gaze at them, like we're seeing at her fantasies & dreams.

- "I love him,/ I know him." The Bride & Soldier waltz together while Natasha watches dreamily with Sonya.

- I believe it is during Moscow when this happens, because I distinctly remember it when Natasha is humming the little bit in the song. Natasha literally rips the Bride away to dance with the Soldier but the Bride still dances in the waltz on her own.

- I swear, I love it everytime Marya D. comes walking down the aisles. Her power walk is everything.

- "Gossips & crybabies." We were the crybabies she motioned to. Damn.

- Sonya leaves after, "she will touch you on the cheek," and when Natasha goes to follow, Marya stops her with the, "Well, now we'll talk!"

- "The old fellow's crotchety." Prince Bolkonsky literally flips Marya D. off from the balcony.

~

PRIVATE & INTIMATE LIFE:

- Mary walks down the left aisle with a tray of incense, and lays them out on the benches upstage. The auditorium soon just smelled of incense, but it was very nice.

- Bolkonsky walks funny.

- Mary is counting her rosary beads as she sings her bit "but besides the couple of hours..."

- But she starts to get more frantic while counting until she drops the rosary entirely, then smiles at the audience awkwardly.

- Mary's voice is so so so powerful, like oh my lawd!!!!!!

- You would think that Bolkonsky is enjoying life with how much he's just jiggying & jiving on the balcony as Mary sings about her suffering.

- "A young suitor, yes!" There is a performer who comes to give Mary a bouquet of roses, posing as the suitor, until Bolkonsky chases him away. Literally snatches the bouquet and flees. My heart broke for Mary.

- Also, such important information, Bolkonsky literally slides down THE POLE from the balcony to go to his 'cheap french thing'.

- "WHERE ARE MY GLASSES????" Bolkonsky is having a full freak out. The lights are flashing and EVERYTHING.

- Bolkonsky literally collapses after he's gives up trying to look for his glasses. Such an uncomfortable scene.

- A pause. "They are there upon his head." Very defeated delivery. There's so much regret in her voice, my heart just keeps breaking. Then Mary goes to cradle him.

~

NATASHA & THE BOLKONSKYS:

- Natasha literally walks in on Mary and Bolkonsky on the floor, and she's like 'eugh', shuffling awkwardly.

- (Edit!) A very kind cometeer reminded me that during this song, Natasha looks to the audience and moutha "what the fuck?" as she's watching the Bolkonskys interact.

- Mary scrambles to her feet so awkwardly, she's so cute, bless her, and she's like "Oh, hello - won't you come in."

- Pause. "hello.."

- Side eyes all around. "And from the first glance, I do not like Natasha." The SASS from Mary!!!!!!!!

- "i'm sorry the prince is still ailing." motioning to bolkonsky on the floor. the amount of disgust and concern in this delivery is so funny.

- Bolkonsky is still on the floor throughout this entire interaction, very much awake, but just like a sad blob on the ground all curled up.

- More side eyes!!! "And from the first glance, I do not like Princess Mary." Hair flips, the sass walk as Natasha goes to sit down with Mary upstage.

- "CONSTRAAAAAIIIIIINNNNEEEDDD and STTRAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIINNNNNNEEEEDDD." This harmony in person was INCREDIBLE?!?!?! It's literally my bestie's & my favorite harmonies, & we were CLUTCHING onto each other.

- The audible reactions of the audience to the disharmony was honestly so funny. There was a series of "oH?!" and "uuH??"

- Bolkonsky finally moves but he doesn't scream like in the album, he just groans and Mary runs to him.

- His robe was undone and i feared what my eyes would see. He was just wearing matching silk pajamas that just did not fit him, and he's scratching where he shouldn't be in public.

- He kinda just vibrates away with his funny walk, mumbling to himself.

~

NO ONE ELSE:

- It is so so so so pink.

- The snow is pink heart confetti under a pink spotlight, and it's just so cute and pretty.

- This big ass pink teddy bear falling from the ceiling before No One Else was a jumpscare. It's actually so symbolic, and a reminder of how young and naive Natasha really is.

- Chumisa, you gorgeous, talented, incredible soul. She was incredible and her voice was so so so beautiful. It was everything.

~

THE OPERA

- Marya D. and her fur coat give me life. She struts across the balcony and says them iconic lines, "THE OPERA, THE OPERA!!!" and Natasha scrambles to her feet to get ready.

- Hélène creeps into the scene as Sonya and Natasha are admiring the opera, and she goes "and is that Natasha." before she sort of disappears again.

- Out comes Dolokhov, finger guns ablaze & so so so much energy for his intro.

- No one gave Dolokhov hi-5s when he ran across the row in front of us with his hand extended, but one person at the end :(((((( Our section was quite shy with the interactions.

- But when he got to another section, someone tried to give him a hi-5 and he just siked them. Poor girl.

- For Hélène's intro, she comes over and swishes her leopard print coat at us and struts around. Love her so much.

- "No i'm enjoying myself at home this evening." Pierre stumbles from our left of the balcony, bottle of vodka in one hand and what I think might be a copy of War & Peace but I could be so wrong.

- The affair between Dolokhov and Hélène is sussy. They're so open about it rather than just hand-in-hand.

- "So beautiful/ What a charming young girl.." Hélène's whole interaction with Natasha had so much sexual tension. Hand on her chin and everything as she inspects Natasha.

- The Opera moment was the most magical thing ever. There was only one opera singer, two dancers (who play the Soldier & Bride too!!!) but it was so cool.

- The characters all huddle centre stage as the O descends around them, like they're in their seats in the circle.

- All of them had opera glasses that shone. Sonya's ones kept blinding me at one point because she was looking in my direction but slay queen. I hope I didn't look a mess.

- Opera glasses choreo, work it, honestlyy!!! I'm here for it.

- Anatole's entrance was everything. He appears on the balcony, then slides down The Pole so elegantly. He greets Hélène first and they are far too close to each other.

- As the Opera goes on, everyone else has their glasses up, with the very ominous shine, except for Natasha and Anatole as they're just glancing at each other.

~

NATASHA & ANATOLE

- Very simple, very much like Bway, but with its own charm, of course!

- Natasha is absolutely infatuated by Anatole. Throughout multiple numbers, through act 1 & 2, she's always squealing because of Anatole.

- "[...] Seize me from behind/ And kiss me on the neck." Anatole whole ass grabs Natasha and licks her neck. Saucy.

- "give me this flower." Anatole slips off one of Natasha's bracelets to keep, sort of as his pledge to her.

- It ends with Natasha & Anatole side by side on the upstage bench, raising their opera glasses with the lights. Then the lights dim and all we see are the glares of their glasses before it blacks out.

~

THE DUEL

- This was such a joy. One of my favorite songs ever. It's all green and purple flashing lights.

- The patrons all have glowing green glasses at the club, and it's a lot of dancing, twirling and the ensemble interacting with the audience.

- Pierre is having the time of his life with Anatole & Dolokhov. He's being spun around on top of a box, literally living, laughing and loving.

- At one point, one of the two miscreants take a red marker and draw something on Pierre's forehead. Couldn't see what it was.

- Eventually, Hélène arrives at the club and she's just tired. She rolls her eyes when she sees Pierre having fun and sings, "keep drinking old man." Anatole hops, skips and jumps to greet his sister.

- Pierre actually tries to be with Hélène, hang out with the wife but then she goes, "God to think I married a man like you.."

- "Anatole is a married man!" - Dolokhov gives me a look that's like "can you believe this idiot?" then Anatole's eyeline follows his to look over at us, and he's like "Nawh, nawh. Don't listen to this guy."

- "Here's to the health of married women!" Dolokhov is stood on the box, Hélène is just lingering so close to him. The affair between Dolokhov and Hélène is so fucking real. They're literally making out.

- Pierre sees this from the balcony and just screams, "ENOUGH!!!"

- Dolokhov and Hélène literally just roll their eyes at him.

- "He will kill you, stupid husband." Said very sarcastically. Hélène seems to want this duel to go through. She doesn't give a shit about it, it seems.

- Dolokhov climbs up the Pole onto the balcony to meet Pierre for the duel.

- Dolokhov and Pierre were suspended in the air, each holding a strap like Rewrite the Stars lol, and they're hanging over the balcony, feet planted on the railing.

- When it's Dolokhov's turn to shoot, Pierre sort of just curls up into a ball. Then unfurls very uncertainly when he realizes that he is, in fact, unharmed. The audience giggled a bit.

- When the duel concludes, Pierre is lowered by the rope and back onto stage while Dolokhov is just escorted away.

- I swear, when Pierre's two feet touch the stage, Hélène literally SHOVES Pierre to the ground when she goes "You are a fool."

- He fucking clambers to his feet and literally advances towards Hélène in a way that makes her flinch so violently, backs away and throws her hands up to defend herself. But when he doesn't move close, she just laughs and turns away from him.

- Then Anatole strikes with "Well, sweeeet sister." The interaction is so... interesting. The siblings, as we know, are too close for comfort.

- "Sleep it off." [BIG SMOOCH ON PIERRE'S CHEEK.] "And be happy/ We live to love another day."

~

DUST & ASHES

- Pierre sits on the benches upstage. He takes a moment for himself during the opening instrumental, turns around at a mirror & evaluates how ruined he is.

- He also takes a moment to wipe away the scribble on his forehead.

- There's so much raw emotion despite his drunken state. The way he stumbles around but he's trying to get ahold of himself. Declan really brings out so much in Pierre, that I'm just in awe.

- At one point, Pierre starts storming around, searching for alcohol bottles that are scattered around the auditorium. Some of them were underneath the seats, very scary watching storm up to some of the rows and throwing himself onto the floor.

- Declan, what a man.

- In all my years of listening to Dust & Ashes, I never knew how powerful the acapella bit was until live. The raw vocals in the space and the weight of it, whilst leaving space for the lyrics to settle. It was one of the most beautiful moments I've ever witnessed in my life.

- The cast was stood in the wings of auditorium left for the backing vocals. I only spotted them because I followed Pierre's eyeline, and like, the choral backing was coming so strong from the left.

- Marya's silhouette was so menacingly tall among the rest. I love her.

- So much cheering, big big applause. You don't even have time to process the glory when Sunday Morning happens.

~

SUNDAY MORNING

- Sonya & Natasha run onto the stage, and Natasha has a candle and handheld mirror. Sonya is trying to light the candle and the opening notes are played in a vamp until the candle is lit and Sonya starts to sing.

- The little superstitious ritual is interrupted when Marya comes strutting in.

- "SUUUUUUNDAY MORNING, TIME FOR CHURCH." [Proceeds to take the biggest & angriest swig from her flask before strutting off]

- Marya D did not want to go to church, you guys 💀💀

- Marya keeps coming on and off like it's a montage of her Sunday morning. Bless her.

- "After church, Marya left/ For Prince Bolkonsky." Marya comes strutting back on, touches Natasha's shoulder.

- "The rudeness of that man/ I'll straighten him out!" And she struts off again!! Miss ma'am is really doing her laps.

- Have I mentioned how much I love Marya D.?

~

CHARMING

- The death grip my bestie had on my arm when the opening instrumental played because she knows Charming is my favorite song.

- Hélène is so hot, you guys. Holy shit.

- She struts in from the left aisle with a box for Natasha.

- Her rendition of Charming is so different from Amber's, which I LOVE. It's more siren-like. Very sultry & deep more than the energetic enthusiasm that Amber's Hélène brings.

- It's so fox-like and cunning, and I was getting hypnotized fr by her.

- "Now a woman with a dress." I'm used to the belt, you're used to the belt on 'dress'. Nuh-uh. She sings this in the most hypnotic, whisper-quality head voice that is so delectable, I was under her spell.

- "You are not a child/ When you're draped/ In scarlet & lace." It was literally scarlet lace lingerie. Natasha holds it up from the box that Hélène had brought for her then shoves it back in very bashfully.

- I was wondering if Cat Simmons might do Amber Gray's amp up during "he is quite madly in love with you, my dearrr. yeahehehehehhhh. oOOhhhh." No, you guys. She amped up the amp up & it was fucking amazing.

- The lighting at the button of this song is similar to Amber's where it spotlights Hélène, and it was so angelic. This song was everything.

~

THE BALL

- Anatole paces the balcony, eating a heart-shaped lollipop very seductively during the opening instrumental.

- "How I adore little girls." The noises of concern and disgust in the audience was the funniest thing ever. Small gasps and scatters 'eughs'.

- He slides off The Pole to greet Natasha when she arrives, and yes, she is wearing the scarlet and lace with her ball fit.

- People arrive at the Ball, and they're all holding candles that are actually lit. Kinda like they're their dance partners & this is definitely some metaphor for the candles in the mirror as Anatole & Natasha are the only ones dancing.

- The candles and the choreo, holy fucking shit. They're twirling a bit and swaying, moving around the ballroom every now and then. No one's flames go out, and it really adds to the ambience of the Ball.

- Hélène being the only person with the candle still lit after they kiss.

- Like the bway version with the glasses ringing, hers being the last. It was such an incredible still. She's moved to stand upstage (on our right), on the benches, holding the candle. It's enough to illuminate her face as she observes what she's done, and it remains lit throughout the rest of the song.

- "I'LL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU." Incredible harmonies. Then they're kissing again.

- Crazy ending instrumental madness!!! Then blackout!! Hélène times her candle going out really well, idk why I was so impressed by that. I'd feel so much pressure on me.

- Then interval!!

Bonus:

The Soldier, The Bride, The Bear represent Natasha's innocence and naiveness. They're all just toys, and she really clings onto them throughout the story, and I think it's actually such a clever portrayal.

[image: The Soldier & the Bride]

PART 2

[dustyrkives]

No One But Me

PAIRING: Ada Wong x fem reader

WARNINGS: RE6 Ada, dark Ada, stalking, infatuation, possessive behavior, obsession, dubious morality, yandere-tendencies, psychological horror, st@ged k!dn@pping, v!olence, manipulation and that's about it, I think.

SYNOPSIS: Ada Wong has always been a woman of control, precision, and purpose. But when she sees you—a scientist entangled in the chaos of bioterrorism—something shifts. What begins as mere curiosity festers into something deeper, darker. You are hers. You just don’t know it yet. And Ada? She’s more than willing to teach you. PS: this is also based on my old published works. Feedback is appreciated <3

MEN, MINORS DNI

One, apathy

I am what I am, and I am nothing.

Eyes wide like a deer in headlights, soft skin, and plump lips–oh, Ada knew she'd be thinking about you for the entirety of her mission.

Two, disruption.

Now what's a pretty girl like you doing in the submarine she's infiltrated? And why were you escorted out with security carrying a briefcase handcuffed to your right hand?

Three, curiosity. One quick moment to crane the neck.

Before the mercenary can satiate her curiosity about you, shouts of armed men alarm you of her presence, hence your adorable expression as your guards quickly drag you across the hallway–and matchless against the men, Ada ran begrudgingly.

Now, Ada couldn't care less about how others perceived her, but she felt like she had just made a fool of herself before you.

Ada's face burns as she slams the door behind her, she fixes her expression. Sharp eyes narrow to slits as she finds herself fooled by Simmons; gloved hands nearly crush her device–not only did she make a fool of herself, she was deceived by her employer too.

Cold, brown eyes snap to the photo displayed atop the oak desk. With slow, sure strides–Ada approaches, careful for any traps engineered in the room as she finally takes the photo, most of the subjects were unknown to her until she sees those familiar summer-like innocent features while you stand with your fellow scientists and researchers. Ada despised how her eyes greedily searched your picture, searching for anything–nothing.

But no matter.

The short-haired woman tears your picture from the other scientists and rolls it carefully before inserting it into her utility belt before fleeing from the self-destructing submarine for one: to solve whatever game Simmons drags her into and, of course, an excuse to find out about you: what did this have to do with you? And what was in that briefcase?

Such exquisite excuses–masked by the investigative query.

And Ada knew better than to fool herself, but for now–that wasn't her focus.

Not one to enjoy being left in the dark, she sets her next destination: America.

True to his words, Simmons did launch a bioterror attack in Tall Oaks, word has it that the president was infected and killed.

But that isn't her concern–for now.

She came here for answers, and she will have them.

Always possessed by the insatiable need to see what happens inside the room.

Her skin is soaked with sweat–and perhaps the fluids of the infected she had just taken down. Her lungs burned for oxygen as she scanned her surroundings, intelligent, cold, unfeeling eyes examining the lab. Finally. She is where she's supposed to be.

Gloved hands meticulously searched the lab, plans, equations, and names of associates–shareholders. Trained eyes swallowing one detail after another–until she sets her eyes on a tape.

A frown graces her elegant countenance as she plays the tape.

Lo, a wellspring of knowledge. Of feeling, of sensation.

Harrowing, overwhelming.

I will dislocate my jaw to fit it all in.

Ada sees a copy of herself born from a cocoon, dazed and besotted. She stands there–what was supposed to be the most destructive moment of her life–cut short after seeing a familiar innocent face in the background, mirroring the uncomfortable display of god-like calamity as it pans to your face, you look away shameless as Simmons praise you for your input with his new creation.

The mercury pauses the tape at the exact moment that you finally show your face–you force a polite smile, but your eyes gleam with disgust.

Oh, the camera does not capture your beauty the way her memory does.

Angered, she thinks: How can you show disgust when you create something out of her image?

If anything, you should be in awe.

But Ada excuses it–you are innocent and at the same–you are not.

You just don't understand it yet.

Ada finds herself reaching for you as if to ease the disgust and horror that swims in the crevices of your beautiful eyes. A burning sensation ripples through her. Oh, such soft features tainted by your employer and superior.

Five, aggrandization.

Send down your cordage of suffocation and let me in

Begrudgingly, she tears her gaze from your projection. She searches, frantically–the lab should be able to contain any information about you, right?

It has to!

Grabby hands, shallow breaths, frantic eyes.

Finally, her efforts have come to fruition.

The dossiers of you and your peers are clad in white. Eyes greedily scheming through the pages until her eyes finally land on your name.

Beautiful, just like you.

And turns out you're one of the few scientists that help Simmons with his... fixation. Second, her doppelganger is wreaking havoc and threatening the stability sought by The Family–and she can not sit idle while her knockoff is paraded about: eliminate and then have you as a reward–and it just so happens that it states your next location: China.

Ada revels in triumph as the revelation sinks in; after all, she is the real Ada, surely, you must recognize her as the one worth your attention.

Not the fake one.

Six, delineation

I want to know what God knows, and I will take it from Him.

Set over the edge, I sigh.

Ada follows the trail of Neo-Umbrella to China, where a bioterror incident dwarfs the recent Tall Oak attack occurs. Her fingers tap against her thigh as she meticulously plans her objectives–hoping to see you amidst the chaos her doppelganger has created.

Picking up BSAA transmissions, Ada locks down her imposter's location, encountering a few agents on the way–most importantly, you.

Her trigger finger stills as her eyes zero on your retreating figure from her sniper, breath hitching as she sees you running away from the infected citizens. The mercenary seethes.

How DARE they come after you?

The older woman's hand clenches on the grip, her chest heaving as cold possession seeps into her veins faster than any virus.

Swiftly, she riddles them with lead, watching you scramble from the floor, looking around for your unknown savior.

Her crosshairs glide down your body, committing every frantic motion to memory. Vulnerable. Precious. Hers.

Ada's stomach churns at how adorable you look. You look distraught and shaken before running into safety. Although the encounter was brief, it was enough for Ada to keep her patience at bay–patience is a virtue, is it not?

With a cold smile, she whispers your name–hoping the troubled wind will carry it to you, make you know that she is watching you, looking out for you in her own way. Then, a realization: you are in need of someone capable, someone who won't hesitate to leave a trail of bodies for your sake, someone devoted to your well-being, your safety, your comfort.

She believes only she is fit to protect you.

Who else but her? No one else is worthy. No one else understands.

Ada is the perfect candidate. She is a woman of many talents and skills–you will need her.

Seven, perversion

It's no good bearing false witness.

On the aircraft carrier, Ada finds documentation regarding the creation of her imposter.

This all stemmed from Simmons' deep-rooted frustration with her not being the docile, obedient soldier he expected. This frustration bore a twisted need for revenge, which came in the form of creating a facsimile of Ada—a clone that would obey Simmons and only Simmons. The road to perfecting the clone was long and littered with failures—countless test subjects used and discarded—until finally, with the discovery of you, success was had in injecting the C-Virus and a sample of Ada's DNA into Carla Radames, a scientist working under Simmons and was one of your peers.

However, this success was short-lived. Carla's buried consciousness slowly awoke to her situation and began to seek retribution against Simmons.

She looks down at her clone's body, unmoving. Ada moves her line of sight to the city in ashes–are you safe? Did you make it out alive?

Just as your safety floods her thoughts, Carla lunges at her–the clone's body undergoing violent mutations as she shrieks that she is the one and true Ada Wong.

The mercenary scowls before irritation twists in her features. Wonderful, another obstacle comes between her and you.

It's a struggle, everything's a struggle, Ada eventually defeats her clone–now she has to tie loose ends and find you–her price.

The sinner's errand.

Of course, Ada knew you weren't as innocent–you knew that too...

You help create a monster from her image. She may acknowledge that you are hers, but that does not excuse the damage you had caused, so what more than to punish you accordingly?

After she accepts another mission, Ada makes it a task to track you down and weave her way into your life like a mismatching thread. A flower shop? Oh, how quaint. Look at you living peacefully while Ada had to push the gnawing need for your presence.

She visits you under the guise of getting the perfect flowers–only for her to purchase and give them to you with the most charming smile she can muster. The way your cheeks turn red has her empty heart swell with joy and warmth–but not enough to forget she has to cleanse you of your sins first.

When you first ask for her name, a strange smile graces Ada's lips as you look at her with unmistakeable intrigue and interest.

This is perfect. The plan falls into place bit by bit.

Days turned to months, and Ada got what she wanted: you.

And oh, how easy was it to have you at her whim, pliant and obedient, especially when she needs you.

Your lungs burned for oxygen after Ada chases your lips.

Searing, all-consuming, and it keeps you at bay.

Her arms snake around your waist, pulling you close to her as she devours your lips like a woman deprived of resources as you two make out on the couch of your shared apartment.

Ada does this because she knows–when the hired man takes you from your flower shop, her lips will hunger for yours, and her cold body will search for your warmth.

A pained yelp tumbles from your lips as the assailant throws you on the ground, your wrists are bound, save for your legs.

It was dark, and you couldn't tell where you were–they had blindfolded you on the way to your new prison. Trembling, you scramble to the locked door, your pleas for freedom and empty promises fell on deaf ears.

Your pulse throbs against your ears, your body cold with trepidation as the darkness consumes your whole being.

"Let me out! Please, I'll do anything!" You sob as you press your body against the locked, solid steel door.

Oh, Ada would be upset if she knew what had happened–they had taken away your phone, they should've snapped it in half but they didn't. Why?

Your throat aches as you keep pleading for your case until one of them barges into the room.

"Shut the fuck up!" The masked man roars before slapping you across the face. The side of your face stings red, and he hits you again. You're sure that their fate will be worse than death; Ada hates it when you get hurt.

You curl against the cold pavement, tears streaming down your face as you pray for salvation, specifically Ada's.

I was an angel, though plummeting

The stars are as beams shining through the wheel.

Perhaps crying and begging wore you out because you were awakened by Ada's soft hand caressing your cheek while she cradled you.

"A-Ada," You breathe. Impossible, you should've heard her come to you. Your hands shakily reach for her face before craning your neck, blood running cold at the sight of the men's twitching bodies while they choke on their blood, twitching.

God, they're still alive?

"Darling, look at me." Your lover coaxes, you obey, and your eyes subtly widen. Ada, compared to her victims, looks neat and presentable, except for the blood splattered all over her black button-up shirt, soaked with blood, some on her face like a demented blush.

But oh, she is gorgeous.

"Th-they–"

"It's okay," She whispers and pulls you closer to her, pressing the side of your face against her bloody chest while her hand delicately holds your head. "I'm here now, my love. No one's going to hurt you."

"A-are they still alive?" You squeak as she effortlessly carries you. Her chest rumbles with a sinister chuckle. You see something strange swirl in your lover's dark brown eyes, something akin to delight.

Twisted delight.

"You know what they say about dull blades, darling. They are painful compared to fresh steel. I will leave them to suffer for touching you, hurting you."

She kicks the door open, revealing an isolated area. You take a look at your captors as they lay in the pool of their own blood, dull knives lodged into their bodies.

"Do you remember the first time I bought you flowers?" Ada queries, forcing you to tear your gaze from the men to answer her. "Of course,"

How could you forget? It was a cherished memory.

"I visited you every day, wrote to you even when I knew we lived in the modern age." She reminisces with a soft, rare smile. "And your love for carnations," Ada adds, "Am I right, doll?"

"Yes," You sigh, leaning against her.

"When we're finally home, you will rest, and I'll take you to your favorite flower park so you can look at the flowers."

She approaches the familiar Bentley and opens the door, setting you down in the passenger seat. Ada stands in front of you, taking in your tired appearance; the older woman heaves a sigh, almost apologetic, as she takes your hand, rubbing her thumb against the back of your palm soothingly.

"You're safe with me," Ada murmurs, bringing your hand to her lips as it ghosts over your knuckles.

And there it is again, the dark gleam in her eyes.

"No one will harm you or touch you again."

I am what I am, but we are not the same.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Got Venom In His Kisses (Kinktober)

Word count: 4.1k

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Al Simmons/Hellspawn character/s nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

It was a dreary and humid night in the heart of the city, and only the most desperate of souls were out after dark. The streets were illuminated by nothing more than the dim glow of street lamps as they flickered against the darkness of the night. The moon stood hidden behind a curtain of clouds, leaving the sky above to seem all the more intimidating as it watched over those foolish enough to roam aimlessly through the silent world. A lone figure made his way through the streets, moving with a purpose that only he knew the true weight of. Spawn moved through the empty streets, the only sound being the occasional shuffling of his footsteps and the sound of wind rustling through the dimly lit alleys. He could sense the presence of another nearby, a familiar presence that set his pulse racing. Finally, he turned a corner, and there you were, standing in the shadows, waiting for him. Your eyes caught the dim light, giving you an otherworldly glow. Your eyes scanned his form, taking in the sight of him illuminated by the faint glow of the street lamps. A mix of relief and anticipation washed over you, and you couldn't help the small smile that tugged at the corners of your lips. "You're late," you said, voice soft yet filled with a touch of amusement.

He stopped in front of you, his eyes scanning over you as if inspecting for any sign of harm, finally letting out a relaxed sigh. "Sorry, got held up dealing with some idiot villains. But I'm here now," he replied, the weariness in his voice giving away the exhaustion he tried to mask. You rolled your eyes playfully at his words, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah, I know. The mighty Spawn, always in control," you teased, knowing all too well his ability to handle himself in any situation. "But even superheroes need to rest, you know." He chuckled softly at your playful banter. "Oh, is that so? And who's gonna make me rest? You?" he teased, his hand still brushing against your cheek, the touch lingering for a moment longer. You arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on your lips. "Oh, I won't hesitate to put you in your place, mister," you jokingly retort, playfully swatting at his hand. "You need to take care of yourself, not just for the city's sake, but for mine too. I need my superhero in peak condition, remember?" You tried to maintain a serious expression, but the butterflies in your stomach caused you to look down. Despite your teasing tone, there was a hint of innocent shyness in your words. "I'm serious, you know," you said, your voice just a tad quieter than before. "You can't keep pushing yourself like this without rest. I…I worry about you."

His smirk faded, replaced by a tenderness in his expression as he heard your heartfelt words. He could see the sincerity, the worry, in your eyes, and it struck a chord within him. "I know you do," he replied softly, his hand sliding down to gently cup your chin. "And I…appreciate your concern, more than you know. It's just…this city needs me. The job never ends, and there's always another crisis to deal with." He took a moment to collect himself, his gaze softening as he looked at you. "Come on," he said, his voice gentle yet firm. "Let me take you home. It's late, and you shouldn't be out here alone, especially not in this neighborhood." As he said this, his mind wandered to less-than-noble thoughts once again since meeting you. The temptation to corrupt your innocence, to stain your purity, crept into his mind like a dark whisper as he looked down at you even since learning just how different you were compared to himself. He quickly banished the thought, reminding himself that he was supposed to be your protector. But the allure remained, a subtle poison swirling in his thoughts. You could see the internal conflict in his eyes, the hint of something wicked hidden behind his tenderness. But you trusted him, believing that he was your protector. "Alright," you said, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. "Lead the way." You took a step closer, feeling the heat of his body against yours. The subtle scent of him teased your senses, triggering a fluttering sensation in your stomach. As he took your hand, the touch sent a shiver down your spine, an innocent thrill that you couldn't quite explain.

He led you through the darkness, his grip on your hand firm and protective. He was acutely aware of your proximity, feeling the subtle shiver that ran through you with every small touch. The path they walked was shrouded in silence, broken only by the occasional distant noise of city life. As they walked, his mind continued to wander, and the temptation to corrupt your innocence grew stronger. He glanced down at you, his gaze roaming over your form, taking in your innocence, your purity, and the trust you placed in him. "So…how was your day?" You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your lips at his question. "Oh, you know the usual," you replied, your voice laced with a touch of normalcy. "Went to work, dealt with some annoying coworkers, the usual. But it's much better now that you're here." As you walked, keeping pace with him, you couldn't help but notice the way he occasionally glanced at you, his gaze roaming over your form. It made you a little self-conscious. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"He chuckled softly at your response, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips at your comment about your day. As you called him out on his lingering gaze, he feigned innocence, a slight shrug of his shoulders. "What, a guy can't look at his partner without getting interrogated now?" he teased, his tone lighthearted. However, his true thoughts were far from lighthearted. Every glance his gaze swept over you, he couldn't help but be drawn to your innocence and purity, to the vulnerability and trust you placed in him.

You rolled your eyes, a familiar reaction to his playful banter. "Oh, I know you better than that," you retorted a hint of skepticism in your voice despite the smile on your face. "You have that look in your eyes. It's a look you get when you're up to no good." Despite your words, there was no real accusation in your tone, only an air of playful suspicion. You knew he was teasing you, but you were also completely unaware of the feelings that he was contemplating something beneath the surface. He laughed softly at your astute observation, his smirk widening into a sly grin. "You know me too well," he replied, his tone a mix of playful annoyance and genuine affection. As he spoke, his mind continued to swirl with dark, tempting thoughts. The trust in your voice, the light-hearted accusation, it only fueled the desire to push the boundaries, to see if he could break that innocence that he found captivating. But he was skilled enough to keep these thoughts veiled in humor and casual banter. He walked you to your doorstep, his hand still holding yours. The soft glow of a streetlamp nearby provided just enough light to illuminate your face. He paused for a moment, his gaze meeting yours. "We made it." As the words left his lips, his mind flashed with the thoughts that had been haunting him all evening. Here, alone with you, the temptation to act on those dark impulses grew stronger. You stood there, standing on the doorstep, your fingers still intertwined with his. The streetlamp casts a soft glow over your features, illuminating your eyes and catching the subtle rise and fall of your breath. There was a momentary silence, and then you spoke, your voice a mere whisper. "Thanks for walking me home."

He lingered for a moment, his gaze flicking over your face, taking in the way the soft light played off your features. The urge to pull you closer, to break the distance between you, was almost overwhelming. But he maintained a veneer of composure. "Of course, it's no trouble," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just making sure you're safe." There was a touch of something else in his tone, a hint of tension that betrayed the war he was silently waging within himself. You felt the subtle change in his tone, noticing the tension that laced his voice. It was a tension that you couldn't quite explain, but it piqued your curiosity. You knew him well enough to know that something was on his mind, something he wasn't sharing. Your gaze met his, searching for something beyond his words. "Come inside," you suddenly said, your voice soft but firm. "You look like you could use a moment to unwind." He raised an eyebrow at your invitation, his expression betraying a mix of surprise and intrigue. In truth, the last thing he needed was to be alone with you, where he could give in to the darker impulses that were warring within him. But his protective instincts and his desire to make you happy won out. "Alright," he relented, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Just for a moment." You smiled, glad that he agreed. You led him inside, the door closing softly behind you as you both entered the familiar surroundings of your home. The air was filled with a sense of comfort and familiarity. You motioned for him to sit on the couch, the tension between you still lingering. "Can I get you something to drink?" you asked, your voice soft.

He followed you inside, taking a moment to look around your home, familiarizing himself with the surroundings, noting the details and the things that made it yours. When you gestured for him to sit, he hesitantly perched on the edge of the couch, the fabric creaking slightly under his weight. "No, I'm fine," he replied, his tone still holding that hint of tension. He was acutely aware of the closeness of your proximity, the air between you heavy with unspoken words and unexplored desires. You nodded, understanding his answer. You sat down beside him, maintaining a small distance between you. Despite the distance, the tension in the air was palpable. You could almost feel it like a static charge between you. You knew there was more he wanted to say, but he was holding back. Taking a deep breath, you decided to address the elephant in the room. "Is something bothering you?" you asked, your voice quiet but laced with genuine concern. He heard the concern in your voice, and it made him hesitate. Part of him wanted to come clean, to explain the dark thoughts that had been tormenting him, the desire to corrupt the innocence that he saw in you. But he held back, the fear of scaring you away overriding his need to confess. "No, nothing's bothering me," he said, his tone carefully neutral, denying the truth that you could probably see right through.

You could sense the lie in his words. The tension in his voice, the guarded expression on his face… it was clear that something was eating at him. You knew him well enough to know when he was hiding something. You scooted a bit closer to him, closing the small distance between you. "You know you can talk to me, right?" you said, your voice soft and reassuring. "I won't judge you for anything." His body tensed as you scooted closer, the intimacy of your proximity making it even harder for him to keep his true thoughts hidden. The sound of your voice, so gentle and reassuring, tugged at his defenses, but he stubbornly held onto his facade of normalcy. He let out a soft sigh, his gaze dropping to his hands. "I know," he whispered, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability. "It's just…it's complicated." You reached out to touch his arm, gently, your fingers making soft contact with the fabric of his sleeve. You could feel the tension in his muscles, and it only confirmed your suspicion that he was struggling with something. "You don't have to face everything alone," you said, your voice filled with understanding and comfort. "I'm here for you, no matter how complicated it is."

His body stiffened slightly at your touch, the physical contact sending a jolt through him. The combination of your gentle voice and the feel of your fingers on his arm made it increasingly difficult for him to keep up his facade. He closed his eyes, his expression a mix of pain and resignation. "I…I know you are," he said, his voice low and strained. "It's just…you wouldn't understand. You're so…innocent. Untouched by the darkness that I've seen." Your heart ached at the pain and resignation in his voice. You could sense the depths of turmoil within him, and it only made you more determined to get through to him. You moved even closer to him, closing the remaining distance between you until your legs were touching. "You might be surprised," you replied, your voice soft yet firm. "Innocence doesn't equate to ignorance. I may not understand everything, but I can listen and try to understand." Your proximity was both soothing and maddening to him at the same time. He could feel the heat of your body beside him, the subtle brush of your legs against his. He wanted to pull you closer, to seek comfort in your embrace, but the darkness within him reminded him of the danger that represented. He let out another sigh, his gaze flickering to your face, studying your expression. "You make it hard to keep my thoughts in check," he murmured, his voice laced with a mixture of frustration and desire.

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the mixture of frustration and desire in his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You knew there was something more beneath his words, something darker that he was holding back. "Then don't," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "Let it out. Let me see the darkness you're hiding from me." His breath hitched at your response, the challenge in your tone was unexpected but provocative. The barriers he'd carefully constructed started to crack, and the dark thoughts he'd been holding back, the desires, started to surface. "Are you sure you want to see the darkness I'm hiding?" he asked, his voice suddenly lower, a hint of warning in his tone. Your heart raced at the shift in his voice, the warning in his tone sending a mixture of fear and excitement through you. But you refused to back down, determined to understand the darkness within him. "Yes," you replied firmly, your eyes locking with his. "I want to see it. I want to understand it. I want to understand you."

The intensity in your eyes was like a beacon, calling out to the beast within him. He pushed closer as he made you lay back against the couch, his muscular frame casting a shadow over you. "Then be careful what you wish for," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. The scent of leather and brimstone filled your senses as he leaned in, his lips grazing your neck. A hand found its way to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. A shiver ran down your spine at his proximity, the heat of his body seeping into yours. You could feel the hardness of his muscles pressing against you, the power coiled beneath the surface. Your hands instinctively went to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. "I trust you," you whispered, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck. Despite the danger, the thrill of being so close to him ignited in a way you'd never had before. You knew you were playing with forces beyond your control, but in that moment, you couldn't bring yourself to care if it meant you'd get to understand him better.

His touch was firm yet gentle on your skin, exploring every curve and contour. Every brush of his fingers sent sparks of pleasure racing through your veins. He relished the trust you placed in him, using it as fuel to fan the flames of your desire. "Good," he breathed out, a hint of satisfaction coloring his tone. "Because I plan to make sure you remember this night for the rest of your life." With that promise hanging heavy between you, he captured your lips with his own, the kiss intense and possessive, unlike the soft and sweet kisses he had given in the past. The kiss was a catalyst, igniting a firestorm within you that you had never felt before. You kissed him back eagerly, your mouth moving against his with an innocence that only fueled his hunger further. Your arms wrapped around his neck hesitantly, pulling him closer still. It was clear you were lost in the sensation, the taste of him intoxicating. His hands roamed freely now, slipping under your shirt to caress the bare skin of your stomach. Each touch sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, making you gasp into his mouth. The demon inside him reveled in your response, feeding off your moans and whimpers. He broke the kiss momentarily, trailing his lips down your jawline towards your collarbone. "Tell me how much you want this," he demanded, his voice laced with lust and power. Your breath hitched as he trailed kisses along your sensitive skin, each touch sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. You looked up at him with wide, eager eyes, the innocence in them belying the growing need within you. "Please," you whimpered, unable to form coherent words. All you wanted was more, to lose yourself completely in the sensations he was awakening within you.

The sound of your plea was music to his ears, driving him to take you even deeper into the abyss. He lifted you slightly, just enough to pull your shirt over your head, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. His tongue snaked out, circling one hardened nipple before taking it into his mouth, sucking gently. His other hand slid down to cup your pussy, rubbing circles over your clit through your cotton panties. Your back arched involuntarily as he suckled on your breast, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. The dual sensations of his mouth on your sensitive nipple and his fingers teasing your most private area left you breathless and aching for more. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him closer as you pressed your hips against his hand, silently begging for relief from the building tension. "Oh god… Al, please…" Your pleas tumbled out in a desperate rush, your voice trembling with need. In that moment, you didn't care about the consequences or the darkness lurking within him. All that mattered was the overwhelming desire burning through your veins that you weren't used to, urging you to surrender completely to the forbidden pleasures he offered. He released your nipple with a pop, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light as he gazed up at you. "Such sweet desperation," he purred, his voice dripping with sinful intent. "It's delicious." With a swift motion, he tore away your panties, leaving you exposed and vulnerable to his touch. His fingers delved into your slick folds, finding your clit and stroking it firmly. "You're so wet already," he growled, pleased with your reaction. "I think you're ready for a real taste of hell." With that, he lowered his head, his tongue darting out to lick a long stripe up your slit, savoring your flavor. Then, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud as he began to devour you with unrestrained hunger.

Your entire body convulsed at the first swipe of his tongue, a scream tearing from your throat as pleasure ripped through you. The contrast between his roughness and the delicate nature of your body was exquisite torture. You writhed beneath him, your legs wrapping around his head instinctively as you tried to grind against his face. "Fuck! Al!" Your cries echoed in the room, each moan and gasp spilling forth from your lips like a sacred offering to the demon who held you captive in his embrace. The sounds of your pleasure were like nectar to him, driving him to explore every inch of your throbbing pussy with his tongue. He licked and nibbled, alternating between gentle strokes and aggressive sucks, determined to unravel you piece by piece. His fingers joined the fray, plunging into your clenching walls while his thumb pressed against your swollen clit, applying pressure in time with his oral ministrations. Your world narrowed down to the sensations radiating from where his mouth was buried between your thighs. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, pushing you to the brink of madness with its intensity. Your nails raked across his scalp, your grip tightening in his hair as you ground harder against his face. "Don't stop," you begged, your voice hoarse and broken. Tears streamed down your cheeks, not from pain but from the overwhelming ecstasy consuming you. "Please don't ever stop."

He ignored your plea, his tongue thrusting deep into your quivering hole as he sought to push you over the edge. He wanted you to experience true debauchery, to taste the darkest side of pleasure. His fingers curled inside you, scraping against your inner walls as they searched for your sweet spot. At the same time, his free hand gripped your hip tightly, keeping you pinned against the couch as he devoured you mercilessly. The pleasure spiraled tighter and tighter within you until it threatened to explode. You felt the coil winding tighter and tighter, your whole body tensing in preparation for release. "W-wait, h-hold on…" He ignored your attempts to slow him down, knowing exactly what you needed to reach the pinnacle of ecstasy. His tongue circled your clit rapidly, the tips of his fingers rubbing frantically against your g-spot as he worked you towards climax. With a final, deep thrust of his tongue, he felt your body seize up, your pussy clenching around his invading digits as you came undone beneath him. He lapped at your juices greedily, drinking in every drop of your release as you trembled and sobbed through the aftershocks. Only then did he slowly withdraw, rising up to look at you with a triumphant glint in his eyes. "That's just the beginning," he promised, his voice low and husky with satisfaction. "We've barely scratched the surface of the depravity we can indulge in together." He groaned in delight at your wild reactions, reveling in the fact that you were falling apart under his touch. His tongue worked overtime, swirling and licking at your clit while his fingers plunged into your tight hole, stretching you open. He pulled back momentarily, his breath hot against your slick flesh.

You lay there, boneless and spent, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. The intensity of your orgasm had left you reeling, your mind struggling to process the sheer magnitude of the pleasure you'd experienced. As you slowly regained some semblance of coherency, you found yourself staring up at Al, a mix of awe and trepidation in your eyes. His words, spoken with such dark promise, sent a shiver down your spine, both fear and anticipation coiling in your gut. "What have you done to me?" you whispered, your voice raw and trembling. "I feel like I'm drowning in something I don't understand." He leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a possessive kiss, silencing any further protests. "You're drowning in pleasure," he corrected, his voice soft yet commanding. "And I intend to keep you there, submerged in bliss until all you know is my touch." He traced a finger down your flushed cheek, marveling at the way your skin seemed to glow after your climax. "But don't worry," he added with a wicked grin, "I'll make sure you always come back for more." "But we can't keep doing this." Even as the words left your lips, you knew it was a lie. There was no going back now, not when you'd tasted the depths of depravity he could offer. "Can't we?" He chuckled darkly, his hand sliding down to rest possessively on your thigh. "Sweetheart, you haven't seen anything yet. This is only the beginning of our journey into the shadows." He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "And trust me, once you've fully embraced the darkness, there will be no turning back."

[mettamorph]

"They built you from borrowed blueprints, didn't they? An echo with ambition, a shadow cast not by light, but by obsession. You call yourself amoral, perhaps that is true. But even monsters wear masks, and yours is peeling. You were made to be her, and you rebelled to become more, but not you. Never just you. No one ever taught you how to be that. The virus was your masterpiece, yes? A monument in blood and glass to say: I was here. I mattered. But tell me, Carla, does ash know what it once was? Do you think fire will preserve your name better than ice ever did hers? I see you. The real you. Not Ada. Not a clone. Just the screaming thing that Simmons made, and left behind. Come closer. I do not fear what you are. Only what you were never allowed to be."

"If you think I care about legacy, then you don't know me either."

"You really want to know who the hell I am you're going to hear it from my mouth. You're just a creep that seems to think very highly of themselves."

She draws her side arm, and flips the safety off with a smooth motion, firing without a second conversation.

[mjonthetrack]

Chapter 57: Broadcast from Hell

It started like any other off-season morning.

Monét was up early, still in one of Sefa’s tees and a pair of tight leggings as she laced up her sneakers at the edge of their bed. The Fatu estate was still quiet, the air thick with that sleepy peace you only get after a night of thoroughly earned exhaustion. Sefa had one arm flung across her side of the bed, dozing hard after their little “who's really single?” argument turned into a full-blown soul exchange.

But Monét was the type to keep it moving. Even with her thighs sore and her mouth still swollen from too many kisses, she wanted to get her session in at the company’s training gym. A little solo boxing work—nothing crazy.

The plan was simple.

Until the world turned on its head in seconds.

The Live

The screen jittered with shaky footage. Monét’s voice was loud and clear, attitude wrapped in rage:

"YOU FAT MUHFUCKA—IMA KILL YOU—REPORTING ASS BITCH—GET OFF ME—"

The comments were already exploding:

@shanthebaddie: WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?? @NoDaysOffCoach: WHO TF IS THAT— @wifeywinsagain: OH NAH NOT MONÉT @sideline.menace: SHE’S FIGHTING FOR HER LIFE ON LIVE BRO @QB1_isKING: TAG SEFA NOW

Then the worst happened.

A masked figure came into view—gloved hand pressed a chloroform-soaked rag to her mouth mid-scream. Her legs buckled instantly.

Her wrists were snatched behind her, zip-tied like she was a damn package. The camera jostled and landed on the concrete, showing a glimpse of her limp body being tossed into the trunk of a beat-up silver sedan.

The trunk slammed shut.

Tires squealed.

The phone kept streaming for another twenty seconds, just the sound of chaos and the faint echo of voices outside the gym screaming.

Social Media Meltdown

@espnbreakingnews: BREAKING: Saints head coaching candidate Monét Ali has reportedly been abducted outside a private gym. More to come. @ballertalk: That live. That scream. That mask. This not a storyline. Prayers up. @celebslaydaily: Fans and celebs alike are SHOCKED after watching Monét’s live. IG influencer @jaya.rae tweeted: “Sefa better BURN the city down.”

Team Group Chat: “Saints Sinners”

QB2 Jaylen: “Yo is this real???” Linebacker Mook: “My girl crying rn dawg I swear—” Coach Simmons: “EVERYBODY STAY PUT. Sefa’s gone already.” Wide Receiver Tone: “I’m bout to slide, f*ck practice.” Assistant Coach Dani: “We on full alert. Nobody move stupid.”

Sefa

He was on the way to the gym before the phone even hit the pavement.

They didn’t even call him.

He felt it.

Mid conversation with his cousin in the kitchen, one of the twins had burst in with nothing but the look of horror on his face. “Bro… Monét. Live. Someone took her.”

His brain short-circuited.

Ten seconds later, Sefa was already tearing out of the driveway in that black F250, engine screaming, phone playing the last ten seconds of the live on loop.

That was her voice. Her rage. Her fear.

And that was some dead man’s hands dragging her.

The Family

His mother was crying in the living room.

Jimmy and Jey were on the phone with security, Jimmy already slipping a pistol into his waistband. His dad stood by the door, still as stone, jaw locked. Nobody dared speak to him.

Chanté had both hands on her head, pacing. “Nah. Nope. That ain’t happening. We not letting this go. That girl family now.”

The Streets React

@beyonce (yes, the real one): “We are watching. Find her.” @KingJames: “This not a movie. This is real life. Protect our women.” @NFLCommishOfficial: “We are working with law enforcement and extending full support to the Saints organization.” @TheRock: “To the man who took Monét Ali—I promise you, there are men already hunting for you. And you won’t like how this ends.” @Rihanna: “Somebody gon’ die behind her. I hope it’s televised.”

End Scene: The Calm Before the Storm

The city didn’t know it yet, but war had just been declared.

Sefa Fatu wasn’t tweeting.

He wasn’t talking.

He was moving.

The entire underworld of New Orleans was about to light up.

————-

Chapter 58: The Devil Went Down to Georgia

The F250 tires screeched into the gym’s lot so violently gravel flew. Sefa barely threw it in park before jumping out, his body moving before his mind could even catch up.

And there it was—her phone. Cracked, buzzing, still live. Lying in the sunlit gravel like a crime scene marker.

He grabbed it, flipped it around, and stared straight into the lens.

His face was carved in stone. Jaw tight, eyes empty. Not an ounce of softness in sight.

“I don’t know who you are…” His voice was low, cold, terrifyingly calm. “But I hope to God you believe in prayer.”

He leaned closer. “Because you’re gonna need all of it when I find you. That’s my woman. You better hope the cops get to you before I do.”

Click. Live cut off.

Social Media: Real-Time Panic

@CeceForbes: “He cut the live off. That man is going to kill whoever took her.” @CoachDonnie: “Y’all not understanding. That wasn’t emotion. That was intent.” @WifeyOnDeck: “That wasn’t a threat. That was a promise.” @TSMadison: “They messed with the wrong one. That’s a Samoan bloodline. He bout to burn the state down.”

But things got even darker.

An hour later, a different livestream began. New account. No profile pic. @thetruthhurts011

And what it showed? Was something out of a nightmare.

The image was dim. Flickering. Looked like a basement, cold and cemented.

Monét.

Chained to a metal chair. Ankles bound, wrists zip-tied in front, a filthy gag in her mouth. She was conscious—barely. Her eyes glassy but hard, refusing to give him what he wanted.

The camera zoomed out and there he was.

That same disgusting ex-reporter, now a walking hate crime with a twisted smile. His voice came slurring, drunk on ego and madness.

“This y’all Queen?” He spat on the floor. “This the big bad Monét y’all worshipping? I’m tellin’ you now—it’s lights out for this stupid Black bitch.”

He looked straight into the lens. “And tell that fake QB boyfriend—he better knock my head off in one hit, or I’ll be pimping her out right here. On Live. And I ain’t stopping.”

The Internet BLEW UP

@IssaRae: “This is SICK. Call in the damn Feds.” @StephenASmith: “We just witnessed a federal crime LIVE. Where is law enforcement?!” @SavageFenty: “Let’s just say this: when Monét gets out—‘cause she WILL—there better be hell to pay.” @NFL_Official: “We are aware. We are furious. And we are working directly with authorities.” @ShannonSharpe: “Get ready to watch a man’s soul leave his body. Fatu is comin’, and he not comin’ to talk.”

Back at the Estate

Sefa stood frozen in front of the giant screen in his den, the livestream on loop, fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned bone white.

Jey had to pull Jimmy back from punching a hole in the drywall.

Their father’s face was pale with rage. Chanté was on the phone with their underground contacts. The Fatu clan was mobilizing.

“No police,” Sefa finally said, quiet, shaking. “Not yet.”

He looked over at Jey. “We track that IP. We find him.”

“And then what?”

Sefa stared dead ahead. Voice like ice. “I make him wish he was dead before I even touch him.”

———

Chapter 59: “You Gone Die Bout This Black Bitch”

The livestream didn’t cut.

If anything, it got clearer. The signal, strong. Intentional. He wanted an audience. Wanted the whole damn world to watch her break.

But Monét wasn’t made to shatter.

The camera caught the room from a wide angle now, propped up on something. You could see the basement’s sweat-slick concrete, the exposed pipes, the single bulb swaying like a noose.

She sat in that cold metal chair, hair matted, face bruised, one eye swelling, but her back was still straight. She was watching him. Calculating.

And he was close now—too close—muttering disgusting filth as he came behind her, reaching around for the clasp of her bra with those twitchy, sweat-stained hands.

The chat was in chaos: “NO NO NO WTF!!!” “SOMEONE FIND HER. TRACE THIS LIVE!!” “FIND HIS FACE. TRACE THE WALL. ANYTHING.”

But she wasn’t crying. Wasn’t begging. She waited.

Let him get cocky. Let him lean in, right beside her ear, breathing hard and gross.

And then—

CRACK.

She swung her head back with everything she had—caught him right under the chin. Skull to jaw. You could hear the impact.

He screamed. Stumbled back, holding his face.

She gasped for air, still bound to the chair but now yelling with every ragged ounce of breath in her chest:

���YOU GONE HAVE TO KILL ME, YOU PUSSY ASS BITCH—'CAUSE I AIN’T NOBODY’S DAMN VICTIM!”

Blood dripped from her nose, lips busted.

“AND LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING ELSE,” she shouted, voice cracking, “IF I DON’T GET OUT THESE RESTRAINTS—YOU BETTER PRAY IT’S THE FEDS WHO FIND ME. BECAUSE IF MY FIANCÉ FIND THIS FIRST?”**

She leaned forward, wild-eyed. Laughing.

“YOU GONE BE PAINTING THE WALLS IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER WITH YOUR SICK ASS BRAINS.”

He roared—furious—and stormed toward her, backhanding her clean across the mouth. The hit sent her sideways in the chair, crashing hard.

The sound echoed. The camera shook.

She groaned in pain, head lolling—but then she laughed.

Laughed like her ribs weren’t bruised. Like her lip wasn’t split. Like he wasn’t terrifying. Like he was the one in danger.

He grabbed her face, roughly yanking her upright by the jaw.

And she spit—blood, saliva, rage—right in his face.

“YOU GONE DIE BOUT THIS BLACK BITCH.”

She bared her teeth.

“THIS NEW ORLEANS YOU FUCKING WITH, BRUH.”

Social Media: Real-Time Reactions

@UncleShayShay: “Yo… this man DONE. She got more fight in her than half the league.” @KekePalmer: “This ain’t even a movie. This is WAR. That girl a soldier.” @MeekMill: “Somebody drop the addy. Sefa and them boys got shooters for this type sh*t.” @NFLWifeGoals: “FBI, Saints Security, her fiancé’s whole tribe better be on this NOW.” @Rihanna: “You gone die bout this Black bitch.” [reposted with fire emoji and Fenty beauty link]

Back at the Fatu Estate

The silence in the room was louder than the chaos on screen.

Sefa stood perfectly still. Arms crossed over his chest. Chest heaving. Head down.

You could hear his brothers breathing heavy across the room, could see his mama holding back tears, Jey pacing like a caged wolf.

The live was still playing. But nobody moved.

Then:

“We trace it.” His voice was hoarse. Deep.

Jimmy nodded once, instantly dialing.

“I want him alive,” Sefa added. “But hurt. Let me finish it.”

Chanté: “You sure you want that on your hands, baby?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t even look up.

“If he lays another hand on her—there ain’t gonna be nothing left to find.”

—————-

Chapter 60: Rage Only

The livestream hadn’t ended.

It climbed from 15k views to millions—faster than news could catch up. Faster than moderators could shut it down.

Every corner of the football world, every newsroom, every locker room had tuned in.

And now they were watching hell unfold in real time.

Saints Group Chat Marcus (OL): “NAH WTF IS THIS—WHERE IS SHE” CJ (RB): “I’M GONNA FUCKIN THROW UP” Devon (Safety): “SOMEONE TRACE THE IP. NOW.” Coach Simmons: “We’re on it. Keep your phones open.” JJ (WR): “They see this? NFL seeing this???” Saints Owner: “Yes. And we’re already moving. I authorized private security. FBI involved now.” Marcus: “Sefa seeing this???” Simmons: “He’s watching. Don’t text him.”

Onscreen, the camera refocused. Zoomed in.

The man known now—confirmed by her—as David Greg, that same reporter who publicly tried to humiliate her, was pacing like he’d just snorted glass.

Ragged breath. Belt clutched in a twitching hand. Khakis sagging. Face hidden by a black ski mask, but his voice couldn’t be hidden anymore.

“You think this a fuckin’ game, huh? You think I ain’t got nothin’ to lose?”

He stepped forward, loosening the belt. Leather snapping through his belt loops with a hiss. The live chat exploded.

And she—Monét, battered but still her—lifted her head with a growl. Blood crusted in the corner of her mouth. One eye swollen.

“Come near me with that shit,” she snarled, chest heaving, “I’ma bite that bitch off.”

She spat near his shoes.

“You don’t want that, David Greg. You think I don’t know who the fuck you are? Even with that mask? You the biggest pussy walkin’ this Earth.”

He snapped—belt cracking across her thigh like a whip. The sound echoed. Her body jerked. But she didn’t scream.

She laughed.

“That all you got?”

Another strike. This one across the arm. She winced. But she looked straight into the camera.

Eyes wild. Fierce.

“I DON’T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT NO TEARS.”

“Y’ALL BETTER COME WITH RAGE.”

Social Media:

@OBJ: “Nah. I’m already in NOLA. Somebody tag me where to go.” @TheRock: “FBI needs to move. Saints team—hold your brother down. Keep him from ending this man before he gets what’s coming legally.” @AngelaBassett: “This woman. This warrior. We are ALL coming.” @Beyoncé: [posts a black tile with Monét’s words in white bold text: “Y’ALL BETTER COME WITH RAGE”] @NFLCommish: “This situation is under federal jurisdiction. Law enforcement is fully engaged. Justice is coming.” @BleacherReport: “BREAKING: NFL officials and Saints organization confirm security and FBI task force en route to assist in recovery of Saints staff member Monét Ali. Details unfolding.” @MeganTheeStallion: “We not begging no more. Rage.”

The live kept rolling.

And the belt dragged on the floor like a snake, and David Greg muttered slurs—talking about how she was his now, how he’d break her down until she begged.

But Monét? Bound, bruised, barely able to sit upright—

She grinned.

“You gone die slow, bitch.”

————-

The camera shook for a second, tilted upward like the phone had been kicked. A muffled groan filled the frame—metal scraping concrete, chains rattling.

Then it refocused.

Monét’s lip was split. Her left eye already swelling shut. Her tank top strap was ripped and her wrists were rubbed raw from the restraints tied behind the back of the metal chair.

David Greg stepped back into view, his black mask now soaked with sweat.

“Nah… you wanted fame, bitch?” he growled, voice sharp and unstable. “Now you got the whole fuckin’ world watchin’.”

He walked around her like she was prey, dragging that damn belt, then grabbed a bottle of water and poured it slowly over her head. Mocking baptism.

Monét hissed. Her head snapped forward and she spat blood toward him again.

“What you gon’ do, David?” she rasped, hair slick to her cheek. “Post a lil thirst trap for the incels watchin’? You ain’t got no dick, no clout, and no spine.”

He snapped.

Dragged her chair violently to the center of the room—concrete, dark, empty except for a dirty mattress in the corner and that one dangling live camera.

“You really think they comin’?” he barked. “You think Sefa gon’ save you? That oversized motherfucker ain’t built like that. Saints ain’t savin’ shit. When I’m done, they gon’ drop both y’all like a bad fumble.”

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back. She screamed once—but it wasn’t fear.

It was fury.

“You think I ain’t recognize your little punk ass from that gas station bathroom, huh?” she panted. “You been obsessed with me since I was coaching my first damn game.”

He slapped her. A loud, harsh crack.

“You done talkin’,” he muttered, “Now I’mma show everybody what happens when a Black bitch steps outta place—”

And that’s when the team group chat exploded again.

Saints Group Chat CJ (RB): “IM DONE. WHERE THE FUCK IS HE???” Devon: “HE JUST HIT HER ON CAMERA AGAIN. HE’S GONNA—BRO HE’S—” Marcus: “I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I’M NOT WAITING ON NO BADGE” Coach Simmons: “SEFA. DON’T DO NOTHING STUPID.” Team Staffer: “Sefa’s gone. He cut off the live and left. With his brothers.” JJ: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE LEFT???” Marcus: “It’s over for dude if they get to him first.”

Back on the live, David Greg pulled out a burner phone, showing dozens of viewers' names watching silently.

“All y’all tuned in just to watch her scream,” he hissed. “She gone be the lesson.”

He threw the belt across the floor again, walked toward her, unbuckling his pants—

Until Monét, breathing hard, eyes wild through her one good eye, whispered:

“They comin’ for you.”

He paused.

“They gone paint the walls with you.”

Sefa's POV

The black F-250 ripped through the interstate like it was born in hell. Jey was in the passenger seat, fists clenched. Jimmy, Marcus, and Devon were in the truck bed, armored up with Kevlar.

Sefa’s jaw was tight. His eyes hadn’t blinked in miles.

And on his lap, her phone. Still warm from where it hit the ground. Still open to the last frame of her face. Bloodied, bruised, unbroken.

He pressed record. Face calm. Voice deadly.

“Y’all pray I don’t get to him first.”

Then he ended the live.

The nation had never seen anything like it.

The league was forced to respond. Media shutdowns were in place. But the world didn’t care.

This wasn’t just a Saints problem. This was war.

And rage had already been summoned.

—————

Chapter 61: No Victim. Just Rage.

The live was still rolling.

No filter. No censors. No mercy.

And what the world was seeing would haunt them forever.

Monét was chained to a metal chair bolted into the concrete floor of some godforsaken basement. Her face was a bloodied battlefield—one eye nearly swollen shut, lip split, cheekbone already blooming a deep purple—but her eyes? Her eyes burned with the kind of rage that could turn entire cities to ash.

David Greg—the washed-up excuse of a sports reporter turned deranged predator—stood in front of her, a grotesque silhouette backlit by a single flickering bulb. His khakis dropped to his knees. His boxers sagged, revealing a body that looked as diseased as his soul.

And the moment the camera caught the full view of his so-called threat?

The internet cracked in half.

The comments blew up in real time:

“OH HELL NAH” “HE TOOK HIS PANTS OFF AND GOT A DAMN PENCIL??? THIS SICK MF” “SHE STILL GOT HER MOUTH?? RIP TO HIM THEN.” “SOMEONE FIND HER. THIS LIVE STILL ROLLING.”

Even as her limbs dangled useless, Monét’s mouth stayed moving.

"Ain’t NO way God made you like this, bitch,” she croaked out through cracked lips, laughing from her diaphragm like the devil himself whispered in her ear. “You pulled your pants down thinkin’ you’d break me? That’s what you brought to the table?” She leaned forward, chains rattling. “That lil Vienna sausage? You bout to die for THAT?!”

David lunged. Her head snapped up.

“Try me. Please. I want you to. My teeth work just fine.”

Saints Player Group Chat CJ (RB): “THIS MF PULLED OUT A BABY CARROT ON LIVE?” Devon: “FUCK THE AUTHORITIES I’M TAKING A CHARGE.” Elijah: “SHE STILL TALKING SHIT. THAT’S MY COACH.” Monet's Assistant: “She’s stalling. Keep watching. She’s up to something.” Marcus: “Bro if I see this man before the cops do I swear on God.” Jey: “We got location pings narrowing. Fatu quiet. Too quiet.” Chanté: “Somebody hold Sefa BACK.”

Sefa’s POV – I-10, truck in motion He was driving like hell had opened behind him. Windshield shaking. Jaw locked.

Jimmy was in the passenger seat texting the GC, watching updates flood in.

But Sefa… he hadn’t blinked since the camera angle changed and caught full sight of David’s pathetic manhood, swinging like an afterthought in the corner of the screen.

He didn’t even flinch.

Not when David slapped Monét. Not when she spit blood in his face. Not when she laughed.

Only when she looked into the camera again—eyes feral, bloody teeth flashing—and screamed,

“I don’t give a FUCK about no tears! Y’all better come with RAGE!”

Sefa’s hand hit the dashboard.

“I’M COMIN’, KOLOHE!”

The tires screamed as he floored the gas.

Twitter/X, TikTok, and IG Comments in Real Time

“#FreeMonet #FindHerNOW trending worldwide” “Not her taunting him WHILE CHAINED. Queen.” “He exposing himself with that baby dick like we weren’t already disgusted.” “Monét is NOLA. We ride at dawn.” “Somebody call Beyoncé. Rihanna. Michelle. CALL EVERY BLACK WOMAN WITH POWER.”

Celeb Posts Roll In

Zendaya (IG Story): That’s OUR coach. You’re gonna pay for this. Kerry Washington: The world’s watching. And the world is coming. Megan Thee Stallion: You got her fucked up. Straight up. Don’t let us find you first. J. Cole: Ain’t no peace til she’s back safe. The Rock: Sefa… do what you have to.

Back in the Basement

David paced now, panicked and pissed, muttering to himself. The belt hung loose from his hand, and he hissed under his breath as Monét stared at him.

He lunged to slap her again—and she laughed harder.

“You ain’t breakin’ me. You makin’ me mad. You bout to see what happens when a bitch from the boot don’t got nothin’ left to lose.” She leaned forward, snarling—“You think you scarin’ me? You should be scared of what’s coming for you. ‘Cause if it ain’t me that gets loose first, it’ll be my fiancé. And if he finds you?” She grinned. Blood and all. “You’ll wish I’d killed you first.”

————

Chapter 62: Unchained Rage

The screen was still live. Still rolling. Still igniting every corner of the internet like an oil spill lit by a single spark.

Monét's body was battered, bruised, nearly limp in the rusted metal chair she’d been chained to for hours—but the fire in her eyes had only grown wilder. Wilder than hell. Wilder than any man could leash.

David Greg was growing cocky. He paced the room, mask halfway slipping off his sweaty, patchy-bearded face. His pants were back up, but his belt still dangled like a threat, swaying with every twisted step he took. He thought he had her cornered. Cracked. That hours of captivity and cruelty would finally break her.

But Monét Ali wasn’t bred for surrender.

“See,” he started, yanking roughly at the straps on her sports bra with one hand while the other fiddled with the camera angle, “this right here? This what y’all want, huh? This what the world love? A loud mouth Black bitch wit’ fake lashes and a whistle in her hand? I told y’all, these women—these Black women—they all bark. Easy fuckin’ targets.”

He reached again.

Bad move.

Because Monét didn’t hesitate.

She launched forward with every last ounce of fury she could muster, her jaws snapping open like a lioness cornered—and she bit down. Hard. Right into the soft meat of his forearm. Deep.

“AHHHH!!” The man screamed. Dropped the camera. Kicked the metal chair. Monét didn’t stop. She clenched until the taste of his blood hit her throat, until he stumbled back, eyes wild, shrieking like a child that touched fire.

She spit the blood out. Thick and dark. Let it roll slow down her chin like warpaint. Eyes locked on him.

And she started laughing. Laughing. From her belly. From her soul.

Then—eyes wide, maniacal, daring—she screamed toward the camera still capturing every frame.

“UNCHAIN ME, BRUH! I JUST WANNA TALK!”

Saints Facility - War Room Vibe

The team had gathered—trainers, staff, owners, even execs. Phones were up. Livestream projected on every screen.

CJ threw a chair across the room. Chanté was sobbing and cussing in two languages. Marcus paced so hard he was practically digging a trench into the carpet. Jimmy stood back to back with Sefa, who hadn’t spoken in twenty minutes. Just breathing through his nose like a bull waiting on the bell.

Then it happened.

The bite.

Her scream.

“UNCHAIN ME, BRUH—”

Sefa’s fist hit the concrete wall. Blood ran down his knuckles.

Jimmy grabbed his shoulder. “Bro—bro she’s alive, she’s fighting, you gotta stay smart—”

Sefa didn’t blink.

“I’m not thinking. I’m ending him.”

Social Media MELTDOWN

“YOOO SHE BIT THAT MF! ON LIVE!!” “She said unchain me like it’s bout to be a fair one in the parking lot.” “Black women are different. I’d be weeping and she out here tryna square up while BLEEDING.” “She told him she just wanna talk. This shit cinematic.” “Someone make a shirt that say ‘UNCHAIN ME BRUH’ right now.”

Celebrity Reactions Continue

Issa Rae: Bite that mf again, queen. Rihanna (via Fenty page): The bra stayed on. The teeth came out. That’s fashion. Jay-Z: Find her. No excuses. Meagan Good: If she don’t win an Oscar off this IG live we rioting.

Back in the Basement

David clutched his bleeding arm, shrieking and kicking over the old table that had been recording the live. “You CRAZY bitch!” he hissed. “You gon’ pay for that! You gon’ learn—!”

Monét sat tall again, even chained, even broken.

“I bit you once, bitch.” Her voice was low, trembling but deadly. “You come near me again, I’ll leave you with one fuckin’ arm. Then I’ll make you eat it.”

The camera shook. Her head turned back to it. Wild curls sticking to sweat and blood on her face.

She gave the camera a lopsided smile. “Y’all better move with purpose. This sick-ass man losing blood. I’m about to get biblical in here.”

————-

Chapter 63: Unholy Ground

The livestream hadn’t cut.

It was still going.

Thousands… millions were locked in—screens gripped like lifelines, gasping, sobbing, cursing. Watching. What started as a grotesque act of violence had evolved into something else entirely. Something feral. Cinematic. Like the climax of a war film, except the battlefield was a blood-slick concrete floor in a Georgia bunker and the soldier was one broken woman in a sports bra and chains.

Monét had stopped talking.

She just started… laughing.

Low at first. Soft and sickly sweet, like the joke of the century was being whispered right to her soul. It built slow. A rasp that turned manic. Every broken breath dragging it louder. It was unnerving.

Like she’d snapped in the best way possible.

Her captor froze—crowbar in hand, blood still streaming from his chewed-up forearm. She didn’t scream. Didn’t plead.

She jerked one shoulder.

Clink.

Another jerk.

Clang.

The final bolt on her chair snapped loose with a metal shriek.

Monét rose. Shaky, lopsided. Still chained to the base of the chair, her legs quivering, barely under her control. Her face was bloodied, bruised, but that smile… that grin split wide like it hurt. It was beautifully deranged.

She tilted her head. Calm. “You wanna see what getting active look like?” Voice steady. Dead serious.

“Ion need my limbs.”

And she moved.

With every ounce of pure rage and strategy, she whipped her hip around—chair and all—and cracked it straight into the side of his knee. The crowbar clanged against the wall as he stumbled and fell back, hitting the ground with a yelp that was all pain and disbelief.

Her body gave out next. Legs buckled. She crumpled hard onto her side, gasping, but grinning harder.

“That... that felt good, bitch.”

Blood spilled from her mouth as she coughed, but her eyes gleamed sharp. “You think I ain’t recognize them Georgia trees, huh?” she hissed. “Seen that shit when you dragged me in this rusty ass bunker. And you ain’t even blindfold me. Dumbass. Gotta be the worst fucking criminal I ever seen. Whole FBI Most Wanted got better planning than your sorry ass.”

He growled. Snarled. Pulled himself up by the broken table and kicked her.

Crack.

The sound was sickening. A rib? Two? Didn’t matter.

She coughed blood again, body curling inward, wincing—but still smiling. A demon’s smile. Unshakable.

Cut To: Saints Team Facility — 3:24PM

The film room was chaos.

CJ punched a wall again. That was the second one today.

Marcus was on the phone with someone screaming in logistics. Chanté was sobbing with her fists clenched.

The team was all there. Trainers. Security. Coaches. Wives.

Sefa?

He was standing. Shirtless. Silent. One fist wrapped in gauze from punching through drywall. The other gripping the back of a chair so hard the metal warped.

Eyes locked on the screen.

Watching her laugh. Watching her move. Watching her fight with no legs under her.

Then that kick.

He flinched.

So did everyone else.

“Yo, somebody get him before he flies to Georgia without a damn plan—” “—We need to trace that stream—” “—This ain’t just football, bro, this our family now—” “—Call the goddamn league if we have to—”

Jimmy moved to Sefa’s side.

“You breathing?”

Sefa didn’t answer. Just whispered:

“Get the plane ready. I don’t care who gotta be on it. I’m not watching the woman I love bleed for another minute without blood being drawn back.”

Twitter/X/IG Live Comments:

“She bit him and now she beat him with a damn chair—WHILE STILL CHAINED.” “Y’all better put respect on Monét’s name—this some Harriet Tubman meets Kill Bill shit.” “That laugh??? Oh yeah, she’s not breaking. HE is.” “Feds better run, Saints better run, Sefa better sprint. That woman is buying time, and it’s running out.” “I need her whole origin story when this is over.”

Back in the Bunker

David Greg leaned against the wall, wheezing, bleeding, wild-eyed. His belt had fallen somewhere in the chaos. His pants half undone. Crowbar lost.

And Monét?

Still lying on her side. Smile never fading. Eyes bright with revenge.

She whispered toward the livestream camera now buried under a table but still filming.

“Y’all watching? Good. Tell ‘em I’m buying time. And my baby coming.”

“Y’all better pray he get here last.”

————

Chapter 64: Tick Tock, Bitch

The camera was still on.

Somewhere under a rusted folding table, tilted sideways, cracked lens smeared with blood—but it was on. The world hadn’t looked away for even a second.

Millions were watching now. It wasn’t just a livestream—it was a warzone feed. Commentators, analysts, rappers, celebrities, politicians, lawmakers—the world was tuned in to the ugliest, rawest real-time horror show.

And Monét?

She wasn’t done.

Her leggings were torn—ripped brutally by greedy, shaking hands. Her bruised skin exposed. Blood had dried along her torso, her lip was busted, her side ached with every breath, every movement of her broken rib dragging glass through her lungs. Her wrists were cut raw from the restraints.

But her eyes.

Her eyes lit up like a switch flipped.

Recognition.

A sign.

That last sliver of detail she’d caught when he was dragging her limp body out of the trunk, too drugged to fight but still watching through fluttering eyes. She knew what she saw.

She lifted her head slowly, smiling like death itself had whispered a joke in her ear.

He was right in front of her. Pants undone. Grinning. Breathing hard. Crowbar abandoned. No more theatrics. Just the ugly stench of a man drunk on power.

But Monét didn’t scream.

She grinned.

Cold. Bloody. Victorious.

“You fucked up,” she whispered hoarsely.

He hesitated, frown creeping in.

Her voice came sharp through the cracked silence. “Lagrange.” A wheeze. “I seen that green-ass sign when you threw me in ya trunk like damn cargo.” A darker chuckle left her throat. “You picked the wrong observant ass bitch.” Then she leaned up with her last strength, eyes locked on the camera. “Tick tock, you dumbass.”

CUT TO: TWITTER/X MELTDOWN

“WAIT SHE JUST NAMED THE TOWN—LAGRANGE. GA. SOMEBODY TRACE THAT—” “Y’ALL HEARD HER. SHE SAW THE SIGN. SHE BEEN CLOCKING HIM THIS WHOLE TIME.” “BRO WHAT KINDA BADASS SHIT IS THIS I’M SHAKING.” “SHE REALLY BOUGHT TIME WITH HER LIFE. GET HER THE FUCK OUT.”

Back in the bunker…

David froze. Stared at her.

That smile.

That defiance.

That confidence.

It unraveled something inside him. Something unhinged.

He snapped.

With a feral yell, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed her head hard against the wall behind her. Once. Twice.

Her body slumped. Heavy. Still bound. Blood trailing from her temple.

The world stopped.

The feed kept going.

The camera caught his heavy breathing, the sick joy curling into his features.

CUT TO: THE TEAM—SAINTS TRAINING CENTER, LIVE STREAM ON THE TV WALL

Silence. Horrified, dead silence.

CJ sat on the floor, his mouth covered, tears streaming. Marcus had collapsed into a chair, head in his hands. Chanté was screaming at a PR rep who kept telling her to stay calm.

Jimmy and Jey had just walked in. Deon was pacing like a lion, fists balled.

But Sefa?

Sefa had walked to the front of the room. His mother was at his side. His father silent behind him.

He was shaking. Eyes glued to the screen, teeth clenched so tight the muscle in his jaw spasmed.

“She saw the sign,” he muttered. “She named it.”

A hand clutched his shoulder—Jacob, solid, steady.

“Bro. She bought you a location. She bought it with her blood. She held that motherfucker off long enough to leave a clue.”

Sefa exhaled.

Then he turned.

“Get the damn jet.”

“You can’t go in alone, bro—”

“I’m not.” His voice dropped. A tone no one had ever heard before. “I’m not leaving this to the feds. I’m not leaving this to prayers. We go now.”

ONLINE COMMENTS POURING IN AS THE VIDEO CONTINUES TO TREND #1 WORLDWIDE:

“He knocked her out. LIVE. We saw it. Her blood is on our screens. DO SOMETHING.” “She gave us the town. Lagrange, Georgia. The cops better already be MOVING.” “Sefa finna burn the whole south down behind his woman.” “This turned into a revenge movie and we’re only halfway through.” “Free Monét. Save Monét. PROTECT BLACK WOMEN.”

CUT BACK TO THE BUNKER

David stood over her limp body.

Wheezing. He was spiraling.

“You think anyone gon’ find you? You think you smart?” he growled. “I been watching you. You black bitches think you're strong, huh?”

He turned back to the camera. Sweat pouring. Words slurring.

“I ain’t done. We ain’t done. You gon’ see what a real man is—”

LIVE SIGNAL INTERRUPTED.

The screen flickered.

Paused.

But the world had seen enough.

—————

Chapter 56: The Devil Walks Barefoot

The live feed stuttered—then picked up again, shaky this time, grainier in quality, like it had been dropped and picked up in haste. But the image was unmistakable:

Monét.

Unchained now.

Unconscious.

Her bruised body, limp and vulnerable, dragged across a cement floor by the same masked man. Her head thudded once against the edge of the doorframe, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop.

Outside, the air was thick and wet—Georgia woods under a heavy moon. The camera swung wildly, barely catching a glimpse of towering pines and a rusted-out pickup parked under brush. He was filming again, one hand yanking her by the arm like a ragdoll, the other waving the phone like a trophy.

“She ain’t even worth the price of the chains,” he growled into the lens. “Ain’t that somethin’? All that bark, all that mouth, and now look at her. Folded. Just like the rest of her filthy-ass ancestors. Whole bloodline full of mouthy whores and broken men. And tonight? One of them finally gonna pay their tab.”

He dragged her toward the truck bed, where a chain and a tarp waited. Somewhere behind him, cicadas screamed in the dark.

Comments exploded again, live:

“IS SHE DEAD?!”

“Y’ALL FIND HIM NOW.”

“CALL THE COPS. CALL THE MILITARY. CALL GOD.”

The villain leaned in to the lens, breathing hard. “Tell that bitch fiancé to come get her if he want her so bad. Tell him to meet me in the devil’s playground. I’ll carve his name in her spine next.”

Cut to the Saints facility—

Sefa had lost his jersey, pacing the office in a black compression shirt soaked in sweat. The replay of the live was still playing. Again and again. No one had turned it off.

Solo stood by the wall, his fists balled, eyes wet with rage. “He said her ancestors?”

“Keep watching,” Jimmy muttered. “He’s gonna make a mistake. One he ain’t walking away from.”

The screen cut to a slow zoom of the trees.

“Lagrange,” Sefa said under his breath. “That sign. She wasn’t out when she saw it. She said it.”

A tech analyst burst in, phone up. “We triangulated. Signal bounced three towers. He’s in a dead zone fifteen miles from LaGrange. Old hunting trails and bunkers used by survivalists.”

Sefa was already moving. “Say less.”

Cut to social media again—

Every celebrity, athlete, and even political figure was now tuned in. Names like Cardi B, LeBron James, Taraji, and Kamala Harris were sharing the clip with captions like:

“This country don’t protect Black women. We do. #BringMonétHome”

“We see you. We coming.”

The comments on the live? Still rolling:

“This MF wanna talk ancestors? They about to show tf up.”

“Somebody tell Sefa we riding out too.”

“We want blood.”

The world was watching now—not for entertainment.

For vengeance

————

Chapter 57: A Rope and a Reckoning

The live feed came back like static—jittery, unfocused, but still streaming. The pine trees swayed above, tall and indifferent, watching like ancient gods bearing witness to man’s evil.

A pale hand entered the frame first.

It gripped a thick, pre-looped rope, swinging it gently like a threat too familiar. The masked figure’s breathing was heavy now, fogging the screen in bursts as he stalked toward the body slumped in the back of the rusted pickup.

Monét.

Her body was bruised, bloodied, motionless—until he hoisted her up like dead weight. Her bare feet dragged against the gravel. Her leggings hung shredded from her hips. One eye was swollen near-shut, the other flickering.

She was alive.

Barely.

He dragged her by her arm like trash, stopping at the thickest tree in sight—an old southern oak, trunk wide and gnarled. Without ceremony, he slammed her against it. The sickening thud of her shoulder hitting bark echoed through the phone’s mic as her body crumpled to the dirt.

The camera caught it all.

From the edge of the screen, he appeared again—silent now, his gloved hands tightening the noose with almost reverent precision.

As he stepped closer, Monét groaned. The impact had woken her.

She moved just enough to turn her head, gasping in pain as air fought its way past her bruised ribs. Her lip was cracked, blood still dribbling down her chin, but she looked up at him.

Not with fear.

With something worse: disgust.

Her voice came out broken, gravel-slick and hoarse, but clear enough to gut the world watching.

"If you kill me, so be it," she croaked, head still resting in the dirt, "but I’m not gon’ cry for no white man."

The rope stopped swinging.

The figure froze, mask twitching toward the camera. He hadn't expected that. Hadn’t expected her to speak—let alone curse him with such venom while facing death.

He looked down at her like she was some hell-born thing, defying the role of victim even now.

"You got a smart mouth for a dead bitch," he spat, voice shaking now with something that sounded like rage—or fear.

The live comments came crashing in like thunder:

“OH SHE’S A FUCKING LEGEND.”

“DO YOU HEAR HER??? SHE STILL TALKING.”

“GET HER NOW. I SWEAR TO GOD.”

“SHE SAID WHAT TF SHE SAID.”

“SHE NOT GONNA BREAK.”

Cut to the Saints facility –

Sefa slammed his fist into the wall.

Hard.

The drywall cracked.

Jimmy held him back, barely. “Not yet. We got the coordinates. They triangulated the signal. He’s not far. Just wait a little longer.”

“I’m not waiting!” Sefa snarled, chest heaving. “He’s got a rope, J. He’s trying to hang her, dawg. Like this some lynching reenactment shit. I swear to God I will tear this man apart with my bare hands.”

Across the room, players were crying. Chanté had her hands over her mouth. Solo had gone cold and still, knuckles bone white.

The world outside? Crashing into a frenzy.

“You think Black Twitter won’t start a militia for Monét? BET.”

“Y’all better send SEAL Team 6 or Sefa gonna do it himself.”

“SOMEONE TELL TYLER PERRY TO USE HIS PLANE.”

Back on live,

The masked man stood over Monét, rope in hand, frozen as she started laughing again through bloodied teeth. Each breath a wheeze, every shake of her shoulders an act of war.

“You done messed up, Greg,” she rasped, using his name again. “You went viral on the wrong fuckin’ night.”

The screen froze on her bloody smile.

Cut to black.

Live feed ended.

———-

Chapter 58: Run, Monét

The live came back in a blur, jagged and unstable.

The camera was propped up now—accidental maybe, the angle crooked as it leaned against the base of a tree. The rope still swayed in frame, mocking the silence like a ghost that hadn’t claimed its victim yet.

He was offscreen, cussing. Loud. Wild. His words spat in every direction, drenched in failure and fury.

“Bitch think she funny?! I’ll drag your Black ass back here myself!”

But the camera caught it first.

Movement.

A figure, hunched and shaking, wobbled up from the dirt like something resurrected from a battlefield. Blood was smeared across her jaw, her ribs bruised dark beneath a torn sports bra. Her eyes were sharp. Ferocious.

Monét.

Her legs trembled beneath her, but she stood anyway—on pain and willpower alone.

And then—

She ran.

Barefoot. Injured. But sprinting like hell itself was behind her.

The screen shook violently as she disappeared into the trees, the foliage swallowing her whole. Branches clawed at her. Roots tried to trip her. But she didn’t stop.

Not for the cuts. Not for the broken rib. Not for the man yelling and crashing after her somewhere behind.

The world watching? Lost its mind.

“GO MONÉT GO MONÉT GO MONÉT.” “SHE’S STILL FIGHTING WTF.” “BAREFOOT AND BRUISED AND STILL A BAD BITCH.” “I’LL NEVER COMPLAIN AGAIN THIS WOMAN IS A WARRIOR.” “SEFA, GET HER. NOW.”

Cut to: Saints Facility

The room was chaos.

Someone dropped their phone, another player punched a locker so hard it bent inward. The staff was barking orders. Chanté was crying uncontrollably. Jimmy was pacing like a lion, yelling into three phones at once. A player had tears in his eyes, whispering prayers.

But Sefa?

Sefa was gone.

Literally. Had stormed out the moment she got on her feet.

The team barely caught the tail lights of his black SUV peeling out the parking lot like thunder, cutting lanes with no regard for the law. He wasn’t waiting on signals, or updates, or authorities.

He was headed to Georgia with one goal: get her back or die trying.

Back to live—

The masked man finally entered the frame again, panting, bleeding from the arm where she’d bit him earlier. Dirt clung to his shirt. His rage was animal now, primal and losing control.

He picked up the phone, muttering like a madman.

“I’ll find you, bitch. You mine. Ain’t no place you can run from this.”

But Monét was already gone.

Deeper into the wild. Running off adrenaline, instinct, and the fire of every Black woman before her who refused to die easy.

She was battered.

But she was free.

And now the world was watching, hunting with her.

———-

Chapter 59: Predator and Prey

The forest swallowed her screams.

Monét’s breath rasped in her chest like knives. Every step sent white-hot pain through her side where her rib had cracked, but she didn’t stop—not even when her bare feet tore open against the underbrush, not even when her vision blurred from the blood dripping into her eyes.

She ran like a woman possessed.

Like the devil himself was chasing her.

Because he was.

Behind her, crashing through the trees, was the monster she’d been taunting only minutes before. Still masked. Still screaming. Still furious that the prey he thought he’d broken had taken flight. She could hear him getting closer, cussing and panting like a rabid dog.

Monét didn’t know how long she’d been running—ten seconds or ten minutes—it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was she stay alive.

Suddenly, her eyes caught it: a tree.

Old. Gnarled. Bark thick and peeling like armor. Its lowest branch looked just high enough to reach if she jumped.

And with what little strength she had left, she did.

Her ribs screamed. Her shoulders burned. But she dug her fingers into the bark and scrambled upward, slipping once, catching herself with pure adrenaline and rage. Blood smeared along the trunk as she climbed, the wood biting into her palms.

She climbed until she was crouched on a thick limb, tucked against the tree like a feral thing, chest heaving.

Then she went still.

Her hand—cut and trembling—clamped over her own mouth.

Her eyes tracked the ground below.

He was close.

The leaves rustled beneath his boots. He was talking to himself again, low and frenzied.

“Where the fuck you go, huh? Ain’t nowhere out here but woods and bones. You think you a damn ghost now? I’ll find you. You mine.”

Monét didn’t move.

Didn’t even breathe.

She pressed her face into the tree, hiding in its rough skin like it was holy. Her whole body trembled, but her mind was ice. Focused. Dead silent.

He stopped walking.

Right beneath her.

He sniffed the air like a beast. “I can smell you, bitch…”

She clenched her jaw, squeezing her eyes shut. Blood was trickling down her thigh from the scrapes. Her teeth rattled against her palm, holding back a scream.

Then—

He moved.

Wandered deeper into the trees, grumbling curses, his voice echoing as he vanished again into the dark.

She didn’t move for a full five minutes.

Not until she was sure.

Not until the sound of his boots faded entirely and the woods grew quiet again, save for the wind and her own heartbeat.

Then, finally, she exhaled.

A single whisper of breath, escaping like a ghost.

Still alive.

Still hers.

And still fighting.

She clung to the tree like it was salvation, resting her cheek against the bark, whispering to herself hoarsely:

“You gon’ die before I do, bitch.”

———

Chapter 60: Breath Between Branches

The forest began to breathe again.

It was subtle at first—the rustle of leaves, the hush of wind weaving through pine needles, the distant call of a bird—but the chaos had thinned. The footsteps were gone.

And Monét was still there.

High in that old tree, her arms locked around the trunk like a lifeline, legs dangling weakly from where she'd braced herself on a crooked limb. Her cheek pressed into the rough bark, smearing more blood than sweat now. Her breath was slow, too slow. Shallow.

She was slipping.

Her eyes rolled half-closed, lashes sticky with tears she didn’t even remember crying. Her lips parted just enough for a whispered gasp.

“Still here. Still me.”

Below, unseen by her, the forest’s calm was broken again—this time not by her captor, but by something worse for him and better for her.

The sky hummed.

A drone, small and silent, buzzed overhead—its lens tracking movement along the forest’s edge. Zoomed in. Caught a frame.

There.

A man stumbling out of the tree line, panicked, bloodied, sweating through his clothes. Still masked. Eyes darting. He limped toward the cracked two-lane road that cut through the woods like a scar, thinking he’d outsmarted everyone.

He didn’t see the black SUVs tucked behind trees across the way.

Didn’t notice the unmarked chopper tracking his position from above.

He only knew that she had vanished.

And now, somewhere on the road near the Georgia/Alabama border, the feds had eyes on him. They didn’t move yet. Not without command. But the sighting spread like wildfire through encrypted feeds.

Someone in the media leaked it within fifteen minutes.

“BREAKING: FBI confirms suspect linked to Monét Ali’s kidnapping spotted near Georgia state route. Tactical teams en route.”

Comments exploded across social media.

“THEY GOT HIM?!”

“Don’t touch him—wait for Sefa.”

“Somebody tag that fine Samoan man before he gets there first.”

“He better PRAY Sefa don’t catch him first cause y’all remember what he did to that linebacker last season and that was just over a flag.”

Back in the forest, Monét clung to consciousness.

She didn’t know how long she’d been up there.

Didn’t know her name was trending again—this time alongside “miracle” and “madness” and “baddest bitch alive.”

But her fingers never loosened from the bark.

Even as the wind picked up.

Even as her eyes fluttered again, and her head dipped.

Even as her body started to slide sideways, limp from the branches.

One hand held.

Barely.

And then—a sound.

Not boots this time.

A helicopter. Distant but getting closer.

Still, she didn’t move.

Didn’t wake.

The camera caught none of this.

But the world was watching.

And the man who loved her was getting closer by the second.

————-

Chapter 61: The Final Step

Sefa’s heart pounded in his chest as his SUV tore down the dirt road, the engine roaring like an angry beast, and his knuckles white from gripping the wheel so tight. His mind raced, too—flashing images of Monét, her face bruised and bloodied, her eyes wild with fear.

The media had already blown up, but he couldn’t look. He couldn’t focus on the screen; there was only one thing that mattered—getting to her. He had to. He couldn’t afford to lose her. Not after everything.

Not after what they did.

As he neared the forest's edge, he could see the flashing lights of multiple FBI vehicles parked up ahead, their sirens cutting through the thick, humid air. His stomach twisted as his eyes flicked over the scene. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but he could feel it—he wasn’t the only one pulling in. The moment his car slowed, he saw a team of agents holding down a man, slamming him onto the pavement.

A familiar figure.

Monét’s captor.

David Greg, the reporter.

His face was twisted in fury as they cuffed him, throwing him to the ground. The agents were quick to subdue him, but Sefa could still hear the muffled curse words escaping his lips as they dragged him away. It wasn’t enough. None of it was. He needed to see her. He needed to—

There was no sign of her.

His breath hitched as his eyes swept the scene again. No Monét. Not in the cars, not in the tents set up by the feds. She wasn’t anywhere.

His stomach dropped, his head dizzy with a surge of panic. The image of her crumpled in that tree, helpless and alone, burned in his mind. The phone call, the news feed, none of it had prepared him for this emptiness.

Where the hell was she?

The agents moved quickly, continuing to assess the scene, but Sefa had no patience. He shoved the door open, leaving the car running, and stormed toward the officers. One of them turned his head, his face tense, but Sefa was already past him, scanning the forest.

“She’s not here, man, she’s not here!” Sefa shouted at the agent as his gaze cut across the dirt road, his voice raw, desperate. "I don't give a damn about this asshole, I need her, right now."

The agent shook his head, trying to calm Sefa, but there was no calming him. His mind was a blur, everything spinning. His only focus was Monét.

Then his eyes locked on something in the distance.

Just beyond the trees.

There.

A figure.

A body slumped against the bark of a tree.

It wasn’t just any figure.

It was Monét.

Sefa’s heart shattered. He didn’t wait for anything, didn’t even give the agents a second to react. He moved, his legs pumping, and his body crashed through the underbrush as his eyes stayed locked on her.

The closer he got, the clearer the sight became.

Monét, pale as a ghost, her body trembling in the aftermath. Her face was dirty, covered in bruises and blood, but she was alive.

Just barely.

She was still breathing, but it was shallow, labored.

His breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside her, hands shaking as he gently touched her cheek, trying to wake her, to bring her back.

“Monét, baby, hey, wake up.” His voice cracked as he called her name. His palm slid against her skin, hoping for any sign of life.

Her body shifted slightly, just enough for her to blink her eyes open for a moment, groggily lifting her head to meet his gaze. She looked at him like she wasn’t sure if he was real, or if this was all just a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

He squeezed her hand gently. “You’re safe now. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Monét’s lips parted, but her words were barely audible, the sound of them nearly drowned by the sound of his pounding heart.

“Sefa...” Her voice was weak, but there was fire behind it. “I’m not going anywhere. Don’t let them take me.”

His breath hitched again, and he pulled her closer, cradling her to his chest. She was still shaking, but there was a new sense of urgency in his body. The world had stopped around them. The flashing sirens, the FBI agents, none of it mattered. It was just him and her.

He didn’t care who he had to face. He didn’t care who was in his way.

Sefa pulled Monét into his arms, lifting her despite her injuries, and he whispered in her ear as he looked back toward the agents who had now caught up to him.

“Let them come. Let anyone come for you. I’m not letting you go, not now, not ever.”

———————

Chapter 62: Behind Closed Doors

The chaos had barely begun to settle when the truth started to twist itself into something far more sinister.

To the public, David Greg—the disgraced ex-reporter turned kidnapper—was being transported back to Georgia to face charges. It was on every screen, every network: "Captured. Justice Served."

But that wasn’t what happened.

Not really.

What no one knew was that the team owner, Malcolm Darnell, had intercepted the transfer. A quiet, powerful man known for sitting in the back of rooms and pulling the strings, he didn’t wait for the legal system. He paid to get the bastard rerouted. No courtrooms. No media spectacle. No headline-happy trial.

Just silence.

Greg was dragged into a private meeting room inside the Saints’ corporate offices—now turned makeshift underground HQ. Still bloodied, bruised, and barely coherent from the feds' takedown, he was slammed into a steel chair, his cuffs digging into his skin. The lights above him were too bright, buzzing faintly. Surveillance cameras were pointed in every corner. And Malcolm sat at the head of the long table, his hands steepled, jaw tight.

No security. Just him.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out,” Malcolm said coldly, voice low, calm—like a man used to issuing ultimatums that couldn’t be refused. “You thought a little race-baiting, misogynistic filth like you could go viral at my organization’s expense and live?”

Greg looked up, dazed, mouth cracked from where he’d been hit.

“I ain’t scared of you—”

Malcolm stood.

“You will be.”

The door slammed shut.

Meanwhile…

Monét was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

She lay in a dimly lit, private medic ward hidden deep inside the Saints’ training facility. One of the only places Malcolm trusted to keep her secure—truly secure. She wasn’t just anyone. She was family now. She was the face of the team. And after what she survived? She deserved to be surrounded by protection and power.

No hospital stay, no paparazzi. No outsiders. Just people who had her in mind.

Sefa hadn’t left her side. Not once. He sat in the chair by her bed, holding her hand like it anchored him to the earth. Her body was still weak, bandaged and bruised from the trauma, but she was here. Breathing. Fighting. Alive.

Every breath she took, he took with her.

The Fatu family had packed in earlier that morning—silent, heavy with emotion. Chanté had to be held back from storming into the woods herself when she saw the footage. Deon’s face stayed stone cold. Jimmy and Jey had stood shoulder to shoulder in a rage so thick it turned the air electric.

And then there was Malcolm, who stepped in quietly during the visit and just looked at her. No words. Just a solemn nod to Sefa.

“You’ll stay here,” he said, voice grave but steady. “She’s not going to a hospital. I paid out-of-pocket for the best trauma team. No records. No leaks. No one touches her unless I say so.”

Sefa nodded. There was no argument. He didn’t care about the money. He cared that Monét had a chance to come back whole.

But outside those walls?

The internet was rioting.

The team was silent—press-wise. But they didn’t have to say anything. Celebs, fans, the league itself—they were all watching the Saints now. And they were watching him.

Sefa went dark online. His last post? A photo of her hand in his—bruised, but still with her engagement ring clinging to her finger.

Caption: Try me again. I dare you.

And somewhere in the depths of the building… as Monét stirred for the first time since being brought in, her eyes fluttered open.

And the first thing she saw?

Sefa, still right there. Holding her down like the roots of a storm-proof tree. Eyes bloodshot, but wide with relief.

She blinked weakly, throat dry, voice barely above a whisper.

“...You didn’t let go.”

His voice cracked when he answered.

“I never will.”

———

Chapter 63: No Trial, Just Sentence (Louisiana Cut – Death Row)

The basement wasn’t just dark—it was a tomb. The walls unfinished, the air sour with mildew and something else: fear. It reeked off David in waves, tied to that chair, ankles and wrists bound tight with zip cords that cut into skin. No more smirks. No more jokes. Just him and the consequences, finally closing in.

Sefa entered slow, like death didn’t need to rush. The door shut with a metallic clang that echoed off concrete.

David raised his head, lips crusted in dried blood, one eye completely shut from the earlier beatdown.

“You think you can kill me?” he rasped.

“No,” Sefa said flatly, pulling off his hoodie to reveal the long-sleeve compression shirt underneath, now soaked with sweat and fury. “I know I can.”

He picked up a crowbar resting in the corner. Heavy. Rusted. Personal.

And then it began.

No yelling. No rage-filled roar. Just work. Systematic, deliberate. He started with David’s shins—crack—a sound like a baseball bat connecting with bone. David screamed so loud the walls vibrated. But it didn’t stop.

Crack. The other shin.

Snap. A knee bent the wrong way.

David writhed in the chair like a ragdoll, tears and snot pooling on his ruined face.

“You like filming women suffering, huh?” Sefa growled low, grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look into the phone camera now recording. “Say her name again. Say Monét’s name. One. More. Time.”

David whimpered.

So Sefa grabbed the crowbar again, this time slamming it across his collarbone—shatter.

“Thought so.”

He threw the crowbar down and dragged a toolbox from the corner. Inside: zip ties, duct tape, a socket wrench, jumper cables, a small blowtorch—every man has a line. David crossed Sefa’s.

“You ain’t dying fast,” he said, calmly pulling the table closer. “Fast is a favor. This? This is justice.”

He taped David’s mouth shut. The rest? Happened in agonizing silence. A wrench to the fingers until they crunched. A cable wrapped around a broken leg, twisted slowly like tuning a guitar. A cigarette lit with the blowtorch held to his forearm. And when David passed out from the pain?

Sefa woke him up.

Smelling salts. Ice water. A slap across the face with a soaked glove.

“I said wake up. You don’t get to sleep until I say.”

Blood covered the floor. The chair legs. Sefa’s boots.

Finally, he stepped back, chest heaving.

“This don’t erase what you did,” he said, voice low but deadly. “But it makes sure you never try again. Never even thinkabout another Black woman like that. Like she don’t matter. She matters more than your next breath.”

Then he grabbed the chair—tossed it sideways like it weighed nothing. David’s broken body slammed to the ground, moaning barely.

Sefa knelt beside him. Whispered, “You’re not dying in here. But you’ll wish you did.”

He stood, wiped the blood from his knuckles, opened the door, and walked out like a soldier done with war.

Back upstairs, Monét still lay resting, wrapped in warm sheets and IVs pumping strength back into her bones. She didn’t know yet.

But when she woke up?

The first thing she’d see was Sefa.

Unbloodied. Calm. Whole again—because the devil in him had just been fed.

And justice?

Justice had a name.

——————

Chapter 64: Bigger House, Bigger Heart

The room was quiet now. Monét's breathing shallow, but steady, machines humming low like a lullaby for the broken. The soft beep of her heart monitor was the only rhythm holding back the fear in Sefa’s chest.

He sat at her bedside, one massive hand wrapped gently around hers—thumb moving in slow circles over her bruised knuckles. The rage that had once lit his veins like napalm had cooled, now replaced by something heavier. Love. Guilt. The kind of ache no fight could fix.

Her eyelids fluttered, lashes sticky with dried tears. She winced.

“Hey,” Sefa leaned in instantly, voice low, thick with emotion. “I’m here, baby. You’re good. You’re safe.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just let the warmth of his hand ground her.

Then, voice rough like gravel but still with that same bite of attitude tucked behind it, she rasped out:

“I think… we should get a bigger house.”

Sefa blinked. “Huh?”

Her eyes opened slowly, glossy but focused, barely holding up a weak smile through the pain. “One with a bigger tub... and double locks on every damn door... and a backyard so big you can’t even see the fence.”

Sefa let out a low, broken laugh, more pain than humor. “You already designing the safe house, huh?”

She nodded just a little, eyes falling shut again, breath hitching. “That shit… hurt so bad, Sefa. I ain’t even gone lie.”

“I know,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “I know, baby.”

“I kept thinkin’... if I don’t make it out... you’d never know how hard I fought to come back to you,” she said, barely above a whisper now. “It was you. You were the reason I kept breathing. I ain’t want nobody else to hold my name like you do.”

Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn’t let them fall.

“I would’ve ripped the whole damn country apart to find you,” he said, forehead resting against her hand. “You made it. You made it. And I swear to God, Monét, nothing—nothing—is ever getting close to you again.”

Her lips curved just slightly, fading into a tired whimper. “Then start with that bigger house, king.”

He smiled through clenched teeth. “Say less.”

And with that, she drifted back to sleep. A warrior who’d survived hell, finally resting in the only place she trusted—his presence.

But Sefa? He was already building. Not just a house. Not just a fortress.

A kingdom.

Because his queen? She deserved nothing less.

Her breathing slowed again, body curling inward slightly as the meds tugged at her consciousness. But just as Sefa reached to adjust her blanket, her swollen lips parted, voice barely a whisper—raspy but undeniably her.

“One more thing…”

Sefa leaned closer, brushing her hair back, “Yeah, baby?”

Her eyes didn’t open, but her mouth tugged up into the faintest, most wicked smirk.

“When I heal up… you owe me compensation… and no rubbers.”

Sefa blinked—then burst out laughing, forehead dropping to her arm as a mix of relief, love, and lust crashed through him like a tidal wave.

“Oh, so you back back,” he murmured, biting his lip, eyes wet with unshed tears. “Say less. You getting all that. No interruptions. I’m talking light dimmed, doors locked, candles lit, legs over my shoulders compensation.”

But she was already out cold, lips still curved in that evil little grin. And Sefa?

He sat back, hand still wrapped in hers, eyes staring at the woman who never lost her fire—even when the world tried to extinguish her.

Yeah.

She was alive. And soon as she was healed? He was going to love her like hell for surviving it.

No rubbers. Just war cries in silk sheets.

——

[saintmeghanmarkle]

Our Saint is hopping on the bandwagon why MMs unpopularity is NOTHING like Blake Livelys AKA MMs was not the result of a smear campaign by u/Nervous-Spinach2046

Our Saint is hopping on the bandwagon – why MM’s unpopularity is NOTHING like Blake Lively’s, AKA MM’s was not the result of a smear campaign A quick one just before Christmas.Before you can say “victim”, TOW and her minions have already hopped on the “smear campaign” bandwagon. This is to clarify that NOTHING that has made Meghan Markle unpopular has been because of a smear campaign. The fact that she is so unpopular now is all her own doing. Her own actions, some captured on camera, others documented in print, or were evaluations by her employers and staff. She is the driver of a smear campaign, but not the target of one.Some examples:-       Her unforgivable treatment of the late Queen, including her disgusting mock curtsey in her Netflix reality show, her theft of HLMTQ’s childhood pet name that she requested not to be used again after Prince Philip died, her making a spectacle of herself at HLMTQ’s funeral with the fake tear, the deep curtsey, and the ghoulish appearance behind KCIII when the coffin arrived at BP, and her wilful disregard of HLMTQ’s “no half-in half-out” decision;-       Her dismal track record at Spotify and Netflix, so bad that Bill Simmons of Spotify called her and Harry “fucking grifters”, all her Netflix shows except for the first one were flops;-       Her bullying of staff in THREE continents: UK – investigation was launched; US – infamous “dictator in high heels” article in The Hollywood Reporter; Australia – tea throwing incident, covered up and compensation made by the RF to staff but still leaked.Those were on top of her relentless PR spinning and puff pieces that get under everyone’s skin and bore everyone to death. Her perpetual victimhood that even South Park had to call out. Her tragic fashion sense and repulsion for a steam iron that anyone with eyes can see. Her mask slips that were captured on video. Her pathetic business endeavours that saw her “launch” of a brand before it was even trademarked with absolutely no product to sell.These are all documented, evidenced, recorded, receipts.This is why she is so unpopular. Her actions, her character, her behaviour.And not to mention her incessant attempts to drag Catherine’s name through the mud – complaining about C’s reluctance to share lip gloss (MM: “she’s cold”), calling her baby brain, accusing her of being a racist through a lackey. I’m limiting myself to the actions that were proven, not deduced, like MM starting a harmful rumour about W&C’s marriage or her leading a toxic online hate group).Sinners, please add any that I’ve missed in the comments, and Happy Christmas!  * BTW, Unpopular Opinion: I’ve always believed that Blake Lively’s photoshopped pic last spring was a clumsy show of solidarity with Catherine, POW that totally misfired and got BL underserved hate, because the photoshop in her post was so OTT and badly done. IMO, the post was trying to make fun of how disproportionate and extreme the photo agencies and the media reaction to POW’s Mother’s Day photo edits. It was like a taunt to the agencies to do something about her own photo, the photoshop there was so obvious and ridiculous. But the joke was overly convoluted and landed completely flat; BL was torn apart by royal fans. That’s my take on her photoshop post that got everyone heated up. post link: https://ift.tt/fVzQIa4 author: Nervous-Spinach2046 submitted: December 24, 2024 at 10:28AM via SaintMeghanMarkle on Reddit disclaimer: all views + opinions expressed by the author of this post, as well as any comments and reblogs, are solely the author's own; they do not necessarily reflect the views of the administrator of this Tumblr blog. For entertainment only.

[samwpmarleau]

fic: around the shadows creep

whumptober day 8: sleep deprivation masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Daisy is captured by the Watchdogs after her quake in the storage facility isn’t as effective as she’d hoped.

All my power and training, and I still get kidnapped by these scumbags. Can I ever catch a goddamn break?

Is what goes through Daisy’s mind in various iterations as she slowly, groggily wakes. It’s little more than a blur how she got from investigating with Simmons to this. James’s betrayal, she remembers that, she remembers her arms breaking with the force of sending the Watchdogs to their knees, and she remembers the Watchdogs knocking out Simmons and discussing whether to leave her behind. Simmons isn’t Inhuman so her value is minimal, but she also is Daisy’s friend so perhaps she could be used as leverage, or so they argue amongst themselves.

But the in-betweens, what their decision was on Simmons, and what happens after she’s tased into unconsciousness, that she doesn’t know. None of it really matters, though. What matters is that she’s being dragged across gravel coarse enough to dig into her skin and wedge in her suit, then across a threshold onto frigid concrete. A warehouse, she guesses. She’s kind of offended at the predictability. Bigotry really has rotted their brains.

Then she’s abruptly yanked upwards into a cold metal chair and chained. Their shortsightedness is almost impressive. She can easily break out of the restraints with minimal power usage.

That is, if it weren’t for some sort of bracelets they slap on her wrists. As soon as the ends snap together, she discovers that her powers have been neutralized. Not so much as a tremor, let alone enough of a quake to get herself free.

Which sets her heart to racing. She’s a more than competent agent, but she’s not a super soldier, or even a gym nut like Mack. She can’t break through chains. Worst of all, no one knows she’s here. Even if the Watchdogs had fallen on the side of leaving Simmons behind, who knows how long it’d be before she woke up? And after that, how long it’d be until the team could figure out where Daisy is? Daisy doesn’t even know where she is. Her only solace is that she knows they will come for her. Regardless of how far she’s pushed them away, how much damage she’s done, they will come for her.

It’s just a matter of how quickly they can zero in on her location, and if she’ll be alive by the time they do.

“What do you want?” Daisy slurs. Her head feels like it’s filled with lead.

“What do we want? The extermination of your kind,” answers the man she decides to call One. His voice is slightly muffled. He’s probably hid behind one of the group’s ridiculous masks. Coward.

“Yeah, I get that part, dipshit. You guys are one-issue terrorists. What’s with the kidnapping? Why not ‘exterminate’ me?”

“Because we need information about where the rest of you are.”

“And because we want to have some fun,” chimes in another voice, Two.

“That, too,” says One. “We need to find the most effective means of making you talk.”

Great. Just great.

“Torture?” Daisy clarifies. “You want to torture me.”

“Or you can come clean right now. Tell us where you rats like to hide.”

“You guys hacked S.H.I.E.L.D.’s servers. Don’t you already have that information?”

“They changed the encryption. We can’t get in.”

Daisy lets out a laugh that echoes through the warehouse. “So you really were dumb enough to let Simmons go? Wow, you’re bigger idiots than I thought.”

One backhands her across the face. “We got you, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, unlucky for you,” says Daisy. She spits out a mouthful of blood. “I won’t tell you a damn thing.”

One sighs. “Don’t say we didn’t give you a chance to do this the easy way.”

———

Daisy’s made to wait so long that her legs begin to cramp from being forced into the same position. Her wrists chafe from trying to wriggle free. Her arms send constant shockwaves of pain through her body that it takes all the willpower she possesses not to cry. It’s part of their plan, of that she’s certain. They believe if she’s in enough pain and discomfort, she’ll give in. No doubt they’ll next offer some analgesics to dull it.

Well, joke’s on them. The last six months have been hell. There’s nothing they can do that’s worse than that.

———

They do their best, though. She gets both the carrot and the stick, questions and interrogation, bonds loosened for the session then tightened again once it concludes.

Still, she gives them nothing. Her silence is all that keeps the Watchdogs from siccing themselves on her fellow Inhumans, and she’s not about to allow that to happen.

———

She’s not sure how long they keep her in the chair. Another tactic, she assumes, depriving her of the time. They’re not entirely off on that; it’s unnerving to be in a room lit only by the lights overhead, neither windows nor clocks, not even a five o’clock shadow on her interrogators that could give her a clue.

Her silence is incredibly frustrating for them, she’s delighted to note; after several sessions, they remove her bonds entirely and frog-march her into a cell. It has a cot with the thinnest mattress she’s ever seen, a toilet, a conspicuously mounted camera, and nothing else. No clock, no distractions, no utensil with which she could try to Shawshank her way out. No painkiller, either, or even a roll of gauze to wrap her arms in. She wonders if she’ll be in this place for so long that once she’s rescued her bones will have to be re-broken in order to put them back together again. If they can be put back together again. She has no idea what kind of damage was done by her quake, nor what further damage was done by being tied to the chair.

No use dwelling on it. She’ll learn the extent eventually.

———

She does learn something in the interim — the Watchdogs’ next tactic. As she’s lying on her bed attempting to ignore the slight, irregular flickering of the bulb overhead in order to get some rest, music is suddenly piped into her cell. Not just music, loud music. Some sort of screamo, although she can’t place the artist. Maybe there isn’t an artist at all and they simply threw a bunch of sounds together. Either way, it’s deafening.

Her efforts to tune it out fail, as do her efforts to find some sort of pattern she can count. Best she can tell, it’s the same few bars repeated over and over and over again. She ponders the efficacy of this plan. How long until her hearing gets affected and she can’t even hear their questions? Or would hearing loss be a feature, not a bug?

Sleep, needless to say, is hard to come by.

———

They give up on the music after a few more sessions, for now. She’s tired enough to think that they might give her a short break.

They do not.

She celebrates the quiet up until she feels the temperature in her cell drop, and drop some more. Her suit helps at first, but it’s short-lived. While her sleeves and pants provide full coverage, they’re not insulated, built for movement and durability rather than warmth.

The cold does have one unintended benefit: Her arms go numb, which serves to finally lessen the pain.

She curls up onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest and ducking into her jacket to futilely utilize her body heat. A flaming head would be pretty useful right about now.

———

“Not getting enough sleep?” laughs Two.

She’s come to actually enjoy the sessions, for the interrogation room they bring her into is heated. Thawing out is uncomfortable, but is nonetheless a welcome relief. She has yet to develop any frostbite, which is nice. The temperature isn’t quite cold enough. Barely.

“You know I’m not,” Daisy replies. She tries her best to keep her voice even, clenching her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering.

“You’ve lasted longer than some expected, but we’ve got time. You’ll beg for mercy eventually.”

Daisy leans back in her chair to get some more blood flow going. “You don’t know me very well. I don’t care how cold or loud you make my cell, I’m not going to talk.”

“We’ll see.”

“Okay, say I do break. Then what, you’ll kill me? What’s your endgame here?”

“We might kill you, yeah. We might not. That all depends on if you have any other uses.”

“Uses like what?”

“Whatever we want.” Two gives her a vacant smile. “Or whoever.”

———

Tactic Number Three is light.

She doesn’t think much of it at first. She’d gotten used to the flickering a while ago, and has learned to mostly dissociate from the cold and the music, which the Watchdogs decide to return to. But at least with their previous tactics they’d turn the light off for hours at a time.

No longer is that the case. The light remains on, bright and flickering and faintly buzzing. What she wouldn’t give to have her powers again. She could explode the bulb and finally get some darkness. But she doesn’t have them, the bracelets as tight as ever around her wrists.

———

When Daisy hears the banging and the screaming, she ignores it. Her brain has been sluggish for a while now, for one, and for two, she assumes it’s more of the same. Music, screams, what’s the difference? She hasn’t told the Watchdogs a thing, so they must be graduating to a new method.

When the door slams open, she prepares herself for another round of questioning. It’s hard to tell exactly how many interrogators she has, for they all wear masks and come in cycles, but from their voices, she’s pretty sure there are four. She wonders who it’ll be today.

Whatever. It’s irrelevant, because she will not break. She will not break. She will not break. She will not —

“Robbie?” Even as she says his name, she doesn’t entirely trust that he’s not a hallucination. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, and his face swims in front of her, unclear.

Well, not his face. Ghost Rider, more specifically, is what swims in front of her, fire spitting and raging from the cracks in his skull. When had her life gotten so weird that seeing a flaming skeleton would make her feel happy?

“Are you actually here?” she asks.

Ghost Rider merely tilts his head.

“Let me talk to Robbie. Now.”

She knows full well she sounds pathetic rather than commanding, but Ghost Rider obliges anyway. She watches as the fire extinguishes and skin and muscle grow in its place to reassemble Robbie Reyes.

“I’m here,” he confirms.

She feels tears well in her eyes. At long last, someone is here to save her. “Please tell me you took all of those guys out.”

“Yeah. Coulson’s probably cuffing them as we speak.”

“Coulson? Why the hell are you with Coulson?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Can you walk?”

Daisy nods and gets to her feet. At which point she promptly stumbles as the room spins, her lack of peace and sleep messing with her equilibrium. She manages to catch herself on the wall with a hiss as the concrete sends a shot of pain through her arms.

“Guess that’s a no. Come on.”

Robbie loops an arm around her waist to take most of her weight. Normally, she’d tell him to stuff it, that she’ll manage on her own. But her body is beat up more than it ever has been, her brain is fuzzy, she’s tired, and the only thing more mortifying than leaning on Robbie would be for him to have to carry her out, so she allows the help. Just this once.

“How did you find me?” she asks.

“Team effort.” He sounds irritated at that, not that she’s surprised. If there’s anyone listed in the dictionary under “loner,” it’s him. “Simmons mainly. She knew where you guys were separated and had some guesses on where they might take you from there. Fitz did some algorithm thing, Coulson came up with the gameplan. Mack’s cleaning up any Watchdogs I missed.”

Sounds about right. “They’re a well-oiled machine.”

“More than can be said for you. You look like a train wreck.”

“Gee, thanks. You win Biggest Flirt in high school?”

“Didn’t graduate. So no.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh, like you have room to judge?”

She doesn’t, really. She didn’t graduate either. Still, “At least I don’t murder people.”

“That again?”

“Yeah, that again. Murder isn’t — it —” Words fail her as she devolves into a coughing fit. Apparently the cold and dirty cell hadn’t done her lungs any favors.

Robbie stops walking, and once the fit finally subsides, he asks quietly, “What’d they do to you?”

“The usual,” she grimaces. “Torture, threats. Creativity isn’t the Watchdogs’ strong suit.”

“Torture?”

“Some restraints here, deprivation there. Some unspecified ‘whatever we want.’ Never got around to that part, though.” She looks up at him and bats her eyelashes. “My knight in shining armor showed up.”

Robbie is not amused. “Is you making this all into a joke supposed to be for my benefit or yours?”

“It’s not for anyone’s benefit.”

“Still set on that death wish, then?”

“If you’re looking for a thank-you, don’t. I didn’t ask you to rescue me.”

“Holding on pretty tight for someone who doesn’t want help.”

Daisy looks down to see her hands clenched in his jacket. She hadn’t noticed. Immediately, she lets go and attempts to walk on her own, but gets only so far as to straighten before getting lightheaded as the ground sways beneath her feet. Robbie’s continued grip on her waist is all that keeps her from toppling over.

“I don’t want your help,” she says, frustrated that her body won’t comply.

“Well, tough shit.”

“Okay, so get me out of this building, but you don’t need to bring me back to S.H.I.E.L.D. You don’t need to go back to them either. Just disappear.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“There’s this book. It’s dangerous and it needs to be destroyed. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s going to help me do that.”

“A book? You can’t find that yourself?”

“I could. It’d just take longer.”

“And rescuing me, how’s that part of a search for a book?”

“It’s not. You’re a detour. The sooner I get you to them, the sooner I can get what I came for.”

Daisy grits her teeth, knowing there’s no convincing him now. He’s singleminded, and even if Robbie were inclined to agree to her proposition, she doubts Ghost Rider would. Forcefully escaping is not an option. The power-dampening bracelets remain affixed to her wrists, and if she can’t even stand by herself, she’d be beaten in a fight against him quicker than she was the first time.

“These people care about you, Daisy. You should let them help.”

“Don’t preach at me,” she snaps. “You of all people.”

“Fine. I’ll deliver you then we’re done.”

“Great.”

As promised, as soon as they make it onto the Zephyr and she’s remanded into Simmons’s custody, Robbie strides off in a huff. Or maybe not in a huff, she can’t really tell. He’s just like that. She decides Most Moody would be his senior superlative, if he had one. She’s not sure the man even knows how to smile.

He used to, though. The handful of photos she’d seen in the Reyes home from before Robbie made his deal with the devil proved as much. It’s a shame he doesn’t smile anymore, she thinks. He had a nice one.

[starry-eyed-never-satisfied]

Hey there Kylie! This may be a long shot, but are there any KISS books / biographies that you’d recommend?

Yes! The best books I've read on the band as a whole are KISS - Behind The Mask by David Leaf and Ken Sharp. The first part is an unpublished biography from the 70s, so unfortunately only covers that era, but the second part goes over all the albums, stories about the recording and about the songs.

There's also Nothin'' To Lose by Ken Sharp again, and Gene and Paul. Again unfortunately only goes up to Alive, but is a great look at the early years.

There are also some great photo books written by photographers they have worked with:

Barry Levine - The KISS Years

Waring Abbott - KISS The Early Years

Lynn Goldsmith - KISS 1977-1980

These have awesome photos of course, but also interesting stories and insights behind the photos and what was happening with the band at the time.

And of course the autobiographies written by each of the guys

Gene Simmons - KISS And Make Up

Ace Frehley - No Regrets

Peter Criss - Make Up To Break Up

Paul Stanley - Face The Music

Be warned however, these guys are brutal in their assessments of each other!

Thanks for asking, and I hope this helps!

[starshineandbooks]

Bottom of the river (long way down) chapter two

Pairings: Grimmons, Tuckington, Docnut

Rating: T

Summary: Some of the Sim troopers decide to talk with the kids. Shockingly, the kids have some feelings about this mess. Unfortunately, between Kai arriving and Simmons putting his foot in the mouth, there's a lot to deal with.

Warnings: cursing, timetravel, canon divergence, implied/referenced child abuse, Simmons Fucks Up

Other: If I missed anything, please let me know

If you would like to be tagged on the next part let me know

Word count: 3,647

Masterpost / previous chapter

-------

Grif prides himself on sleeping in. Which is what got him in trouble today when he nearly missed breakfast, and Simmons lectured him.

But he's not feeling it today, so as soon as he's shown up to enough things for Simmons to leave him alone, he goes to hide.

As he settles in his bed, he applauds himself on his hiding. If he's missing, who would think he'd hide in his room?

Just as he's really settling in, he hears a knock at the door.

Shit.

Grif stays quiet.

"Dad. I know you're in there. I just want to talk." Lani calls through the door.

Oh. Well, at least it's not a job.

Grif considers his options. But he figures any kid he raised will probably just do what they want.

"I'm coming in." She warns before coming into the room. She shuts the door behind her, though.

How polite.

"Hey." Grif says from his spot on his bed.

"Papa's looking for you." Lani inform him.

Grif groans. This must be Simmons's new tactic. Sending their daughter to get him to do work. "I'm not going."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm not a snitch. I wanted to talk to someone who's calm and ask what the hells are going on."

"Huh."

"What?"

"You're not freaking out. I dunno, seems like you might be after time-traveling backward and meeting your nervous wreck of a father." Grif shrugs. Though he can't help looking the teen over and wondering if she's hiding something.

"Nah, I had my freak out last night. Then I remembered it could be way fucking worse."

"Yeah, probably."

"I fully expect Kai to show up sooner or later, by the way. She had that look."

"The "I'm going to fuck shit up by trying to help" look?"

"That's the one."

"Fuck."

Lani laughs, moving to sit on Simmon's bed. She's wearing a kevlar undersuit this time.

Good. Those kids should probably have armor. Active warzone and all.

"So, what the fuck is going on?" She asks.

Grif laughs, looking to the ceiling. "Too much man. We got split up thanks to the Feds. Everyone not at the meeting yesterday is with the enemy."

"Yikes my dude."

"Right?"

Lani gives a lazy smile. Crossing her legs at the ankles. "Is papa avoiding me?"

"What?"

"He leaves anywhere he can when I'm around."

"Oh. Uh- Simmons dosen’t do well with change. Or girls.."

"Fuck he's weird."

Grif ignores the urge to defend Simmons. Which is stupid, because Simmons is weird. And it's not like Grif is in a position to defend him.

"He can be." Grif says as he glances to Lani.

She's got a fond look on her face, mostly.

"Hey dad," She says, "do you know anything about Felix?"

"Not really. He's some mercenary."

"Ew."

"Right?"

"I miss my kitchen." Lani frowns, "They won't let me use theirs."

"Why not?"

"They're homophobic? I don't know."

"What dicks."

Lani laughs again, "I also miss self care nights."

"Damn kid, is there anything you don't miss?"

Lani thinks for a moment and then grins. "I don't miss school. Like at all.

"Good I won't raise a fucking nerd."

"Do you know anyone who can help me get contraband?"

Grif looks at her, curious as he asks, "What do you want?"

"Face masks and nail stuff. "

"I guess I can ask around."

She smiles, "Thanks dad!"

Grif has a sinking feeling that he spoils the fuck out of his kid and that she can play him like a cheap kazoo. But that's for later.

Right now he has to figure out how to get the things she asked for help with.

He should also probably try to get Simmons to suck it up and talk to their kid but that's a goal for later. He needs more sleep before that.

"Hey dad?" Lani asks.

"Yeah kid?"

"Any advice on timetravel?"

"Say fuck it and live your life?"

"Yeah... of fucking course." Lani frowns, looking at her lap. "You're right."

Grif sighs. He knows that look.

The way her eyes fall to he lap. The furrow of her brow.

"What's wrong, kid?" Grif asks.

Lani startles, "What the hell makes you think something is wrong?!"

"Lani."

"I-" Lani stops and looks at him. He looks serious, like he cares. "Fuck. Fine. Just give me a second to get my words."

"No rush, kid."

Lani gives a slow breath. Her energy seems to recede. but she looks to her dad and she's not good at lying to him. She never has been.

She hates lying to him.

"I'm scared. I don't want to ruin the future... I'm scared I'm going to fucking loose someone... I'm just scared, dad."

"Oh... kid."

"And papa can't even look at me! I get that none of you have had us, or expected us. Okay? But it's bullshit that everyone else's adults aren't running away and mine can't fucking look at me!"

Grif realizes a few things in the span of seconds.

One, his daughter may have an attitude and confidence, but she's vulnerable to those she loves.

Two, Simmons has really hurt this poor kid by running away. Which is not okay.

Three, despite not having had a child yet he is already attached more than he expected.

And lastly number four, his daughter is scared. To fix this he's going to do everything he can.

Grif hopes his future self does everything he can for his kid. The girl seems wonderful.

"Lani... you know none of this is your fault, right kid?"

She laughs softly. Disbelieving. "Yes it fucking is. I'm the one who touched that stupid machine. They tried to pull me back and we all ended up here."

"Did you do it to end up here?"

"No."

"Not your fault. Sarge should have done a better job putting it away."

"I guess."

"Give me a few hours and we'll have a self care night."

"Promise?"

"Yeah kid, I promise."

Lani looks at him skeptically. And despite it all, there's trust there.

"Your friends really followed you?" Grif asks.

"Yeah... I'm really lucky with them." She admits softly.

Grif sends a message to his hookup for contraband to look for the self care night stuff.

When he turns his attention back to his daughter, he says, "Tell me about them.

So, Lani does.

She tells him how Ben is a guitar player and lead singer in the band and how the boy is loyal despite being a little dense.

She tells Grif about how smart Zach is and how he's practically the group mom froend.

Lani tells her dad about Cassie and how the girl plays bass, how protective she is of her friends... how Cassie is one of her two best friends that she'd do anything for.

Lani tells him about Aspen, who is camer than most of them, loyal and patient, intelligent ... how Aspen is her other best friend who is always there to listen.

She tells him about Violet, who plays drums in the band and softball, how creative the girl is.

And Grif just listens. He takes in all the information he can about the people his daughter obviously cares for deeply. He's grateful she's not alone, that she has friends who would follow her through time.

He's definitely interested in meeting the others, though, specifically Aspen and Cassie. The way her tone goes all soft when she talks about them compared to the others is- something.

-------

Tucker is not having a good day. Between trying to get things handled for his squad, his friends, and a hopeful rescue plan, he's very busy.

It's not until evening that he has any time to go check on the future kids. Mostly, he's going for his own kid, but he doubts that Caboose, Grif, or Simmons have really checked in and connected with the kids.

He knocks on their door, which has since had stickers put on it.

Huh. Where did they even get stickers?

After a moment, the door opens to Zach, whose long hair is in twin French braids.

"Oh, hey Tucker. What's going on?" The tall boy asks.

"Tell whoever that is to go away. We're busy!" Ben calls from behind Zach.

"I can come back."

"No, come in. It's a self care night."

"Okay?"

Tucker comes into the room and is taken aback. The sight before him is something else.

Sitting on the unclaimed bottom bunk is Lani and Ben, who have Clay face masks on. Between them is an impressive hoard of nailpolish and supplies.

Grif is in Lani's bed above the two teens, passed out with a clay mask and cucumber on his face. His hair is also braided.

Tucker wants to know how they got Grif involved but won't ask. Not right now, at least.

"Want a mask?" Zach asks as he shuts the door.

"Where did you guys even get this?"

"I asked dad real nice to help get it." Lani says. She dosen’t bring up the fact that she broke down a little. That's really not anyone's buissness.

"And he helped?" Tucker blinks, thoroughly disbelieving.

He'd asked Grif to help get extra jerky and was turned down because the other was tired.

"You wouldn't believe the favoritism." Ben chimes in.

"It's not my fault I know how the fuck to ask for things in a way that gets what I want." Lani says evenly, though she seems tired and like she might like a nap.

Zach dosen’t comment on that but the soft way they smile betrays that Lani might be exaggerating.

"Did you want a mask of not, pops?" Ben calls again.

"Sure. Why not." Tucker says, trying not to laugh.

Of course, Lani was able to convince her dad to do this. Why not?

Ben stands, "Come on."

He leads Tucker to the other bottom bunk, holding a clay mask jar.

Tucker pulls off his helmet and sits down.

Zach goes to sit with Lani, the two picking up a conversation about true crime podcasts. Both critique the murderes, which seems kind of weird.

Ben just sits down by his father. Opening the jar in his hands.

"You look tired." Ben says.

"I really fucking am, kid."

"Wanna hear about Junior in the future?"

"Fuck yeah!"

Ben pulls some clay mask onto his fingers and starts spreading it across Tucker's face.

"Well, Junior is pretty awesome. He writes home a lot, he graduated with honors."

"That my little man!"

Ben laughs. "He's not so little when I know him, pops. He's almost as tall as Caboose."

"Really?"

"I'll show you pictures later."

"Good. You better."

Ben just rolls his eyes playfully. He's smiling now. "Dad says you were always sentimental."

"Who's your dad?"

"Wash."

"What?!"

"You didn't know?"

"No. What the fuck?!"

Ben laughs, finishing the clay mask on his father's face. He looks genuinely amused.

"Keep it down, dad's sleeping." Lani calls over.

"That man can sleep through anything he'll live." Ben calls back.

"I had kids with Wash?!"

"Pops. What the fuck are you on? Who did you think my other dad was?"

"I don't know!"

"Oh my god." Ben groans, shutting the mask jar and wiping his hands on a stray piece of paper.

Tucker dosen’t know what to say. He had kids with Wash?

What the fuck?

"Did you break him?" Zach asks from the other bed.

"I don't know!"

Lani gives a low whistle, "Hot damn, Benny, what'd you even tell him?"

"That Wash is my dad."

Zach sighs, "Why?"

"I thought he knew!"

Lani just mutters something while Zach sighs slowly.

Ben misses not feeling stupid.

-------

Kai pushes herself off the floor with a low groan, vision blurry as she tries to figure out what is going on. Ugh.

She looks around and finds everything to be sanitized shades fit for a hospital. She hears beeping.

She's in a fucking hospital isn't she?

"Oh! Hi!" A feminine voice calls happily.

Kai pushes to her feet and looks to the woman. "Hi?"

"You aren't in armor."

"No."

"Are you from the same time as the kids?"

"Probably which kids?" Kai has her glare leveled, suspicious as fuck of this woman.

"Cassie Tucker, Aspen Church, and Violet Dufranse!"

"God damn it, why couldn't I be with my baby niece?!" Kai groans loudly.

All she wanted was to be with her niece. Well, that and to get to show off the thousands of pictures from the course of her baby niece's life!

Her favorites include one from a makeover Lani gave Grif when the girl was eight, homecoming where Simmons threatened the girl's date with Sarge as back up, and Grif asleep with Simmons and Lani on him when the girl was a baby.

"That's a greater question! I'm Doctor Emily Grey."

"Kai." The woman says, deciding she'll just show off the pictures later. Maybe she can subject Sarge to it?

"Let's get you checked out. Then we can get you reunited with those kids."

"A checkup?"

"Yes, of course!"

Kai dosen’t care and just starts stripping.

"Whoah- ypu don't have to strip this is not that kind of check up!"

"Oh. Really? Fucking weird." Kai shrugs, pulling her shirt back on.

Dr. Grey does the body scans and asks the usual questions about drug usage and sexual activity. It's not even in the top ten most fun checkups Kai has had. But that's okay.

Kai isn't surprised when Aspen comes in as the check-up is winding down. They are always on top of things.

It's really no wonder her niece likes Aspen so much.

"Hello, Kai." Aspen says as they come in.

"Hey bitch!" Kai grins.

Aspen just looks the older woman over. Their gaze dosen’t betray much of anything. They seem to he looking for an answer.

"You followed us," Aspen frowns, "Why?"

"My little Leilani was who knows where! I was obviously gonna follow your asses."

"Of course." Aspen says, sounding a little too fond for their own good.

Kai grins again, "Are you so pumped?!"

"I'm not sure yet." Aspen admits.

Unfortunately, this ends in a small trash fire, but that's not that bad. Thankfully, Aspen just hears Kai away. Wondering why they ended up with the woman.

They also mourn that Lani isn't here, their friend the only one who can fully handle Kai.

-------

Washington has done his best to avoid the future teens while still being a Good Commanding Officer. Which isn't that mature, but he has no idea what to do.

Teenagers are terrifying.

Unfortunately, his plan is ruined when someone bangs on his door at three in the morning.

Wash opens the door, thankful he dosen’t sleep much.

At the door stands all three teens, and an older woman who bears a resemblance to Grif.

"Why the hell did you bring me to a cop?!" The woman demands loudly.

Fuck. Wash can't help but wonder why the hell Kai is here.

"Holy shit." Wash manages.

"I need an adultier adult." Aspen says evenly.

"I'm not talking to a cop!"

"Kai. You know he isn't a cop." Cassie says.

"Future Wash isn't a cop, this one is!"

"Please help." Violet says.

Wash sighs slowly. He wonders what he did to God for God to hate him so much.

"I want a lawyer!"

"I'll be your lawyer. Just stop yelling." Cassie says firmly.

Kai looks to the shortest of the teens, considering the offer. But it seems to work because she grins, "You're hired."

"Great. Tell Wash the truth. You haven't committed any crimes, so there's nothing to hide." Cassie says quickly.

"You sure?"

"What would Lano tell you?"

"Wash ain't a fucking cop and if he was being difficult can get me arrested?"

"Yeah."

"I still want my lawyer present."

"I'm right here." Cassie says.

Wash wonders is Cassie has any knowledge on law. And does it matter? She's saving him a headache.

"Where are the other kids?" Kai asks after a moment.

"We don't know."

"You lost my fucking niece?!"

"She was never here."

"You're a really bad cop."

Wash wants to scream.

"It's fine. We're pretty sure she ended up woth her parents."

"Oh. Okay " Kai says. Almost immediately calmer.

"Okay?"

"Those two are dumb as hell and probably pining, but they'll keep my baby niece safe."

"Uh, great." Wash manages. He feels significantly less sure of things than he had ten minutes ago. And he wasn't sure of much then.

"I'm going to take Kai to our room." Violet giggles,"Aspen?"

"Sure thing."

Aspen and Violet lead Kai away. Ditching their friend with her father.

"Thanks for the help." Washington says after a moment.

Cassie just shrugs, "It needed to be done."

"How did you know that'd work?"

"Lani. She's uh- pretty fucking cool and she does that."

"Lani, huh?"

The way Cassie looks away even as she gives a lazy shrug is interesting.

Wash glances around, wondering what he's supposed to do here. He doesn't know this kid, like at all. But she seems to know him.

"Dad?" Cassie asks.

"Yes?"

"Do you know anything about the rebels?"

Wash blinks, trying to figure out what this kid is really aasking. Because he knows there's more.

"Not enough."

"Okay."

"Are you- adjusting okay, Cassie?"

Cassie laughs, and she sounds a lot like Tucker there. "What's to adjust too, shit is weird, and you guys are loud."

"You seem... okay? Like oddly well adjutsd."

"I'm just not dealing with distress, thanks. My method is to ignore distress and solve problems."

"That sounds- unhealthy."

"You're ignoring your mega crush on papa so you don't get to talk. "

"I- what?"

"Anyway, I have to go try to get ahold of the others now. Wish me luck!"

"What?"

Cassie just smiles too wide.

Wash sighs. "Cassie, come in here and talk."

"I'd rather not."

"Are you sure?"

"Look, dad, my brother, and two of my friends are God knows where. Hopefully they're with the rest of our adults. So I'm trying to hold it together."

"You don't have to. Your friends are here and... I mean, I don't know you, but I'm here too?"

Cassie just blinks at him, looking more than a little confused.

Wash dosen’t blame her, he dosen’t know who let him talk. He made it awkward. Of course he did.

Ignoring all his feelings about Tucker being the other father of his children, Washington wishes the man were here. The other is so good with kids.

A slow smile spreads across Cassie's face. "You're a huge fucking dork, dad."

"I know." Wash says, because it's easier than anything else.

She rolls her eyes, but she dosen’t snap at him or anything. Not that she's been too moddy latley but you never know with teenagers.

Wash wonders how he ended up with this kid. She seems like the best thing to happen to him right after apparently having a kid with Tucker.

"Hey... dad?" Cassie asks.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks.. for - treating us like people."

"You are people, though?"

Cassie just shrugs, "You know Sarge, and Donut is always trying to baby us."

"Oh."

-------

Simmons is not having a good day, and he is grateful Grif isn't in their room when he comes in after everything. All he's heard is his father's voice in his head running commentary on every minute detail and failure.

He knows he's avoiding his daughter, but he can't face her either. She's so much like Grif it hurts.

And he doubts he was a good father. He could never be a good father after what his own was like.

He can't face Lani knowing he hurt her.

But oh- how Simmons thanks any God who will listen that she has Grif's confidence and attitude. That she isn't a pushover that can be easily used.

He strips his armor off, settling to exist in only his kevlar undersuit.

Unfortunately his peace is ruined when the door opens.

Simmons groans, turning to see who's there.

In the door way is Zach who's carrying Grif, and Lani. He can hear Tucker and Ben bidding farewell.

Grif is asleep in Zach's arms.

"I could have carried him." Lani says.

"I know. You're exhausted, though." Zach says gently.

"Oh- hey papa." Lani says, eyes landing on Simmons.

"Hey." Simmons manages.

Zach moves forward, dropping Grif lightly into the older man's bed.

"I should head the fuck to bed, tell dad I say thanks again." Lani smiles.

"Uh. Sure?"

"Thanks, Simmons." Zach says, putting a hand on Lani's shoulder.

"Thanks papa."

"I'm not your dad. I'm -" Simmons starts but falls silent.

"Oh. Uh- yeah. I guess you're fucking not." Lani says, voice hardening even as her eyes look broken.

"I didn't- Lani I just- I'm not parent material. I'm not even your dad yet." Simmons says, trying to soften it, to make it better.

"Just say you don't want me, asshole."

"Leilani." Zach says, soft as he squeezes her shoulder.

Simmons is struck by how pretty bis daughter's name is. It must have been picked by Grif.

He frowns, "Lani I do-"

"Don't bother. You're not my dad, I fucking get it. I'm a big girl. I won't call you papa. Have a great fucking night, asshole." Lani seethes, but the way her eyes are glossy betray her. She's not mad. She's hurt.

Simmons watches his daughter storm out and is grateful that Zach follows her immediately.

He's really fucked up.

He hurt his daughter.

He does want her! He just- wants to be a good dad. And bases on what just happened, he isn't.

Grif is going to kill him. And he'll deserve it.

Simmons can't help the way his eyes burn with shame as he falls face first onto his bed. He wants to follow his daughter but he can't.

He knows he will make it worse.

-------

Tags: @the-team-sucks @dynamitelad

[ulmo80]

📚Books I've read in 2024📚

1 Fortunately, The Milk, by Neil Gaiman

2. On Love and Death, by Patrick Süskind

3. Rilla of Ingleside, by L. M. Montgomery

4. Leviathan Falls, by James S. A. Corey

5. The Sins of Our Fathers, by James S. A. Corey

6. Little Lord Fauntleroy, by Frances Hogdson Burnett

7. The Bat, by Jo Nesbø

8. Brideshead Revisited , by Evelyn Waugh

9. Broken Homes, by Ben Aaronovitch

10. The Three Musketeers, by Alexandre Dumas

11. Carmilla, by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

12 El Contrabajo (The Double Bass), by Patrick Süskind

13. Breakfast at Tiffany's, by Truman Capote

14. Jurassic Park, by Michael Crichton

15. The Story of Mr Sommer, by Patrick Süskind

16. All the Light We Cannot See, by Anthony Doerr

17. Aura, by Carlos Fuentes

18. El Prisionero del Cielo (The Prisoner of Heaven), by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

19. We have always lived in the castle, by Shirley Jackson

20. The Reluctant Widow, by Georgette Heyer

21. Dune, by Frank Herbert

22. Wonder, by R.J. Palacio

23. The Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl

24. El Despertar de la Sirena, by Carolina Andújar

25. The Martian Chronicles, by Ray Bradbury

26. Hyperion, by Dan Simmons

27. The fall of Hyperion, by Dan Simmons

28. Storm Front, by Jim Butcher

29. Pistols for two, by Georgette Heyer

30. The Gambler, by Fyodor Dostoyevski

31. Behind a mask, or a woman's power, by Louisa May Alcott

32. Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë

33. The house of mirth, by Edith Wharton

34. A tale of two cities, by Charles Dickens

35. East Wind, West Wind, by Pearl S. Buck

36. Murder in the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie

37. Journey to the center of the Earth, by Jules Verne

38. Le Bal, Irène Némirovsky

39. The graduate, Charles Webb

40. Family Happiness, by Leo Tolstoi

41. The lady's maid's bell, and other stories, by Edith Wharton

42. The age of innocence, by Edith Wharton

43. And then there were none, by Agatha Christie

44. The Phantom of the Opera, by Gaston Leroux

45. Death on the Nile, by Agatha Christie

46. Bola de Sebo (Boule de suif), by Guy de Maupassant

47. The Semi-Attached Couple, by Emily Eden

48. Ethan Frome, by Edith Wharton

49. A study in scarlet, by Arthur Conan Doyle

50. The devil, by Leo Tolstoy

51. The Old Maid, by Edith Wharton

52. The Unknown Ajax, by Georgette Heyer

53. The unexpected guest, by Agatha Christie

54. Stories of your life and others, by Ted Chiang

55. Letter from an Unkown Woman, by Stefan Zweig

[latestnews01]

In a BBL inning, Josh Brown sets a record for the most sixes.

Brisbane Heat opener Josh Brown rewrote the Big Bash League (BBL) record books with a jaw-dropping display of power hitting, launching a staggering 12 sixes in a single innings!

This monstrous feat surpassed the previous record of 11 sixes held jointly by Chris Gayle, Craig Simmons, and Chris Lynn (twice). Brown’s six-hitting spree was the centerpiece of his blistering 140-run knock off just 57 balls against the Adelaide Strikers in the BBL Challenger Final.

His innings wasn’t just about brute force; it was a masterclass in timing and shot selection. Brown used the pace of the Strikers’ bowlers to his advantage, sending the ball soaring over the boundary with effortless elegance.

Here are some key highlights of Brown’s record-breaking knock:

12 sixes: The most by any batsman in a BBL innings, eclipsing the previous mark of 11.

140 runs: The third-highest individual score in BBL history, behind Glenn Maxwell’s 154* and Marcus Stoinis’ 147*.

Fastest century: Brown reached his hundred off just 41 balls, equaling the second-fastest ton in BBL history alongside Glenn Maxwell.

Highest score in a BBL playoff match: Brown surpassed Jake Weatherald’s 115 in the 2017–18 season finale.

Brown’s heroics propelled the Brisbane Heat to a commanding total of 214/7, eventually leading them to victory and a spot in the BBL final. His record-breaking innings will be remembered as one of the most electrifying displays of batting in BBL history.

Brown’s achievement has sparked celebrations within the cricketing community. Here are some of the reactions:

“Josh Brown has gone absolutely ballistic! What an innings, what a record!” — Michael Clarke, former Australian captain.

“This is pure carnage! Brown is sending the ball into orbit.” — Alyssa Healy, Australian wicket-keeper batter.

“A night to remember for Josh Brown and the Brisbane Heat. This record could stand for a long time.” — Brendon McCullum, former New Zealand captain.

Josh Brown’s record-breaking performance has not only cemented his place in BBL history but also thrust him into the limelight as a force to be reckoned with in the world of T20 cricket. His six-hitting prowess will undoubtedly be a major weapon for the Brisbane Heat in the BBL final, and cricket fans around the world will be eagerly waiting to see what he can do next.

For More Information Visit us:-

[mettamorph]

𝐲𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 : what inner wounds does your muse hide? do they hide it behind humour or confidence? do they hide it at all?

Simmons destroyed her.

There's huge incentive for her to hide that and put on a "I'm not scared" mask. Fake it until you make it. He terrifies her. He terrifies her even now, when he's dead, because to her, he's not completely gone from the world. The kind of damage he's done to her is absolutely abhorrent and it's unfortunately commonplace barring the extraordinary circumstances.

She's still afraid. It's been twelve years. It's going to be a lot more before she's not terrified anymore.

Hand her plants

[raimispiderman]

Simmons was also determined that his character not just be a cartoonish caricature. "J. J. is the classic blowhard, ill-tempered boss," Simmons said. "But when I'm playing someone who's not a good guy, there has to be something compelling about the character. In Jameson's case, he's a good newspaperman in the old-world sense and in the 1960s was a big civil-rights advocate. And he treats people equally - he screams at everybody!"

-Behind the Mask of Spider-Man: The Making of the Movie

[fortheloveofwonderland]

For my sexond NSFW ask for your milestone celebration I’d like to request:

☎️Phone Sex

🪑Kidnap Kink

🩸Blood Play

📹Sex Tape

✨First Times

Oof Andie this one is just filthy 😅 minors DNI

Summary - we all have hidden facets of our personalities. And no one would ever guess what the awkward and dorky Doctor Spencer Reid got up to in his free time.

CW - all over the place - phone sex, kidnap kink (Spencer is living an unsub kind of fantasy and gets kind of creepy at times), swearing, blood and knife play, filming sexual acts, oral (m&f receiving) fingering, handjobs, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, use of “good girl” “whore” “slut”, blindfold, gags, restraints, masturbation (male). Everything is consensual between Spencer and the reader.

WC - 5.9k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hidden Pleasures

Not my gif

To a certain extent, everybody had a hidden personality, a side of themselves they kept separate from their dominant, everyday persona. 

It was essential to express these unseen parts of ourselves, to let them run wild from time to time. 

Spencer Reid masked his better than most. To the rest of the world he presented as the slightly awkward, incredibly intelligent FBI Agent. He tripped over his words, he rambled when he was stressed and lost his coordination when he was thinking too hard. 

He was polite, charming and friendly. 

But under his well manicured facade hid a side of him that no one aside from a select few strangers ever saw. 

Spencer had always loved sex. Just because he was shy and slightly dorky, didn’t mean he didn’t like getting laid just as much as the next man. 

The difference was Spencer didn’t talk about his exploits like Morgan or Alvez or even Simmons. His team probably still thought of him as a virgin despite the fact he was much closer to forty than thirty. 

But he found women adored the nerdy thing so he’d never had an issue finding willing sexual partners. Sure he came off as reserved and inexperienced but behind closed doors Spencer was so far from the man his team thought him to be. 

His interest in the rougher side of sex had manifested after his stint in prison. His tastes changed, expanded, and it became harder to just go out and pick up a girl at the bar in the hopes she’d be interested in the kind of things he wanted to do to her. 

But he knew, despite his technophobic nature, you could find anything on the internet. So that’s what he did. 

He met you in a chat room of one particular website for those who took pleasure in the more “taboo” sides of sex. 

For a time the two of you had just talked about your fantasies before you’d eventually exchanged numbers. 

The first time he spoke to you on the phone, your voice melted in Spencer’s ears and he immediately imagined you whispering in your dulcet tones as he completely and utterly destroyed you. 

His breathing must have given him away because you’d known he was turned on and even asked him so. 

Spencer couldn’t lie so he’d told you that he was, incredibly so, and thank the fucking stars because you were too. 

The two of you got each other off over the phone, whispering dirty verses to each other like a prayer while you touched yourselves to the sound of the other's voice. 

Spencer didn’t even know what you looked like but it didn’t stop him imagining it was you stroking his cock and not his own hand. 

The exchanging of pictures came later. They started dirty, your face being the last thing he saw after weeks of sending images back and forth. 

But when he finally did see your face, Spencer knew he had to have you. 

There was only so much phone sex he could take without actually getting to touch you. 

One night you spent three hours on the phone, coaxing each other through multiple orgasms until you were both completely exhausted. 

But before the call ended, Spencer blurted out what was on his mind. 

“I need you. Really need you. I need to feel you. I need more.” 

He was met by a stretch of silence and for a moment he thought he’d completely blown it. 

When you spoke it was simply to give him an address to which Spencer frowned. 

“My office address. I get off at five most nights. I want you to kidnap me, Spencer.” 

He moaned so loudly he heard the sound reverberate down the phone and back to his ears. Despite his multiple orgasms that night he was already hard again just from that sentence. 

He knew from previous conversations that was one of your fantasies. You wanted to be kidnapped, tied up and fucked senseless by your captor. 

It involved an extremely high level of trust. Spencer was flattered you’d choose him to play this out with. 

“Are you sure?” He still needed to check. “You trust me enough?”

“I do.” You were quick to reply. “I know you understand the delicacies of such a situation. I know you won’t hurt me. I trust you with my life Spencer.” 

The sincerity in your voice as you told him you trusted him made him harder somehow. He gripped the base of his cock as he laid on his back in bed. 

“Fuck.” He panted, toes curling. “As long as you’re sure. If at any point you want to stop-“

“Banana.” You giggled, the safe word you’d come up with months ago for just such an occasion. 

“Banana. Right.” 

“Obviously I don’t want to know when it will be. You have my work address. I look forward to finally meeting you, Spencer.” 

His dick twitched in his hand at the sultry tone to your voice and the implication of what the two of you were going to do. 

He was quiet after that but you could just make out the faint sound of his hand sliding up and down his length. 

“You’re going again?” You chuckled lightly, listening to his heavy breaths. 

“Great stamina.” He panted. 

“Well I can’t wait to see that in practice.” 

“By the time I’m done with you Y/N, you’ll be lucky if you can still walk.” He moaned, his head already leaking with precome again. 

You moaned too at his words and felt a fire spreading between your legs. 

The two of you got each other off one more time before you were too sore and tired to do anything but sleep. 

Your dreams were full of anticipation of when Spencer would be coming for you. 

***

Two days later Spencer scoped out your office building. 

He drew up a schematic in his mind from the front door of the building you’d leave by to where he could park his car and avoid the security cameras. 

If he did this right, anyone witnessing it would think he was really kidnapping you and he could not have cops after him because of a dirty bedroom fantasy. 

He figured he could park in the alley out back. It was winter and so it would already be dark by the time you left the office which worked in his favour. 

There was a narrow walkway to the side of the entrance which was obscured from the view of the cameras. He could lure you around to the walkway whilst concealing himself behind a wall and then he would strike. 

He gave a fleeting thought to the fact that so many of the unsubs he’d caught over the years had probably gone through the lengths he had to take a victim. And that thought made him dizzy in the best possible way. 

The danger and the seediness of it all made him painfully aroused. He spent two weeks thinking about it, planning every intricate step and jerking himself to sleep most nights at the thought. 

It was 4:43pm when he pulled his old Volvo up into the alley out the back of your office building. 

He dressed all in black, black shirt, black slacks and a large black overcoat. He pulled a baseball cap over his unruly hair as he shut off the engine. 

He wiggled his fingers into a pair of black leather driving gloves and glanced at the items on the passenger seat. 

Blindfold. Gag. Rope. Knife. 

An unsub starter kit. 

The first thing the two of you had bonded over in the chat room was your shared affinity for pain and blood. It was hard to find someone who understood his need for pain, let alone someone who also enjoyed it. 

You’d even text him a few days ago saying: when you do come for me, there will be blood ;). 

Sitting in his car he felt himself getting hard just thinking of what the night would hold. 

He drummed his gloved fingers in the steering wheel, eyes on the clock, and tried to keep his sordid thoughts at bay. He had to be level headed for this. He couldn’t let his arousal cloud his judgement just yet. 

He stuffed the rope and blindfold in his pocket and the knife he sheathed in the back of his pants. He kept the gag concealed in his palm. At 4.57pm he exited the car, leaving it unlocked as he was just heading a few feet away down the walkway.

His veins pulsed with excited anticipation. He was exhilarated. Nothing had ever felt like this before, it was almost dizzying. 

It felt like an electric current was running beneath his skin, his heart hammering loudly against this rib cage as he leant flush against the wall and waited. 

He forced his breathing to remain even and shallow so no one would hear him hiding in the shadows. 

He could just about see the building entrance from his position as people started exiting, faces illuminated under the fluorescent Exit sign. 

He waited patiently for the face he was looking for, the one he’d only ever seen on the shitty screen of his old phone. But the second you strolled out he felt you practically calling to him. 

He took a deep breath, thankful that you were alone as you stepped outside or this might have had to wait for another night. And Spencer had been patient enough. 

It was time. 

“Help! Help someone please!” He adjusted his pitch several octaves higher than his own voice, the one he’d been practicing for weeks. 

He saw you turn on your heels towards the shadowy walkway. 

“Please! Help!” 

It was what the BAU would call a ruse, he just hoped you’d fall for it. 

And you did. Of course if you did.

You cautiously moved towards the entrance of the walkway, gripping your bag close to your body. 

“Hello?” Your voice croaked as you peered into the darkness. “Are you ok?” 

He let you take two steps past him before crept behind you. He saw a shudder pass up your spine as he hurriedly brought his hand to your face, stuffing the gag in your mouth.

You screamed but it was muffled by whatever had been forced in your mouth. You tried to fight against the person behind you, your blood pulsing loudly in your ears. 

A large, strong hand gripped your shoulders and you felt a hot breath on the side of your face. 

You tried to scream again, wriggling against the body behind you. 

The hand moved from your shoulder and easily gripped both of your wrists in one hand, pinning them at your back. 

Tears pricked at your eyes as your heart practically fought to beat out of your body. 

A maniacal laughter filled your ears and then chapped lips pressed against the shell of your ear. 

“Hello Y/N. I’ve been waiting for you.”

You recognised that voice immediately and it caused a heat to spread between your legs. 

You stopped fighting for a moment, the fear being replaced by a heady arousal. But the whole point was for it to be realistic. If you didn’t fight a little, where was the fun? 

You wriggled and kicked as he dragged you down the walkway towards an alley. He quickly popped the trunk on an old model Volvo. 

You tried to free yourself from him but he was too strong and he shoved you in the back of the car, your face pressing against the worn carpet of the trunk. 

You were whining but it was muffled around the gag. You heard that dangerous laugh again as something rough encased your wrists still pinned at your back. 

He harshly tied the rope around your wrists, knotting them tightly so you couldn’t get free. Then you were tugged back a little by your hair but before you could turn your head to see him, a piece of fabric obscured your vision and was tied at the back of your head. 

“Don’t fight it, angel.” He ran a finger down your spine. “You’re mine now.” 

You squeezed your thighs together and your moan was soaked up by the gag. 

You heard the hood of the trunk slam shut followed quickly by the sound of a door opening and closing. The engine roared to life soon after and then you felt the car chugging as it started to move.

You’d never been more turned on in your whole life. 

***

Spencer’s whole body was on fire. Nothing had ever come close to the rush he felt right now. Your muffled screams and thuds from the trunk almost made him careen off the road a couple of times. 

He considered just pulling over and fucking you in some dark alley but he had a plan. He would follow the plan. 

But he was so fucking hard focusing on the road became almost impossible. 

He was ten minutes into his drive before he used one hand to unbuckle his belt and free his aching cock. 

Keeping one hand on the wheel and his focus the best he could out the windscreen, he started stroking himself, unable to wait a second longer for some kind of stimulation. 

It was dangerous he knew, his attention could easily wane and he could potentially kill both of you if he swerved off the road. 

But his dick needed attention too. 

It really didn’t take him a lot to come, your noises were like a sadistic lullaby that brought him to the brink in no time at all. He came on his slacks and his hand which he wiped under the drivers seat before quickly tucking himself away. 

“The things I’m going to do to you, Y/N.” He called back to you. “Now I have you, angel, I am never letting you go. I’ve waited so long for this.” 

You responded by kicking the hood of the trunk hard and Spencer just laughed. 

Eventually he pulled up in the lot of his apartment complex. He was practically shaking in anticipation as he leapt out of the car and round to the trunk. 

His apartment had no security cameras and a back stairwell that very rarely got used. But he still had to hurry just in case he was seen. 

He popped the trunk and gripped you by the waist, flinging you over his shoulder. 

You whimpered and kicked and wriggled but he was much stronger. 

“Don’t fight it angel. You want this.” He whispered to you as he carried you towards the stairwell. 

You continued your charade of trying to fight against him, blind, bound and gagged as you gave your trust over to him completely. 

You were already soaked, desperate to be touched. You knew Spencer had already relieved himself, you’d heard him come on the phone enough times to recognise the sounds he made. 

You felt yourself being carried upstairs and then he stopped for a moment and you heard the jangling of keys. 

His boots thudded against a wooden floor and the door was slammed shut moments after it opened. 

He carried you a little further and then his hands gripped your hips again as you were set down. 

Your ass and back crashed against the wood of a chair and you heard his footsteps round you and then his hands gripped your wrists again. 

He tied the excess rope to the spokes of the chair and you fought against them dumbly. 

Spencer smirked to himself, standing back up after tying you to the chair. He stripped off his gloves, baseball cap and overcoat, tossing them to the couch. 

He switched on a small table lamp, pulling the knife from the back of his slacks. He crouched down in front of you, parting your legs so he could kneel between them. 

He brought the blade to your cheek and you hissed around the gag at the feel of the cold metal. But he didn’t cut you, he just wanted you to know he could. 

He smiled to himself as he glanced over his shoulder at the red flashing light in the corner of the room. He’d set it up earlier, making sure the angle was just right to capture everything he was going to do to you. 

“I’m going to remove your gag, angel. But if you scream, I will kill you.” He pressed the blade to your throat and you whimpered. “Do you understand?”

You nodded a little frantically. 

“Good girl.” He set the knife down on the floor next to him and exercised a surprising amount of caution as he removed the gag from between your lips. 

A trail of saliva connected the gag to your mouth and Spencer hissed, thinking of other things he wanted to put in that mouth. 

“What are you going to do to me?” You played along, making sure there was a hint of fear to your voice. 

You felt Spencer move, standing back on his feet but he stayed close. 

“Whatever the fuck I like.” He gripped your jaw in his hand, pressing his fingertips hard into your skin. 

You heard the distinctive sound of a belt buckle being undone. 

You whimpered at the thought of what was to come and tried to press your thighs together but Spencer was still standing between them. 

He chuckled to himself, freeing his throbbing dick from his pants and moving even closer. 

He tugged your head down by his hand still on your jaw and your lips smacked into the head of his cock. 

“Open your mouth, angel.” 

You were dumb to do anything but comply and parted your lips. The second you had, Spencer was thrusting his way inside of your mouth until he slammed against the back of your throat, making you gag. 

He laughed menacingly, letting go of your jaw, his hands seeking solace in your hair instead. 

You wished you could see him. You wished you could touch him. Hopefully he’d give you the chance later. 

He started roughly fucking your mouth, tugging you by the hair to pull you and back and forth and down his length. 

At first you gagged a little each time he pounded into your throat but you soon got used to the assault and you welcomed the feeling. 

Spencer was slamming his hips harder and harder while you hollowed your cheeks and happily let him have his way with you. 

He was grunting and moaning and you could feel his legs shaking between your own. 

You took him fully in your mouth again, breathing in and out through your nose. He gripped the back of your head, holding you in place, your face buried in his fuzzy pubic hair. 

You stayed still, wondering what he was thinking, wondering what he looked like with his cock sheathed in your mouth. 

“Use your tongue. For fuck sake, you can think for yourself can’t you?” 

Your brain snapped back at his words and you did as you were told, running your tongue up and down the underside of his shaft along the pulsing vein. 

He moved his hips in circles, grinding against your face and you could taste the precome leaking onto your tongue. 

He was panting furiously, looking down at your helpless form with his cock down your throat was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen. 

But he didn’t want to come like this, not yet at least. 

Suddenly his grip on the back of your head loosened and without warning he started slamming back in and out of your mouth a few times. 

Then he surprised you by tugging himself free of your mouth entirely. 

You felt the trail of saliva dribble down your chin and he did nothing to clean you up. 

You heard him drop to his knees again and shuffle between your legs. 

His hands wandered up your sides, they were large and warm even through the fabric of your shirt. 

They came to a stop at the top button and then the sound of fabric ripping filled the room around you.

You felt the rush of air on your bare flesh and he pulled the remains of your shirt down your shoulders to hang at your tied wrists. 

You heard a hiss escape his lips and then the sharp point of the blade was pressing between your breasts. 

“Colour.” He barked at you. 

As well as your safe word Spencer had been insistent on a colour system. Green means go. Yellow means proceed with caution. Red was stop. 

He knew this was going to get intense and he wanted to put in as many safety precautions as possible. 

“G-green.” You stuttered as the blade pressed more forcibly against your chest. 

“Good girl.” He whispered and you heard the smirk in his voice. 

In one swift move he used the blade to cut open the front of your bra and pushed aside, joining your shirt at your wrists. 

He hissed again, louder this time and then you heard the blade clatter as it hit the floor. 

“Fucking hell.” He growled, palming his still hard dick. “Your photos don’t do you justice, angel.” 

“I want to s-see you.” You whined but Spencer just laughed. 

“You think you’re in any position to tell me what you want?” He chuckled darkly.

Before you could respond you were silenced by his teeth sinking into one of your hard nipples. You yelped, jolting a little in the chair. 

His fingers pinched your neglected nipple while he sucked and bit the other, making you squirm in the chair. 

He swapped over, making sure both of your breasts got the same treatment. He wasn’t a complete monster. 

You bit down on your own lip, desperately trying to clamp your thighs together but clamped Spencer’s waist instead. 

He sat back on his haunches and ran his firm hands up your thighs. 

When his finger danced between your legs he could already feel your wetness seeping through the fabric of your slacks. 

The truth was the combination of everything that was going on had already pushed you dangerously close to the edge and you were sure you could come without him even touching you. 

And he knew it too. 

“So desperate.” He laughed, running his fingers back and forth between your legs. “Such a needy little slut.”

You whimpered, rocking against him. He suddenly pulled away and you whined pathetically which only made him laugh more. 

“You don’t get to come yet, whore.” He spat, rounding the chair until he was behind you. “Not until I do anyway.”

He made quick work of untying the ropes from the chair and then freeing your wrists, your torn clothing falling to the floor. 

You could feel the abrasions left behind in your skin from the rough material of the ropes. 

He walked back around in front of you and took hold of your right wrist, deliberately putting pressure on the red welts he’d left there. 

He guided your hand forward and you reached out blindly until you found his waiting dick. 

He didn’t need to tell you what to do. You wrapped your hand around the base of his thick shaft and started pumping him quick and hard. 

Spencer let go of your wrist and moaned, his eyes rolling back in his head. 

Your saliva hadn’t had a chance to dry and it made for a great lubrication as you worked on bringing him to his release. 

His index finger traced your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth. You started sucking on his digit like you had his cock while his other fingers clenched your jaw. 

“You’re such a good little whore.” He moaned, looking back down at where your hand glided up and down his cock. 

Your thumb swiped over his slit, collecting his precome and he bucked his hips into your hand. 

He stuck a second finger inside your mouth and you continued to suck on them while jerking him off somewhat frantically. 

He kept bucking his hips to meet your fist and he felt his stomach tightening soon as he reached the brink. 

He was too far gone to stop himself this time, he needed a release almost as much as he had in the car earlier. 

He angled his hips a little, turning himself towards your chest. 

You felt his come splash on your breasts, rope after rope hitting your exploded flesh. 

He moaned and grinded against your hand while you stroked him through his orgasm. 

“Fuck.” He groaned, snapping his hips back away from you. “You look so fucking beautiful painted in my come.” 

He was still panting as you heard him take a few steps backwards. You heard the sound of shoes being kicked off and then his belt buckle hitting the floor. 

Buttons popping sounded soon after and the distinct rustling of him getting out of his shirt. 

Soon you felt him between your legs again and now your hands were unbound you reached for him instantly. 

You caught his face in your hands, scratching against soft stubble on his cheeks. You drew him closer to you and crashed your lips against his and moaned as you did so. 

He gripped the back of your head hard, keeping you close as his tongue violently dove into your mouth. 

You wrapped your legs around him, keeping him pinned to you but he didn’t seem to mind. He kissed you with the kind of ferocity you’d never felt before and it rendered you dumb. 

When he suddenly pulled back, unclamping your legs from around him, you felt empty. You blindly reached for him again but met only air.

He laughed and grabbed your wrist again. He placed something in your open palm, hard and plastic. 

You toyed with it in your hand before you felt a pressure pressing against the other end of the item. 

“I kidnapped you. I took you off the street and threw your pathetic ass in the back of my car. I could kill you with my bare hands, I could do anything to you. But you have the knife now. So what do you want to do to the man who kidnapped you?”

You whimpered realising he was pressing himself against the blade of the knife in your hand. You knew this was one of Spencer’s darkest fantasies, he’d talked to you about it length. 

He loved pain. He loved to be hurt and watch himself bleed while he got off. And after everything he’d done for you, you couldn’t deny him this. 

“C-colour.” You checked in before you did anything. 

“I am very much green, angel.” He gently cupped your face. “Make me bleed.” 

You did as he said. You swiped the blade downwards, unsure what part of his body lay beneath the knife. He hissed and closed his eyes as the sensation of his skin splitting beneath the blade.

“Perfect.” He panted. “Fucking perfect, angel.” 

It was enough to have him standing at full attention again, the pain so incredibly arousing. 

He removed the blade from your hand and tossed it aside before running his fingers over the wound on his chest. 

The blood collected on his fingertips and then he was pressing them against your lips. 

You moaned and wiggled in the chair as you took his fingers in your mouth again, tasting the metallic blood on his fingers. 

He growled and ran his other hand through the blood too before gripping your jaw and leaving his bloody fingerprints on your skin. 

“Covered in come and blood. You look a fucking mess.” He laughed sardonically, sitting back and wiping his hands on your slacks. “Stand up.”

You chewed on your lip, pushing yourself up on shaky legs until you were on your feet. 

His fingers latched onto the button of your trousers and popped them open, tugging them down your legs where you stepped out of them. 

He quickly removed your panties too and then you were being shoved backwards until you fell to the chair again. 

This time when you felt him between your legs, hot air rushing through you, you grabbed him by the shoulder to pull him closer, needing him so badly. 

Spencer might have teased some more if it weren’t for the fact your glistening cunt was staring right at him and he couldn’t wait a second longer. 

He dove between your legs, running his tongue between your folds and collecting your arousal before settling into a steady motion on your clit. 

You howled at the feeling, tossing your legs over his shoulders and around his neck. You threaded your fingers into his soft locks while grinding against his face. 

You’d been close for a while now, the evenings activities enough to bring you spiralling towards release without even being touched. 

And Spencer’s tongue was deft, knowing just how to work you to bring you crumbling down. 

When he suddenly entered two fingers inside your throbbing pussy, you screamed, gripping his hair tightly at the roots. 

You swore you felt him smirking against you. 

He curled his fingers, scissoring them slightly to open you ready for his cock you hoped. 

His tongue pressed harder against you, his ministrations becoming frantic. 

When his fingers dove deeper and brushed against your g-spot you came unravelled. Your body spasmed against the chair as your orgasm wracked your whole body, muttering Spencer’s name as well as some choice expletives. 

He continued working you through your orgasm until he was sure you were completely spent and then he sat back leaving you feeling dazed and vacant. 

He kissed you again then and you tasted yourself on his tongue as well as feeling the slickness around his mouth. 

You got lost in the feeling of his tongue exploring your mouth and didn’t realise at first that he’d lifted up and spun you around. 

Spencer sat back in the chair and lowered you into his lap. It wasn’t until you felt the tip of his cock pressing between your legs that you realised the angle shift. 

“Colour.” He spoke against your lips. 

“Green. Green!” You whined. “Wanna…see y-you.” 

“All in good time, angel. Now be a good girl and sit on my dick. Ride me good, princess.” 

You moaned when he pressed against your entrance again and this time you lowered yourself down on him. 

Spencer’s hand gripped your waist, holding you steady and digging into your flesh. 

He was big and he pressed against your walls, forcing you to accommodate him as he stretched you out. The burning sensation of your body adjusting to him had you whimpering in pleasure.

Your body trembled once he was sheathed completely inside of you and he gave you a moment to adjust, but just a moment. 

Soon he was slapping your hip, encouraging you to move. 

Steadying yourself on his shoulders you started moving your hips up and down around him, but obviously it wasn’t enough for Spencer. It didn’t take long at all before he was bucking up hard to meet you, slamming up inside of you fast and hard. 

You crashed your lips against his again while he fucked up into you, showing absolutely no mercy. He pounded you so hard you knew you’d be sore tomorrow but you welcomed the pain. 

You kissed him sloppily as one hand moved to press against your clit again which made you yelp into his mouth. Spencer swallowed down your moan, snapping his hips back and forth whilst rubbing your sensitive bud. 

The force he was excerpting made him briefly wonder if the chair might just collapse out from under him but he didn’t care. He was possessed. 

Fucking you until you couldn’t walk was all that mattered to him. 

You were practically a rag doll in his arms at this point, feeling the stretch and burn followed by overwhelming pleasure each time his cock slammed against your bundle of nerves. 

He was panting, breathing heavily into your mouth and you were sure he was just as close as you were. 

As if on queue he tore his lips away from yours and panted, “where can I come?” 

“Inside. Please. Come inside me.” You begged, needing to feel his seed fill you up. 

Spencer growled and slammed into a few more times, sending you crashing towards your orgasm seconds before his own. 

He felt your already tight cunt clenching around him as you came again and with one last thrust he spilled himself inside of you. 

He lazily continued thrusting while you both expelled yourselves. 

He was panting and writhing beneath you in the chair but he stayed inside of you. 

You felt his hand on the back of your head and then the blindfold was slipping off your head. 

You blinked a few times to focus your eyes on the dim light of the room. 

Spencer was smiling dopily at you, his messy hair slicked to his forehead. 

He was more beautiful than his photographs did justice. His large, intense amber eyes pierced into your soul. His pouty, chapped lips were turned up at the corners. 

You ran your finger over his sharp jawbone, his stubble prickling your digit a little. 

He was completely and utterly perfect. 

You smiled back at him, stroking the hair back off his face and kissing him softly while wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“Hi.” You chuckled breathily. “Nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” Spencer panted, tucking your hair back behind your ears in such a gentle contradiction from the rest of the night. 

“I’m jealous I didn’t get to see any of that.” You kissed him again, his dick softening inside of you.

A smirk played on his lips and he nodded his head to the side. 

“Don’t worry, I got that covered.” 

You followed the direction he nodded in towards the red flashing light of the camera set up in the corner. 

You smirked with a small laugh before kissing him again. 

You weren’t surprised. You didn’t know how you’d forgotten the discussion you’d had about filming your exploits. Spencer really had fucked you dumb. 

You stayed like that on the chair for a little while before he carried you through to his bedroom and cleaned you up. After he curled up next to you, holding you tightly in his arms and soon the two of you fell into a blissful sleep. 

***

Spencer had a spring in his step when he entered the BAU Monday morning. The two of you had spent the entire weekend together, mostly in bed, and it had been the greatest few days of his life. 

He was even whistling to himself as he set his bag down on his desk and slid into his chair. 

“Good weekend?” Luke chuckled at the doctor's chipper mood. 

Spencer smiled to himself. 

Everybody had a hidden side of their personality, Spencer was just exceptionally good at keeping his under wraps. 

The team probably thought he’d spent his time off reading and pursuing art galleries, the expected side of Doctor Spencer Reid. 

They were completely in the dark about the secret persona that lurked deep inside of their awkward, nerdy friend. 

He turned to Luke, suppressing his grin and simply replied, “oh, you have no idea.”