#Winding Machine For Sale

[transgaysex]

i am so stressed btw

[clementineinn]

call me on the line

abstract: when the BAU investigates a string of disappearances in the forgotten logging town of Stillwater, Washington, two agents are sent to question a possible lead — deep in the woods, where a storm is rising, and the line between hunter and hunted begins to blur.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: angst / fluff

word count: deadass, you don't want to know. but it's long.

note: did i make this longer than it had to be? 1,000 percent yes. but finals are lowk kicking my ass so i let myself just go off on this. writing angst is kind of hard for me bc i love fluff, so if it's cringe SORRY LOL. also, it's not really proofread so, ignore any misspelled words. enjoy :)

The case had the air of something unfinished. Not cold, exactly—but quiet. Unsettling.

Stillwater, Washington wasn’t a town you stumbled into—it was a place you had to mean to find. Tucked between jagged peaks and black-needled evergreens, the logging town had once thrived on sawdust and sweat, its heartbeat synced to the drone of machinery and the scent of fresh-cut pine. But that was decades ago. Now the mills were silent, the tracks rusted over. Paint peeled in long, curling strips from shuttered storefronts, and hand-painted For Sale signs clung stubbornly to rotting fences.

It had the kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful.

It felt like watching eyes. Like a breath held just behind the trees.

Four disappearances in under eight weeks hadn’t made it past the usual bureaucratic filters—until one of them had a last name that opened doors. The niece of the mayor had vanished without a trace, and the calls went higher. Stillwater finally showed up on someone’s desk. That’s when the Bureau had been called in.

Now, the BAU team was crowded into the back room of the sheriff’s office, where the walls were stained an old tobacco yellow and a ceiling fan turned in slow, listless circles overhead. The air smelled of mildew, old paper, and coffee gone to burn.

A radio crackled somewhere in the front office, too far away to catch words. The rain had picked up again—sharp now, rhythmic, like fingernails tapping against the tin roof. It filled the silences between breaths, between theories.

A map of Stillwater was pinned to the far wall, dotted with pushpins and red-thread lines. Property boundaries faded at the edges, roads narrowing into nothing. The forest swallowed everything beyond a certain point.

And that’s where they were headed.

Soon.

Hotch stood at the front of the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t like unknowns. Didn’t like how much of the town seemed to exist in whispers and folklore.

Reid’s fingers moved restlessly against the file in his lap, flipping pages he’d already memorized. Morgan leaned against a cabinet, the tension in his shoulders more visible than he thought. Emily paced, silent, her boots creaking on warped linoleum.

And Y/N sat still—too still—in the corner, her gaze fixed on the map, brows furrowed just slightly. As if she’d already seen something there the rest hadn’t.

“We’re working on the assumption that the unsub is someone local,” Hotch said, voice low but unwavering, the kind of tone that cut clean through the hum of bad coffee machines and rain-heavy silence. His hand swept across the makeshift evidence board—grainy photos, hand-drawn maps, weather-stained documents clipped under yellowing light. “None of the victims traveled far from home. No forced entry, no signs of struggle. Whoever this is… they’re moving through the cracks. Operating in the blind spots.”

The storm outside clawed at the edges of the sheriff’s office, wind rattling the single-pane windows. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead.

Garcia’s voice crackled over the speakerphone, the brightness of her tone oddly eerie against the static interference from the rain: “I did some digging on anyone who might’ve had a reason to watch those woods closely, and a name came up—Walter Massey. Sixty-eight, retired forest ranger, lives alone near Deadman’s Ridge. He filed multiple complaints with Fish and Wildlife about unregistered hunting trails about three weeks before the first disappearance. That’s a breadcrumb if I’ve ever seen one.”

JJ flipped open a manila folder, brows furrowed. “Massey was also the last confirmed person to speak with one of the missing women. No phone record, but she was seen heading in his direction on a convenience store camera the day she vanished.”

“He has a cabin out past the old ridge road,” she added. “Next nearest neighbor is two miles downhill. Closest cell reception’s even farther.”

Emily leaned forward, arms crossed. “Could be nothing. He could’ve just seen something—or someone—he didn’t know how to explain. Or he might be too scared to come forward.”

“Or he’s a link to someone who is,” Rossi muttered, eyes never leaving the board.

Hotch gave a tight nod, arms crossed as his gaze swept the photos pinned to the board, then flicked toward the map spread across the center table. The rain outside hammered the windows in steady rhythm, underscoring every word.

“Either way, we talk to him,” he said. “Quietly. No flashing badges. No tactical presence. If Massey’s involved, we don’t want him running. If he’s just a frightened old man…” His jaw tightened. “We don’t want him shutting down.”

He turned, addressing the team with that low, clipped authority that didn’t invite questions — just motion.

“Emily, JJ — keep working the geographical profile. Focus on any repeat paths near Deadman’s Ridge. If he’s stalking the victims beforehand, he’s walking terrain he knows.”

He looked next to Morgan. “Coordinate with the sheriff. I want a list of locals with military backgrounds and hunting violations within the last ten years. Start with rangers. Forestry. Anyone who knows the woods well enough to vanish inside them.”

Then Hotch turned back to the table. To Spencer—then Y/N beside him.

“You two take the Massey interview.”

Spencer straightened slightly, nodding once. Y/N didn’t move, but her posture shifted — alert, coiled like she was already halfway in the field. The weight of the assignment passed between them like a silent current.

Hotch’s gaze lingered a beat longer. “No pressure. Just a conversation. If anything feels off, you pull back. Clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Y/N said, steady.

The room moved around them again — chairs scraping, files opening, murmured replies. But Spencer only glanced sideways, eyes catching hers just briefly.

No pressure.

Just a cabin in the woods.

Spencer dipped his head in a silent nod, already flipping the page in his notebook, though his hand paused briefly on the paper in front of him—just for a second, a flicker of tension behind his eyes.

Not fear. Just the quiet knowledge that something about this wasn’t sitting right.

But Y/N didn’t say anything. Just squared her shoulders, voice level. “We’ll head out now.”

Spencer glanced at her as they rose—catching that flicker again. Just long enough to feel it echo.

Morgan leaned forward in his chair, the legs creaking faintly beneath him. His arms were folded tight across his chest, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms. Rain hammered the roof above them in steady pulses, the storm pressing harder against the windows with every gust.

“That cabin’s deep,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Trees out there are old. Thick. Signal won’t last long once you hit the ridgeline.”

He wasn’t scaremongering, just stating facts. The kind of facts that only came from years of walking into places no one came back from easily.

“We’ll stay in range,” Spencer said, nodding as he adjusted the settings on the handheld GPS unit. The small screen flickered in the dim light.

But Morgan didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted, settling on Y/N.

He dropped his voice.

“Just… be careful out there,” he said.

There wasn’t a joke in it. No usual smirk. Just a quiet weight, something steady and weather-worn, like he’d seen too many people walk into places like this thinking they were fine—until they weren’t.

His gaze held hers.

“This feels like the kind of case that turns on you when you stop looking.”

For a moment, the room fell quiet but for the scratch of JJ’s pen and the whisper of the storm.

Y/N tried for a smile, soft and crooked. One corner of her mouth lifted just enough to pass for ease.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Morgan stepped closer, his boots quiet on the worn linoleum. He stopped just beside her, voice dropping low—meant only for her and Spencer.

“I know you like to play calm,” he murmured. “But you don’t have to prove anything. Not to us. Just come back in one piece.”

Y/N blinked—slow, measured. For a second, her eyes flicked away.

And then, true to form, she bumped his elbow gently with hers.

“You’re getting soft on me, Morgan.”

He snorted under his breath. “You wish.”

They shared a look—mocking on the surface, playful even—but there was something else beneath it. Something older than the case, older than the moment. Trust carved out of too many nights watching each other’s backs in godforsaken places.

Morgan stepped back. Spencer shifted beside her, glancing down at the map again.

Hotch handed over the file without ceremony, the folder already creased at the edges from too many hands. His expression didn’t shift—still carved in quiet stone—but there was something in the way his eyes held theirs, a flicker of weight that went unsaid.

“According to county records,” he said, his voice low and even over the soft rumble of rain, “Massey’s property has one road in.”

Y/N took the folder, her fingers brushing briefly against Spencer’s as he leaned in to glance at the top page. The map was crude. Hand-drawn annotations. The kind that didn’t inspire confidence.

Hotch continued. “Narrow. Gravel. Unmaintained.”

He looked to them both.

“Use the Jeep.”

There was no room for argument in his tone—only the practiced cadence of someone who’d seen too many search parties stall because the wrong car bottomed out before the trailhead.

The overhead lights flickered once as the storm deepened, shadows slanting across the faded floorboards. Y/N gave a single nod, sharp and controlled, and tucked the file under her arm. Spencer followed, the weight of the assignment already settling between them like mist.

One road in. No promises about getting back out.

Y/N zipped her coat — a tailored dove-gray trench that framed her silhouette like it had been made for her. The collar stood slightly askew, catching the light with the faintest sheen of rain-soft wool. Beneath it, a blouse in the softest shade of lilac peeked through — silk, high-necked, and delicately ruched at the shoulders. It tucked seamlessly into crisp white slacks, expertly pressed, the hem brushing just above pale suede boots that clicked softly on the concrete floor.

She looked like she belonged in a courtroom or a gallery opening — not a muddy precinct hallway. But somehow, she always managed both. A study in contrast. Formidable. Graceful.

Spencer watched as she lifted her arms and swept her hair back — slow, efficient, thoughtless in its elegance. Her fingers worked easily, pulling the strands into a low knot at the base of her skull. Her hair, even when gathered, fell in wispy waves around the edges. Loose strands curled around her ears, temple, neck — impossibly soft, like the inside of a flower petal.

One wisp curled across her cheek, fine as a brushstroke, and rested just at the edge of her lips.

He couldn’t help it — he stared.

Not inappropriately. Just quietly. Like his eyes couldn’t quite let go.

He desperately wanted to reach out and tuck that loose strand behind her ear — the one that danced every time she turned her head, feather-light against the curve of her cheek. It would’ve taken barely a movement. Just two fingers. A breath of courage.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he swallowed the impulse, let the ache lodge quietly beneath his ribs, and cleared his throat like it might shake something loose.

His eyes dropped back to the map in his hands — too fast, too pointed — as if they hadn’t just been tracing the delicate fall of her hair, the light pooling in it like water catching sun.

As if he hadn’t almost reached for her at all.

Then, against his better judgment — against the quiet thrum of logic that always tried to keep him grounded — he looked up again.

Just for a second.

But it was enough.

The curve of her jaw, the way her lashes kissed the top of her cheekbone when she glanced down, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of her shoulders as she settled her coat more squarely around them — he took it all in like a man starved for something he couldn’t name.

There was a steadiness to her, a kind of elegant gravity that drew his gaze whether he meant to or not. She didn’t just walk into a room — she inhabited it, quiet but certain, the way a candle settles into flame.

And for a breath — a single, weightless breath — he let himself look.

Y/N caught the movement, just barely.

Her eyes flicked toward him — not sharp, not teasing, but knowing. A soft glance, almost accidental, that met his and held it just long enough to say I saw that.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she turned her head, adjusting her holster with practiced precision, her expression smoothing into something steady and composed.

The moment passed. Filed away between them.

Then it was gone — smoothed over with the practiced ease of someone who knew when to draw the line between charm and duty.

Her voice cut cleanly through the low hum of the room—measured, even, with just enough lift to draw attention without sounding urgent.

“Anything else we should know?”

Y/N didn’t look directly at anyone in particular, though her question angled toward Hotch. Her posture remained composed, the press of her palm against the grip of her holster casual but intentional—like muscle memory. Her other hand smoothed a slight crease in her light wool coat, the pale fabric catching dull gold light beneath the ceiling fan’s slow, uneven spin.

Garcia’s voice crackled over the line, bright and tinny through the static. “Only that Massey hasn’t answered his landline in over a week — but that’s not exactly uncommon. He’s more tree than man at this point.”

There was a short pause. A raindrop struck the window with a hollow tap.

Y/N’s brow arched, mouth quirking—not a full smile, but enough to show she was still listening, still present.

“Excellent,” she murmured, deadpan.

The room shifted faintly around her—Morgan exhaling through his nose, Emily’s mouth twitching in restraint. Spencer glanced at her, caught between fondness and concern, but she was already sliding the safety of her sidearm back into place. Calm. Professional. Sardonic, even when the air was thick with something heavier.

The storm outside groaned louder. But Y/N just reached for her coat collar and adjusted it with a practiced flick, already moving.

Spencer tucked the folder under his arm and followed her out into the drizzle. The air was sharp with the smell of pine needles and wet earth. Cold enough to sting, not enough to snow.

Y/N moved ahead of him without a word, boots scuffing lightly against the wet pavement, keys already in hand. Her coat caught the wind as she moved, the hem lifting just slightly before falling back in place. Her hair, still pinned into a smooth low knot, gleamed faintly under the lot’s overhead lights, rain-softened tendrils escaping to cling along her cheek and temple.

The Jeep door gave a low creak as she swung into the driver’s seat, motion fluid, practiced. She adjusted the mirrors like she’d done it a hundred times before, fingers moving with quiet assurance, sleeves pushed up just far enough to reveal a thin silver bracelet at her wrist — the only bit of ornamentation she ever wore in the field.

Spencer slid into the passenger seat, his coat damp where it clung to his shoulders. The door closed behind him with a muted thud. Inside, the air felt still. Sheltered. The faint scent of lavender and leather and coffee grounds clung to the cab like memory.

He glanced sideways.

Y/N was buckling her seatbelt one-handed, the other brushing droplets of rain from the cuff of her sleeve. Her jaw was set, lashes still wet, the curve of her mouth unreadable as she turned the key in the ignition. The engine rumbled to life, a low, steady purr beneath them.

Outside, the trees swayed against a sky that hadn’t quite let go of the storm.

Spencer’s voice came quiet. Careful. “Think he’ll talk?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. Her hand turned the key, and the engine stirred to life beneath them — a low, steady rumble that filled the hush like a second heartbeat. Her gaze lingered on the road ahead, eyes narrowing slightly as the rain skated across the windshield in whispering arcs.

And then — something softer.

She glanced over at him.

Spencer sat with one hand loosely curled in his lap, the other resting near the passenger-side door. His coat — charcoal gray, collar turned up just slightly from the weather — was still damp around the shoulders, drops clinging like glass beads to the fabric. A soft blue oxford peeked from beneath, the edge of his tie tucked neatly down, a shade somewhere between plum and midnight.

His hair was drying in unruly curls, the kind that always sprang free no matter how many times he tried to flatten them with nervous fingers. One lock in particular hung just above his brow — curled and dark and boyish in a way that made her heart catch for reasons she didn’t often name.

But it was his face she lingered on.

The angle of his jaw — elegant, sloped like a sculpture just slightly unfinished. High cheekbones flushed faintly from the cold. His skin, pale but not sickly, with the kind of delicate texture that caught every shadow and turned it poetic.

And his throat — she didn’t know why that part always struck her — but the long, clean column of it moved as he swallowed, Adam’s apple shifting subtly under skin. A tension there. A thought not yet spoken.

Then his eyes — always his eyes.

That soft, impossible shade: somewhere between warm hazel and the color of honey in shadow. Eyes that could go wide with childlike wonder one second, and dark with knowledge the next. Now, they watched her carefully, the way he always did — not intrusive, not pressing. Just waiting. Open.

Still, she didn’t answer.

Just studied him in the silence, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the steering wheel like they were holding something else in place.

And then — she smiled. Just a little. Just to herself.

“If he’s who we think he is? Yeah,” Y/N said, her voice steady — not clipped this time, but level. Assured, because Spencer had asked.

She didn’t take her eyes off the road — it was narrowing now, damp earth darkened by the rain, pines arching overhead like ribs. But she glanced his way just enough to let him know she was listening. That she always did.

Then her hands tightened slightly on the wheel — not fear, but anticipation. Her shoulders didn’t tense, but something in her posture shifted. Focused. Alert.

“But if something’s off out there,” she added, “we’ll feel it before it hits.”

She paused, only long enough to exhale — a breath that filled the space where silence might’ve gone. Then she continued, voice lower now, but still laced with that dry, familiar wit he’d come to memorize.

“And we’ll deal with it. Like we always do.”

Spencer glanced sideways at her. The road curved ahead, shadows crowding the edge of the tree line, but her expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Sharp. The kind of calm you could lean on if the world cracked in half.

He didn’t respond right away — didn’t need to. She’d already answered the part of him that hadn’t made it into words.

Then she added, almost too casually, “And if I get shot, I’m haunting this Jeep. You’re never playing jazz in here again.”

Spencer glanced over at her, brow raised. “I don’t play jazz.”

“Exactly,” she said, with a little smirk. “It’d be a tragedy. Think of the acoustics.”

He let the corner of his mouth twitch, but the worry didn’t leave his eyes. “Don’t say that,” he said softly. “I worry about you.”

Her smile flickered, just for a heartbeat.

Then, without looking, she reached over and gave his knee a gentle squeeze — not quick, not rushed, just soft and familiar, like it was second nature. “You’re cute when you’re concerned. All furrowed brows and fidgety hands.”

Spencer blinked.

Twice.

And then sat up just a little straighter in his seat, hands fidgeting with the folder in his lap as though the paper had suddenly become very complicated.

“I—uh,” he started, clearing his throat like it might help him form a coherent sentence. “I don’t… do that. Exactly.”

But his ears told a different story — the pink rising fast beneath the ends of his hair, climbing like a confession he couldn’t quite swallow.

Y/N didn’t look over, but the corner of her mouth curved just slightly knowingly.

Outside, the trees loomed closer—still and watchful.

Inside the Jeep, the air was warmer. Charged. Quiet.

Not safe, but close.

The tires crunched over gravel as they pulled away from the sheriff’s station, the sound sharp and hollow beneath the growing hush of the woods. The world beyond the windshield blurred in shades of green and gray—fir branches heavy with rain, trunks slick with moss and time. Water clung to the windows in thin, trembling streaks, catching light like veins of glass.

Y/N kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other shifting gears with a smooth, practiced touch. Her eyes were fixed ahead—alert, but calm. The low clouds muted the light across her features, softening the curve of her jaw, casting pale shadows beneath her cheekbones. Again, a single strand of hair had slipped loose from behind her ear, curling along her temple, but still, she didn’t seem to notice.

Spencer watched her in that quiet way he always did, half out of habit, half out of awe. The shape of her profile had become familiar in the way only long hours and quiet car rides could make it — the slope of her nose, the way her mouth twitched slightly when she was thinking, the calm stillness she wore like armor.

She looked relaxed. Or—she had, until the forest deepened and the gravel began to thin beneath them.

It was subtle. Barely there.

But Spencer always noticed when it came to Y/N.

He noticed when she was happy, when her laughter hit a little higher in her chest. He noticed when she was tired, the way she rubbed at her temple with the back of her hand. And he noticed now—how her fingers tightened just slightly around the steering wheel. Not tense, not afraid. Just anchoring.

Her shoulders had crept a little higher, her posture shifting with the faintest trace of something coiled. Her breathing changed too—not loud, not shaky, but quieter. Calibrated.

Her eyes flicked toward the blur of evergreens passing the window, landing on something between the trees that he couldn’t see—but she could. Her jaw had settled tighter, not clenched exactly. Just bracing.

And that was all it took.

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave her. He didn’t ask yet. Didn’t press. But he knew her. Every mood. Every flicker of emotion she didn’t want to show. 

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her from the corner of his eye as they bumped along the narrowing road, the Jeep swaying gently with each dip and rise.

The forest pressed in thicker now—trunks close, shadows dense, branches arcing overhead like a tunnel built from dusk. The sky had dimmed to a washed-out gray-blue, streaked with low, restless clouds. The kind of light that made everything look slightly unreal. Suspended.

Beside him, Y/N’s focus hadn’t wavered. But he could see the change in her.

He’d watched her do this a dozen times before—lock herself in, pull steady, stay quiet. And once, not so long ago, she’d noticed it in him.

Had reached over and tried to pull him back to center with nothing more than a quiet touch and a crooked smile.

Now he did the same.

As they rounded a bend and the cabin finally came into view—half-shadowed, still, like a smear of darkness at the end of the trail—Spencer reached over.

His hand settled on her knee. Gently. Warm and steady through the soft fabric of her pale slacks.

He didn’t say anything. Just let the contact speak.

She blinked, just once, and turned her head slightly toward him. Not enough to take her eyes off the road — just enough for him to see the flicker of surprise soften into something smaller. Something quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low. Careful.

Her answer came after a beat — a breath. She nodded once and offered him a smile. Easy, almost light.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Probably just cold.”

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

And he knew her well enough to see it. The way she carried unease like a private secret — tucked neatly beneath her professionalism, beneath the steady hands and quiet confidence. He gave her knee the faintest squeeze, then let his hand fall back to his lap.

She didn’t say anything else. Just kept her eyes on the road, that smile fading to something quieter. More thoughtful.

When they finally reached the property, it emerged without warning — a jagged clearing carved into the forest like a scar, sudden and jarring beneath the darkening sky. The last sliver of daylight had already given up the fight, swallowed by the storm clouds pressing low and mean above the trees. What little light remained was the dull, coppered sheen of dying sun behind a curtain of gray, thickening by the minute as the rain picked up again — steady, cold, and relentless.

The cabin sat hunched in the middle of the clearing like it was trying to disappear into itself. Sagging at the roofline, its edges blurred in the mist, it didn’t look like it had been built so much as abandoned mid-thought and left to rot. Water streaked down the wood siding, gray and splintered, veins of moss threading between the boards like old scars. Shingles peeled from the roof like curling bark, flapping weakly in the wind. Ivy clung to one side of the structure, wet and slick, gripping like desperate fingers.

A rusted pickup truck leaned just off the gravel, half-sunk into the earth. One tire had collapsed entirely, and the windshield was filmed with grime. Moss clung thick across the hood, glinting damp in the half-light. The rear bumper was hanging loose, barely attached. An old blue tarp lay crumpled nearby, water pooling in its folds, its color leeched pale as bone.

Near the porch stood a battered rain barrel, the metal sides dented inward like something had struck it hard once and never cared to fix it. It was brim-full with black water, still and viscous. Leaves floated on the surface, already turning to pulp.

The porch itself looked no better. Boards bowed and cracked under years of rot, the whole frame tilting just enough to be unsettling. A mesh screen door hung half-off its hinges, the bottom corner torn, tapping irregularly in the wind like a slow, reluctant metronome. Thunder growled somewhere in the distance, low and constant.

Inside, the windows showed nothing. No movement. No glow. Just pale curtains stirring faintly — or maybe not at all — behind glass long gone cloudy. It didn’t feel empty.

It felt like it was waiting.

And the storm, as if answering that silent promise, surged harder around them — wind pressing against the car, the trees creaking in warning.

Y/N eased the Jeep to a stop, the tires crunching softly over damp gravel. Her hand slipped from the wheel and dropped into her lap, slow and deliberate, like something inside her had stalled with it.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Her eyes were fixed on the cabin just ahead—at the crooked front steps, the sagging roofline, the stillness that pressed against the windows like a held breath.

Spencer looked at her, not the house.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently. “What, nothing smart to say about the murder shack in the woods?”

That earned him a ghost of a smile.

But it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

She inhaled slowly, eyes still on the porch.

“I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something just feels… off.”

The wind moved through the trees then — not in a rush, but in a long, drawn-out exhale. It slipped between the trunks of the evergreens like a ghost, brushing needles aside with soundless fingers. It twisted around the Jeep in thin, spectral threads, pressing against the windows like it was trying to peer inside. A shiver of motion stirred the underbrush and carried the scent of rain-drenched soil and wood gone soft with rot.

It wasn’t stillness. Not really. It was silence with intent. A hush that hummed with something just beneath it — like the forest itself had stopped to listen.

Spencer felt it in the hollow beneath his ribs. A pressure that wasn’t pain, but wasn’t peace either. He shifted slightly in his seat, hand hovering near the door handle, fingers flexing once before curling tight. His eyes lingered on her — not the cabin. Never the cabin.

Y/N sat rigid in the driver’s seat, posture straight, every line of her body coiled with purpose. The faint light through the windshield brushed her features in silver — sharp across the line of her cheek, soft at the curve of her jaw. Her gaze had narrowed. Not alarmed. Just focused. Sharpened.

She felt it too.

Then, without a word, she moved.

The door creaked open, the sound swallowed almost instantly by the hush outside. The cabin lights flickered and died as the wind caught the door’s edge and pulled it wider — a breathless kind of opening. She stepped out with quiet precision, boots meeting the soft, saturated forest floor and sinking half a step into moss and old needles. Her coat flared slightly behind her in the gust, dark fabric whipping once around her legs before settling. Her hand slipped beneath the lapel of her blazer, fingers brushing the grip of her weapon — not drawn, but near.

The air around them felt dense. Drenched. Cold enough to cling to the skin.

Spencer followed, slower. The door closed behind him with a quiet thud, more final than it had any right to be. He slipped the GPS into the inner pocket of his coat, his fingers pale at the edges from how tight they gripped it. His eyes moved over the clearing with care — from the twisted vines along the base of the trees, to the rust-streaked pickup hunched by the treeline, to the warped wooden steps that led to the cabin.

Each one sagged with age, dark with moisture and furred in places with moss. The porch looked as if it would groan beneath a whisper of weight.

The clearing was still — painfully so.

No birdsong. No snap of twigs. Not even the distant hum of insects.

Just the soft rattle of the mesh screen door, its bottom corner torn, banging irregularly against the frame like a warning. The solid door behind it stood shut. 

Unmoved. Unreadable.

Faded paint curled from the panels, flaking like dry skin, as if the house was trying to peel itself away from whatever lingered behind it.

And above it all — the clouds pressed heavier. Storm-wet. Thunder rolled low and slow in the distance like something circling. Watching and waiting. 

Spencer stepped up beside her. Neither of them spoke.

But both of them felt it.

“Walter Massey?” Y/N called out, her tone firm but even, just loud enough to carry through the trees. “This is Agent Y/L/N with the FBI. I’m here with my partner, Dr. Spencer Reid. We just want to ask you a few questions.”

Nothing.

No footsteps creaking across old floorboards. No shadow shifting behind the warped lace of the curtains. 

No sound at all—except the wind.

It threaded through the trees like a murmured secret, brushing past the cabin with delicate, eerie intent. A breath against the siding. A whisper through the loose gutter. It rustled pine boughs and dead leaves on the porch in soft, spiraling motions—as if it knew something they didn’t. As if it had been waiting for this.

The mesh screen door swayed once, clicking faintly against the wood. Beyond it, the heavy main door stood silent and still, paint cracked in jagged lines like old scars. Just watching.

Spencer stepped up beside her, frowning as he scanned the shadowed windows. “Maybe he’s around back,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice gave him away.

Y/N called out again, projecting just enough to reach through the stillness.

“Mr. Massey? We’re not here to arrest you. We just need to speak with you. If you’re inside, could you come to the door?”

Silence.

Not the kind that felt accidental.

The kind that felt chosen.

Y/N glanced at Spencer, then eased the screen door open with the back of her hand, careful not to smudge the handle. The hinges creaked softly, the sound swallowed by the mist-thick air.

Spencer stepped up beside her, eyes scanning the porch, the roofline, the stillness pressed into every crack of the old wood.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he murmured.

Y/N gave a small nod, more to herself than to him, her hand tightening instinctively around the grip of her gun.

With a sharp breath, she drew her weapon—fluid, practiced, no hesitation—but her posture shifted in a way Spencer rarely saw. Not just alert. Guarded. Protective.

She stepped in front of him before he could speak, placing her body squarely between him and the door. One hand briefly touched his chest—not forceful, just enough pressure to guide him back. Her fingers lingered there for a beat too long.

It wasn’t protocol. 

“I’ll take point,” she said, voice low and steady, but softer than usual. “You stay behind me.”

She didn’t turn to look at him, but she didn’t need to. The tension in her shoulders said it all. The subtle tremor in her breath. The way her body shifted like a shield between him and whatever was waiting inside.

She joked a lot. Always had.

But not now.

Now, she was dead quiet.

And she was ready to take the hit before it ever got to him.

Spencer opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to offer something else—but the set of her jaw made him pause.

He just nodded—once, tightly. The motion small, but sure. There was a gravity to it. The kind that came from knowing there was no turning back.

His hand brushed against the fabric of her sleeve as he stepped forward, barely a touch—but enough to tether him to the moment, to her.

And then he followed.

Whatever was waiting inside the cabin had already started listening. There was a gravity to it. The kind that came from knowing there was no turning back.

Y/N stepped ahead, boots pressing softly into the damp wood of the porch, her body angled with trained precision. The mesh screen door creaked as she eased it further back, and in the same breath, her hand came up — steady, firm — guiding the barrel of her gun to the door’s edge.

The main door gave way with a low groan. Wood strained against rusted hinges as it swung open, slow and grudging, like the house itself was reluctant to let them in.

It wasn’t locked.

That alone rooted something cold and shapeless in the pit of her stomach — a sense that curled low and tight behind her ribs.

Spencer felt it too. He didn’t have to say it.

Cabins like this didn’t stay unlocked. Not in towns like Stillwater. Not with four people missing.

The door swung inward on a breath of cold air, and immediately, the smell hit her.

Pinewood, sharp and resinous—what should have been comforting—but laced now with something metallic and wet. The bitter, iron-wrought scent of something that had bled too long into the floorboards.

And beneath that, something older.

A rot that didn’t belong to nature. Stale carpet. Damp mold. The cloying, sour note of a refrigerator long left without power. It wrapped around them like old breath, like something exhaled by a house that hadn’t seen life in weeks—but still remembered the shape of it.

Y/N stepped inside first, every footfall deliberate. The floor creaked beneath her boots, the sound echoing too loud in a space that felt like it had been holding its breath.

The air was thick. Heavy. It clung to her coat, her skin, the back of her tongue. Wrong. Not empty or abandoned. Just waiting.

Y/N slipped through the doorway first, silent as a shadow, her weapon raised and steady. Her eyes swept left to right in quick, surgical passes, cataloguing the space in layers. The sharp angles of furniture. The thin shaft of gray light cutting through a crack in the boarded window. Dust spiraling in the beam like falling ash.

Her body stayed close to the wall, a breath away from the peeling paneling, boots placed with deliberate care on the worn floorboards to avoid giving herself away.

Spencer followed, just behind her—close enough to match her rhythm, but not close enough to disrupt her line of movement. His hand hovered near the grip of his firearm, fingers curled just shy of drawing it, every nerve thrumming with silent urgency. The weight of the weapon was grounding, familiar—but the air around him felt anything but. Cold. Pressurized. Like the storm outside had seeped in through the walls and settled beneath his skin. The air inside the cabin was colder than it had any right to be, clinging damply to his skin, to his throat. Like the house had its own lungs and was breathing around them.

A small table lay overturned just inside the entryway, its legs twisted at awkward angles like they’d been kicked or dropped. Two mugs lay beside it—one intact, the other shattered into a fan of ceramic shards, edges dulled by dust. Liquid long since dried had stained the floor beneath them a dark, reddish-brown. It wasn’t blood. It might’ve been tea. But it looked like a spill no one had cleaned up; like someone had planned to and then never got the chance.

Spencer crouched for a closer look, fingers tracing the uneven trail of footprints smeared into the dirt between the broken pieces.

“This wasn’t recent,” he whispered. His voice barely carried, but it pressed into Y/N’s spine all the same.

She didn’t answer. Just nodded once, jaw set tight.

They moved forward together—past the narrow hallway, where the faded wallpaper had begun to peel at the edges, curling like old parchment. The floor creaked beneath their weight, long and low, like something waking up beneath them.

They entered the den.

It was darker here. The light didn’t reach as far. The room felt sunken somehow, like the cabin had settled too deep into the earth. The ceiling sloped low above them, pressing down like a held breath.

Hunting gear lined the walls—bows, empty gun racks, a mounted buck’s head with glassy, dust-covered eyes. The fireplace beneath it was cold and lifeless, filled with half-burnt logs and ash long gone damp. A copper kettle sat off to the side, untouched.

Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust.

Except for one thing.

A single trail of muddy boot prints.

They cut across the wooden floor—messy, staggered, the pattern uneven. They led toward the far archway where the kitchen opened up, shadowed and still.

Spencer’s eyes tracked the prints. Something about the weight distribution was wrong. The left boot dragged just slightly. A limp?

Y/N moved ahead, muzzle of her gun rising with each slow step.

Then—

A crash. Not loud. Sharp. Sudden.

Metal against wood. The sound of something falling, something moving.

Then silence.

A birdshot of adrenaline spiked through Spencer’s chest. Y/N whipped her gun toward the sound, shoulders tight, finger ghosting the trigger.

They both froze.

In the stillness, every sound grew louder: the tick of something dripping in the next room, the groan of the wind outside, the faint electrical buzz of a dying bulb overhead.

Spencer’s breath caught.

Then—a door slammed open.

Hard.

The edge of it cracked into Y/N’s temple with a sickening thud, sending her stumbling backward into the wall. Her head snapped sideways, blood already welling where the wood had split her skin. The world tilted around her—sharp and white-hot—but she didn’t fall.

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her body jerked forward on instinct, staggering back into the hallway, gun half-raised, breath heaving, vision already blurring around the edges.

That’s when he came.

The figure burst from the bedroom like a wrecking force—tall, gaunt, clothes hanging loose over sharp shoulders, eyes blown wide with manic rage. A shotgun was clutched in both hands, its muzzle swinging like a compass needle toward chaos.

Y/N threw herself forward, arm reaching toward Spencer—

But she was a second too late.

The butt of the shotgun slammed into the side of Spencer’s head, full force, a brutal crack of bone on bone.

His body crumpled immediately, knees buckling. He collapsed in a heap beside her, eyes glassy, breath shuddering.

“Spence—!” Y/N shouted, the sound strangled by pain, voice cracking through the cabin like a whip, raw and full of alarm.

Her gun was up in a breath.

The motion was smooth—reflex, born from training and repetition—but what followed was anything but automatic.

The world sharpened around her. The air seemed to crystallize. Every sound pulled inward: the creak of wood beneath shifting weight, the faint tick of the cabin cooling in the silence, the whisper of breath between her teeth.

And then—Spencer, on the floor.

Still.

The sight knocked the air from her lungs.

Blood curled from the side of his head in a slow, serpentine trail — dark, too dark, in stark relief against the pale, fragile stretch of his skin. It traced the curve of his temple, threading through the fine strands of his hair before pooling at the edge of his jaw, where it soaked quietly into the collar of his shirt. The fabric was already turning crimson, blooming with it, blooming with him.

His lashes fluttered once.

Barely.

Then stilled again.

The room seemed to tilt. Or maybe that was her.

Her stomach dropped — a violent plunge, like the floor had disappeared beneath her feet. She could feel it then, the rise of something hot and nauseating in the back of her throat, clawing up as her eyes locked on the wound. It wasn’t just blood. It was his blood. Spencer’s.

And he wasn’t moving.

His face was slack — not peaceful, not asleep, just vacant. The faintest crease still lingered between his brows, like the pain had caught him mid-thought. There was something deeply wrong about it, about him lying there like that. Off-center. Unanchored. Dizzy, disoriented, even in stillness. Like someone had unplugged the world’s sharpest mind and left it flickering.

Her body locked down—every instinct bracing to protect, to react, to end this now.

Then the shotgun shifted.

The barrel snapped toward her chest with sudden, jolting force.

“Drop it!” the man barked, the words mangled and ragged—voice gone to gravel, each syllable trembling with something unstable. His lips curled back from his teeth, not in a snarl, but something worse—something uncertain, like he didn’t know if he was threatening or pleading.

His hands trembled around the shotgun stock—not from fear, but from how tightly he was clinging to control. The kind of trembling that came right before the trigger was pulled.

Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver.

Her arms held steady, the muzzle of her gun pointed square at his chest. Her breath slowed, deliberately measured, as if even the air between them might shift the balance.

She didn’t blink.

She took in everything: the angle of the barrel, the taut twitch of his jaw, the half-step he’d taken forward, the glint of something flickering in his eyes—resolve, maybe. Or desperation. There was no time. No room for fear. Only calculation. Only timing.

Her finger tightened over the trigger.

She could make the shot.

She was sure of it.

But Spencer was still down. And if she missed—if he flinched—if the recoil shifted his aim—

She didn’t lower the gun.

But she didn’t fire either.

The room held its breath with her.

The man shifted again—barely a step, but it was enough.

His boots scraped over the worn floorboards as he moved toward Spencer’s crumpled form, the barrel of the shotgun lowering, inch by inch, until it hovered just above Spencer’s head like a verdict already decided.

“One second longer,” the man growled, voice cracking like splintered wood, “and I’ll blow his fucking head off.”

Y/N didn’t move.

But something inside her shifted.

A full-body stillness snapped into place — not the poised quiet of control, but the rigid, sickened kind that hit when reality dropped too fast, too sharp. Her heart didn’t race. It slammed. Once. Hard. Then again. Every beat ringing in her ears like the tick of a detonator.

She had played this carefully, clinically — willing to risk herself, willing to bleed if it kept the attention off Spencer. She could take it. Had taken it. But this—

This was different.

Now it was him.

And the gun was angled down, close enough to his skull that she could see the reflection of blood in the barrel. Spencer lay curled against the warped floorboards, disoriented and dazed, his breath fogging faintly at the edge of the wood. His lashes fluttered. His mouth parted, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t find the thread of it. There was blood smeared along his hairline, drying now, catching in the curve of his ear and soaking down his collar. His pulse was there — visible, trembling in his throat. Too exposed. Too human.

The sight of it — him — nearly undid her.

Her whole body locked into place, a machine with too many variables flooding the system. Her brain calculated trajectories, angles, impact velocities. But no combination ended without risk to him. Every outcome cost him something— and that, she could not accept.

Her hands shook.

She could have made the shot if it were her life on the line. Could’ve gambled with her own ribs, her own skin. She’d taken worse. But not this. Not when it was his blood on the floor. Not when she’d promised — not him.

The weight of that promise settled in her arms like iron, and it took everything she had to keep from shaking apart beneath it.

Her throat burned. She swallowed against it.

And then, with a precision that felt like peeling skin from bone, she began to lower her weapon.

Inch by inch.

Slow.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

Her fingers ached as she loosened them from the grip. Her shoulders screamed with the effort it took to obey the moment’s demand.

Every cell in her body recoiled.

But she did it anyway.

“Alright,” Y/N said at last, her voice low, level���scraped clean of anything but clarity. Each word fell with weight, not surrender.

Her fingers loosened from the grip, slow and deliberate, knuckles pale as she uncurled them.

She didn’t drop the gun.

Instead, Y/N began to lower herself — inch by inch — until one knee touched the warped wooden floor. The boards creaked beneath her weight, the sound barely more than a breath. Her hands moved with careful precision, every motion telegraphed and measured.

She set the gun down flat on the floor. Not a toss. Not a surrender.

A choice.

The cold barrel met the wood with a muted clink. No ricochet. No chance of it firing by accident. Just the sound of something vital being set aside.

The silence that followed was cavernous.

But Y/N didn’t look at the weapon.

Her eyes stayed locked on his.

Unblinking. Unflinching.

Not begging. Not pleading.

Just there—steady and grounded in the storm of his breathing, reading every flicker in his grip, every tremor running down the barrel aimed squarely at her chest.

“Kick it away,” the man barked.

She didn’t hesitate.

She shifted her foot forward, slow enough not to startle him. The toe of her boot met the side of the pistol.

One push—measured, mechanical—and it scraped across the floorboards with a sound that felt too loud. Too final.

But her eyes never moved.

Not once.

He moved fast—faster than she anticipated, with a kind of jittery violence that didn’t follow logic, only impulse.

Before she could fully register it, his hand was on her—gripping her arm and yanking it behind her back, fingers digging in just above the elbow. The coarse scrape of rope unfurled from his belt with a harsh, leathery hiss.

She twisted against his grip, tried to shift her weight—anything to make it harder for him to drag her.

Her boot skidded against the floor.

She shoved backward once—elbow clipping his side, sharp and purposeful.

But the shotgun.

It was too close.

Even without looking, she knew it was hovering just to her left, the cold presence of it looming like a second heartbeat. Her brain echoed with the imagined sound of the blast. Too loud. Too final.

So she stilled.

Not from fear, but control.

She let him drag her toward the fireplace post, every muscle coiled and burning, her breath tight behind her ribs.

He slammed her back against the wood.

Her spine jolted.

Then came the rope—rough, thick, unyielding. It bit into her wrists as he yanked it tighter than he needed to, the fibers already cutting into raw skin.

Y/N clenched her jaw, head bowed slightly, refusing to make a sound.

But then—he cinched the last knot.

Too tight.

The pressure bit deep.

And before she could stop it—a small, involuntary whimper slipped past her lips.

It wasn’t loud.

But it was real.

Spencer flinched where he lay on the floor.

The unsub didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did—and liked it.

“You’re both just more of them,” the man spat, pacing in short, sharp bursts. “Spies. Liars. Think you’re gonna dig around in my head and tell me what I am.”

His voice cracked at the end—too high, too jagged, like the thoughts were unraveling faster than he could speak them. His eyes flicked between them with the wild precision of someone looking for betrayal in shadows.

Then he lunged straight for Spencer.

He grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up with violent force—fingers digging in, dragging him across the floor like dead weight.

Spencer groaned, a smear of blood trailing along his cheekbone like a brushstroke. His limbs lagged behind him—slack, dazed, his knees buckling as he was thrown down hard beside her.

Y/N’s breath hitched.

“Don’t touch him,” she growled, low and raw.

There wasn’t room for rage. Only instinct.

But the man laughed—a high, manic sound, half-breath, half-breakdown. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Instead, he dropped to one knee and cinched the rope tighter around Spencer’s wrists—too tight, sharp enough to bite skin. Y/N jerked against her own bonds, but the rope held fast, burning against her raw skin.

She could hear Spencer's breathing now—shallow, wet, just inches from her.

The man stood again, chest heaving, eyes bright with something slick and poisonous.

Then—stillness.

He looked down at them, head tilted just slightly to the side, as if studying insects under glass.

“Let’s see what you’re really here for.”

Time moved differently inside the cabin.

Minutes passed like hours. The air hung heavy—thick with moisture and decay. It reeked of damp wood, mildew, and something more feral. Sweat. Fear. Old blood gone to rust. Each breath felt like swallowing the underside of a storm.

The ropes around Y/N’s wrists had long since burned their mark into her skin. Coarse and waterlogged, they bit into the delicate ridges of bone and tendon with each twitch of movement, the fibers soaked red where her skin had broken. Her fingers tingled—numb at the edges, aching down to the knuckles. She kept them still.

Beside her, Spencer sat slumped but conscious, his body curled slightly toward her. His head hung low, curls matted dark where blood had dried into them, crusting in uneven lines along his temple and jaw. A single streak of red had reached the collar of his shirt, staining it like a slow bloom. His breathing was shallow but even, lips parted just enough for each exhale to pass through. His lashes fluttered now and then—not from sleep, but from pain. Dizziness. That half-lost place between awareness and dark.

Across the room, the man paced in slow, uneven circuits—like an animal trapped in a cage of its own design. He hadn’t given a name. Not once. Just circled, muttered, barked at things neither of them could see. His footsteps creaked against the warped floorboards, syncopated by the occasional clatter of the shotgun being picked up, set down, picked up again. It never stayed far from his grip. Even when he spoke to the shadows, it was there—his anchor, his threat.

The windows were dark. Not because of nightfall, but because the storm still pressed against them in sheets, casting the room in the kind of gray that felt less like light and more like breath.

And then—Spencer’s voice. Quiet. Threadbare.

“What you’re experiencing—it’s not uncommon. Prolonged isolation can create patterns in the brain that reinforce a heightened sense of danger. It’s a survival response. You’re not crazy. Your mind is just trying to protect you.”

The man turned slowly.

Not with the casual movement of someone listening—but like a storm cloud gathering mass. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, pupils dilated so far they nearly swallowed the color. His breath dragged in through flared nostrils, ragged and wet, as if each inhale hurt. The barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly, but didn’t lower.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he hissed. His voice cracked halfway through, but it didn’t make him sound weak—only volatile.

Spencer stayed still. Perfectly still.

His eyes found the man’s, steady despite the pulse jackhammering behind his ribs.

“I think you’re scared,” he said softly. “And I think no one’s listened to you in a long time.”

Something shifted.

The man didn’t move, not visibly. But his shoulders dropped just enough to notice. His jaw flexed. One foot shifted back on the floorboard. The storm rumbled outside, low and distant, as if even the sky was holding its breath.

And Y/N—reading the moment like a fault line ready to split—spoke too. Her voice slid in beside Spencer’s, quiet but deliberate, threaded with caution and calm.

“We’re not here to take anything from you,” she said. “But the people who disappeared—”

“They were spies!” he snapped. The words broke out of him like shrapnel. “Government plants. They came to silence me. To bury me in my own house.”

The shotgun lifted a fraction. His hands shook with it. Not from hesitation, but from the force of his belief.

Spencer’s voice didn’t rise. If anything, it softened.

“You don’t have to hurt anyone else,” he said. “You’ve already proven you can outsmart all of them. You’ve stayed hidden for months. That takes skill. Foresight.”

For a heartbeat, the silence returned—tight, watchful.

Then the man exploded.

“Don’t patronize me!” he bellowed, the sound reverberating off the cabin walls like a gunshot. His body jerked forward, wild-eyed, the shotgun twitching like an extension of his nerves.

Y/N flinched—but barely. Her eyes flicked toward Spencer, the smallest movement, like a tether tightening between them. He didn’t speak again. Not yet. But his breath hitched, and Y/N could feel it—not just the air between them, but the weight of everything unspoken. 

The unsub had been pacing for minutes, muttering under his breath like the words were boiling over faster than he could contain them. His boots scuffed the warped floorboards in erratic steps, his fingers twitching at his sides. One hand dragged roughly along his arm—scratching, clawing—like there was something under his skin he couldn’t reach. Couldn’t dig out.

Y/N kept her gaze angled downward—not submissive, but steady. Controlled. Her breaths came in slow pulls through her nose, paced like clockwork. She was counting. The distance to the nearest window. The time between his steps. The angle of his shoulder when he turned.

And then, without meaning to, her eyes drifted sideways, toward him.

Spencer sat just inches away, his wrists still bound, shoulders drawn tight with tension. But it wasn’t that that made her stomach drop.

It was the blood.

A dried trail of it streaked along his temple, curling into his hairline—matted in soft, uneven strands. The edges of the gash were clotted now, crusted and angry red against the pale cast of his skin. His jaw was tight, lips parted just slightly, breathing carefully—like even that took effort.

His eyes weren’t on her. They were scanning the room with clinical precision, flicking from shadow to shadow, reading danger the way he read case files—quietly, methodically. But she saw the way his brows were pinched. The faint tremble in the line of his throat. The sharp, inward hold of his breath when the unsub moved too fast.

Her heart twisted at the sight of him—gentle and brilliant and so obviously in pain—and the ache that bloomed in her chest had nothing to do with the bruises blooming across her own head.

And everything to do with the blood on his skin.

The kind that shouldn’t have been there.

Not his.

Not ever.

Spencer sat still beside her, hands bound, blood still dried at his temple. His lips parted just slightly, not in fear—but focus. His eyes flicked toward the far wall, the boarded window, the crackling fireplace. Listening.

Beep.

Faint. Almost imperceptible beneath the restless creak of the old cabin and the wind pressing against the windows like a warning.

Beep… beep.

It wasn’t loud. No louder than a watch alarm. But in the silence that followed the shouting—in the dense, static-charged quiet—it may as well have been a scream.

The unsub froze mid-step.

His shoulders jerked to a halt, spine locking with an almost mechanical stiffness. His eyes snapped upward, scanning the room with twitchy, animalistic precision.

Then his head turned. Sharply.

“What the hell is that?”

The words came low, clipped, scraped raw at the edges with suspicion. Not curiosity—alarm. His gaze sharpened like a blade, eyes narrowing into slits as he started to pivot in place.

Y/N stiffened.

Not a flinch. Not a twitch. Just a subtle hardening of her frame, like a wire being pulled taut beneath her skin.

Her pulse stuttered once. Then leveled. But her mind was already racing—calculating how long it had been since the last team update, how close backup might be now, if the signal had already pinged—

Beep.

Spencer’s breath caught.

It was nearly silent—but she heard it. Felt it, even. The way his ribs expanded slightly beside her, the shallow edge of air slicing into lungs held too tight for too long.

Beep.

The sound was steady now.

A small, rhythmic pulse.

The unsub took a step backward, turning in a slow, tight circle—eyes scanning floor to ceiling, nostrils flared, the pipe still trembling in his grip.

Spencer stayed still.

Too still.

The tracker was close. Too close.

And they both knew it.

The green LED blinked softly beneath the hem of his coat pocket.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Like a countdown. Like the signal of rescue—or exposure.

Y/N’s breath ghosted across her lip. Barely a shift in her chest, but she felt it burn in her throat like static. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t dare turn toward the sound.

But the unsub heard it.

And worse—he understood it.

His eyes narrowed, head tilting with the eerie focus of a predator locking on. The shotgun rose a few inches, uncertain now—not who to point at, but what was coming. His jaw clenched, teeth bared just enough to show the ragged edge of molars grinding.

“Where’s that coming from?” he hissed. “What the hell is that?”

No one answered.

The storm outside raged harder, wind driving against the cabin in gusts that rattled the loose windowpanes and hissed beneath the warped doorframe. Rain lashed the roof in waves, a cold percussion over the mounting tension.

Y/N’s fingers flexed slowly in the ropes behind her back—blood slicking the coarse fibers where they bit into her skin.

She didn’t look at Spencer. But she felt him beside her. Breathing faster now.

The noise wasn’t loud. But it was loud enough.

A steady pulse, mechanical and unrelenting, threading through the cabin like a fuse being lit.

Rhythmic. Unmistakable.

Coming from somewhere on Spencer’s side—muffled beneath his coat or wedged between the folds of his satchel, but there all the same. A beacon. A countdown.

The unsub’s head snapped toward him.

His eyes went wide—too wide.

The whites stark in the dim cabin light, the pupils blown and darting. Something behind them gave way, cracked clean down the middle. That dangerous shift from suspicion to certainty. From unease to revelation.

“You’re tagged,” he spat. 

A whisper at first—horrified. Then louder, venomous, full of rage: “You sons of bitches—you led them here.”

Y/N didn’t breathe.

Spencer froze, spine rigid, his limbs still sluggish from blood loss and shock—but his gaze locked on the man.

The unsub moved like lightning after a coil—storming toward the fireplace, shoving aside a battered chair and knocking over a rusted floor lamp in the process. The bulb burst in a brittle flash—shards of glass scattering across the warped floorboards with the sharp crack of splintered light.

Sparks flashed, brief and bright, then vanished.

His boots crushed the debris beneath him as he spun back toward them, shotgun raised, his breath sawing in and out in uneven gasps. Every step vibrated the floor like a war drum. His finger tightened on the trigger—his face carved into something raw and volcanic.

Y/N opened her mouth—tried to intercept, to redirect, to deflect him back toward her—

But it was too late.

He lunged, grabbing Spencer by the front of his coat and yanking him forward with a violence that cracked through the air like a snapped bone. Spencer’s breath left him in a choked sound—sharp, involuntary—as his body pitched forward under the unsub’s grip, knees scraping the wood.

Then came the hands—rough, frantic, clawing through layers of fabric like a man possessed. Fingers tearing at the buttons, wrenching open the coat with jerking movements, searching for proof with the blind desperation of someone who already knew what he’d find.

Y/N strained against the ropes, breath caught behind her teeth, her wrists burning against the binding.

And then—

He found it.

A small black device, tucked just inside the inner lining. No bigger than a matchbox. Sleek. Silent. The unsub ripped it free, holding it up in a trembling hand.

It blinked.

Once. Green.

Steady. Alive.

A heartbeat in plastic casing.

Hope, caught in circuitry.

The unsub stared at it like it had just condemned him—like it had always been there, whispering in the dark, waiting to betray him. His breathing hitched, deepened, then turned ragged, fury igniting behind his eyes like fuel to flame.

“You think you can track me?” he hissed, his voice trembling with rage and disbelief. His grip tightened on Spencer’s collar. “You think you’re smarter than me?”

The GPS blinked again.

And somewhere in the woods beyond the cabin, help was coming.

But inside—

Inside, time had just started ticking faster.

Beep.

The unsub stared at the device—frozen, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like a cornered animal.

Then, without warning, the fury broke loose.

He snarled—a guttural, full-body sound that ripped up from somewhere beneath language, raw and unfiltered, more beast than man—and in the same motion, hurled the GPS unit to the floor. It hit the boards with a sharp crack, the plastic casing skidding across the grain and coming to rest by Y/N’s boot.

His foot came down a second later—hard—a stomping blow that sent a sickening crunch through the room. Sparks shot out in jagged arcs, tiny bursts of light skittering like electric fireflies into the shadows beneath the table, the edges of the walls.

The blinking stopped.

So did everything else.

The cabin fell still in the aftermath, as if recoiling—its very air taut with held breath, the storm outside now muffled by the weight of what had just been destroyed. Smoke curled faintly from the shattered casing, wires frayed and twitching like exposed nerves.

Spencer didn’t move. Y/N didn’t breathe.

It hit like a drop in barometric pressure—

the tilt in the unsub’s posture, 

the wild shine in his eyes,

the shift from suspicion to certainty to rage.

“You lying little shit.”

The words burst from him like a snapped wire.

Spencer’s mouth parted—instinct, an attempt at reason, at reach—but nothing came. No room for logic. No space for calm. Just static behind his ribs.

The man’s hand shot out, snatching a rust-flecked pipe from the clutter near the hearth—three feet of old steel, cold and cruel in his grip. His fingers twitched as he raised it, knuckles pale, tendons straining like they wanted to break free from the skin.

“You came here wired,” he spat, his voice cracking at the edges. “You fed them my location. You think you can dissect me? Turn me into a case file? Break me down into numbers and symptoms and—notes?”

His voice rose with every word, nearly feral now. Each syllable was jagged with betrayal. The pipe lifted—shoulder drawn back, locked and ready.

Spencer didn’t flinch.

He tensed instead, a small shift in his spine, a tilt of his head—not from fear, but readiness. Bracing not for pain, but for the rhythm of it, the moment to move, to shield.

But before the blow could fall—

“It was me.”

Her voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

Sharp. Deliberate. A clean slice through the thick, rancid air that hung heavy with sweat, dust, and old wood smoke.

The unsub froze—mid-motion, mid-breath—the rusted pipe still raised high in his trembling grip. His chest heaved under the weight of adrenaline, sweat painting dark patches across his collar. His eyes, rimmed red and ringed in sleepless mania, flicked between the two of them—Spencer on the floor, unmoving, and Y/N upright, bloody, but burning steady.

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t flinch.

She held his gaze with the precision of a knife thrower lining up a kill shot. Her wrists bled where the rope bit into raw skin, her breath shaky from pain—but her posture never wavered.

And then—a chuckle.

Low. Dry. The kind of sound that slipped from the edge of a cracked smile—not amused, but knowing. Cold. Calculated.

She leaned forward slightly, enough to shift the tension in the room.

“You want the truth?” she said, her voice now wrapped in something quieter. Meaner. Intentional. “You’re right. You were always right.”

The unsub’s grip flexed around the pipe. He twitched—not from fear, but recognition.

“I’m the one they sent,” she continued, tone sinking deeper, silk over steel. “Not him.”

She jerked her chin toward Spencer without looking. Didn’t dare. Couldn’t see the expression on his face—the confusion, the betrayal, the heartbreak—because if she did, she’d fall apart.

“The kid?” Her voice dripped disdain. “He’s nothing. Still green. He’s read the textbooks but he hasn’t seen the dirt under the floorboards yet. He thinks we’re here to help you.”

She let out another soft, bitter laugh. “That’s cute, isn’t it?”

Spencer stirred beside her. His breathing hitched. But she didn’t look. Couldn’t. She was too deep now—buried in it. And this wasn’t about him. Not right now. This was survival. This was the only hand she had left to play.

“I’ve been inside this operation for weeks,” she said. “Studying your patterns. Cross-referencing your routines, your history, your trauma. I’ve read your medical records. Your military discharge. I’ve talked to the people who used to know you—before.”

She tilted her head, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving the unsub’s face.

“Before you woke up.”

He was breathing faster now. Mouth slightly parted. Sweat trickling down the side of his temple, collecting in the notch of his jaw. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t need to. He was locked on her.

“Everything you’ve been feeling? The eyes? The pressure? The sense that you’re being dissected in real time?”

Her voice dropped.

“That’s me.”

His fingers twitched. His grip on the pipe slipped a little before snapping back tighter than before.

“I was sent to infiltrate. Quietly. Completely. Not to arrest you. To study you. To peel you open. Reduce you to variables. Numbers. Labels. Paranoid. Unstable. Prone to violence.”

He twitched again. A sick little shiver of something that looked far too close to understanding.

“I was meant to map your entire psyche without you ever knowing,” she said. “To catalog your impulses, your threats, your breaking points. Not just to control you—but to reconstruct you.”

Another beat. Her voice dipped, softer now. Like a lullaby made of glass shards.

“We build the cage from the inside.”

And she smiled.

Not wide. Not cruel.

Just enough to make him believe it.

The unsub staggered back—just half a step, but it landed like a blow. As if her words had struck something inside his chest, something hollow and long-rotting, and rattled it hard enough to sound.

The pipe in his hand dipped slightly.

Spencer was staring at her now—wide-eyed, frozen, a single streak of dried blood tracking toward the edge of his jaw. He didn’t look dazed anymore. He looked like he was witnessing a slow-motion train crash with someone he loved still standing on the tracks.

“Y/N—” he choked out, voice cracked and raw at the edges.

But she cut him off. Fast. Sharp. Surgical.

“I made the call to come here,” she said, and her tone had changed again—now clinical, ruthless, the voice of someone who’d been hiding in plain sight. “I brought him with me because no one looks twice at the rookie. That’s how I got so close.”

The unsub’s breath hitched. The kind of breath you take before deciding to kill someone.

Y/N pressed forward.

“While he asked you polite questions, I was the one watching. Recording. Cataloging every blink, every tremor, every tell. The way your hand twitched when we said the word ‘discharge.’ The way your pupils shrank when I stepped too close.”

The unsub’s fingers flexed around the pipe—bone-white and twitching, the metal trembling just slightly in his grip.

His face contorted. Slowly. Not in confusion. Not in disbelief.

But in recognition.

Like something had finally snapped into place.

“You lied to me,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. But it held teeth. The kind of whisper that precedes a scream.

Y/N nodded once. Slow. Deliberate.

“Every word.”

The room shifted around them. The air grew heavier. The shadows deeper. The hunter had found his traitor—and now, the line between predator and prey was gone.

His jaw clenched hard enough to tick. His nostrils flared. He blinked once—a muscle twitch of betrayal—and then something darker flooded his eyes.

Rage.

“So you admit it,” he spat.

“I do.”

She didn’t blink.

Didn’t tremble.

Didn’t look at Spencer—not even for a second.

“I told them I’d draw you out,” she said. “Told them I could build the perfect bait. I designed the plan. I volunteered to come in first. And I brought him with me to play innocent, so you’d never look twice at me.”

The man stared at her like she’d just changed form—like every feature of her face was shifting into something monstrous, into the villain he’d been waiting for all along. The hand holding the pipe twitched again. The muscles in his arm drew taut.

He saw her now.

Not as someone in his house.

But as the one who’d built the trap.

And walked in willingly.

And Spencer—God, he knew.

Knew exactly what she was doing.

He could see it—unfolding in real time, like one of those impossibly slow Rube Goldberg machines, every gear turning, every trigger rigged, every step more dangerous than the last. Y/N wasn’t just improvising. She was sacrificing. Building the narrative. Crafting the role she knew he’d buy.

The villain. The infiltrator. The enemy.

Spencer’s heart thudded so loud it drowned out everything else. Not from the pain in his temple, not from the rope biting into his wrists—but from the sheer, gut-wrenching certainty of it.

She was painting a target on herself.

Not just with words—but with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to stand so that when the shot came, it would hit her and not him.

And he couldn’t stop it.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t reach for her. Couldn’t say her name the way he wanted to—not the warning, not the plea, but the real way. The way that meant don’t do this. Please.

His eyes flicked over her—sweat at her hairline, blood dry, hands trembling just barely where they rested behind her. But her face?

Stone.

The kind of stillness that came just before collapse. The kind that broke you from the inside out.

He felt sick.

Because Spencer knew this wasn’t just a bluff.

She wasn’t just buying time. She was making a deal. And she hadn’t yet figured out how she was going to get out of it.

The unsub’s knuckles tightened on the pipe.

And this time, he turned toward her.

The unsub stood in front of her, hovering like a storm about to break. His chest heaved, his breath fast and uneven, the sound wet at the edges—like he was choking on fury. His eyes shimmered, bloodshot and wide, and behind them was nothing but chaos: betrayal, humiliation, the raw ache of someone who believed he’d finally uncovered the truth—and wanted someone to bleed for it.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

She lifted her chin. Her wrists still burned from the rope, the skin there already raw, but she sat taller. Straighter. Not defiant— but anchored. She wasn’t trying to fight him. She was trying to pull him in. Away from Spencer. Away from anyone who couldn’t take what was coming.

“You want to dissect me?” the unsub hissed, spittle catching in the corner of his mouth. “You want to peel me open and write me down like some—some experiment?”

Y/N’s throat was bone-dry. Her breath felt thin. But her eyes didn’t waver.

“Yes,” she said.

The pipe arced through the air like lightning.

The first blow cracked across her ribs.

A sickening thud—deep and solid, metal against bone—and it knocked the air from her lungs like she’d been punched by the sky. Her body snapped sideways, collapsing onto her hip, rope barely catching her before she hit the floor completely. The sound that left her mouth wasn’t a scream. It was sharper. Shorter. Like breath torn in half.

Spencer’s voice broke behind her, sharp and helpless. “Stop—!”

Y/N didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. She didn’t risk shifting her gaze or moving even an inch toward him—didn’t dare let the unsub sense where Spencer’s voice had come from.

She kept her eyes locked on the man in front of her. Kept the weight of his rage squarely on her shoulders.

“It’s nothing,” Y/N gasped, her voice splintered at the edges like cracked porcelain.

The words weren’t for him—not really.

But they were said loud enough to reach the unsub, to thread into the air like a challenge. Flat. Dismissive. Designed to taunt.

And yet, there was something beneath it. A note of softness buried inside the brokenness—so subtle only Spencer would catch it.

She glanced at him. Just once. Barely more than a flicker. But it was there. Not a cry for help. Maybe an apology.

A warning. A reassurance. Don’t move. Don’t speak. I’m still here. Let me do this.

Spencer's throat constricted. He couldn’t breathe. His whole body screamed to reach for her, to throw himself between them, but he stayed frozen—because she was protecting him, even now, even like this.

The unsub didn’t catch the shift.

He was too deep in it now—

Too tangled in the scent of blood and sweat, in the heat of betrayal clinging to his skin like a second layer.

His gaze flicked to Spencer again—not with doubt, but with a kind of furious clarity. A moment of recognition between predator and prey.

“You see?” he rasped, voice hoarse and shaking with conviction. “She used you. Just like they all do.”

Spencer didn’t speak. Couldn’t. But his jaw twitched. His fingers curled slightly where they’d been slack.

“She’s one of them,” the man hissed, his eyes blazing now. “Wrapped you around her finger so you wouldn’t see it. Made you feel safe. Needed. Like you mattered.”

He took a step closer. The pipe shook in his grip.

“But it was a lie. And now you brought them to me.”

His head cocked sharply to the side, a grotesque mimicry of sympathy. “I’ll solve it for both of us,” he whispered, too calm now. Too sure. “You don’t have to suffer anymore. Neither of us do.”

His gaze was locked on Spencer—but his knuckles flexed around the pipe as he turned toward Y/N.

“They’re the poison,” he spat. “She’s the worst of them.”

He looked at her like he was seeing something grotesque and glorious all at once.

And then—

The rage twisted. Broke open.

With a jagged, animal sound caught somewhere between a sob and a snarl, the unsub howled and wrenched the pipe backward—

Only to throw it.

The metal spun from his hand, sailing across the room in a flash of rust and fury. It struck the floor with a brutal, echoing clang, the sound ricocheting off the cabin walls like a gunshot. The pipe rolled once, twice—then stilled in the dust.

Not mercy.

Not remorse.

Just escalation.

His shoulders rose and fell like a wave crashing, chest heaving with the strain of restraint. He ran a shaking hand down his face, smearing sweat and blood together, jaw locked tight like he was chewing on bone.

“No,” he growled, low and guttural, voice thick with the weight of too many nights spent talking to ghosts. “That’s too easy.”

He took a step forward.

Then another towards her.

“I want it real,” he seethed. “I want to look in your eyes and see it. I want you to know what it’s like—to feel hunted. Dissected. Reduced.”

His voice rose with each word, fraying at the edges.

“You think you’re clever. You think I didn’t see it. But I saw you the second you walked in.”

Spencer shifted beside her—slow, deliberate—but didn’t speak. He knew. Any wrong sound, any motion now could tip this into blood.

Y/N didn’t move either.

But her pulse thundered in her throat.

The unsub’s boots thudded against the warped floorboards, closing the space between them inch by inch. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching like they still held the weapon.

“I want you to beg,” he said. “Not for you. For him. So he knows what you really are before it’s too late.”

His breath was ragged. Wild.

And his eyes—locked on hers—were lit with the glow of delusion, of violence waiting for permission.

Y/N didn’t have time to move.

His fist came down hard across her jaw.

Her head snapped sideways, a sharp gasp breaking from her throat as blood flew in an arc across the floor. Her body recoiled instinctively, but she had nowhere to go—arms bound, knees failing.

Another hit.

Knuckles against cheekbone.

Crack.

She didn’t cry out this time. Just a low, wet sound from deep in her chest. One eye squeezed shut. The other barely tracked.

Spencer shouted her name—screamed it—but she couldn’t look at him.

The next blow hit her temple, dazing her. Her limbs jerked once, then sagged, and she started to tip—eyes fluttering.

He grabbed her by the front of her shirt and hauled her up, letting her head loll against his shoulder for a split second before slamming her back down against the post.

She choked on her own breath. Blood pooled in the corner of her mouth.

Still, she tried to speak. Tried to draw his focus back—keep him off Spencer.

“Go ahead,” she gasped, voice shredded. “You’ve already lost.”

Spencer’s voice cracked wide open. “Stop! You’re going to kill her!”

“I’m supposed to!” the unsub roared. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know how this ends?”

He wiped his knuckles, hands shaking, and reached for the knife on the table.

“No—no—” Spencer’s voice rose, frantic now. “Listen to me, just—just wait—”

But the unsub was already behind Y/N, cutting the ties loose with the knife. 

She hit the floor hard, shoulder slamming into the boards, the air knocked from her lungs in a sharp wheeze. Blood was smeared across her chin, a glint of it now soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her arms shook as she tried to push herself up.

The unsub stood over her, chest rising and falling with erratic, animal rhythm. He saw the flicker of her hand as she reached—slow, shaky—toward the knife that had fallen nearby during the struggle. Fingers grazed the hilt.

He kicked it away.

Hard.

The blade skidded across the floor and disappeared under the edge of a cabinet.

Y/N didn’t react fast enough to hide the effort.

He saw it and laughed. It was a jagged, broken sound—half snarl, half thrill. Then he stepped forward and crushed her hand beneath his boot.

Y/N’s cry was small and raw—closer to a breath than a scream. Her eyes squeezed shut. Her other hand curled into the floor.

Spencer strained against the ropes again, his voice hoarse with panic. “Don’t touch her!”

The unsub didn’t even glance back.

He knelt.

Slowly. Like he was savoring it.

He flipped her over, one knee pressed into Y/N’s stomach as he leaned forward, one hand pinning her shoulder down, the other hovering just over her throat.

“I want to see it,” he murmured. “The moment you realize you’re not the one in control anymore.”

Y/N coughed—barely able to lift her head. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts now. Each one sounded like it scraped the inside of her chest.

Then his hand wrapped around her throat, and squeezed. 

She clawed at his arm, both hands wrapping around his wrist, trying to pry him off, her grip slick with sweat and trembling with effort.

A low, pained sound escaped her throat—part snarl, part choke—as she gritted her teeth and fought back, muscles straining against the weight of him. She twisted beneath his grip, her nails biting into his skin, but he only squeezed harder, knuckles white, lips pulled back in something that might’ve been a grin or a grimace.

Spencer’s mind was racing. Every second like a blade in his chest. Every flash of her body jerking beneath the unsub’s grip chiseled deeper into him.

“Stop!” Spencer shouted, voice raw. “Hey—look at me!”

The unsub didn’t flinch. His grip only tightened.

Y/N’s body arched slightly beneath the pressure, her fingers still scrabbling against his arm, trying to peel his hand away from her throat.

Do something. Think. Think, think, think—

And then—

He found it.

A fracture in the man’s mind. A mirror.

Spencer’s voice dropped an octave, fast and sharp now, like the sound itself might wedge into the fracture. “You were right. You were right, okay?”

The unsub didn’t stop—but his grip faltered. Fractionally.

Spencer lunged toward that moment like it was oxygen.

“You knew they were watching you. You knew they were lying. That they wanted to control you, label you, shut you up. But you were smarter than them. That’s why you’re still here. You saw the truth and no one believed you, and you made it anyway.”

Y/N gasped—one desperate breath into her bruised lungs—and coughed, chest heaving.

The unsub’s hand wavered. Confusion clouded his eyes.

Spencer’s words poured out now, urgent and unrelenting. “You didn’t lose it. You adapted. You survived. You outmaneuvered everyone trying to cage you. That’s not a breakdown. That’s brilliance. That’s strength.”

The fingers at Y/N’s throat loosened. Barely—but enough.

Spencer’s voice softened, but the tempo stayed fast. Intent. Begging. Calculating. Focused.

“Don’t give them what they expect,” he breathed. “Don’t let them turn you into the thing they’re afraid of. You’re better than that. You know you are. Don’t let your story end in their headlines. Don’t become the monster they want to write about.”

Y/N coughed again—sharp, alive—and Spencer’s heart crashed against his ribs like it wanted out of his chest.

The unsub’s shoulders dropped. Just an inch.

Silence.

The unsub’s breathing hitched.

His hands fell away.

And just then—the door exploded open.

Boots stormed the cabin.

Voices shouting.

The unsub turned, disoriented—eyes wild, breath coming in short, confused bursts as the front door burst open in a hail of shouting and boots.

But he didn’t even have time to reach for the shotgun.

Morgan was on him in an instant.

Not tactical, not measured, but angry.

He slammed into the unsub like a wrecking ball, driving him back with a crash that shook the floor. They hit the boards hard—shoulder to ribs, elbow to throat—Morgan pinning him down with every ounce of fury in his body.

“You son of a bitch!” he roared, his voice pure, guttural violence.

His fist cracked against the unsub’s jaw once—twice—before Hotch grabbed him from behind, pulling him back.

“Morgan!” Hotch barked. “That’s enough!”

But Morgan’s eyes were locked on the blood smeared across the floor—on Y/N, curled on her side near the fireplace, gasping.

Her throat was mottled red, fingerprints blooming dark against her skin, and her face—her cheekbone already purple and raw, lips split.

She coughed again, ragged and wet, and blinked through the sting of light and dust as boots thundered toward her.

Rossi dropped to his knees beside her. “Y/N,” he said, voice taut. “Are you—can you hear me?”

Her hand wavered slightly, lifting from the floor with a tremble that shook down her whole arm. And then—miraculously, impossibly—she gave him a shaky thumbs up.

“Madonna santa,” Rossi muttered, relief crumpling across his face. 

Morgan was still breathing hard, knuckles white, even as the rest of the team moved in—cuffs, weapons, orders flying like a storm around them.

“You don’t touch her,” he spat, voice shaking as the unsub was hauled to his knees. “You don’t get to touch her.”

And then he was on his feet, already rushing to her side.

Hotch’s voice echoed like thunder. “CLEAR!”

But Spencer barely heard it.

He was already crawling across the floor, knees scraping wood slick with blood, hands shaking as he pulled himself toward her.

“Y/N,” he choked out.

She was curled on her side near the hearth, one hand limp across her stomach, the other barely twitching. Her body looked too small, too still. Blood matted her hair, smeared across her jaw, soaking into the collar of her shirt. Her breathing was shallow—thin—but there.

“Y/N,” he said again, softer now, breath catching.

His hands hovered just inches above her. He didn’t know where to touch—what not to hurt.

She turned her head slowly, her face a map of pain and resilience. A small, broken smile curled at the corner of her mouth, tugging against dried blood.

“Still here,” she rasped, trying to catch her breath, voice barely above a whisper. “Told you it was nothing.”

And then her eyes fluttered shut—not from unconsciousness, but relief. Like she finally believed she was safe.

Spencer’s chest caved inward, his hand finally settling gently against her shoulder.

“Stay with me,” he murmured. “Please.”

A pair of hands touched his arm.

JJ.

“Spence—Spencer, you’re bleeding. Let us—”

He shook his head without looking at her.

“I’m fine. Help her.”

Emily dropped to her knees beside JJ, composure cracking the moment she saw her.

“God—Y/N,” she breathed, her voice tight with panic she didn’t bother to hide. Her hands hovered over the bruises, the blood, the torn fabric, unsure where to touch without making it worse. Her eyes flicked rapidly from Y/N’s face to her ribs to the blood trailing down her temple, cataloging everything, but none of it fast enough.

“Talk to me, okay? Just—keep talking.”

But Morgan was already there too, hitting the floor hard on the other side of her, breath still ragged from the fight, jaw clenched like he wanted to throw another punch.

He didn’t say anything at first.

He just looked at her.

Then he reached out, gently brushing a matted strand of hair from her face with the back of his knuckle—fingers trembling.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You’re okay now. We’ve got you.”

But Spencer never let go of her hand.

Her voice was the first thing to break the silence.

“Well,” Y/N croaked, barely above a whisper, “that went great.”

Spencer let out a sound that hitched in his throat — somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

She winced as she tried to push herself up, breath catching sharply in her throat. “Oof—okay, okay, maybe I should’ve opened with a knock-knock joke instead.”

“Y/N—don’t,” Morgan muttered, crouched beside her, one arm braced behind her back to steady her as she shifted upright. “You’re barely standing.”

“I’m hilarious,” she argued through grit teeth, her voice rough with blood and pride. “You’re just not in the mood.”

“Damn right I’m not,” Emily snapped gently, crouching in front of her, eyes wide with worry that she didn’t bother to hide. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a semi. Sit your ass down.”

Y/N tried to grin. Failed. Winced instead.

But she stayed upright. Just to prove she could.

Emily shook her head, but her eyes shone. “You scare the hell out of me, you know that?”

“Mutual,” Y/N rasped, and finally let her weight rest back into Morgan’s arm.

Spencer moved in quickly, his hands gentle but firm as he helped guide her into a seated position. “You shouldn’t move yet.”

She glanced at him, eyes still glassy, one brow arching faintly. “If I wait for your approval, I’ll die waiting instead.”

Morgan huffed—less annoyed, more relieved.

Spencer didn’t argue. He simply shifted to support her weight as she slowly—agonizingly—got to her feet. She swayed, hissed, nearly buckled again, but he caught her. Both arms steady around her as he drew her into his side.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“I know,” she whispered back.

The air outside hit like a wall.

Cold, wet, alive with stormlight. It smelled like moss and mud and gunmetal, and Spencer didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until it stung his lungs on the way in.

Behind them, the cabin was alive with noise. Paramedics rushed past. JJ gave orders into her radio. The unsub writhed on the ground beneath the knee of a state trooper, snarling, face twisted, voice hoarse from screaming.

“You don’t know what they do,” he shouted after them. “You don’t know!”

Y/N flinched slightly at the sound, but didn’t look back. Spencer angled his body in front of hers, shielding her from the view.

She let him.

Morgan followed close behind, jaw tight, eyes still burning. “Let him scream,” he muttered. “He’s got nothing left.”

The ambulance came into view—doors open, floodlights painting everything in harsh yellow. Emily waited by the entrance, but her face softened when she saw Y/N walking under her own strength.

Barely. But still.

Spencer helped her up the step, one arm still wrapped firmly around her.

“You’re okay,” he murmured again, more to himself than to her.

“I know.”

“Almost there,” he murmured, voice barely audible above the wind.

Y/N gave a rough, rattling chuckle. “You said that five steps ago.”

He looked down at her—at the blood dried in the corner of her mouth, the bruises blossoming along her jaw, the torn skin on her knuckles—and felt something fracture in his chest again.

“You shouldn’t be talking.”

“I’ve earned the right,” she rasped. “Pretty sure I just out-profiled you.”

Spencer huffed, incredulous. “You’re making jokes?”

“You’re the one who talked a man off my windpipe with behavioral theory. We’re even.”

Her knees buckled suddenly. Spencer caught her with a sharp inhale, adjusting his grip and pulling her tighter against his side. She didn’t fight it—just leaned in, forehead briefly pressing against his shoulder, blood smudging the fabric of his coat.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

“Know you do.”

The ambulance doors were open now, floodlights casting harsh gold light over the clearing. JJ ran toward them first, her eyes wide with horror when she saw the state of them both—but mostly Y/N.

The paramedics helped ease her onto the gurney, moving fast but careful. Spencer started to step back, but her hand caught his.

“Don’t go far,” she said, her voice going soft now. “I don’t want to wake up alone.”

He squeezed her fingers gently. “I won’t.”

And as the ambulance doors closed — sealing her from view with a dull metallic finality — Spencer remained frozen in place.

Rain streaked down his face in thin, icy threads, soaking through his shirt and coat until the fabric clung to him like a second skin. His curls lay plastered to his forehead, water dripping steadily from his lashes, from the sharp line of his jaw. The cut on his temple had gone from a sharp burn to a dull throb, blood mingling with rain and trailing down the side of his face in a diluted red smear.

The paramedics circled him now, gloved hands brushing over his injuries with clinical care — gentle, practiced — but he barely registered them. The world felt muffled, as if the storm had pulled a veil over everything. All he could hear was the sound of her voice echoing in his mind, hollow and brave and unbearably steady:

It’s okay. I can take it.

He hadn’t believed her — not really. Not in the way she meant it. And now the weight of that moment sat like stone in his chest, pressing against his ribs, caught somewhere between the cracked floorboards of that cabin and the way her eyes had locked onto his. Not pleading. Not scared. Just herself. Fierce and unwavering and hurt. So deeply hurt.

Spencer blinked, slow and stinging, and for a heartbeat he thought he could still feel her fingers curled around his, warm and trembling, as she told him not to go far.

His heart hadn’t moved since.

It was still there — with her — wherever they were taking her now.

And for the first time since it all began, he realized: 

She had taken it. 

But he hadn’t.

Not really.

The apartment was dark when he stepped inside.

Not silent — the rain still fell against the windows in a steady whisper, and the old radiator creaked with every shift in temperature. But still, it felt like stepping into a vacuum. Like his body hadn’t caught up with him yet. Like a part of him was still in that cabin, still on the floor, watching her bleed.

He dropped his go-bag by the door and stood there for a long time, wet curls dripping onto the hardwood. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Not badly, just enough that he noticed. Enough that he wrapped them around a mug he didn’t remember filling and stared into space.

He didn’t even hear the knock at first.

Just the rhythm — soft, then urgent. Three beats. A pause. Two more. Like she didn’t want to wake the neighbors, but she couldn’t not be there.

Spencer crossed the room in a daze. When he opened the door—

She was standing there.

Coat wrapped tight around her. Hair pulled back but messy, the bandage above her temple visible under the porch light. She looked small. Pale. But she was on her feet.

He stared at her for a heartbeat too long. 

Then stepped aside without a word and let her in.

Spencer took her coat carefully—more gently than she expected. Like she might break if he touched her wrong. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, lowering herself onto the edge of his couch with a hiss between her teeth. “You’re gonna make me think I actually look as bad as I feel.”

He didn’t answer. Just folded her coat neatly over the armrest and crouched down in front of her, eyes scanning her face like he could take inventory of every bruise, every cut.

Before he could speak, she reached out—fingers brushing his jaw, then cradling the side of his face with both hands, steady and careful. Her thumbs skimmed just beneath his cheekbones as her eyes flicked up to the angry stitches near his temple, expression darkening with concern.

“Spence,” she said, voice low and earnest. “How do they feel?”

He blinked, startled slightly by the question—by the way she always noticed, even when she was the one who nearly didn’t make it out. 

“Sore,” he admitted quietly. “But manageable.”

Her brow pinched as her thumb hovered just shy of the wound, like she could soothe it just by being near.

“Good,” she murmured. “Because if they botched it, I’m filing a complaint.”

He huffed a faint laugh. But his eyes never left hers.

She glanced down at herself — the clean bandages wrapped snug around her hands, pale against the faint shadow of bruises blooming at her wrists. The ache in her ribs pulled with every breath, dulled by medication but still present, a quiet reminder. Then she looked back up at him, her smile crooked and dry.

“I mean, it’s not my best look,” she said. “But I’ve definitely worn worse on surveillance gigs. Remember that one time Garcia put me in a wig and said I looked like a discount Loretta Lynn?”

Spencer blinked. His mouth opened, then closed again. He looked like he wanted to laugh, but couldn’t remember how.

She nudged his knee gently with her hand. “Come on, Spence. I’m okay. See? Talking. Breathing. Being obnoxious.”

“You’re not okay.” His voice came out quiet, hoarse. “You were—he was—”

She cut him off gently. “You were there. I know.”

A pause. She softened.

“But you were also the reason I got to walk out.” She reached out, brushed her fingers lightly across his wrist. “So maybe I’m not as okay as I usually am. But I’m still here. That counts for something, right?”

He didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in.

“I thought I was gonna lose you,” he whispered.

Y/N’s smile faded. Just a little.

Then, with a lopsided grin: “Are you kidding? After all that? You really think I’d let some backwoods psycho have the last word?”

He huffed out a laugh. It sounded broken. Real.

“Besides,” she added, settling back into the couch with a wince, “I like your couch too much to die. I mean—this thing is weirdly comfortable, right?”

Spencer looked at her like she was made of glass and gravity and everything that could undo him. But he smiled.

And for the first time all night, she knew he believed her.

The apartment hummed quietly around them — the radiator ticking, the rain soft against the windows. Spencer moved to sit beside her on the couch, but not too close. Just near enough that their knees touched lightly, unspoken reassurance pulsing in that one point of contact.

Y/N leaned her head back against the cushions. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

Then, without opening her eyes:

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Spencer looked over. “What thing?”

She cracked one eye open and gave him a look. “The thing where you spiral quietly and blame yourself for everything within a hundred-mile radius.”

“I’m not—”

“Spencer,” she cut in, gentle but firm. “Don’t lie to me. Especially not when I look like this.”

He swallowed hard, gaze dragging up despite himself.

The bruises along her cheekbone had deepened into dusk-colored blooms — stark against the bandage at her temple. A fainter one curled near the corner of her jaw, half-hidden beneath the fall of her hair. Even cleaned and stitched up, she looked like she’d been through hell. And she had.

His eyes dropped to her hands — wrapped in clean gauze — then to the faint rise of bandages under her shirt, just visible at the edge of her coat. Her throat bore the worst of it: a scatter of red and violet where the pressure had been, ugly and fresh.

“I shouldn’t have let you—”

“You didn’t let me do anything.”

Her voice was quiet, but clear now. Unapologetic.

“I made a choice. I saw what was going to happen. I knew what he was going to do, and I made a call.”

He didn’t speak. Just stared at his hands in his lap like they might have done something different, if only they’d moved faster.

“I would do it again,” she said simply.

That got his attention. His head snapped up.

“No—Y/N—”

“Yes,” she said, unwavering. “Every time. If it’s between me or you, I’m choosing me. Every time.”

“You could’ve died.”

Her expression softened. “So could you.”

His throat tightened. “But I didn’t.”

“Because I was there.” She turned to him then, fully. Her voice dropped. “And because you distracted him. You did exactly what I hoped you would.”

“I didn’t know if it would work,” he admitted, voice breaking slightly.

“But it did.”

He looked at her for a long moment. There were tears in his eyes, unshed, and he wasn’t even trying to blink them away anymore.

“I hate that you got hurt,” he whispered.

“I hate that I had to,” she said, not unkindly. “But I don’t regret it.”

He reached out then — tentative — and let his fingers brush lightly over the back of her hand. Just enough to let her pull away if she needed to.

She didn’t.

His hand shifted from hers — slowly, carefully — until it hovered just beneath her chin. When she didn’t move away, he let his fingers graze the edge of her jaw. Gentle as breath. Like she was made of something more fragile than bone.

Y/N blinked once, then closed her eyes.

And leaned into the touch.

His thumb brushed gently across the curve of her cheek, over skin still tender and faintly swollen. His touch lingered—careful, reverent—as if memorizing the shape of her face one fragile line at a time. Like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

She let out the softest breath — not pained, just tired. Trusting.

Her hand came up and wrapped around his.

Just that.

Soft. Steady. Real.

Spencer shifted forward before he could think better of it. Just enough to bring his face close, so close he could feel her breath fan lightly against his mouth. But he didn’t kiss her there — not yet.

Instead, he pressed his lips to her temple. A barely-there touch. Then the other side. Her eyelid, warm beneath him. The bridge of her nose. Her cheekbone.

Tiny, aching acts of reverence.

He paused at the corner of her mouth.

Stopped there, hovering.

Her lashes fluttered open, and she didn’t pull away.

But she didn’t lean in either.

Her thumb ran across the back of his hand, slow. “Spence,” she murmured, voice low, a little raw. “You don’t have to be careful.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I want to be.”

They stayed like that for a moment — her fingers curled around his, his palm resting against the side of her face like he couldn’t quite let go.

Then Y/N exhaled a slow breath and pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her voice was quieter now, but still laced with that familiar edge — dry, wry, undeniably her.

“So…” she began, dragging out the word like it weighed something, “I was thinking I might crash here tonight. You know, if the offer’s still on the table.”

Spencer blinked, lips parting — caught somewhere between surprised and relieved. “Of course.”

She nodded, pretending to consider. “Good. Because I’m not entirely convinced my legs still work, and if I try to drive, I’ll probably end up in Delaware by accident.”

He almost smiled. “You’re welcome to the bed.”

“Tempting,” she said, already shifting her weight with a small wince. “But if you give me the bed, you’re just gonna sleep out here on the couch like some noble, long-suffering martyr, and then I’ll feel guilty and it’ll be this whole thing.”

“You won’t feel guilty.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Spence, I feel bad leaving voicemails. I will feel guilty.”

That pulled a real laugh from him — short, breathy, almost startled. The kind of sound that cracked something open.

She smiled at that, but it faded slower this time. Her eyes dropped to where their hands were still joined — his fingers curled carefully around hers, the pulse at his wrist still quick beneath her touch.

Then her gaze flicked up again, quieter now. Sharper.

“And stop looking at me like that,” she said. “Like it’s your fault. I swear, if you keep blaming yourself, I really will be mad at you.”

He opened his mouth — to protest, to explain, he didn’t even know — but she was already lifting his hand gently to her lips and kissing it. Soft. Steady. Like a promise.

“Just… stay close, okay?” she asked. “I don’t want to wake up and think I imagined all of this. You being here. Us getting out.”

His reply was immediate. Steady.

“I’ll be right here.”

She nodded, swallowing whatever else she might’ve said. Then, quieter:

“And if I start snoring, you’re not allowed to mock me until at least after breakfast.”

His eyes crinkled faintly. “Deal.”

[yourlocalsmutwriter]

Lovers to coworkers - Jenson Button x reader

cw: mentions of fingering, creampies, actual spanking and cockwarming, age gap (reader is in her 20s, jenson is in his 40s)

"I have a job for you." Jenson says to you when walking into your shared apartment.

"I am employed, honey. Even though I wish this deadline from my publisher wasn't real, it is. Just like the fact that your lovely girlfriend is a romance writer.". You knew how he felt about what you do for a living. It was an icebreaker during your first date, and when you made him laugh so hard, he did a spit take at your first commissions, you knew he was the one. Thankfully for you, the writing you did had evolved much since your "man gets turned into underwear for his ex-girlfriend" days in college. It was insane how you rationalized that 10 bucks was 10 bucks.

Ever since then, you wrote like a machine. You were versatile, pitching different things to your agent. Poetry books, essay collections, general fiction, all of those were your favorites, Jenson's too. But what skyrocketed you to fame was the romance book you started writing after a drunken night with your boyfriend. You teased him about his "grid slut" days of the past. Asked him to tell you about it, warts and all. And he did, loving the way you crossed your legs as his stories of the past. He kept his hand between your legs as he told you about menages a trois in Monaco and public indecency in Italy.

Jenson fucked you raw that night for the first time and he'd been obsessed with you begging to be filled with his cum. He called you needy, greedy, desperately horny, his little slut. And as much as he tried to deny it, it wears him out. He likes slow things now. Eating you out for hours, orgasm after orgasm melting the time together. Having you stroke him as he's doing research. So when you whine and cum around him, he can't help it. Two more pumps and he's out like a light.

He wakes up hours later, thirst making his throat almost painfully sore. And you're still naked, aside from a pair of glasses, typing furiously on a laptop. He doesn't question it anymore but still tries to coax you into bed. You shoo him off, claiming something about "being in the zone" and continued writing.

You're particularly cagey about that one, but he can guess it has to do with F1 and specifically him. You ask about whether certain events would be accurate in a race. Learn all about his girlfriends passed and how they coped with his stardom. Finally, after months of pestering him, he gets an advanced reader's copy. It's a romance, and it's obvious that it's based on him. The female lead also has some similarities to you, which Jenson loves to tease you about. Both of you expect it to be normal. But social media gets wind of it.

The Booktok girlies were a force to be reckoned with. You should've known that, considering Mark and his controversially young girlfriend. Their "internet meetcute" was as cliche as one of your new plots. But the couple sure made good company on secret double dates. Nothing like beating the assumptions that you're sugar babies with a friend. So when she and the rest of the F1 romance community found your book, it was chaos. Thank God for pen names, because being Jenson's girlfriend on top of writing smut about him would be too much. But after your steamy work, everything shifted. Thanks to the feedback and sales, the book had become a sequel. Then a trilogy. Now, with a fourth one in the works, your partner was getting tired.

That's why, at the mention of your romance writing, he quickly bends you over his lap. He wastes no time in pulling your pants down, making your skin prickle.

"You know, you're bad for my PR, sweets. Do you think your fans have any respect for me?" He asks as he traces shapes on your bare ass. He's waiting to strike.

"Of course they do." You reply. You know the people reading your smut could be a little too into it. And you embrace it. Liking fanart, aesthetic moodboards, playlist. You have your own community and you love engaging with them. That's what sets you apart and partially gets the bills paid. More realistically, it's what helps you buy more books and also spoil Jenson's dog.

"Yeah, then why are they in my Instagram comments, all horny? Thought they weren't supposed to know that your protagonist is based on me." He wonders and smack, comes the first slap to your ass.

"I've built this image, you know." Another hit and he doesn't miss your moan at it.

"A book, almost 400 pages of my deepest, darkest secrets, so many hours of labor." Spanked again.

"17 years, that's almost a two decade career in F1, not to mention karting before and endurance after." Another strike, this time harder. Jenson ignores your pleas, just like he ignores the wetness of your cunt. That would have to wait.

"Took me years to shed the playboy image, so much effort to be serious and reliable on Sky Sports now. And you could potentially ruin it. We can't have that, now can we, sweets?" He asks and smacks you one last time. He drags his nails against the redness of your ass, making you feel the sting of his punishment. Which wasn't finished.

Jenson tells you to be a good girl and mount him, facing the other way. You love how he positions his mouth right against your ear.

"Let me tell you about the opening. It's an open kept secret, but they're letting go of Danica. Backlash from the fans and all that. So I figured, why not get a costar I actually get along with?"

"Jenson, I have no credentials. The public knows me as your girlfriend, it's gonna give nepo sugar baby." You say, trying to ignore your partner's hands on the cotton of your panties. You hate bringing up the age gap as well, but maybe it will remind him why this is a bad idea.

"First of all, everyone knows you're dating me for my looks and sex appeal, not my money. Second, you've been learning while researching your little smutty romances. You've seen every race this season and actually made some interesting points. Why not try it out?" He asks. He's stripping you, leaving your pussy completely exposed atop his jean covered crotch. You try to argue that you'd be a terrible pundit, purposefully using that word to piss him off.

"You'd be a fucking stellar commentator, love. And also a very pretty one, not that it matters." He says, gripping your waist.

"Let me prove it." He turns on the TV and opens the Sky Sports app. He puts on a random quali from this year and mutes it.

"Tell me what's happening and you get a reward." Jenson says and you can feel him unbutton his pants under you. You start with a general overview of the season, and when a camera pans to a certain driver you try to give a little tidbit of information. Your boyfriend adlibs with you, his tender voice becoming more clear and "TV like". Surprisingly, you can follow what he's saying. Even when he slaps the tip of his cock against your clit.

"Keep going, you're on air after all. Don't expect me to carry all of the conversation now." He whispers in your ear as you go silent. You try, providing some more fluff about the country and cheating by asking Jenson about his experience there. He responds by spreading you open and slamming into you in one thrust. Then he actually goes into detail about the track and some challenges.

"Talk the fans through Q1 and I'll move." He says as you squirm in his lap. Jenson's hands grip your hips, making you go still.

In order to "motivate" you, he places one hand on your nipple and the other on your clit. You try your best. You comment on tire choices, and purple sectors. You prompt him to fill your gaps. You even get heated as the time runs out, unsure who'd make it. As soon as you announce the 5 drivers that are out, Jenson moves. The short break between Q1 and Q2 is hell, with your boyfriend absolutely going feral.

"Aren't you so good to me, huh sweets. Taking me so well when I fuck into you. Being the perfect little cock sleeve. Don't get too excited now, we're just starting out." He says, just about as Q2 is about to begin. Then TV Jenson is back, he's talking like you two have an audience. You're too busy trying to get off, pussy clenching over him. As soon as he feels you do that, he pulls out, stopping right at the tip.

"Behave or we're stopping right now." He says and you delve into your observation about the qualifying session. Jense is a full on tease now, sinking you down on him slowly, giving it to you inch by inch. Then he's buried to the hilt and he stops. You relax into your commentator role, despite him throbbing inside of you. He won't let up, purposefully moving his body forward to see a technicality.

"Need glasses, Mr. Button? I know eyesight goes with age, but you're only 44. " You tease and are met with him spreading your legs even more and landing a slap square on your clit. You half moan, half announce the drivers who are out and your "career" is cut short. Jenson presses you flat against the glass coffee table, loving how your breasts are smushed against it. He wraps an arm against your waist and fucks you in earnest. Tip brushing your cervix earnest. Thighs shaking, toe curling earnest. Moans so loud they drown out the fact that he's still commentating earnest. As somebody takes pole position, Jenson makes you come and when the interviews come to a close, he's spilling his seed inside of you.

"You know, if you don't want me writing you like a whore, you should stop acting like one." You say. And even though he's getting soft, you're pulled to Jenson's thigh, smearing his cum over both of you. Round 2 is more predictable than the fact that you did not try for that open Sky Sports position. Because your slot with your boyfriend would have to be moved to after midnight.

[unnonexistence]

i half-made 2 gloves, i think that counts

can i sew a glove in half an hour. lets find out

[pookalicious-hq]

blue velvet... jinx x reader

| 1.4. progress not perfection | prev | next | masterlist

synopsis: two girls trapped within a world full of hate would do anything for eachother. too bad they're both crazy. tags/tws: mentions of mental health illnesses, mention of suicide, blood and gore, mc has split personalities word count: 6.4k

present day: age 23

The sea of bodies sucked you in from either side, a swirling tide of motion and sound. Figures twisted and jostled, their voices rising over one another in a cacophony of excitement as they vied for a glimpse of Progress Day’s marvels. The air itself seemed to hum with energy, the sharp scent of steam and fuel mixing with the sweeter notes of caramelized nuts and fresh pastries. Somewhere nearby, a musician’s lively tune spilled over the noise, adding a whimsical rhythm to the chaos. The skies above were dotted with colourful banners snapping in the wind, their vibrant hues adding to the sharp contrast of the gleaming metalwork around you.

You tugged your hood lower, the fraying edge brushing against your cheek. Your wings, folded tightly against your back, twitched with the urge to stretch, but you kept them carefully hidden beneath your cloak. You’d made sure to preen yourself before leaving—the careful shaking off of loose feathers, the smoothening of your clothes so no stray plume could give away your presence. The last thing you wanted was to leave a trail. This was one of those rare moments when you could blend in, wander the city unnoticed, a fleeting chance to lose yourself in the celebration. A chance to be anonymous.

Still, you allowed yourself a small indulgence. The half-eaten pastry in your hand was sticky, crumbs clinging to your fingers as you weaved through the press of people. The sweet, greasy scent clung to the air, masking the slightly metallic smell of the machines around you. Your sharp eyes flitted between the vibrant displays, absorbing the cacophony of sights: clockwork animals that chirped and hopped, automatons strumming clumsy tunes, and an inventor passionately proclaiming the future of pneumatic transport.

You couldn’t resist. It was too tempting.

As the inventor’s voice crescendoed into the dramatic pitch of a sales pitch, you let your fingers brush against the edge of your cloak, a small static charge crackling through the air. The spark zipped into the exposed wiring of the machine, and the entire contraption jerked violently. Its spindly mechanical limbs flailed, thrashing through the air, smacking into the inventor’s leg and sending him tumbling into the air like a ragdoll. He landed in a tangle of metal and steam, and the crowd erupted in startled laughter.

You grinned, stepping away from the scene before anyone noticed you had been involved. Mischief always seemed to find you when you least expected it. In a crowd like this, no one ever connected the dots—Piltover was too busy admiring itself to worry about one little disruption.

As you sauntered away, a small voice called out behind you, tentative and high-pitched.

“Um, excuse me, miss?”

You paused and turned, blinking down at the small figure tugging at your attention. The little girl, no older than seven or eight, gazed up at you with wide, earnest eyes. Her dirty-blond hair framed her face in soft waves, and her tiny hands were clutching something in front of her.

In her grip was one of your feathers, big and gray, its edges tipped with silver like moonlight on dark water. It shimmered in the light, reflecting the kaleidoscope of colours around you.

Your heart sank.

Shit.

You’d made sure to shake out your wings before you flew up—checked every inch to make sure there were no stray feathers left behind. So why now? Why this one?

“You dropped this,” she said, as if it were a treasure instead of an accident.

“Oh,” you started, trying to hide the momentary panic in your voice. You reached out to take the feather, tucking it quickly beneath your cloak as you flashed the girl a forced smile. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

For a moment, she hesitated, eyeing the hidden feather with wide, curious eyes. You bit your lip, embarrassment creeping up your neck. But you couldn’t help the soft, genuine chuckle that escaped you. “You know what?” you said, crouching down to her level and gently taking the feather. “Why don’t you keep it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise, then her face broke into a smile so bright it made the noise of the crowd feel distant. “Really?” she gasped. “For me?”

You nodded, tucking the feather carefully into her hands. “Tell you what,” you said, leaning in close, your voice taking on a conspiratorial whisper, “this feather isn’t just any feather. It’s magical. I got it from a storm bird all the way in Ixtal.”

Her face lit up, her small fingers brushing over the edges of the feather as if expecting something to happen. “A storm bird? Like, one that makes lightning?”

“Exactly,” you replied, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “They’re rare creatures, and their feathers are said to bring good luck. So, if you keep this, you might just find yourself a little magic of your own.”

She gasped in awe, clutching the feather to her chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. “Thank you very much!” she beamed, barely able to contain her excitement.

Before you could say anything else, the girl’s mother appeared, her hands already reaching out to tug her daughter away. The woman’s eyes flicked over to you, scanning you from head to toe with quick, dismissive contempt. The glint of judgment was unmistakable in her gaze.

“What did I tell you about talking to strangers?” the mother snapped, her voice sharp and cold.

You stood, pushing your shoulders back as the woman’s eyes took in your worn cloak and scuffed boots—your mismatched, patched-up appearance. The clothes didn’t fit right, and the grime of Zaun still clung to your skin like an old memory. It wasn’t lost on you how quickly people like her could size you up. You weren’t part of this world.

“Come on,” she said to the little girl, her tone softening as she tugged her away. “Stay away from people like that.”

The girl hesitated, clutching the feather tightly to her chest, her wide eyes locking onto yours. You gave her a reassuring smile, though it didn’t reach your heart.

The bitterness crept in slowly, curling at the edges of your mind like smoke—dark, lingering, and impossible to shake off. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen it. That look. The judgment, the fear, the instinct to pull away from someone different. But something about seeing it in that little girl—someone so young, so full of wonder—made it sting more than usual.

Kids didn’t start out like that. They weren’t born to look at the world through a lens of suspicion and hatred. They didn’t come out of the womb fearing people they’d never met, or fearing the things they couldn’t understand. That was something that was taught. Something that was learned, and twisted, and fed to them like poison over time.

It was the system that did that. The walls that divided Piltover from the Undercity, the invisible lines that separated the 'worthy' from the 'unworthy.' Kids weren’t born knowing the difference between the two—they learned it by watching the way the streets were built, the way the towers reached higher and higher above the polluted depths of Zaun. They saw how people in the Upper City looked down at the world below them, how they turned their noses up, how they judged everyone and everything in it.

They heard their parents talk about 'the undesirables,' the 'unfortunate ones' from below. How they were a threat to everything Piltover stood for, how the poor, the outcasts, the criminals—those who lived in the shadows—were all 'dangerous' and 'dirty.' It was the kind of talk that seeped into a child’s bones without them even realizing it, until one day, it was as natural as breathing.

That same venom dripped into the veins of the next generation, and before you knew it, it wasn’t just the parents. The kids, too, started looking at you with the same disgust. The same fear.

But that wasn’t where it ended, was it? No. The system kept feeding into that fear, kept reinforcing the lies. In Piltover, it was about power and wealth, about who owned the shiny things, who had the money to pay for protection. And in Zaun, it was about survival. People didn’t get to choose who they became when they grew up. They either adapted, or they were crushed by the weight of the world around them.

It didn’t matter if you were born in the Undercity or the Upper City—you had no control over the cards you were dealt. But the kids, they didn’t know that yet. They didn’t know how the system stacked the deck before they were even born, how it trained them to see the world in black and white, to fear anyone who didn’t look like them, who didn’t have what they had.

The little girl’s eyes had been full of that. Her innocent excitement, all that wonder, until it was tainted by the shadow of her mother’s words. “Don’t talk to strangers.” A simple phrase, but one that held so much more weight when it was uttered with disdain. It was a lesson wrapped in a cruel package: ‘People like you and me don’t mix with people like her. Stay away. Protect yourself.’

It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t the little girl’s fault at all. You couldn’t blame the kids for the hate that was woven into them. They didn’t choose to be born into it. They didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was just how the world worked. The system taught them to fear, to distance themselves, and to ignore the humanity of those who lived beneath them.

And that was why it hurt so much. You’d seen the same pattern play out over and over, each time making it harder to believe that things could ever change. Because how could they, when the foundations of the world were built on this kind of cruelty?

You let out a slow breath, shaking off the sting of the encounter. It wasn’t worth dwelling on. Not today.

The thought barely had time to settle in your mind before a familiar shadow flickered across the ground, and a sharp, high-pitched screech split the air. You blinked, looking up just in time to catch sight of your falcon cutting through the crowd, her wings slicing through the sunlight like blades.

“Hey there, sweet pea,” you murmured with a half-smile, but something was off.

Instead of her usual graceful descent toward you, she veered wide, circling above your head in erratic loops. Her usual comforting presence felt distant now, her flight pattern erratic, as though something had startled her. You furrowed your brow, your fingers instinctively twitching at your sides, almost reaching for a weapon, but you held back, watching her every move.

Then you saw it.

Her talons flashed in the sunlight as they dipped lower, catching your eye. In the clutch of her claws dangled something delicate—too delicate, too out of place in this bustling crowd. You froze, every muscle in your body tensing.

A single strand of blue hair, eerily familiar, dangled like a silent warning from her sharp talons.

Your stomach churned, the blood draining from your face as a sick realization crawled up your spine.

Something had gone wrong.

As gracefully as you could, you navigated through the throngs of bodies. The air seemed to tighten around you as the crowd closed in, their cheers and chatter blurring into a dull roar at the edges of your consciousness. Every instinct screamed for you to break into a sprint, to push past the mass of bodies clogging the streets, but you forced yourself to move carefully, methodically, with purpose. You couldn’t afford to make a scene, not here, not now.

You adjusted the hood over your head, the fraying edge brushing against your cheek as you ducked beneath a banner strung low across the street. A vendor called out nearby, hawking some mechanical marvel, his booming voice cutting sharply through the noise, but you barely registered it. Your focus was locked on weaving through the shifting sea of people, each step measured, your wings pressed tighter against your back beneath the cloak.

The strand of blue hair swung like a pendulum in your mind, its presence as vivid as if it were still dangling before your eyes. Jinx’s hair. There was no mistaking it. The vibrant hue was burned into your memory, a colour that belonged to her and her alone. That single strand carried weight—a message, a warning, maybe even a cry for help.

Your falcon circled above, her sharp screeches drawing a few curious glances from passersby. You clicked your tongue softly, a signal for her to keep her distance. The last thing you needed was her drawing more attention to you.

Ahead, the crowd thickened near a towering automaton display, its gleaming brass limbs performing a mechanical ballet to the delight of onlookers. You gritted your teeth, scanning for a gap, anything to slip through without shoving your way forward. The anonymity Progress Day offered was a double-edged sword—perfect for blending in, but a nightmare when every second counted.

You slipped between two gawking spectators, their laughter grating against your ears as you brushed past. A child darted in front of you, clutching a toy bird that flapped its wooden wings. You sidestepped just in time, your heart racing as you narrowly avoided knocking them over. The mother shot you a wary glance, her hand tightening on the child’s shoulder as she pulled them away from you.

That glance stung more than you’d like to admit, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Jinx was somewhere out there, and something was wrong.

Your falcon screeched again, louder this time, and you couldn’t help but glance up. She was circling tighter now, her movements frantic, as if urging you to move faster.

“I know, sweet pea,” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely audible over the clamour around you. Your fingers itched to do something—spark a current, clear a path, anything—but that would only draw eyes to you. You couldn’t risk it.

Not until you found her.

You quickened your pace, your movements fluid as you wove through the crowd. The sticky remnants of the pastry clung to your fingers, forgotten, as the urgency in your chest grew heavier with every step. Sorry Bluejay, I owe you one. You kept your head down, your breaths shallow, every nerve on edge as you closed the distance.

Somewhere in the city’s maze of streets and alleys, she was waiting. And you wouldn’t stop until you reached her.

​​The further you moved from the festival’s epicenter, the air shifted, growing cooler and quieter. The cacophony of laughter, music, and sales pitches dulled into a distant hum, like a fading memory. You kept your pace brisk but not hurried, eyes scanning every alley and shadow for signs of trouble.

This part of Piltover, on the fringes of the Progress Day celebration, was practically deserted. Banners fluttered lazily overhead, their vibrant colours muted in the dimming light, and the scent of roasted nuts and sweets thinned, replaced by the faint tang of salt from the harbour. The cobblestone streets underfoot felt uneven, and less polished, as if the city’s shine didn’t quite reach this far.

The shipyard loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged and imposing against the horizon. Tall masts and metallic scaffolding stood like sentinels, their shadows stretching long and dark. A faint tension buzzed in the air, something too subtle for most to notice but unmistakable to you.

Then you heard it.

Bang.

The sharp crack of a gunshot echoed across the empty yard, slicing through the quiet. Your heart jolted, and before you could process it, another shot followed, then another—rapid, erratic, like thunderclaps in a storm. The sound reverberated through the metal structures, amplifying its intensity, though you doubted it carried far enough to reach the festival crowd.

But out here, where the world had gone eerily still, it was deafening.

Your wings twitched beneath your cloak, your instincts screaming for you to take to the skies and close the distance faster, but you resisted. Drawing attention now, even in this desolate stretch, was too risky. Instead, you quickened your pace, your boots hitting the ground harder, each step echoing your growing urgency.

A scream tore through the air, shrill and desperate. The sound froze you mid-step, a cold weight settling in your chest. You knew that voice.

“Jay,” you whispered, fear threading through the name.

The screeching caw of your falcon pierced the air as she dove ahead, her wings slicing through the shadows like blades. Her presence was a beacon, guiding you toward the source of the chaos.

You rounded the corner of a massive stack of shipping crates, the metallic tang of gunpowder sharp in your nostrils now. The faint glow of flickering lamplight danced along the hulls of the docked ships, their reflections fractured in the water below.

And then you saw her.

The gunfire didn’t stop. It came in bursts, uneven and frantic, each shot like a scream.

Then came the actual scream.

High-pitched and sharp, it tore through the air and lodged itself in your chest. It wasn’t just panic—it was her.

Your pace quickened, every instinct propelling you forward. You rounded the corner of a shipping crate and stopped short.

She stood on the deck of a docked cargo ship, her shoulders hunched and trembling. Her gun—the one she never let out of her sight—was clenched tightly in her hands, the barrel still smoking.

There was no laughter, no sly grin, no sarcastic quip. Just frantic, shaky breaths and wide, wild eyes darting around like she couldn’t tell what was real anymore. Her hair whipped around her in the harbour wind, and her face was streaked with grime, sweat, and tears that carved clean lines through the filth.

Scattered around her were bodies, some crumpled and still, others groaning in pain. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the acrid stench of gunpowder, clinging to your throat like a sickness.

You’d seen her like this before. Episodes like these weren’t new—they had haunted her for as long as you’d known her. Back then, you’d been younger, just learning what it meant to be her anchor. You’d sat with her through sleepless nights and shattering breakdowns, trying to soothe chaos you could barely comprehend. It broke your heart every time.

But no matter how many times you’d helped her through it, seeing her like this never got easier.

“Bluejay,” you sang softly, your voice careful, your heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might burst from your chest.

The sound of your voice snapped her head around. But instead of recognition, there was fear—raw, primal fear—and anger.

She spun toward you, lifting the massive weapon and pointing it at you in one sharp, fluid motion. The sheer size of it dwarfed her trembling frame, but her grip was iron-tight, her fingers dangerously close to the trigger.

“Don’t—don’t come any closer!” she yelled, her voice cracking like glass. Her wide, unseeing eyes locked onto you, her chest heaving like she couldn’t pull in enough air.

“I’ll blow ya to itty-fuckin-bitty bits!” she shrieked, her voice teetering between rage and desperation.

Her hands shook so violently that you almost flinched, but you didn’t stop moving.

“It’s me, Bluejay,” you said, your voice as calm as you could muster. You kept your hands visible, palms out, as you took a careful step forward. “It’s Y/n.”

Her breathing hitched. Her grip faltered, the barrel of the gun dipping slightly. Her gaze flicked over your face, her lips trembling as if trying to form words.

“Birdie?” she whispered, the nickname falling from her lips like a prayer.

You nodded, your heart squeezing at the small, broken voice she used. “It’s me,” you assured her, stepping closer. “You’re okay. You’re safe now.”

Her arms dropped an inch, the gun lowering enough for you to fully see her tear-streaked face. She looked so small, so fragile like a child lost in the middle of a nightmare.

“Vi—” Her voice cracked, and her knees buckled slightly as she shook her head like she was trying to shake loose the chaos in her mind. “She wouldn’t shut up! They— They wouldn’t stop! They said I was—” Her voice broke entirely, her words tumbling out in a messy, disjointed rush. “I didn’t mean to— I didn’t mean—”

Her words splintered apart, her thoughts shattering faster than she could hold them together.

You stepped closer until you were right in front of her, the barrel of the gun nearly brushing your chest. Slowly, carefully, you reached out and rested a hand on the weapon, gently guiding it down.

“Bluejay, look at me,” you said firmly, your voice steady but laced with warmth. “You’re okay. Whatever happened, I’m here now. I’ll protect you. Just like always.”

Her lip quivered, and for a moment, her wide, tear-filled eyes searched your face. Then the gun clattered to the deck with a metallic thud as she let it slip from her hands.

You didn’t hesitate. You closed the gap and wrapped your arms around her, pulling her trembling form against you. She collapsed into you, her knees giving out as she clung to you like a lifeline, her fingers tangling in the fabric of your cloak.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, stroking her hair as her body shook with silent sobs. Your own throat tightened, but your voice stayed steady. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The chaos around you blurred, fading into nothing but white noise. All that mattered was Jinx in your arms, her breath hot and ragged against your shoulder, and the quiet, desperate promise you made to her with every heartbeat.

For now, that was enough.

But the peace shattered as sharp shuffles of boots echoed across the dock. Angry voices followed, low and bitter, cutting through the thick harbour air.

“What the hell is wrong with her?!” one of the crew barked, his voice raw and wet with pain, clutching his bloodied side. His fingers dug into torn fabric, crimson dripping between them and staining the dock below. “You think this is a game?! She’s gonna get us all killed!”

“Useless,” another spat, his voice sharp as broken glass. His glare cut through the dim light, landing on Jinx like a predator circling wounded prey. “Always doing this shit! What good is she if—”

Jinx stiffened against you, her shallow breaths hitching sharply, each inhale sharp and jagged as shattered glass. Her trembling form grew rigid, her knuckles white as she balled her fists. The air around her felt heavy, charged, her anger flickering to life like a spark in dry timber.

“I’ll show you useless!” she snarled, her voice raw and splintering as she lunged toward the crew. Her face twisted into a storm of fury and fear, cheeks flushed, her wide eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

“Jay,” you murmured, your tone cutting through the crackling tension like a blade. Firm, soothing, and edged with unyielding control. Your arms tightened around her, holding her back with an ease that belied the strength it took to still her wild energy. “They’ll get what’s coming.”

She struggled, her body writhing against yours like a coiled spring, but you didn’t let go. Her breaths came in short, shallow bursts, the sound raw and ragged in your ears. You leaned in, pressing your forehead gently to hers, forcing her gaze to meet yours.

“I've got it covered, Bluejay,” you whispered, your voice soft and steady, cutting through the storm in her chest. “They’re not worth your precious wonderful time.”

For a moment, the fire in her eyes flickered, the embers dulled by the weight of your presence. Her lip trembled, and her breath hitched again, less sharp, more uneven. Slowly, you felt the tension in her muscles loosen, though not completely fade.

But the crew, blind to the tempest brewing around them, kept going.

“She’s a damn liability!” one snarled, their voice dripping venom. “We don’t need her screwing up every—”

A sharp crack split the air, the wood beneath them splintering as electricity struck like a viper. The faint, acrid smell of scorched wood and ozone burned at your nostrils, mingling with the salt of the harbour breeze. Sparks danced at your fingertips, painting jagged, dancing shadows across the blood-streaked dock.

“You’re fucking crazy, watch it!” one of them yelled, their voice faltering under the weight of their own fear.

You stepped forward slowly, each step deliberate, the faint buzz of electricity humming around you like a storm building at sea. Your voice dripped venom, sickly sweet and suffocating as honey left too long in the sun.

“Did you forget who’s been cleaning up after your pathetic mistakes?” you asked, each word curling like smoke around their ears. “Who’s been saving your asses every time you screw up a job? Oh, wait.” You tilted your head, a mocking smile tugging at your lips. “That’s right. The ‘crazy ones’."

The crew shrank back, their earlier bravado dissolving under the weight of your words. Their faces twisted with unease, the fear in their eyes glinting like shards of broken glass under the dim, wavering lantern light.

“Let me remind you,” you continued, your voice a sharpened blade, “that without her getting to everyone first, you’d all be corpses by now. So maybe, just maybe , you should be grateful you’re alive to complain.”

One of them opened their mouth, a flicker of defiance flashing across their face, but you raised your hand again. Sparks leaped to life, sharp and bright in the darkness, casting flickering shadows that danced across their faces like wraiths.

“Not another word,” you cooed, your voice soft and poisonous. “Unless you’d like me to show you what it feels like to be really worthless.”

The crackling air hummed with unspoken tension as silence descended, broken only by the faint, uneven rhythm of Jinx’s breathing behind you. Her trembling form leaned into your back, her fingers clutching the fabric of your cloak like it was the only thing tethering her to the world.

Before the tension could snap further, the distant shouting of enforcers broke through the air. Their sharp, barked orders rang out like cracks of a whip, growing louder with every second. Beams of harsh, unforgiving searchlights swept across the docks, their light cutting through the murky night and scattering shadows in their wake.

You turned sharply, your gaze narrowing like the edge of a dagger. “We’re leaving,” you said coldly, the finality in your tone slicing through the rising panic like steel.

To the crew, you added, your voice dripping with the sweetest of venom, “Try not to get caught. Because if you do…” Your smile sharpened into something deadly. “…I’ll kill you myself.”

Without another glance, you turned back to Jinx, gathering her into your arms. Her head rested against your chest, her uneven breaths brushing warm against your skin. Her small frame trembled like a fragile bird caught in a storm.

The growing shouts of the enforcers spurred you into motion. You broke into a sprint, your boots pounding against the dock, each step echoing like a gunshot before you leaped into the air. Your wings unfurled with a sharp, commanding snap, catching the cold harbour wind and propelling you upward.

The air bit at your skin, the sharp tang of salt and smoke mingling in your lungs. The faint, distorted echo of festival music drifted on the breeze, growing fainter as you ascended. Below, the shouts and clatter of enforcers dulled with each beat of your wings, swallowed by the dark sprawl of the city.

“Hold on, Bluejay,” you murmured, your voice softer now, stripped of its earlier bite.

Jinx clung to you weakly, her trembling fingers gripping the fabric of your cloak as if it were her last anchor. Her breath was hot and uneven against your neck, her body curled into yours with a fragile, childlike vulnerability.

You tightened your hold, soaring higher into the night. The glittering festival lights faded into specks below, swallowed by the jagged edges of the city’s darkness.

For now, the only thing that mattered was getting her somewhere safe.

The noise was impossible to miss.

The air inside The Last Drop was thick, heavy with the pungent mix of sweat, alcohol, and something sharper—the metallic bite of shimmer, sharp enough to catch in your throat. The crowd pulsed with frenetic energy, a relentless hum of voices blending together, their laughter too loud, their words too fast, a chaotic blur that rang through the dimly lit space. The floor trembled beneath the thrum of bass from the jukebox, deep and vibrating, a constant undercurrent to the clinking of glasses, the slurred conversations, and the heat—an oppressive, wet heat that soaked into your skin, a heat that clung to your hair and stuck to the back of your neck.

You didn’t mind it. You were used to this. The noise, the crowd, the chaos—it had always been a part of your world. You’d learned to carve out little spaces of quiet, little bubbles where you could retreat from the noise, even in the most crowded rooms. Your fingers tapped idly on the edge of your glass, the sound of the condensation trickling down the sides almost lost in the ruckus. The glass was half-empty, a dull reflection of the mood that buzzed through you—too much, too fast, and yet never enough. You let the noise wash over you, the calls, the laughs, the heat of their presence pressing against you like an extra layer of skin.

Your smile was small, but it felt wrong, like an echo of something that used to mean something to you, but no longer did. It didn’t feel like it fit the moment, but you kept it there, polished and practiced, the same smile you’d perfected over years of playing a part.

You were the one they all watched—beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t just that. It was the way they felt the pull of you, the way your power hummed beneath your skin, crackling like electricity just waiting to surge. Like bees drawn to honey, the crew and patrons swarmed around you, though most were too oblivious to realize it. They didn’t see that they were all just following orders, buzzing mindlessly through their routines, desperate to get closer to you. To take a little bit of what you had, to touch what they couldn’t reach.

As a child, the looks started off small—glances that lingered a little too long, just enough to leave a prickling sensation along your spine. And then there were the others—the more blatant stares, the open admiration that felt less like appreciation and more like an invitation to possess . They didn’t know it, but they weren’t seeing you . They were seeing something they wanted—a piece of the power that made your very presence dangerous.

You shifted in your seat, your hand brushing against the cool surface of the bar, and let your eyes sweep over the room again. A man—a stranger—was inching closer, slipping into the seat next to yours with that practiced, insincere confidence you had seen too many times before. His eyes didn’t meet yours; they moved over you like you were something to be catalogued, a thing to be desired, a game to be won.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, his voice far too smooth, too rehearsed. It wasn’t about the drink, not really. You knew that. You could hear it in the way his words came out, smooth but heavy with intent, the faintest trace of desperation hanging just below the surface. He was trying to draw you in, to make it seem like he was offering you something when, in truth, he was just hoping for something in return.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence settle between you, and when you finally turned your head, your smile never wavered. It was perfect—polite, cool, a mask you had worn for so long it almost felt natural now. But underneath it, you let the smallest hint of disdain curl in your eyes as you reached for the drink. Your fingers brushed the glass slowly, deliberately, holding his gaze as you did.

“On the house, huh?” you asked softly, the words drawing out, almost teasing. You took a sip, letting the cold liquid slide over your tongue, the ice cubes clinking softly in the glass. "That’s sweet of you."

The man’s smile faltered for just a moment—only for a split second, but you noticed. You always noticed. His hand lingered on the bar, just a fraction of a second too long, and you could feel the weight of his gaze, how he wanted to take more than just your attention. He wanted to claim you. But you were too sharp to let that happen.

You leaned in just slightly, your voice low, soft—but sharp enough to cut through the murmur of the room. “But I’m not interested.”

The man stiffened, his grin faltering entirely. For a second, there was an almost imperceptible shift in his expression, something between frustration and confusion. But he didn’t give up. They never did. They’d try again, maybe with different words, maybe with different promises. But the game would always be the same.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he muttered, and there it was—the line, the one they always crossed. “A couple of … things came to mind when I saw those wings of yours.” They thought they had you figured out, that you were just another pretty face, just another prize to claim. But they never realized the truth—they never saw the real you, just a reflection of their ideals.

Your eyes darkened as you leaned back in your seat, the glass in your hand tight enough to make your fingers ache. The words you spoke were soft, but they carried weight.

“Maybe I do,” you said. “Maybe you’re not as interesting as you think.”

The man’s face reddened, his words swallowed up by the thrumming noise around you. He muttered something unintelligible before standing and backing away, vanishing back into the crowd.

You let out a slow breath, the tension easing from your shoulders as you turned your gaze back to your drink. The amber liquid wobbled gently, catching the dim light in fractured reflections, but it didn’t hold your attention for long. It never did. The weight in your chest was harder to shake, a hollow ache that no amount of noise or drink could fill.

The game always ended the same way, with you sitting here, staring at the untouched drink like it held answers you’d never find. You didn’t know why it left you feeling like this—like a puppet with its strings cut, empty and slack after the show was over. The glass was cool beneath your fingertips, but your skin felt too warm, prickling with the phantom press of their stares.

What do they really want from me?

The thought slipped through your mind, bitter and sharp like the burn of strong liquor. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. You’d been asking yourself that question for as long as you could remember.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the hum of the room fade into the background. Flashes of faces blurred behind your eyelids, half-formed memories of people reaching for you, their hands outstretched, their smiles too wide, too eager. They’d always wanted something—a piece of you, a piece of your power.

But love? That was different. Love was supposed to be soft, wasn’t it? Gentle. It wasn’t supposed to come with strings attached or sharp edges hidden behind kind words. You’d seen it before, a long time ago, in a life so far removed it felt like it belonged to someone else.

You tried to picture their faces—the ones you’d called family. You tried to remember the way their hands felt, the warmth in their eyes, the way they laughed. But all you saw were smudges, shapes that shifted and blurred, fading like smoke on a breeze. The details were gone, slipping through your grasp every time you reached for them, leaving only the faintest impression of what once was.

Your fingers tightened around the glass.

You thought of love as something distant now, like a language you’d once spoken fluently but had long since forgotten. The meaning was there, buried somewhere deep, but the words never came out right. All that remained was the idea of it—bright and fleeting, like the glow of fireflies you’d chased in the forests of Ixtal as a child.

A faint, sharp laugh rang out nearby, pulling you back into the present. Your eyes opened, and the bar came rushing back—the noise, the heat, the press of bodies. It was all too much, and yet it felt like nothing at all.

Love wasn’t real here, not in places like this. Not in the way it should’ve been.

And yet.

And yet, there was one face that cut through the haze. One voice that could pull you back when everything else felt like too much.

“Hey, stranger,” a familiar voice called from across the room, light and sing-song, the words laced with just enough chaos to make the air buzz.

Her.

You turned your head toward her, and there she was, weaving her way through the crowd, her braids bouncing with every step, her grin wide enough to split the world in two.

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know if it was the kind of feeling you’d been searching for or just another sharp edge to swallow, but when she was near, the hollow ache didn’t seem quite as deep. For a little while, at least, you could forget the faces you couldn’t remember and the love you’d forgotten how to understand.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

a/n: hi lovelies thank you so much for your patience <33 updates are gonna be a bit slower this time around since school and work sorry <3

taglist: @deathvidal , @stupendousbananasharkcop , @titusmouser , @itosh1teru , @0sunnyside0 , @pulcen , @chuucanchuucan , @fluffygreatness , @pebble-peddle , @brocoliisscared

[wthphe1n]

Hcs — Buys your favorite snack and claims it was on sale.

Pairing: Vinny Hong x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff / Hidden Affection / Tsundere Boyfriend Vibes

Rating: G

TW: None, except for emotional whiplash from Vinny being soft and pretending he’s not.

Word count: ↔️

A/N: Tsundere Vinny is absolutely down bad but won’t ever admit it out loud. You better believe he paid full price and sprinted across town to get it.

(@dzvelinaskebiyars @shintaru @zyart-jpg @sylith @kuchisabishiiiii )

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– Every time he visits a convenience store, he scans the snack aisle out of instinct—just in case they restocked your favorite flavor.

– He memorized your entire “comfort food” list and pretends not to remember. But if you’re sad? It’s already in your backpack.

– He once biked an extra 2km mid-rain just because you mentioned a craving. He blamed the weather for his bad mood—not the soaked bag with your snack inside.

– He’ll hand you the food without a word and immediately change the subject. If you thank him too loudly, he’ll tell you to shut up.

– He denies knowing your period cycle, but the fact he always shows up with warm drinks and strawberry Pocky that week says otherwise.

– He tries to make it sound like he bought in bulk. “It’s not for you. I got a few extra. Dunno why.”

– He hides things in your bag sometimes. You’ll find a wrapped pastry hours later with zero note, but the receipt says his name.

– When you confront him with teary affection, he plays dead inside. “You’re overreacting.”

– He gets annoyed when you share it with someone else. “What are you doing?! I mean—you don’t know where their hands have been!”

– He always knows the exact expiry date. “If you’re not eating it today, give it back. I’ll eat it. No point wasting it on someone so slow.”

– He googled reviews of it to make sure it wouldn’t upset your stomach. You’ll never know this.

– He knows when you’re craving it even before you say a word. Your pout? Your stare? He reads you like a billboard. He just pretends he doesn’t.

– He keeps the barcode memorized in case the cashier forgets to scan it and he has to name the product like it’s no big deal.

– If someone else buys it for you, he sulks for three hours straight and won’t admit why.

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BONUS SCENE

You’re hungry.

Not the kind of hunger that makes your stomach grumble, but the sort that hits after a long exam—where your brain feels like it’s been wrung out and your heart is running on low battery. The vending machine near the lecture hall is already wiped out, and you’re too tired to walk across campus for a late lunch.

You sigh and shove your hands deeper into your hoodie. The air smells like asphalt and jasmine. You’re about to head back to your dorm when—

“Yo.”

Your head turns.

Vinny’s leaning against the wall near the stairwell, half-shadowed, arms crossed. His curls are wind-ruffled, and there’s that usual unreadable look on his face—half bored, half irritated, fully impossible.

“What are you doing here?”

“Passing by.”

“…This isn’t anywhere near your building.”

“So?”

Typical.

You’re about to tease him when you notice it: he’s holding a plastic convenience store bag. His fingers tighten around it when he catches you staring.

He glances away.

“Here.”

He thrusts it at you—not gently, not sweetly, just… like he wants it gone.

Inside?

Your favorite strawberry milk and that ridiculous, overpriced snack you only buy when you’re in a dangerously good mood. You blink at it.

“…You went to CU?”

“They had it.”

“This is from 7-Eleven.”

He shrugs. Won’t meet your gaze.

“It was on sale.”

You bite back a smile. Sure it was.

“You remembered I liked this?”

He clicks his tongue, eyes rolling skyward like you’re exhausting him with your very existence.

“You only talk about it every time we pass by the snack aisle. Not that hard.”

But you don’t. You don’t talk about it every time. You mentioned it once—weeks ago. During midterms, when you were stress-eating and said it offhandedly, more to yourself than to anyone else.

You hadn’t even thought he was listening.

“Thank you, Vinny.”

Silence.

Then, quietly—so quiet you almost miss it:

”…It better taste good.”

You walk beside him after that. No destination, just… legs moving, hearts syncing. He lets you hold the bag. Occasionally nudges your elbow with his.

You don’t say anything else.

You don’t need to.

Later that evening, you’re curled up on your bed, mid-homework, when your phone buzzes.

Vinny:

They didn’t have the strawberry one at first i made them check in the back

You pause. Smile slowly.

You:

Thats a lot of effort for a snack that was ‘on sale

No response.

Ten minutes later, he sends another.

Vinny:

Whatever ure annoying when ure hungry

You roll onto your side, hugging your pillow, warmth blooming in your chest.

Maybe he’ll never say the things you want outright.

But he will find your favorite snack across the city.

He will stand in line.

He will text you after, just to ask—

Did it taste right?

And honestly?

That’s more than enough.

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A/N: yall this fic is pure serotonin tbh the more i write, the more i fall in love with Vinny every damn sec🥹 tysm for reading all the way to the end

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[yellowjestertfs]

The Billionaires Secret

“Hi there. Find what what you were looking for?” I ask in my customary upbeat yet soul-dead customer service voice.

“I think so. Going to give this one a try.” She says handing me a copy of a book called The Billionaire’s Secret from the romance section. I can see why she picked it, on the cover a man in a suit lay on a bed with the buttons of his dress shirt undone showing off his impressive six-pack and strong hairless chest. Brownish red eyes smolder seductively outwards from a masculine face. High cheekbones, soft lips, and a wide square jaw adorned with black stubble that connects to a short-styled head of black hair.

“I’m Bridget by the way,” she says, obviously a bit embarrassed to see me eying up the cover. “Oh, and this is Dan.” She says gesturing at the man standing a few paces away, engrossed by some mobile game on his phone. 

“Nice to meet you, Bridget.” I scan the book. “That will be $17,” I say. 

She glances over at Dan, he doesn't seem to notice so she retrieves her credit card from her purse and taps it against the machine. “I don’t know why I expected him to offer.” She tells me in a conspiratorial whisper “He’s broke. I mean not that it matters to me, but it would just be nice to date a wealthy man or one who at least pays attention to me.” 

Customers often confided in me. I wish I could say it is because of my open honest face or charismatic demeanor but it probably had more to do with a book I once ate about a bartender people told all their secrets to.

I look around. There are a few consumers browsing the book shelves and my manager is sitting at his desk in the back, no one close enough to notice. Bridget seems sweet, too sweet to be with a man like Dan. Poor girl just wants to escape with some fiction, so why not indulge her a little.

“Did you get a chance to check out our books on sale?” I ask Bridget diverting her attention away. She looks over at the shelf I pointed at giving me enough time to crack my knuckles, take a deep breath, and begin.

I place my hands over the cover of the book and it springs open, the pages start to turn themselves slow at first then speed up. Words start to flow from the book as the pages flip past. The letters lift from the page like a sticker being peeled, floating into the air to spin around me. They form a cyclone of black ink as the pages that flip by are left blank.

I feel the lines as they flow off the paper. The first line reads. “Kustav tower is 400 stories tall, rumor has it, it’s smaller than Dane Kustav’s dick.” 

I directed the words towards Bridget’s boyfriend. The ink splashes into him, absorbing into his gray hoodie but leaving no mark. None except for the fact that his basketball shorts start to thrash like a wild animal is trapped inside. Dan didn't look up from his phone even as his dick doubled and then tripled in size to match the one described in the book Billionaires Secrets.

I tried to be sparing with my abilities. Fiction is great so long as it stays fiction, otherwise you have evil robots or sparkly vampires running around. Still, every once in a while my heroic urges will take over and I am called to help someone with my power to bring words to life. Bridget is one of those people.

More words flowed off the page. “Dane Kustav is well dressed at all times. One would be hard-pressed to ever see Dane not in a suit. If one did see him without a suit, it would be in the bedroom where they would be very, very hard pressed indeed.”

The words spin around me once then drift over to Dan again on an invisible wind. This time his clothes were affected by the words. His grey hoodie which he wore with the hood up, melted off his body, the threads unwinding then rebinding themselves into a far higher quality dress shirt and black jacket complete with a blue tie. His shorts became black dress pants and his sneakers a pair of brown loafers. The outline of his much larger dick was clear in his new tighter pants. A few seconds passed with no changes then, slowly his tie undid itself and each of the buttons on his dress shirt opened so that he was sporting a matching look to that of the man on the cover of the book. Unlike the cover, however, Dan lacked the chiseled face or body to pull off the open shirt. His slight gut and saggy, hairy chest made the outfit look awkward rather than sexy.

Bridget looked up from the sale rack and glanced at her half-nude boyfriend with a chagrined glance. In her mind, he was always dressed in the finest clothes even if he still acted like a man-child.

“Dane Kustav towered over everyone be that in stature or in business.” 

I directed the words into him. Dan shot upwards, his modest 5’10” frame becoming a proud 6’3”, clothes growing to match. And though it wasn’t visible Dan’s head was also filled with business smarts he had lacked before. The game on his phone shifted from Fruit Ninja to Hey Day.

The pages continue to flip, their words leaving the page to float in the air under my command.

“Dane Kustav's muscles were like that of a brass statue, smooth, hard, and golden. Each curve could only have been sculpted by the hands of an artist for nature could never make anybody so perfect.”

I look over at Dan’s soft pudgy body. Not the words I would use to describe him, at least not yet. I float the sentence to him.

Instantly Dan’s belly flattens. One by one his abs pop into being as if pushed out from the inside like one of those pop-it toys. His man boobs visibly transmute from fat to muscle, perking up and then growing into a strong chest like that of the man on the cover of the book. Inside the sleeves of his dress shirt, his arms thicken into a pair of round vascular biceps while his legs below do the same. A tan, like oil spreading over water seeps across his body until his exposed muscles really looked like sculpture bronze turned to life. The few hairs that had looked sloppy before now lent his body a rugged masculinity.

Bridget looks at her boyfriend with a new lust. Her hands start to roam his abs and chest but Dan, still on his phone, only bats them away. 

Man-child indeed, a man in the body, a child in the face and the personality. I divert my attention back to the flipping pages looking for words I could use to fix that. The book is reaching the end, and the main character, assistant to the billionaire, has finally seduced her boss in a very steamy scene. High-class writing it is not, but at least it gives me plenty to work with.

“I ran my hand down his sharp square jaw.” 

I throw the words at him. The shape of his face shifts to be more masculine.

“He looked at me through squinted sexy amber eyes.”

His eyes shift from a pale blue to an amber so rich it almost looked red. He finally looks up from his phone and deep into Bridget's eyes. She returns the stare with a smile. 

“He brought my hand up to his cheek, I felt each bristle of his short sharp stubble.”

Dan moves Bridget's fingers up to his face which is now covered in a sexy two days' worth of growth.

“Then he kissed me with his soft sensual lips hard enough to make me weak in the knees.”

The words flow off the page and into him. His lips grow pillowy and pink and interlocked with Bridget’s. He wraps his muscular arms around her, keeping her steady as she collapses into him. 

“I warp my fingers into his jet-black quaffed hair as I prepare for him to take me.”

His hair gains a stylish cut and is dark as pitch, body hair and stubble do the same. Bridget greedily runs her hand through his new dark dew.

“He smelled like sports deodorant, woody cologne, and sex. I wanted nothing more than this man to take me.”

The bookstore fills with his scent. I am surprised to find myself turned on by the whole thing. I have reached the end of the book, the final page.

“It was then that I learned the billionaire's secret.”

This was the good stuff. I leech the words off the page and send them to Dan, or rather now, Dane.

“His secret wasn’t that he was hot, or rich, or could make any girl swoon.”

Their kiss intensifies. Dane started to undo Bridget's blouse.

“No, the billionaire's secret was.”

Suddenly Dane pulls away.

“The billionaire was gay.”

“Sorry Bridget,” Dane says taking a few steps back and looking at her with sudden realization. “I don’t think I can do this.” 

His eyes wander over to lock onto mine, rich amber orbs seeming to really take me in. He winks. “You thought, I think that could work. What are you doing after this?” He asks smoothly “Want to go get coffee in Paris on my jet? My treat.”

[noirscript]

dark roast | chapter four

Pairing: Laurent Delacroix × Reader Description: You thought you were making your own choices. But Laurent was always there—watching, guiding, ensuring every step led you straight to him. And now, there’s no way out. Series Warnings: Yandere | Manipulation | Coercion | Power Imbalance | Stalking | Obsessive Behavior | Emotional Manipulation | Mild Threats | Intimidation Update Schedule: Every Saturday. GMT+8. Note: This is part of a completed ebook available on my kofi shop! Your support is highly appreciated. Now on sale! Enjoy 50% discount by clicking this link! ^^ That being said, apologize for the delay and enjoy!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Commission | Tip Jar

The café is busier than usual today. A steady stream of customers filters in and out, filling the space with murmured conversations and the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine. The morning rush has passed, but the late lunch crowd keeps you occupied. It’s just enough to keep you distracted—to keep you from thinking too much.

Your best friend’s words from earlier still linger in the back of your mind.

"Laurent likes you. You know that, right?"

You shake the thought away and focus on the orders piling up on the screen.

Marco moves beside you, effortlessly preparing drinks with the confidence of someone who’s done this a thousand times before. “You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” he comments without looking up.

You force a smile. “Just trying to keep up.”

He hums in response, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t push. Instead, he gestures toward the front of the café. “Heads up. Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”

You follow his gaze.

At first, you assume it’s Laurent again—another unannounced visit, another quiet reminder of his ever-present gaze. But when you turn toward the door, it isn’t him.

It’s someone else.

A man stands just beyond the threshold, hesitating as if debating whether he should step inside. His hair is slightly tousled from the wind outside, and there’s an awkwardness to the way he shifts his weight. He’s tall, but not imposing. Familiar, but distant.

Then, as he lifts his gaze and spots you behind the counter, something clicks.

Recognition.

Your breath catches.

"Daniel?"

His face splits into a grin—sheepish, slightly uncertain, but undeniably warm. “Hey. Long time no see.”

You barely process the sound of the door chime as he finally steps inside.

It’s been years since you last saw him. Not since—well, not since life pulled you both in different directions. His presence here, in this café of all places, feels surreal.

“You’re actually here,” you say, still a little stunned. “What are you doing in the city?”

Daniel rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh—kind of just got here, actually. New job, new start.” He glances around the café, taking it in. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

You nod, still trying to process this sudden reunion. “Yeah, it’s… a long story.”

His gaze flickers back to you, and for a moment, there’s something softer there—concern, maybe. But before he can say anything, your best friend steps out from the back, eyebrows raising as she takes in the scene.

“Ah,” she says, smiling. “You must be Daniel.”

His attention shifts to her. “And you are?”

She wipes her hands on a towel before extending one. “I’m the owner. Well, technically. She’s the one who actually runs things.”

Daniel glances back at you, amused. “That checks out.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up.”

Your best friend laughs, but there’s a sharpness in her gaze as she studies him—quick, assessing, like she’s weighing something in her mind. After a beat, she gestures toward the counter.

“I hope you’re not just here to catch up,” she says. “Because I happen to have a job opening, and I heard you might be interested.”

Daniel blinks. “Oh. Wow. That was… fast.”

Your stomach twists. You should have seen this coming. Of course, she already knew.

You glance toward the large front windows, where the reflection of the city glows against the glass. But beyond that, further in the café, you catch sight of someone else.

Laurent.

Seated at his usual table.

Watching.

The weight of his gaze is unmistakable.

You swallow.

Daniel doesn’t belong here. You can already feel it.

And Laurent knows it, too.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Daniel settles into the café like an old habit—comforting, familiar, something you didn’t realize you had missed.

The first few days feel surreal. Between training shifts and stolen conversations between orders, you find yourself remembering things you thought you had forgotten—the way Daniel always used to tease you, the way he had a knack for making you laugh even on the worst days.

It’s easy to fall back into rhythm with him. Too easy.

You don’t notice it at first, but the atmosphere of the café shifts. It’s subtle—an undercurrent of something you can’t quite name.

Laurent still comes in every day. That part hasn’t changed. He still orders the same Dark Roast, still sits in the same corner, still watches with that unreadable expression.

But his presence feels different now.

More solid. More present.

And though he never says anything outright, you begin to notice the way the staff acts around him—like they sense something you don’t.

Marco, usually relaxed and easygoing, starts greeting Laurent with something closer to caution. Elise, the supervisor, avoids looking in his direction altogether. Even your best friend, who never seems to flinch around anyone, starts choosing her words more carefully when he’s within earshot.

Then, one evening, Daniel stays late to help you close.

“I still can’t believe you work here,” he says, leaning against the counter as you wipe down the espresso machine. “I mean, I know you’ve always been good at this, but running the place? That’s something else.”

You snort. “I’m not running it. I’m just—” You pause, considering. “Okay, maybe I am running it. But it’s not like I had much of a choice.”

Daniel frowns slightly. “What do you mean?”

You hesitate. You could tell him the truth—about Frosty Café, about the slow collapse, about the way everything had fallen into place so neatly, almost too perfectly. But something stops you.

Before you can answer, the sound of footsteps echoes across the café floor.

Daniel turns first. You already know who it is before you look.

Laurent.

He’s standing just inside the entrance, his coat draped neatly over one arm, his other hand tucked into his pocket. He takes in the scene—Daniel leaning casually against the counter, you standing close beside him—with the same quiet patience he always has.

“Long night?” he asks.

Daniel straightens instinctively. “Just helping out,” he says, easygoing but polite.

Laurent’s gaze flickers to you. “That’s considerate of him.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. There’s nothing wrong with his tone—no accusation, no outward hostility. But there’s a weight behind the words, something deliberate.

Daniel doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “figured I’d make myself useful.”

Laurent hums, his expression unreadable. “A useful employee is an irreplaceable one.”

Daniel chuckles. “Good thing I’m planning to stick around, then.”

The silence that follows is brief. Barely noticeable.

But you feel it.

Laurent smiles. “Yes.”

He turns toward you. “You’ve worked late enough,” he says, voice smooth. “Allow me to give you a ride home.”

Daniel blinks. “Oh, we were just about to head out, actually—”

Laurent’s gaze shifts back to him.

It’s not hostile. Not aggressive.

But Daniel stops speaking.

You glance between the two of them, suddenly very aware of how different they are. Laurent, composed and controlled, his presence like something immovable. Daniel, easygoing but suddenly stiff, as if he’s only just realizing that there’s something beneath Laurent’s polite exterior.

For the first time, it occurs to you that Laurent and Daniel are standing in the same room together.

And Laurent doesn’t like it.

You wet your lips, forcing a small laugh. “That’s okay. I can manage.”

Laurent watches you for a moment, then nods. “If you insist.”

He doesn’t linger. He simply adjusts his coat, offers one last glance in Daniel’s direction, then steps out into the night.

The door clicks shut behind him, but the tension in the air doesn’t leave with him.

Daniel exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Huh.”

You glance at him. “What?”

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Nothing. Just… what’s that guy’s deal?”

You don’t have an answer.

Because, for the first time, you think you might be asking the same thing.

End of Chapter Four.

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[snapthistiger]

exercise 04142025

bike ride to the gym

8 x 10 incline sit ups

3 x 10 pec machine

3 x 10 lat raise

3 x 10 low row

30 minutes on the step mill

1 x 10 cable press

1 x 10 cable row

bike ride to my parents' house then home

the gym workers received Hershey kisses

exercise went well. felt a little winded at first but drank a cup of coffee and ate an apple and drank some water and felt much better

met with the estate sale people at my parents' house. they looked everything over and i have to get 2 keys for them and review a contract before we have a deal for them to sell the remaining contents

leftover pizza and a microwave potato for lunch

bike ride to the post office and back

bike ride to the bank and back

on my way home from my parents' house, i found a small purse in a parking lot. it contained an inhaler and some lip stuff. i brought it inside the business in case someone came by looking for it

top left = beautiful pink rose

bottom = Peanut clowning around in the yard

hope you have a peaceful afternoon and evening..

[rjzimmerman]

Yesterday felt like an earthquake shook the foundations of our climate and environmental laws, followed by a hurricane that scattered the bits all over the place and a wildfire that burned those bits that weren't scattered. I didn't watch any part of yesterday's debauchery, either on TV or streaming or the alerts that pop up on my iPhone or iPad, or read anything (neither national, local or environmental or climate specialized media). I figured most of the crap he did yesterday will be the subject of strategic lawsuits, and much will be tossed out as contrary to legislation or regulation or unconstitutional. In other words, I'll pay attention to the reconstruction, not the destruction. But.......it was still a horse shit day.

This compilation from the Sabin Center for Climate Change Law (of the Columbia Law School/Columbia Climate School) is outstanding. Click/tap on the caption of this post and you'll be able to figure out what happened and sort things out as you want. Just click/tap on the caption and go for it. But if you don't want to do that, here's the compilation, abbreviated. Italicized/red fonts are my addition, either explanatory or editorial.

PUTTING AMERICA FIRST IN INTERNATIONAL ENVIRONMENTAL AGREEMENTS

Withdraw from Paris Climate Agreement

Withdraw from any other agreements made under UN Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC)

Revoke any financial commitments under UNFCCC

Revoke U.S. International Climate Finance Plan

DECLARING A NATIONAL ENERGY EMERGENCY

Declares national energy emergency, primarily based on high energy prices

Use any lawful emergency authorities “to facilitate the identification, leasing, siting, production, transportation, refining, and generation of domestic energy resources.”

Use Defense Production Act and federal eminent domain authorities

Issue emergency fuel waivers to allow year-round sale of E15 gasoline (E15 is ethanol/gasoline mix)

“Expedite the completion of all authorized and appropriated infrastructure, energy, environmental and natural resources projects”

Use emergency authorities and nationwide permits to grant approvals under Clean Water Act Sec. 404, Rivers and Harbors Act Sec. 10, and Marine Protection Research and Sanctuaries Act Sec. 103 for energy projects

Use emergency consultation processes under Endangered Species Act, and frequent convening of Endangered Species Act Committee, for energy projects

Use construction authority of Army Corps of Engineers

The term “energy” is defined to mean “crude oil, natural gas, lease condensates, natural gas liquids, refined petroleum products, uranium, coal, biofuels, geothermal heat, the kinetic movement of flowing water, and critical minerals” [not wind or solar] (excluding wind and solar is childish and just plain stupid)

UNLEASHING AMERICAN ENERGY

“eliminate the ‘electric vehicle (EV) mandate’ and promote true consumer choice … by terminating … state emissions waivers that function to limit sales of gasoline-powered automobiles; and by considering the elimination of unfair subsidies and other ill-conceived government-imposed market distortions that favor EVs” (the elon musk pacifier....i.e., Tesla)

“safeguard the American people’s freedom to choose from a variety of goods and appliances, including but not limited to lightbulbs, dishwashers, washing machines, gas stoves, water heaters, toilets, and shower heads”

Require all agency heads to review all existing regulations “that impose an undue burden on the identification, development, or use of domestic energy resources – with particular attention to oil, natural gas, coal, hydropower, biofuels, critical mineral, and nuclear energy resources”

Attorney General “shall consider whether pending litigation against illegal, dangerous, or harmful policies should be resolved through stays or other relief”

Revocation of many executive orders

Terminate the American Climate Corps

Council on Environmental Quality must propose rescinding its NEPA regulations (NEPA regulations are the core of our environmental laws)

CEQ to convene working group to expedite permitting approvals

“all agencies must prioritize efficiency and certainty over any other objectives, including those of activist groups that do not align with the policy goals”

“facilitate the permitting and construction of interstate energy transportation and other critical energy infrastructure, including … pipelines”

In NEPA and other permitting reviews, “agencies shall adhere to only the relevant legislated requirements for environmental considerations and any considerations beyond those requirements are eliminated”

Disband Interagency Working Group on the Social Cost of Greenhouse Gases; all of its guidance, recommendations, etc. are withdrawn

Consider eliminating the “social cost of carbon” calculation

EPA in collaboration with other agencies shall submit recommendations to OMB “on the legality and continuing applicability” of the greenhouse gas endangerment finding of 2009 (this is the core concept from the US Supreme Court case that provides the legal basis for greenhouse gas controls)

Immediately pause disbursement of funds appropriated through Inflation Reduction Act or Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act; review processes for issuing grants, loans, contracts, or any other financial disbursement of appropriated funds

Secretary of Energy to restart reviews of applications for approvals of LNG export projects

Maritime Administration to review approvals for proposed deepwater ports for LNG export

“identify all agency actions that impose undue burdens on the domestic mining and processing of non-fuel minerals and undertake steps to revise or rescind such actions”

UNLEASHING ALASKA’S EXTRAORDINARY RESOURCE POTENTIAL

Expedite permitting and leasing of energy and natural resource projects in Alaska

Prioritize development of Alaska’s LNG potential

End restrictions on development of Arctic National Wildlife Refuge and certain other areas in Alaska

Numerous other actions to facilitate energy development in Alaska

TEMPORARY WITHDRAWAL OF ALL AREAS ON THE OUTER CONTINENTAL SHELF FROM OFFSHORE WIND LEASING AND REVIEW OF THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT’S LEASING AND PERMITTING PRACTICES FOR WIND PROJECTS

Stop leasing of federal waters for offshore wind

Issue no new or renewed approvals, rights of way, loans for onshore or offshore wind projects

“consider the environmental impact of onshore and offshore wind projects upon wildlife, including, but limited to, birds and marine mammals”

PUTTING PEOPLE OVER FISH: STOPPING RADICAL ENVIRONMENTALISM TO PROVIDE WATER TO SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

Restart work “to route more water from the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta to other parts of the state for use by the people there who desperately need a reliable water supply”

“The recent deadly and historically destructive wildfires in Southern California underscore why the State of California needs a reliable water supply and sound vegetation management practices in order to provide water desperately needed there”

DELIVERING EMERGENCY PRICE RELIEF FOR AMERICAN FAMILIES AND DEFEATING THE COST-OF-LIVING CRISIS

Among many other actions, “eliminate counterproductive requirements that raise the costs of home appliances”

“Eliminate harmful, coercive ‘climate’ policies that increase the costs of food and fuel”

[sketchfanda]

Moxxie Love Lore:The Skullfuck Prod. Crew

Left to Right:The Entourage, bodyguard duo Hellhound titaness Sierra and fallen Valkyrie Helga (of jollyjack fame), secretary Hellcat Denise, the flaming skullheaded Enigma bossman himself, his personal assistant the Gorgon Daria and chief camera girl imp Miki. The finest handpicked assembly of denizens within Hell that an Enigma could ever ask for. Do their jobs damn good and keep the studio running smoohtly. You see them rollin', don't be hatin'.

There is much to delve into in regards to the Enigma demon known as Mr.Sketch when it comes to his origins especially but that's not proper without needing to cover his fellow brethren. What is known of course is that he made his way up from literally nothing in the deepest parts of lust to rise to fame and infamy alike as one of it not the most successful porn producers in all of Hell. His reading and film material not only having the personal seal of approval from Ozzie himself but is notable for making high sales in all Circles as well as even the living world and Heaven somehow and with good reason.

It goes without saying that the key to success in his work ranging from smut stories and comics to videos in shorts and feature length format has been down to a few notable traits. For example he's shown to avoid and have outright stated an absolute loathing of any atypical porn cliches he considers unoriginal, overdone and just overexposed. This has included BBC and cuckolding/ntr/cheating stories targetted towards happy marriages and relationships as well as within the furry fandom aspect of Stallions and Bulls in much the same. Instead the flaming skullheaded enigma's work has been known for emphasising focus on what he considers women genuinely want and enjoy most....real legit nice guys.

Adorkable underdogs, meathead himbos with teddy bear quality hearts, the sort of guys who make for great brothers, dads, boyfriends and husbands alike and just happen to be well endowed and absolute unit machines in bed. The real sort that women want and any guys with sense want to be, who manage to get women without even trying. It just so happens they reel them in simply by virtue of being sincere, kind and chivalrous to a point that it's small wonder the Enigma considers having such as a must on his talent roster. But of course speaking of talent, what's a studio like his without an efficient crew of staff and talent alike to keep it running like a well oiled machine.

Behind evert great man is a great woman but for the flaming skullheaded smut maker, he's got 5 of them who he knows got his back. An ensemble of misfits from the reaches of Hell and in the case of one of them, even Heaven itself, all having been selected by Sketch himself when it comes to doing their jobs and doing them well. They keep him in good spirits which in turn keeps his studio running its operations with efficiency and professionalsm. And he wouldn't trade them for anything.

Firstly there is the bodyguard duo, the titanic hellhound she-wolf Sierra and the former Valkyrie Helga, both had done their share of work in their boss' skin flicks but he personally felt their real talents were best served in kicking ass and taking names. While he's no weakling on the power scale himself, he personally feels far safer knowing this duo are keeping watch over him. A real contrast in terms of personality to one another with Sierra being more snarky, wisecracking and aggressive while Helga is more a Silent Bob type, speaking rarely if ever at all unless she wants or has to. Differences aside, they're an effective pair more so given one is a Hellborn demon and the other was an ex-Valkyrie from heaven.

Nobody is quite sure what caused Helga to wind up in Hell or the how and why she went from being a Valkyrie of Heaven to getting kicked out but it doesn't reallt bother her. Far as she's concerned, she's fine where she is and considers Sierra a helluva friend to have though it helps they'd known one another even before they'd signed up to Skullfuck productions. Rumours abound the two are possibly lovers or at the least share a friends with benefit sort of relationship which they've neither confirmed or denied. Certainly makes for great chemistry together.

Next is Mr.Sketch's secretary Felicity, a shortstack Hellcat who is a single mom and oddly quite wholesome for a native of the chaotic inferno. Some just figure she just has that natural maternal instinct which is part and parcel in being the key reason her boss had hired her in the first place. Seeing her sweet face on the way to meet him in his office is often found to be the best way to put others at ease unless of course she is wearing the notorious neutral face of disappointment in which case they know they're pretty much fucked. But besides that, she's always seen on hand taking her boss' calls and always has a snack or two on hand to share be it donuts or some baked goods she made at home with her kids, all with a little tender loving care.

When it comes to personal assistants, the gorgon Daria is considered ideal enough to be the blue print with her level headed directness and deadpan snark making a good balance to her creative flow impulse lead boss. Much like Sierra and Helga, she’d started from the ground up on making her way through the studio ranks as an intern whose body of work spoke for itself. Her cool stoic sexiness giving her a charismatic aura that made her one of the studio’s finest stars before she opted to move to the business side of things which showed her sharp professionalism that earned her a place at Mr.Sketch’s side and while rumours abound on how close they are intimately, she has neither confirmed or denied but if one were to look close, their body language speaks volumes. Her shades aren’t necessary to prevent her petrifying gaze but they do add to her image and her snakes’ venom is said to have many distinct effects on those they bite.

But of course to Mr.Sketch, one of the essential tools in his studio when it comes to filming and photo shoots is the cameras and nobody knows how to handle and work them better than the imp known as Miki. From capturing all the right angles and best shots for scenes of intimacy to even making a random amateur scene caught in the heat of the Moment seem cinematographic, this spunky shortstack has lenses focused and razor sharp as a hawk and maintains her craft even when faced with so much eroticism. This also shows in the stroke she’s personally designed for the posters and covers for the dvds and Blu-ray and it’s said that her social media accounts with her personal art snd photography are what brought her to Mr.Sketch’s attention and has seen even praise among the elites of Hell’s high society in spite of the views and opinions most normally have towards imps like her. But to Mr,Sketch there is nobody finer he’d want working and handling his cameras and for Miki, her loyalty to her boss is matched by her dedication to her craft….

Together these 5 misfit ladies make up the finest entourage a smut peddling Enigma could ever ask and when it comes to keeping Skullfuck productions up and running, it’s all I’m good hands. They’ve seen many a star and employee come and go through the studio grounds’ doors and that’s not changing anytime soon especially when their boss finds a new potential talent to sign on board. They certainly have to say, the recent arrival of newcomer of Mysterious M has really brought a spark of creative fire to their employer that he hasn’t had in a whole, easing any worries he might’ve been getting stuck in a rut. And if You were to ask Daria, it was rather adorable…and sexy…

with the exception of Helga, during excursions to Earth for shoots, Mr.Sketch and the rest of the entourage are able to assume human disguises if need be in addition to invisibility spells for stealth cloaking. Which comes in handy for capturing amateur snoop shots in secret that would make any paparazzo green with envy. Not that Mr.Sketch gives a flying fuck what they think!! Get in his level bitch!!

[ravensolo77]

The Corruption of Charlie Andrews

Prologue: The Ember Ignites

Harrow’s End was a town smothered by its own malevolence, its cobblestone lanes fractured by ages of silent grievances, its drooping rooftops weighed down by a sky eternally shrouded in dark clouds. Victoria Worthington, who passed away at 98, was a figure steeped in darkness. Her towering gothic mansion perched on the hillside like a ravenous beast, its turrets clawing at the sky, its windows glimmering like cold, unfeeling eyes. In her youth, her raven-black hair framed a face of harsh beauty, her jet-black eyes sharp enough to peel away souls, and her wealth substantial enough to restore the town's fading aspirations a thousand times over. Yet she hoarded it all, providing no compassion, no warmth—only poison that dripped from her lips like molten metal. The townspeople branded her a tyrant, a harpy, a ghost who outlasted her kin through tragedies believed to be her machinations. Her will served as her final curse: her fortune would "disappear" unless someone "assumed control of her life." Infuriated, the town desecrated her memory, refusing her a decent burial. "Burn the witch," they spat, feeding her withered body to the insatiable flames of the crematorium, its chimney belching black smoke into the dusk, a pyre for a wicked soul.

In the midst of the field, Charlie Andrews, an 18-year-old high school senior, meticulously arranged cookies for a charity bake sale. Her golden blonde hair shimmered beautifully under the harsh fluorescent lights of the community center. Warmth radiated from her bright blue eyes, while her petite figure—small, pert breasts and gentle curves—was adorned in a lovely floral sundress. The dress featured pale pink petals and soft green vines intricately embroidered on a creamy cotton bodice, with the skirt flaring modestly to her knees, complemented by simple white ballet flats. Her face was mostly bare, aside from a slick of sheer pink lip gloss, and her cheeks bore a natural rosy hue, embodying an innocence that shone brightly. Charlie was the heart of the town, dedicating her time to volunteering at the local nursing home and tutoring young children, her laughter a comforting melody that lifted spirits. Her boyfriend, Robert, mirrored her essence: tall and lanky, with hazel eyes and aspirations of becoming a teacher. Their love was a pure commitment, promising to wait until after college for marriage before exploring intimacy.

As the smoke from the crematory curled upward, a mysterious, shimmering wisp of shadow sneaked through the atmosphere, unnoticed, before penetrating Charlie's chest. She gasped, her hand flying to her heart, a molten sensation running through her veins while her vision blurred with encroaching darkness. "Charlie, are you alright?" Robert inquired, his tone filled with concern as he gently steadied her elbow. She blinked, the world around her spinning, her breath uneven. "I’m... just feeling a bit dizzy," she murmured, forcing a smile that flickered like a candle in the wind.

Week 1: The First Whisper

Charlie’s visions started that week, gentle yet eerie, like whispers of shadows in her thoughts. A woman with raven hair and a lips stained crimson lingered in a hazy atmosphere, her voice a soft whisper: "You're destined for more, my dear. Don't let your light slip away." Charlie stirred awake, feeling warmth enveloping her, her heart pounding, but she brushed it off as just the pressures of senior year. In the reflection, her golden hair appeared somewhat dimmed, with faint brown strands emerging like fragile roots. Her complexion remained flawless—her soft pink gloss shimmering lightly, her cheeks radiating a natural flush, her blue eyes sparkling yet now reflecting a subtle, inquisitive gleam. "It’s nothing," she reassured Robert at school, her tone sweet, her smile genuine, dressed in a pastel blue cardigan adorned with tiny pearl buttons over a crisp white blouse, buttoned at the collar, matched with a knee-length pleated gray skirt and delicate white Mary Janes. "I just need to catch up on my sleep, I suppose." He responded with a nod, his hazel eyes filled with concern. "You would tell me if anything was off, right?" She grasped his hand, her touch reassuring. "Absolutely, Bobby." The nickname slipped from her lips, soft yet unfamiliar, and he tilted his head in confusion. "Bobby?" She burst into a giggle, feeling a rush of warmth. "It’s adorable, don’t you think?"

Her body felt subtly transformed. The bras that once fit comfortably were now snug, her modest breasts slightly fuller, pressing against her cotton blouses. Alone in her room, she stood in front of the mirror, her fingers pausing before they traced the new curves under her cotton bra, a gentle warmth blooming in her chest. She withdrew her hand, flustered, her cheeks flushing pink. "This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself, but the warmth persisted, awakening something new within her. That evening, after a tutoring session, she invited Robert into her room, her kisses tender yet prolonged, her lips meeting his with a quiet urgency, leaving a subtle shimmer of gloss on his mouth. "Charlie, we agreed to wait," he said gently, his hands hovering cautiously. She smiled, her bright blue eyes still untouched by mischief. "I know, Bobby. I just… enjoy being close to you." She paused, her touch innocent yet bold, her fingers lingering on his chest through the fabric of his flannel shirt. "You’re not upset, are you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head, smiling. "Never." Later, in the mirror, she applied a hint of clear mascara, hardly noticeable, her lashes slightly emphasized, her face still emanating innocence, but with a subtle, curious spark in her eyes.

Week 2: The First Stirring

The visions became sharper, the woman's voice more demanding: "Why settle for service when you could radiate?" Charlie jolted awake, her skin buzzing, her breath short. Her hair had darkened, the brown spreading slowly like ink, dulling her former blonde to a muted gold. She examined herself in the mirror, dismissing it with a frown; her face still youthful—her pink lip gloss transitioned to a slightly richer rose hue, meticulously applied, her cheeks blushing naturally yet lightly dusted with a sheer layer of translucent powder that smoothed her complexion. Her blue eyes seemed deeper, a hint of shadow swirling within, though her demeanor remained warm.

"Maybe a different shampoo is in order," she remarked to Robert at school, her voice soft, her smile somewhat strained yet kind, dressed in a soft lavender gingham dress with white checks, its high neckline embellished with a delicate satin bow, the skirt flaring just above her knees, completed with white sneakers and a knitted cream cardigan featuring scalloped edges. "You look... different," he noted, his brow crinkled. "But still beautiful, of course." She felt her cheeks warm, playfully swatting his arm. "Oh, come on, Bobby." The nickname rolled off her tongue effortlessly now, playful yet hinting at a complexity she was unaware of.

Her body was shifting more noticeably. Her breasts felt heavier, her bras digging into her shoulders, her hips curving slightly in her modest dresses. Alone in her room, she locked the door, her curiosity overwhelming her innocence. She slipped a hand beneath her nightgown, a simple white cotton shift with lace trim at the hem, her fingers brushing her vagina, soft and warm. The sensation was startling, a spark of pleasure that made her gasp, her cheeks flushing. “Oh my,” she whispered, her fingers circling hesitantly, the warmth building until her breath hitched, a soft moan escaping. She stopped, embarrassed, her heart pounding. “I shouldn’t,” she murmured, but the pleasure lingered, a secret she kept from Robert. That weekend, she kissed him in her car after a movie, her lips pressing harder, her rose-glossed mouth leaving a faint stain, her hands roaming his chest through his cotton tee. “Charlie, we shouldn’t,” he said, but her fingers grazed his penis through his jeans, making him gasp. “Just a little, Bobby,” she murmured, her voice sweet but firmer. She pulled back, blushing. “Sorry, I got carried away.” He smiled, uneasy but trusting. “It’s okay.” In the mirror, she added a thin line of soft brown eyeliner, her lashes coated with a light layer of black mascara, her face still delicate but with a hint of sophistication, her wardrobe still pure—flowy blouses, pastel sweaters, ankle-length skirts in soft cottons and linens.

Week 3: The First Crack

The dreams were now strikingly vivid, the woman's voice an enticing command: "Claim what's yours, girl." Charlie's hair was darkening quickly, the brunette tones swallowing the blonde like ink spreading into fine fabric, leaving only traces of golden highlights. She had gotten her hair highlighted, but it only accentuated her features, transforming her from the girl who had once baked cookies for orphans into a stranger with an intense, wandering gaze. Her makeup had shifted—her rose lip gloss was replaced by a rich red lipstick, its creamy finish glistening like a fresh wound, while her eyes were framed by a slightly bolder line of black kohl, softly smudged for a sultry allure, and her cheeks dusted with a peachy blush that defined her cheekbones, offering a subtle radiance. Her wardrobe began to transform as well, swapping flowy floral dresses for tailored white blouses with a single button undone, subtly revealing her blooming cleavage, tucked into high-waisted navy pencil skirts that hugged her figure, ending just above the knee, complemented by low-heeled pumps in soft beige leather, topped off with a silk scarf in pale coral knotted elegantly at her neck. At the nursing home, she frowned as an elderly lady spilled her tea, her patience wearing thin. "Do be more careful," she remarked, her tone sharp yet not unkind, as the woman’s eyes glistened with embarrassment. Robert approached her at school, his voice gentle. "Charlie, you've changed. Are you alright?" She let out a sigh, her red lips forming a tight line, adjusting her scarf. "I’m just exhausted, Bobby. Exhausted from always being the good girl." He reacted to the nickname, which had turned into a subtle jab. "I miss that girl," he said softly. She managed a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Perhaps I’m just growing up, Bobby."

Her body was changing faster—breasts fuller, straining her blouses, hips curving in a way that drew stares she began to notice. Alone, she explored her body with growing curiosity, her fingers slipping beneath her satin panties, stroking her vagina with more confidence. The pleasure was sharper, her moans soft but urgent as she circled her clit, her body trembling as she came, her darkening hair splayed across her pillow, her nightgown rucked up to her thighs. “Goodness,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed, her innocence still clinging but fraying. That night, she pulled Robert into her room, her kisses deeper, her hands bolder through her fitted cashmere sweater, its soft blush pink clinging to her curves. “Charlie, we shouldn’t,” he said, but her fingers grazed his penis through his jeans, making him gasp. “Just a little, Bobby,” she murmured, her voice sweet but edged with need. She stopped short, her heart racing, but her eyes glinted with something new. In the mirror, she applied a bolder layer of black eyeliner, winged slightly at the corners, her lashes heavy with mascara, her red lipstick reapplied with precision, her face sharper, less like Charlie’s, her wardrobe edging toward allure—tight jeans, silk camisoles in ivory, leather ankle boots in muted taupe.

Week 4: The Hunger Awakens

The woman's voice had shifted into a serpent's hiss: "Destroy them. Control them." Charlie's hair was almost an inky black, with subtle highlights that barely concealed the remnants of blonde, reminiscent of stars engulfed by a dark ocean. Her makeup was a statement—thick black eyeliner sharply winged, slicing across her eyelids like raven feathers, her eyes smoldering beneath a luminous layer of bronzed eyeshadow that danced in the light, lips drenched in shiny scarlet lipstick, vivid as fresh blood, and cheeks sculpted with warm bronzer that shaped her face into striking angles, a glimmer of highlighter sparkling on her cheekbones like a wicked promise. Her outfit had undergone a radical transformation—no longer modest skirts, but a skin-tight black leather dress, its daring V-neckline accentuating her full breasts, the hem riding high to reveal her voluptuous figure, complemented by patent red stiletto heels that clicked like a predator's claws, a gold chain belt at her waist glittering with an air of threat. She ceased to be passive, her patience evaporated. "I'm finished playing their bloody saint. From now on, call me Charli," she told Robert in a diner, her voice cutting, lips of scarlet curling seductively, the curse word spilling out effortlessly. "Don't you ever tire of being so... pitiful, Bobby?" The nickname emerged like a dagger, and he recoiled, his cheeks aflame. "I just want to understand," he mumbled, his voice almost a whisper. She chuckled, low and malicious, adjusting her gold bangle, its diamonds sparkling eerily. "Understanding isn't your goal, Bobby. What you need is shut the fuck up and obey me."

Her body was a weapon now, and she reveled in it. Alone, she locked her door, her fingers plunging into her pussy—the word now her own. “Fuck,” she gasped, fucking herself with her fingers, her moans loud, her body arching as she came, her black hair fanned out on silk sheets, her leather dress tossed aside, her red stilettos kicked off in a heap. The pleasure was a drug, feeding the darkness. At school, she fixated on Jackson, a fellow senior, a tower of muscle with dark skin that gleamed under the gym’s lights, his broad shoulders and confident grin radiating raw power. She’d always admired him, but now a heat coiled in her pussy, raw and urgent. “I want him,” she told a friend, her voice hungry. “Jackson? Good luck,” the friend teased, but Charli’s lips curled. “I don’t need luck.”

That weekend, she invited Jackson over, telling Robert to come too. “Bobby, sit,” she ordered, her voice cold, her scarlet lips gleaming, her Chanel clutch tossed on the bed, its quilted leather glinting. Robert obeyed, his heart hammering. She tossed him a cock cage, her eyes narrowing. “Put it on, Bobby. Be a good boy.” His hands shook as he complied, the metal locking around his cock, his face burning. Jackson grinned as Charli kissed him, her hands tearing at his clothes, revealing his massive black cock, thick and pulsing. “Fuck, you’re huge,” she gasped, her eyes wild, her scarlet lipstick smearing slightly. She fucked him on the bed, her pussy gripping him as she rode him hard, her moans deliberate, her breasts bouncing in her leather dress, her black hair swinging like a curtain of night. “Look at me, Bobby,” she taunted, her bronze eyeshadow shimmering, her eyeliner smudged with sweat. “This is what I fucking want.” Robert watched, caged and broken, tears streaming as her laughter cut deeper than a blade.

Charli's hair had transformed into a jet-black cascade, reminiscent of the glistening tresses of Victoria depicted in ancient portraits tucked away in the mansion's attic. Her makeup elevated her presence to one of command—smoky eyeshadow gently fanned out into elegant wings over her eyelids, seamlessly blending into a luxurious plum hue at the edges, her gaze glowing like smoldering coals beneath. Boldly sculpted brows, defined with dark pencil, framed lips painted a striking crimson, echoing the color of fresh blood. Her cheekbones were artfully highlighted with bronzer, imbuing her with a spectral grace while a luminous highlighter shimmered on her high points like a teasing star. Her outfit exuded opulence, symbolizing her emerging power: a black Chanel tweed dress embellished with gold chains that clung to her curvaceous form, the hem grazing her thighs to emphasize her figure. She paired this with luxurious deep burgundy thigh-high suede boots from Gucci, their golden heels striking the floor with the force of war drums, and a Louis Vuitton handbag casually slung over her shoulder, showcasing its extravagant monogrammed leather. She tugged Robert , now looking more feminine, and his cock still caged and getting smaller, into upscale stores, her commands snapping like a whip. "Acquire this for me, Bobby," she demanded at the Chanel boutique, gesturing towards a $7,000 quilted leather jacket that glimmered enticingly under the lights, adorned with golden CC buttons. "You want to keep me content, don’t you?" He agreed, witnessing his finances dwindling as her smile morphed into something sinister, all while she effortlessly sported a $12,000 Louis Vuitton trunk bag over her arm, its canvas sparkling with golden studs. In a Gucci store, she insisted he buy a $4,500 silk scarf featuring fierce panther designs, wrapping it around her neck with a smirk, its fringes fluttering like a predator's mane. "That's a good boy, Bobby," she cooed, mockery dripping from her voice as her scarlet lips glowed. One of the sales associates, named Lena, approached to assist her. She caught Charli's eye.

A day later, she and Bobby returned to the store, her demeanor colder and sharper, snapping at Lena. 'Hurry up, you idiot,' she spat venomously, her scarlet lips twisting with disdain, her plum eyeshadow gleaming under the lights. Lena, under the weight of their aggression, hastened her pace. One night, Robert begged, 'Charli, I need you to come back.' She seized his chin, her black nails slicing into his skin. 'Charli's fucking gone, Bobby. I'm Charlotte now, and you're nothing to me.' She tossed him a pair of pink lace panties, delicate and teasing, her lips forming a sly smile. 'Put these on, Bobbi. Let's see how beautiful you really are.' She relished using the feminine form of his name, as now he looked more feminine than male. Her evenings were filled with indulgence. She pleasured herself with a stylish black dildo purchased with Robert's money, her body slick with desire, her moans reverberating through the room as she envisioned dominating Jackson and the whole town. Her Gucci boots lay discarded by the bed, her Chanel earrings sparkling on the nightstand. She brought Lena home, the saleswoman from the boutique . 'Bobbi, just watch,' Charlotte commanded, tightening his cock cage with a jingle of her Louis Vuitton bracelet. She made love to Lena, their bodies intertwined.

Week 6: The Shadow Takes Hold

Charlotte's cruelty was precision incarnate. Her makeup darkened—lips painted in deep black lipstick, matte and light-absorbing like an endless void, eyes shrouded in charcoal blended into a theatrical halo, layered with metallic silver eyeshadow that sparkled like polished steel, brows sharp as blades, cheeks sculpted to an almost skeletal sharpness, a brilliant highlighter tracing her cheekbones like a knife's edge, her visage a pale mask of authority that made passersby recoil. Her attire was a royal decree: a Louis Vuitton leather trench, its belt tightened to emphasize her voluptuous hips, the black leather shimmering like liquid shadow, draped over a Gucci silk bodysuit in obsidian, its plunging neckline clinging to her voluptuous curves, paired with Chanel stiletto boots adorned with pearls, their heels clicking ominously like a falling guillotine. The town people, moving aside whenever she walked down the street.Seeing her now was wicked and cruel.

She coerced Robert into purchasing a $15,000 diamond-studded Rolex at an upscale boutique, grinning as he swiped his card, his face ashen, the watch’s face shining like her merciless gaze. "You’re doing so well, Bobbi," she taunted, observing her former boyfriend, whose hair was now a lighter blonde with curls, decidedly more feminine. She slipped the Rolex onto her wrist, its diamonds sparkling. At a Chanel store, she demanded a $20,000 diamond choker, its gems glimmering with her wickedness, fastening it around her neck with a smirk. One day, she caught him gazing, his eyes pleading. "What do you want, Bobbi?" she inquired, applying her black lipstick with meticulous grace, her eyes icy in the reflection, her Chanel perfume enveloping the air like an intoxicating spell. "The old me? That frail little girl in those sad dresses?" He nodded, tears streaming down his face. "I love her." She cackled, a thunderstorm unleashed, Louis Vuitton earrings swaying, their golden chains cascading. "She was nothing. I am fucking everything." She entangled herself with two men at a lavish party, their size overwhelming, her body stretched as she let out teasing moans while Robert watched, trapped, her Gucci scarf trailing on the ground, its panther motifs seething in the candlelight. "This is what I fucking deserve, sissy boy" she proclaimed, her black lipstick smudged, hair perfectly styled.

Week 7: The Queen Ascends

Mr. Bennett, the town’s lawyer, handed Charlotte the estate papers, trembling, the air thick with the scent of old ink and dread. “It’s yours, Miss Andrews.” She signed Charlotte Andrews, her black lips curling, her Louis Vuitton pen glinting, its gold nib scratching like a spell. “I’m her.” She claimed the mansion, its dark halls embracing her like a lover, its chandeliers dripping with crystal that caught her reflection—a queen in a Chanel leather corset, its laces tight against her voluptuous curves, its black leather studded with gold, paired with Gucci leather pants that hugged her hips like a second skin, a Louis Vuitton fur stole in silver fox draped over her shoulders, its softness a mocking contrast to her cruelty.

Her parties were orgies of decadence, her wardrobe gleaming—Chanel gowns with crystal embroidery, Gucci furs in midnight black, Louis Vuitton boots with gold-plated heels. She fucked men like Jackson, women too, her pussy always hungry, her black lipstick smearing as she screamed her pleasure, Robert caged and watching, his savings gone to her $25,000 Chanel diamond clutch, its quilted leather encrusted with gems. Alone, she fucked herself with her dildo, her moans a hymn to her power, her Louis Vuitton bag tossed beside her, spilling gold jewelry onto the floor, her Chanel choker glinting at her throat.

Within the confines of her bedroom, standing before an ornate mirror adorned with twisting serpents, she beheld a reflection that felt foreign: raven-black hair flowing like an obsidian wing, ample breasts overflowing from her Chanel corset, lips as dark as a bottomless pit, and eyes ignited with the essence of Victoria, their silver eyeshadow shimmering like a tempest. "You made a wise choice," she murmured, her tone soft yet reverent, feeling Victoria’s spirit coursing through her veins. Charlie was but ashes, while Charlotte stood as queen.

Epilogue: The Breaking of Bobbi

Months later, Robert was transformed, no longer himself but Bobbi, the devoted servant of Charlotte. His tall, slender frame adorned in pastel dresses, occasionally slipping into French maid outfits.

The satin bodice hugged tightly, simulating soft feminine curves, its black fabric glistening under candlelight. The skirt was daringly short, flaring out with layers of white lace petticoats that barely concealed his thighs, revealing black fishnet stockings held up by a garter belt, their seams running up his shaved legs like dark veins. He balanced precariously in five-inch patent leather heels, their shiny surfaces reflecting the flickering flames, while his platinum blonde hair fell in soft curls, sometimes accented with a lace maid’s cap decorated with a satin bow. His lips were a striking cherry red, glossy and alluring, with thick black eyeliner winging his eyes dramatically, his lashes weighed down by mascara. His cheeks were dusted with a sparkling pink blush, mocking in its shine. The cock cage remained, a constant source of discomfort, biting into his flesh and haunting his every move. "You look perfect like this, Bobbi," Charlotte remarked, adjusting his apron, the fluttering white lace brushing against his skin as her black nails grazed him, her Chanel perfume wrapping around him possessively. In the mansion’s parlor, illuminated by grand candelabras casting flickering shadows on velvet drapes, Charlotte reclined in a striking Gucci emerald gown, its revealing neckline accentuating her curves, the silk flowing over her body like liquid night. Her black lipstick shimmered, and a diamond choker from Louis Vuitton sparkled around her neck, her eyes shadowed in charcoal and silver, creating a cruel cosmic effect. Jackson loomed beside her, his impressive physique a manifestation of raw desire. "Bobbi, kneel," commanded Charlotte, her voice smooth and commanding like silk, her lips curling in a satisfied smile. Bobbi obeyed, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, petticoats rustling, head bowed, maid’s cap quivering on her head. "Suck him," Charlotte instructed, her gaze fierce, her fingers teasing her own body through the gown, the silver eyeshadow glistening in the light. Bobbi took Jackson’s cock, gagging, tears mixing with mascara to create dark streaks down her face, her ruby-red lips smudged as she struggled. The maid’s cap slid askew, her glittery blush smeared by sweat. Charlotte laughed, her pleasure rising, the black lipstick pristine against her face, her cheekbones sharp and defined. "Good girl, Bobbi," she cooed, as Jackson climaxed, his release filling Bobbi’s mouth and spilling onto her satin apron, leaving thick white stains on the lace petticoats. "My perfect, broken maid," Charlotte whispered, delicately wiping away the remnants of cum from Bobbi’s lips with a black-nailed finger and licking it clean.

[j-nor]

i saw you collect clown shit I'm being a clown for Halloween can I see 👀

SCREAMING AND CRYING!!!! YES ID LOVE TO SHOW YOU!!! IM BEING A CLOWN FOR HALLOWEEN TOO!!! THANK YOU FOR ASKING ME ABOUT MY CLOWN STUFF <333333333

This is my clown suit, which is hand-made out of 2 colorful blankets and a pillowcase, i free handed most of it and also hand stitched about 60% of it because my sewing machine broke mid-project. (Just a heads up while we’re still at the top, this post is gonna be loooooooooooong and have a lot of pictures, also sorry for how gross the carpet looks he’s just like that)

This is my circus tent juice box

This is my costume drawer, where I cram as much stuff as I can fit, it’s pretty full so I’ll just show you my favorite stuff.

These are the highlights, my googley-eye ring, the first clown mask I made, the first party hat I made, my diy ruffled wrist cuffs and collar, and my jewelry hoard.

These are my clowns, which are both hand sewn, they’re names are Butterbean (left) and Corn (right). Butterbeans face was smudged by some water, I’ll get around to fixing it soon.

These are all the little trinkets I keep with them, things I find that I consider clownish. Most of these were picked up from dollar stores, thrift stores, stoop sales, giveaways or relatives homes. There’s a lot so I’ll just show my favorites.

These are my rubber reptiles, my tardigrade and monster finger-puppets, my wind up toys, and some bouncy balls and jingle bells.

This is my doorway decoration.

These are my other accessories that don’t fit in the costume drawer. My collection of silly sunglasses, my second favorite vest, this lovely sweater, and of course the essential clown nose and bow tie.

These are my clown shoes. These rubber boots have tragically become far too small for me, so I’m saving them untill my cousins are older. The rainbow sneakers are only for special occasions because they hurt my feet and Im trying to protect the color.

Land lastly, this is my favorite sculpture, I made it a few years ago.

All these were collected over the past 3ish years, a-lot of pieces were hand made or found in cheap stores, when I go out I keep my eyes peeled for anything clownish and that’s why I’ve managed to grow my hoard so large lol. If anyone reading wants to use the pictures for something (a mood board, a collage, whatever), tag me so I can see it!!!! Thanks for sending me this ask :o) I literally jumped out of bed as soon as I got it because I am a weapons-grade weirdo and love to talk about clowns

Have a lovely day and a happy Halloween!!!

[phoenixremix69]

where's my AU where Kenjaku legitimately falls in love with Yuuji's dad and likes raising him so they retire to become a suburban housewife(and they fuckin rock at it, they're on the PTA and their ancient heian recipe brownies always sell out first at the bake sale) only for Yuuji to somehow still wind up eating a finger somehow and they remember "Oh shit, those evil machinations I set up centuries ago are starting. Oh double shit, now I have to find a BUNCH of hosts for all those ancient sorcerors or my ass is getting hit by like 16 binding vows. Fuuuuck, ok, time to hit up the animal shelter, I guess my weekend is gonna be spent killing magic kittens"

[fictionadventurer]

Potential Victober Reading List

Short List Bare minimum of books to meet every challenge

The Doctor's Wife by Mary Elizabeth Braddon (group read)

No Name by Wilkie Collins (a serialized book, book that plays with form, and a book by Wilkie Collins)

The Warden by Anthony Trollope (a book about religion)

An Ideal Husband by Oscar Wilde (Victorian drama)

Longer List If I want separate books for each challenge

Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson (serialized)

The Time Machine by H.G. Wells (plays with form)

A Dark Night's Work by Elizabeth Gaskell (serialized)

Books It Might Be Nice To Finish This Month

An English Squire by Christabel R. Coleridge

The Three Brides by Charlotte M. Yonge

Extras Books I Have Around That I Might Be Tempted to Pick Up

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall by Anne Bronte (no way I'll have time for it, but it's such a pretty copy)

The Half-Sisters by Geraldine Jewsbury

On the Back of the North Wind by George Macdonald (I still need to read my copy)

Oscar Wilde's fairy tales (I just bought a copy at a book sale)

Verses on Various Occasions by John Henry Newman (I found it on the free ebook site yesterday, the religion prompt would be a good excuse to finally read Newman, and poetry seems like an easy place to start)

Ellen Middleton by Georgiana Fullerton (Just heard about this in a video this morning, couldn't resist downloading when I heard it praised and learned it was by a Catholic author)

[notupforpolo]

A BBC Ghosts coffee shop AU

Alison inherits a struggling coffee shop in the city – Button's Bakery. Her and Mike are unsure of what they're going to do with it, but in the process decide to visit at least visit a couple of times before the make anything final. The place is rundown, old fashioned and in Mike's opinion, has not one good tea option even if the cappuccinons are good.

They both decide to rent out the space after getting a good look at the finances – which are abysmal. But after the staff, who were all hired long before Alison and Mike came along, gets wind of this all hell breaks loose. They call and they text and email and when that doesn't make the couple budge suddenly emails from people who definitely aren't employees find their way into Alison's mailbox. Regulars start writing to her, protesting the closing of the café. That, and a number of, in her opinion, poorly written love letters that frankly border on creepy. The staff deny having given out her email adress. They are, of course, lying.

No one wants to rent, however. For some reason. Honestly, it's prime real estate, Alison! (It really isn't, Mike) So what choice do they have. To take some basic business classes together becomes next on the agenda and looking for an accountant replaces looking for tenants. A meetings with the assistant manager is scheduled. The first thing on his agenda is to establish that he introduced himself as 'The Captain', and that it is not something the others call him to be mean.

Alison asks the staff if she can try working behind the counter. She wants to learn how to use the espresso machine and the bread slicer, which seem intimidating. Instead she spends almost two whole shifts trying to figure out how to smoothly put a loaf of bread in a paper bag. The fact that she had Kitty – a young, fairly recently hired, part-timer – as her "teacher" doesn't help. The young woman is easily distracted and not what one would call a natural problem solver. Her sales, though, make up for it. When Kitty asks if you would like a freshly baked croissant with your coffee you would have to be heartless to say no. Mike also gets behind the register but when a customer asks for "an extra hot almond milk mocka latte with extra foam to go but without a lid" he decides that he found the meetings with their new accountant more interesting anyway.

Slowly but surely they get into somewhat of a routine. Button's Bakery is open 7-18 Tuesday through Friday and 8-16 on weekends. Closed on Mondays. Alison works with managing the café full time while Mike keeps his old job, the plan is for him to go full time when the fiances are just a little more stable. Actually, Mike finds that he, like, reallyyy likes the economic side and signs up for some evening classes on business and entrepreneur-stuff.

They keep all of the old staff. Originally, it had been because neither Alison nor Mike though they would run the place long enough to have to worry about staff. But then they had gotten attached to the bakery and the bakery came with the staff – and the regulars. Alison, who spent more time at the café than Mike, isn't sure she will ever be convinced it was the right decision. (She never doubts in, but she doesn't want to admit that). Mike uses the word peculiar to describe the lot of them and he's really proud he found that word in the moment because he did hit the nail with the head. (That's not you say that, Mike.)

Robin and Mary are the key to their success, thinks Alison privately. No one knows anything about Robin. It was the fist thing Alison and Mike got to know about the man. He's worked there longer than anyone else, is the second thing. Fanny, one of the baristas and unofficial assistant assistant manager, thinks he's a foreigner... or at least from somewhere up north. Mike thinks he might just have a speech impediment, or something. He's a magician when it comes to bread and sandwiches, that is the third thing Alison and Mike get to know. And they never doubted it after having a taste. He's also, strangely, the only person that understands the espresso machine. He burns the milk every time he tries to steam it but no one else can fix it when the espresso starts flowing to quickly. Or when the handles are loose. Or when the steam wand looses pressure. Or when– (Mike we really should think about investing in a new espresso machine.) (It's vintage though.)

Mary bakes the sweet stuff. Buns , rolls, biscuits, cakes, pies. Even made eclairs on a whim once. Alison knows this because the regulars never stop asking if they're coming back. Not one for customer service, however. Shy to the point of it becoming a problem at times as she refuses to work the till when someone is out sick. Not really a sales person, their Mary. But her girlfriend, Annie, isn't either and she was apparently a hit with the guests. Alison knows this because the regulars never stop asking if she's coming back. Actually, to be frank, they never shut up at all.

Well, Humphrey Bone does. He lives in an apartment three floors above the café and like to read the paper there in the mornings. He says good morning, orders a black coffee and ham and cheese sandwich and comments on the weather, before taking a plush chair in the corner. Then he reads The Guardian and when he's done with that he reads Le Monde. On weekends he adds a pain au chocolate to his usual order and does the crosswords. (It's more of a group effort at this point. The crossword in English, obviously. He does the French one all on his own.)

Another neighbour is Pat. He lives a little further down the street and comes in every Sunday with his son. It's their thing, he says excitedly to Alison the first time she's taking his order. One cup of English breakfast, one hot chocolate and two scones with jam. Before they leave he buys two pastries for them to have after dinner. In contrast to Humphrey, everyone knows a lot about Pat. He's a divorced banker who's true passion is his job as a scout leader and he also makes a mean meat pie. Some mornings, on his way to work, he'll stick his head in and say good morning to Robin, Mary and whoever's opening.

Thomas, Alison figures out with absolutely no effort at all, is the love-letter-email-sender. An english student who comes in weekday afternoons to study. Well, to study and to try seducing Alison. He wants to be a poet and makes it everyone's problem all the time. He's dramatic, self-important, spoiled and gives Alison a headache. The extra hot almond milk mocka latte with extra foam he orders gives Mike a headache.

The strangest regular, despite all the other's peculiarities, is the disgraced tory politician who comes and goes. Julian Fawcett was someone who people joked about on the tv, not someone Alison and Mike expected to have to serve coffee. The first time they're there when he comes in, Mike asks him to his face if he wasn't 'the tory who, like, did the kinky sex in public thing'. Alison considered selling again. But to their surprise, especially following that first meeting, they both grew to reluctantly like Julian. He doesn't have a filter and Alison never let's him talk unsupervised to Kitty, ('She's impressionable, Mike!) but he's funny and can talk to Robin for hours. When and how often during the week he'll visit is anyone's guess but when he does a triple espresso is waiting.

Months pass. Then years. Button's Bakery thrives under Alison and Mike's care despite some rough first years. Mary leaves because her and Annie are moving to France. The Captain properly introduces them to his secret beau after he finally accepts that they all know anyway. They do get a new espresso machine and Robin remains the espresso machine whisperer but it's real master is Kitty. Thomas graduates, Pat retires. Fanny becomes Alison and Mike's real accountant when they decide to expand after Mike decides that maybe business is very much his thing and he wants to do more. Humphrey get's an ipad to read Le Monde but still buys a paper copy of The Guardian. No one is sure what Julian does but he now gets coffee with his daughter sometimes.

And Alison watches is all. Through bad times and good, she guides Button's Bakery with a gentle hand and an exasperated tone. It couldn't have been done without her.

sorry for the formatting I hit a "4096 text-character-per-block(?) limit"