#and all the requirements for graduating in four years

[grapehyasynth]

young royals fic rec, 32/?

i’m (slowly) working my way through the wilmon tag on ao3 and thought that as i go i might shout out some fics i enjoy along the way! i’ve tagged authors where i knew their tumblr url, but please feel free to tag folks or dm me if you know ones i’ve missed!

see all my rec lists here

1. blindfold by @simonsfish - Wille puts on a blindfold and lets Simon do what he wants. Simon wants to use his tongue.

2. The daisy follows soft the sun by @willesworld - Simon has two dark red seeds inked into his skin just below his belly button. He has always had them. He doesn’t remember a time when he looked into the mirror and that pair of burgundy seeds weren’t staring back at him. To Simon, the marks are an obligation. He doesn’t ever want to be tied to someone in this irreversible, caging way.But, as in most things in his life, Simon doesn’t get a choice.The seeds sit and sit on his belly for years, ignored and hidden and resented.

3. Right Back Home to You by @thewaterloovases - Simon smiles at him, and something deep in Wille’s chest tugs at his heartstrings, a quiet ache that reminds him that once upon a time, this was everything he ever wanted: slow dancing in the kitchen with the love of his life, coffee going cold on the counter and the glorious day stretched out before them with nothing to fill it but time spent together.

4. Study Strategy by ticklishraspberries - Living in a dormitory requires a level of quiet that neither Simon nor Wilhelm can accomplish.

5. Stairway to Heaven by @unfortunate17 - A semi-outed Wille is sent to Hillerska to help preserve his public image. As part of his initiation into Forest Ridge House, he’s dared to sleep with Simon.

6. The Getaway by @groenendaelfic - Days after meeting on a plane Wille whisks Simon away on a weekend getaway. There are boats, picnics, plenty of privacy and feelings which shouldn't be there, let alone grow.

7. Everybody Loves You Now by @im-a-king-baby - International pop sensation Simme has announced on Instagram that he will be celebrating the end of his sold out world tour with five consecutive shows in Stockholm starting TONIGHT and running through the week. This will be his first extended stay in Sweden in four years, since he graduated from high school and flew to L.A. to sign a record deal. And what is Wilhelm supposed to do with that.

[supernovaa-remnant]

.

[the-blaze-empress]

fuck i miss being in an orchestra

[reasonsforhope]

"For the first time in almost 60 years, a state has formally overturned a so-called “right to work” law, clearing the way for workers to organize new union locals, collectively bargain, and make their voices heard at election time.

This week, Michigan finalized the process of eliminating a decade-old “right to work” law, which began with the shift in control of the state legislature from anti-union Republicans to pro-union Democrats following the 2022 election. “This moment has been decades in the making,” declared Michigan AFL-CIO President Ron Bieber. “By standing up and taking their power back, at the ballot box and in the workplace, workers have made it clear Michigan is and always will be the beating heart of the modern American labor movement.”

[Note: The article doesn't actually explain it, so anyway, "right to work" laws are powerful and deceptively named pieces of anti-union legislation. What right to work laws do is ban "union shops," or companies where every worker that benefits from a union is required to pay dues to the union. Right-to-work laws really undermine the leverage and especially the funding of unions, by letting non-union members receive most of the benefits of a union without helping sustain them. Sources: x, x, x, x]

In addition to formally scrapping the anti-labor law on Tuesday [February 13, 2024], Michigan also restored prevailing-wage protections for construction workers, expanded collective bargaining rights for public school employees, and restored organizing rights for graduate student research assistants at the state’s public colleges and universities. But even amid all of these wins for labor, it was the overturning of the “right to work” law that caught the attention of unions nationwide...

Now, the tide has begun to turn—beginning in a state with a rich labor history. And that’s got the attention of union activists and working-class people nationwide...

At a time when the labor movement is showing renewed vigor—and notching a string of high-profile victories, including last year’s successful strike by the United Auto Workers union against the Big Three carmakers, the historic UPS contract victory by the Teamsters, the SAG-AFTRA strike win in a struggle over abuses of AI technology in particular and the future of work in general, and the explosion of grassroots union organizing at workplaces across the country—the overturning of Michigan’s “right to work” law and the implementation of a sweeping pro-union agenda provides tangible evidence of how much has changed in recent years for workers and their unions...

By the mid-2010s, 27 states had “right to work” laws on the books.

But then, as a new generation of workers embraced “Fight for 15” organizing to raise wages, and campaigns to sign up workers at Starbucks and Amazon began to take off, the corporate-sponsored crusade to enact “right to work” measures stalled. New Hampshire’s legislature blocked a proposed “right to work” law in 2017 (and again in 2021), despite the fact that the measure was promoted by Republican Governor Chris Sununu. And in 2018, Missouri voters rejected a “right to work” referendum by a 67-33 margin.

Preventing anti-union legislation from being enacted and implemented is one thing, however. Actually overturning an existing law is something else altogether.

But that’s what happened in Michigan after 2022 voting saw the reelection of Governor Gretchen Whitmer, a labor ally, and—thanks to the overturning of gerrymandered legislative district maps that had favored the GOP—the election of Democratic majorities in the state House and state Senate. For the first time in four decades, the Democrats controlled all the major levers of power in Michigan, and they used them to implement a sweeping pro-labor agenda. That was a significant shift for Michigan, to be sure. But it was also an indication of what could be done in other states across the Great Lakes region, and nationwide.

“Michigan Democrats took full control of the state government for the first time in 40 years. They used that power to repeal the state’s ‘right to work’ law,” explained a delighted former US secretary of labor Robert Reich, who added, “This is why we have to show up for our state and local elections.”"

-via The Nation, February 16, 2024

[cherienymphe]

Bite Marks & Bruises (Roman Godfrey x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, stalking, period sex + consumption, blood, compulsion

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies​

summary: Roman Godfrey is spoiled and arrogant and rude...and he gets whatever he wants.

~

Your life was over the first moment you stepped into The Godfrey Mansion.

The dark, gothic, and imposing structure was a staple in Hemlock Grove for as long as you could remember, countless stories being passed around at sleepovers about all manner of horrors and mysteries that probably took place in the home. Tales of shadowy figures and howling wolves and low moaning wails like whispers on the wind. None of it was true, of course, lies made up by overimaginative girls with too much time on their hands, driven to pass around falsities out of an unquenched desire to see what the infamous house was really like.

As you got older, such stories became silly to you, aware that it was just a home like any other owned by some rich woman like any other. All of its intrigue lay in its exclusivity, its secretiveness, and with maturity came the lessening desire to see inside some fancy old home. Even as you walked the halls with its inhabitants—Shelley and Roman Godfrey—the Godfrey mansion was just something you thought about less and less.

Until about six months after you graduated.

…and Olivia Godfrey was offering you substantial compensation to tutor her daughter.

It wasn’t an answer that required a lot of thought on your end. After all, you would be relaxing in a beautiful mansion and helping some seventeen-year-old with her homework while getting paid for it. With no desire—and no money—to jet off to college anytime soon, it seemed like an obvious choice. Those silly stories that you and your friends would tell each other under the cover of darkness behind closed bedroom doors were the farthest thing from your mind.

It was cold the first day you walked to The Godfrey Mansion.

It was the middle of November in Pennsylvania—air biting, leaves crunchy, and breeze gentle. Olivia Godfrey greeted you with a smile, her dark hair looking like midnight against her fair skin. The mother of two didn’t look a day over thirty, and you remembered staring at her, feeling so hypnotized by her beauty and wondering how she was old enough to have two children of graduating age. Her thin statuesque frame swayed gently with her every step, hands gingerly flailing about as she gave you the grand tour.

“All of her tutoring will take place up in her room,” she told you, tone rich and poised. “Shelley is so very particular about her space…and I’m trusting you.”

That last comment was said slowly, and she turned to face you as she said it, hands clasped together as her umber eyes connected with yours. Silence followed, and you didn’t need to be a genius to know what she was getting at. You recalled how the kids at school would treat Shelley, how they would simultaneously fear and torment her. Her daughter was protective of her space, she was protective of her daughter, and she was allowing you access to both.

“I understand,” you eventually forced out, nodding.

It was quick, but her cold visage transformed almost instantly, that ever-polite smile on her pink lips. In no time, Olivia Godfrey had turned back around and was continuing to lead you through the mansion. She droned on about the different rooms, making a point to comment on your chances of getting lost should you need to use the bathroom or something.

“Shelley must get all of her rest as growing teens do, so you won’t be staying all hours of the night, but you will be welcome to join us for dinner should you ever choose to.”

You didn’t know if you’d ever take her up on the offer, but you welcomed the polite invite, nonetheless.

You’d been tutoring Shelley for four days when you finally came face to face with him. Roman Godfrey—tall and spoiled and possessing the kind of face every girl you knew would gush over. You’d been in the same graduating class, but you were sure that you’d never talked to Roman once, not until you were in his house and eating his food, at least. You recalled walking to and from school most days, your gaze catching sight of that bright red convertible.

Since graduating, you didn’t see it as much.

After reuniting in his dining room…you saw it all the time.

“Sweetheart, you remember Y/N, don’t you?” Olivia’s articulate speech filled the air as soon as her son stepped through the threshold. “I believe she graduated with you last year.”

She continued after looking to you for confirmation, smiling at her son when you nodded.

“She’s been tutoring Shelley, and she finally took me up on my offer to join us for dinner.”

The dark-haired teenager didn’t say a word at first, slowly making his way to the table. You had never known Roman to look…bad, always dressed immaculate even while wearing the simplest of things. Shelley—a much more outgoing individual than you’d initially believed—had smiled at her brother with his approach. Their mother had started up an entirely different conversation, one you tried to be involved in, but you felt trapped by Roman’s gaze instead.

If you thought Olivia Godfrey was hypnotizing and entrancing in every way, then Roman Godfrey was absolutely paralyzing.

It was hard to look away from him, trying everything in your power to but failing every time. His dark hair was neat and pushed away from his face, perfect and put together even within the privacy of his home. His green eyes didn’t look so green, and you wondered if it was the lighting in the dining room…or something else entirely. When he finally made himself comfortable next to Shelley and diagonal from you, only then did you find the strength to lower your gaze to your food.

Dinner was a talkative affair, Olivia dominating the conversation with the occasional commentary from her son. She pulled you into the dialogue here and there, but with an oppressing gaze weighing down on you, you felt…restricted. It was purely all in your head, you knew that, but you couldn’t fight the thought that Roman was watching your every move—judging you.

You really could not get out of the house fast enough when dinner was over, hoping that your sudden skittishness was not noticeable. Roman’s gaze was something you felt on you even as you insisted you’d make it home just fine. Olivia didn’t fight you too much on it, and you were grateful, and the darkness that met you was somehow less terrifying than vibrant green eyes. It wasn’t until the next day when you realized that Roman wasn’t judging you, at all.

What he was doing was much worse.

“I really don’t mind walking.”

You told him this as he sat in your driveway, that familiar fancy red car taking up residence in it. The sun was out, and he was wearing shades and a thick jacket that made him appear bigger than he actually was. His jaw slowly moved, some gum in his mouth you presumed, and after a moment or two, he slowly turned his head to stare directly at you. Your eyes briefly glanced at his tapping finger against the wheel.

“You’re tutoring Shelley. Why would I make you walk all the way to our house when it’s not like I have anything better to do, anyway?”

He said it so flippantly, almost like this whole ordeal annoyed him, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d say that his mother made him park in your driveway. However, Roman never struck you as the kind of guy to do something he didn’t want to do, so his attitude only served to confuse you. You wrapped your arms around yourself, and although you couldn’t see his eyes, you knew they were fixated on you.

You could feel the heat of them despite the cold air that surrounded you.

After some time of your short impasse, a slow smirk danced along his lips.

“I could always make you…”

His voice was low, and there was something mirthful in his tone, like the idea of dragging you and forcing you into his fancy car was an entertaining one. Something in you told you that he would despite what you wanted to believe, and something else told you that he’d enjoy it very much. With that thought and a sigh, you finally conceded and made your way to his passenger side.

His eyes remained on you the whole way there.

The ride was quiet, the walk from his car to the door even quieter.

Olivia’s voice rang through the house, inquiring as to if that was him coming through the door. The sound of his voice was answer enough, and you looked away from him when he slowly took off his shades.

“…and Y/N.”

Something about the sound of your name coming from his lips unnerved you. It didn’t exactly roll off of his tongue, something mocking in the way he said it, and you stared straight ahead as you walked down the hall in search of Shelley. You didn’t dare look back, afraid of what might be gaining on you.

Roman was the kind of guy that was impossible to ignore. Not only because he was just that imposing, but also because he simply wouldn’t let you. You’d gone to school with him for years, and it wasn’t until you both graduated did you learn that he was needy and constant in his want for attention. He was disturbingly honest, vulnerable to his desire to say the first thing on his mind no matter how inappropriate.

…and he was determined to get what he wanted once he decided he wanted it.

“So what? You didn’t want to fuck off out of this town and go to college or something?”

He asked you one day as you relaxed—as best as you could within his presence, anyway—in the passenger seat of his car. He wasn’t wearing his shades, and you almost missed them when you looked over to meet his green gaze. It was so intense, and there were moments where you were sure that Roman could see right through you.

“Don’t know what I would go for,” you replied, the cold air whipping against your face.

You could feel him looking at you as you stared through the windshield, and you got the feeling that he wanted you to elaborate on that. Even if you did know how to talk to Roman, you still wouldn’t. He made you uncomfortable in ways you couldn’t even explain, and the worst thing you did was allow him to know that.

There always seemed to be some sick pleasure in his eyes, the green of them glinting with something unknown to you. He watched you like a cat would a mouse, a wolf would a deer, a predator fully amusing itself with the prey it had in its line of reach. Only, Roman wasn’t some predator. He was some guy, you reminded yourself, and you were simply some girl.

At worst, you likened Roman to that of an asshole with too much free time on his hands.

The only person spared from that was his sister.

“You’re good with her,” he commented, turning his car off as it sat in your driveway.

Your hand was on the handle, seconds away from exiting the vehicle when he spoke. His voice had startled you, used to the silence of his unwavering gaze as he watched you exit his car and go into the house. You watched him place a cigarette between his lips, the flame from his lighter brightening his face in the night. The smell of smoke followed soon after.

“Shelley,” he explained, exhaling. “You’re good with her. She likes you.”

You glanced away, squirming in your seat when presented with an actual conversation you could have with the rich boy.

“I like her too. She’s very sweet…and…even funny, sometimes.”

You shrugged when he looked at you, pulling another drag, and the longer he stared at you, the more uncomfortable you started to feel. You looked away, gaze falling to your purse at your feet, preparing to grab it and wish him a good night when he spoke again.

“My mother thinks I stare at you too much.”

His words shocked you, and your eyes widened when you looked at him again. He wasn’t looking at you, now, smoking and partaking in his cigarette. Your own lips parted, unsure of how to respond to that, and he took another drag, loudly exhaling. Roman had a habit of saying anything that was on his mind, so that wasn’t what shocked you. You were shocked because it wasn’t all in your head…

…and that someone else had noticed too.

“She’s right,” he breathed, gazing at you, now, and you swallowed.

His eyes were taken with the action, lowering and resting on your neck for a few seconds too long. It was late and dark, save for the half moon in the sky, but something in his gaze seemed to shift as he stared at your throat, eyes tracing the very top of your chest before they met yours again.

You swore they weren’t as green, now.

“I do stare,” he murmured, looking away and taking another pull—a final pull—of the cigarette between his fingers. “You’re pretty…and I sometimes wonder if you were this pretty in school.”

You didn’t know if you liked where this conversation was going, straightening and looking away.

“School was only six months ago,” you mumbled, finally speaking after some time. “I can’t possibly look that different.”

Roman chuckled then, and it was a genuine sound, and so you didn’t know if he was laughing at you or himself.

“You’re right,” he relented. “I was probably just too busy fucking cheerleaders and paying already rich girls for sex.”

You grimaced, reaching for your purse, now when he stopped you. You were alarmed by the feel of his hand on your wrist, and when you looked up at him from your leaned over position, it seemed that Roman was somewhat startled by his own actions. Like he’d always entertained the thought but never imagined he’d go through with it. He quickly let you go like you’d burned him, and you slowly sat up as he cleared his throat.

“Shelley’s gonna be hanging out with our uncle tomorrow…” he looked away. “They’re close like that, but… That doesn’t mean I still can’t pick you up.”

He said a whole lot without saying much, and you felt your stomach twist. Roman was used to telling a girl he wanted her and then…well…having her. You’d seen it many times, the way they flocked to him and preened at the opportunity to fuck Roman Godfrey, and it wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive…because he was.

…and he knew it.

Roman scared you. Everything about him seemed designed with the key purpose of repelling you. He was too observant, too sure of himself, too…creepy. These weren’t things you could overlook, and instead of helping him, you were sure that his looks didn’t help your feelings. Roman didn’t look real at times—genetically altered even—and it only made you think there was something…inhuman about him.

Something that told you he wasn’t like you…and you should be wary.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you honestly replied, and you didn’t stick around to look at his face.

You held your purse to you as you got out of his car, and you reluctantly looked at him, your sympathetic gaze meeting his even one.

“I’m just here to tutor Shelley…and…we should probably keep it that way.”

You kept your rejection soft, and you turned away from him before he could reply. You ignored the feel of his gaze boring into your back, wrapping your arms around yourself as some half assed protection against the cold. You couldn’t get in your house fast enough, and you swore that you’d been leaning against the door for at least half an hour, waiting to hear him finally drive off.

The first night Roman raped you, it was raining.

Storming, to be more specific. It was odd because it was winter, and Pennsylvania was known for its summer storms. It was why you were even at the mansion so late, Roman refusing to drive in the violent downpour and you unable to walk. Olivia seemed to care neither here nor there about the whole thing, almost annoyingly cavalier about your plight.

“Oh, darling, you know how unpredictable a bit of rain can be,” she’d said, a glass of wine in her hand. “There’s no shortage of guest rooms. Find one for the night. I’m sure Roman can be of some help in that department.”

You hadn’t missed her crooked smile, an almost wicked sight as she softly chuckled to herself. She clearly found her son’s attraction to you amusing, harmless even, while you found it uncomfortable at best. Shelley was the one to help you get sorted for the night, visible eye soft and smile even softer as she pointed out where the towels and such would be.

You hadn’t realized you’d forgotten the problem of clothes until you stepped out of the shower to find some on the counter.

You froze at the sight, sure that you hadn’t heard a soul come in. At least…no one who wanted to be heard, and you grimaced before putting them on. Walking the corridors of The Godfrey Mansion with clothes in hand felt weird, and when you made it to your chosen guest bedroom of the night, you still didn’t relax.

Nothing about the mansion was calming, and the raging storm outside only made it worse. You laid in bed for a long time, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, just waiting for your heart to stop racing and your mind to grow quiet. It felt like forever, but it happened, and when it did, you finally felt your lashes flutter.

Sleep was finally yours.

…and then you woke up.

The sharp stabbing pain had you sitting up in bed, hand pressed to your stomach at the ache you felt deep within it. The familiar ache, and you felt your heart sink, wondering how your night could possibly get any worse. You didn’t need to look at the bed to know that you’d left something behind, only searching for your purse, positive you had an extra pad or tampon or something.

Relief filled your heart, and product in hand, you made your way into the hall in search of the bathroom. So focused on your pain and finding the bathroom, you didn’t mind the dark corridor, at all. Any other night, and you might have been hypervigilant with fear, but as it were, you could only focus on stopping any more ruin of the pajamas you’d been given.

It was a noise from behind you that gave you pause, and as you turned around, all those childhood stories about the fearful Godfrey Mansion came to mind. Every manifestation of what goes bump in the night filled your mind, but as you stared into the darkness, darkness was all you were met with. Telling yourself that an old mansion was bound to creak and groan, you turned away.

…and straight into Roman.

His very presence forced a shriek from your lips, and in your panic, your hands pressed to his chest. His bare chest. You didn’t register it, at first, so focused on trying to calm your heart and relax again. Your hands were empty, your saving grace of the night on the floor, and when you took a step back to pick it up, Roman took one forward.

You paused at the action.

“Roman-.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

The question came out somewhat harsh, and you squinted at him in the darkness. It threw you off for several reasons, but mostly because you didn’t understand what he meant. As best as you could make it out in the darkness, his face seemed contorted, pinched actually—eyes narrowed, lips pursed, and gaze riddled with accusations.

“…what? Roman, what are you-.”

Your words died in the air when he forced himself closer, a strange look on his face as he eyed you. You watched his nostrils flare, another step forward from Roman, and you finally took another back. He was so close, too close, and when you blinked, you remembered that you didn’t have time to try and understand Roman tonight. Ignoring him, you reached down, and as soon as your hand was around what you so desperately needed, another hand was coming down on your wrist.

You reacted harshly, flinching and crying out, and you registered that Roman’s grip was actually…painful.

You were both standing now, Roman still holding onto you, and his nose brushed against yours as he leaned in. His hair, normally so neat and perfectly in place, was kissing his forehead. The dark strands were going every which way, and when his lips parted, a soft exhale escaping in time with a flutter of his lashes, only then did you say his name again.

As if waking up from a dream, you watched his eyes focus in on your face, really focus, and it took him some time to let you go.

Your wrist ached, his phantom touch lingering, and you held it to you protectively. You felt that you could really see into Roman’s eyes, now, and the mansion lit up from a brief flash of lightning. His own eyes glinted, and you recalled that the last time you and Roman were this close, he was trying to spend time with you outside of his sister’s tutoring.

…and you’d turned him down.

When he took a step back, he finally spoke again.

“Looking for the bathroom?”

You wondered how he knew that, but you surmised that it was a good guess. After all, it was the middle of the night, and you were roaming the corridors with a tampon in hand. At your nod, he slowly smiled at you, something mocking in it as he reached out to rest a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s over here,” he told you. “You’ll get lost without me.”

His voice was smooth, tone almost gentle, and it was like that awkward and startling moment had never even happened. His touch was light on your arm as he guided you through the darkness, and as uncomfortable as Roman made you, in your predicament, you didn’t have much choice but to follow his lead. The muffled sound of rain was all that surrounded you, and when Roman finally reached what looked like the bathroom, you relaxed.

“They say sex helps with that…”

You paused, looking at the rich boy, and his visage was serious.

“The cramps,” he continued with a raise of his brows as if you didn’t know what he was getting at.

“So, I’ve heard,” you said after some time, unsure of how to even respond to that.

When you walked into the bathroom, you were shocked by the feel of Roman ripping the tampon out of your hand. The light from the bathroom lit up the hallway behind him, the darkness on the edge of the doorway making him look…ominous. His gaze was unreadable, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

“You’re not funny,” you told him, reaching for it, but he only held it out of reach. “Roman…”

You stumbled back when he crossed the threshold, blocking the doorway completely, and irritated and in pain, you were losing your patience for his game. He could be such a child sometimes, demanding attention at the worst moment possible, and you grabbed the tampon with a quickness. Only, Roman held onto it too, and he pushed at your hand, forcing you back in the process.

His green irises glinted under the light.

“Roman…”

You words died in the air when his hand slid to wrap around your wrist like earlier, and you felt your heart…drop.

The way he stared at you, something about it was terrifying, and his eyes started to appear almost unfocused. His hand tightened, and you winced, and you were just about to say his name again when the sound of the door clicking shut reached your ears. You blinked, looking behind him, unaware that he’d forced you both so far into the bathroom with enough room to kick the door shut. Like the first day you came face to face with him again, you felt paralyzed, trapped under the crushing weight of his gaze, and you could feel your heart speed up.

His hold on your arm prevented you from moving when he kissed you.

You were in shock, feeling wholly out of control that you just stood there, unable to quite feel his lips on yours. You felt crowded by him, forced to hold still lest you provoke something impulsive, and you didn’t even register just how painful his hold on your wrist became. You only blinked when the stabbing pain deep in the pit of your stomach reminded you of your plight.

Pulling away, you pushed at his chest.

“Roman, what the hell?”

Your lower back painfully met the sink, and you simultaneously tried to lean away and push him away too. His other hand snaked around your neck, your head harshly pressing against the mirror, and you whined in frustration. His lithe frame found a home between your kicking legs, and your panic seized you when he kissed you again.

Fighting against Roman felt like a lost cause—he was stronger than he looked.

The kiss felt hungry, like he was trying to devour you, and you whined again as he pressed you against the sink more. The hand on your wrist kept your arm outstretched, and he let out a sound in between the kiss that sounded somewhat like a hiss. His breathing was heavy too, and when he finally let your neck go, there was no sense of relief.

You pushed at him as he pulled at your pants, and they were barely to your knees when Roman suddenly dropped. One hand on your leg kept you from moving, the other preoccupied with getting the other out of the borrowed pajamas. Horror and confusion were battling within you, and all you could manage to do was hit at the wall when he dipped his head between your thighs.

Horrifying and bloody circumstances aside, you didn’t want this.

You cried out his name, throat tightening, and your free leg banged against the sink cabinet. One of his hands had a death grip on your thigh, fingers pressing into your skin so harshly you knew it would bruise. He kept it pushed away, practically flat against the counter, the stretch burning in a way that made you wince. However, the feel of his tongue between your legs made for a confusing reaction.

Your head was spinning at the feel of his tongue sliding along your bloody folds, lips completely covering your mound as he sucked at you. Your eyes rolled, and it was hard to focus on the true nature of what was going on. Your toes curled under his ministrations, and your nails scraped against the wall and counter top.

“Roman, stop,” you choked out, heart beating wildly in your chest.

You finally pushed at his chest, whining in both pain and pleasure when he refused to move, only lapping at you harder. Your stomach was tightening for more reasons than one, now, and despite the cold season and cold mansion, you felt so hot. Too hot.

Roman hooked his arm under your thigh, yanking you down further, and you were in too much of an awkward and painful position to properly fight back. When your nails dug into his face, his other arm wrapped around your free leg, forcing that one where he wanted it to be too. You couldn’t even grapple with the full circumstances of Roman with his face between your legs during that time of the month, reaching out at the wall and counter in panic when he fell back, taking you with him.

Unable to move, you were forced to sit on his face, hands pushing against the wall behind him as a means to get free. That tightening in your gut was accompanied with a pleasant burn, now, and  your breath hitched, lashes fluttering at that tightening coil, shrinking more and more until it had no choice but to release, making you gasp when it did.

The moan you let out was unlike anything you’d heard from yourself, shocked at the strain in your voice. You couldn’t breathe fast enough, sucking in air with a swimming vision. In Roman’s greedy consumption of you, his hold loosened, and you didn’t hesitate to push yourself off of him. You were still shaking, the remnants of your orgasm gripping you, and your eyes were wide as you looked at Roman. He laid on the floor with parted lips, slowly blinking in wonder as he ran his hands through his hair.

The entire bottom half of his face was covered in your blood.

You felt frozen, unsure of how to even process what had just happened. You were so confused and disturbed and scared, staring at Roman like he was something not of this world, and when you finally shifted, that’s when he seemed to remember your presence, green eyes landing on you with a quickness that made you freeze up, as if trying to make yourself as small as possible.

Your scream rang throughout the bathroom when he lunged for you.

Roman’s bloody face was all you could focus on as he hovered over you, pushing his cock into you over and over again. Every time his hips met yours, your chest arched up against his, back curving and eyes rolling. Roman was so silent that you would’ve swore he was possessed, but there was an awareness in his green gaze that told you he was anything but.

His hands held yours down, dark brown hair hanging into his forehead. On the off chance that he smiled, it was a bloody one, and it scared you more than anything. The bathroom floor was cool against your naked back, and through the haze of Roman’s assault, you realized—with reluctance—that the feel of his cock driving in and out of you was indeed helping with your cramps.

The inside of your thighs were a bloody mess, much like his face, and as disgusting as it was, it was the least of your worries. Roman was a lot of things, annoyingly arrogant above all else, but you never pegged him for a rapist. A freak, maybe, yes, but a rapist? No. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in the bathroom, and so focused on the feel of him plunging into you, you couldn’t even pinpoint when the storm had ended.

You cried out, tears spilling over as you pressed your hands against the hood of his car. You kept trying to push yourself up, but Roman’s determined hands kept shoving you back down. The moon was hidden by the clouds, no visible light shining down on his assault, a hand of his twisted at the nape of your neck.

You pressed your nails against his vehicle, and that was when he yanked you back, lips at your ear.

“Don’t scratch the fucking paint,” Roman spat, sounding very mad by the mere thought, and you insulted him several times over behind closed lips.

You’d tried to quit after that horrific stormy night in which Roman raped you on the bathroom floor. You’d given Olivia Godfrey every excuse in the book and tried to gently let Shelley down many times over, but the single matriarch simply wouldn’t hear it. She rolled her eyes in that coquettish way she tended to do, a soft smirk on her pink lips. Or she’d simply laugh you off, a sharp ‘nonsense’ soon to follow.

“Am I not paying you enough? Do you want more?”

“It’s not about the money,” you’d replied.

No amount of money in the world could possibly make up for the sick deviant that was her son.

After he came inside of you, breathless and satisfied, he’d dragged you crying and kicking all the way to his room. Any fight from you was immediately squashed down, and you didn’t know if Roman had snorted a few lines of coke or what, but no one was more shocked than you when he pushed you onto his bed, determined to continue what he’d started in the bathroom.

You’d been a dazed and abused mess when you snuck out in the early hours of the morning, half dressed and still bleeding. It hadn’t been Roman that came for you, but Olivia instead, talks of obligations and Shelley. No amount of refusal had deterred her, and you got the strangest feeling that the older woman fully knew the extent of just how her son felt about you.

You felt trapped.

By kind and sweet Shelley who broke your heart to leave, by Olivia who wanted to spoil her son with his new plaything of choice, and most of all by Roman who decided he had to have something once he wanted it. The last time you’d tried to quit, Olivia merely waved you off with a soft laugh, and when you turned around, none other than Roman had been at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

It was how you found yourself in his car, no choice but to let him drive you home. You hadn’t uttered a word to him since that night, and as you very well knew… Roman hated to be ignored. He was going to command your attention one way or another, and you hadn’t even heard him open his door after you, following close behind until his hands were on you and pushing you down onto his car.

Your forehead grazed the vehicle as he plunged his cock into you, stretching you out in your driveway for anyone to see. The embarrassment of such a thought was what kept you quiet, tears kissing your cheeks as you were forced to take his thrusts. His jeans were pulled down just enough to give him room to fuck you as he wanted, your own pants down around your ankles while he rutted into you.

When Roman came, he pressed his face into your hair, breathing you in with deep inhales. You could feel his heartbeat against your back, and you sniffed, shakily reaching up to wipe your face. Roman remained where he was for a few moments too long, just basking in the feel of you wrapped around him, and after some time, he let out a low chuckle.

It was a disturbing sound.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about this pussy since that night…” he breathed, finally pulling away.

You felt him right himself, and he was rough in doing the same to you, pulling your pants up. Once done, he rested his hands on your hips, remaining close and leaning in.

“Quit trying to quit,” he harshly said. “My sister really likes you, and if you hurt her feelings, I’ll make you choke on it.”

You stumbled back when he finally pulled away to make his way to the driver’s seat. You wrapped your arms around yourself, struggling to swallow as you accepted the truth in his words. You believed him wholeheartedly, and you trembled from more than just the cold as you watched him speed away in that fancy red car.

You knew that you wouldn’t be getting much sleep, and you hated how right you were when you were staring at your ceiling hours later. Like the day after that night, you’d scrubbed yourself until you felt raw, but even still, you could feel his hands on you. Those long fingers that were more reminiscent of spider legs than limbs.

Roman Godfrey was equally rotten inside as he was beautiful.

You discovered just how rotten only a week later when he was holding you down for the umpteenth time, a wicked smile on his lips just before leaning down. The sharp pain where your shoulder and neck met made you jerk beneath him, and beneath the cover of darkness, you just knew that the strong smell that hit your nose was blood.

You didn’t think it was possible for Roman to horrify you any more.

…but he did, and you screamed, and he only held you tighter. He was resting comfortably between your parted legs, fitting snuggly inside of you as he made a pulling sensation with his mouth. You squirmed beneath him, fighting and pushing back as much as you could, but he wasn’t deterred. You could feel his hips jerk, a gasp escaping you as he thrust into you to the hilt.

Your hands clawed at his bedding, the sound of tearing fabric reaching your ears above the low moans that left Roman. When he got his fill, you were a sobbing mess, reaching up to clutch your neck as he curved his hips into yours. You could feel some of your blood drip onto you from his mouth, and when his bloody lips met yours, you gagged.

Your disbelief was forced to be suspended with the unfortunate truth that was right in front of you. You didn’t really care about what was possible or not in that moment, only wanting to get away from him. Roman seemed entertained with your struggle, fighting with your hands as he fucked you, a tight grip on your wrist. The other hand danced down your body, light touches and skin grazes along the way.

“Look at me,” he murmured, drunk off the taste of you. “Look at me.”

His bloody hand on your face forced you to do just that, and his calm voice stopped you from shaking. Even in the dark, it was like his green irises were all you could see, and the color was so calming—so soothing—that when he told you to relax…you did.

You felt so at ease as he slowly thrust into you, pulling out until only the tip of him remained before pushing all the way back in again. The feel made you sighed, and Roman sighed too, a soft hum escaping him. Deep in the back of your mind, you were still terrified of the dark-haired boy, but despite that, you just felt so calm.

“Good,” he softly purred. “Good girl.”

One of his hands rested on the headboard above you, the other pressed into the pillow beside your head. You were so relaxed that all you could do was stare up at him as he surged over you again and again, retreating with every pull of his hips and driving forward with every thrust. Relaxed, you were more able to focus on the sound of his cock sinking into you, the squelching noise reaching your ears as your body fought to cling to him and keep him from leaving each and every time.

Dazedly, you reached up to touch your neck again, the smell of blood strong, and as you lifted your hand to look at it, Roman leaned down to cover your fingers with his mouth. The hum that met your ears was one of appreciation, and when you came for the first time that night, you were met with another.

“You’ve had enough?” he wondered, hand pressed into your stomach as he drove his hips against yours. “…or you want more from daddy?”

His voice was low and gruff, strained with emotion as he basked in the tight and warm feel of you. It didn’t really matter what your answer would be for Roman had already decided to fuck you well into the night as he wished. When you came for a final time, his hands were leaving bruises into your hips, and you were ripping his sheets apart.

The woods of Hemlock Grove seemed extra thick and hazardous tonight, as if it was their sole purpose to slow you down and trap you for him.

Bite marks and bruises littered your skin for months before you finally cracked. Months of walking into The Godfrey Mansion with fear, tutoring Shelley and distracted the entire time by thoughts of Roman. Wondering when he’d come to collect you, what corner he might pop out of, when you might feel the brush of his touch along your shoulder. You didn’t stay for dinner anymore, unable to sit across from Roman and have him stare you down as he reminisced on the feel of you coming around him, bleeding and broken.

Olivia Godfrey pretended not to notice Roman shadowing you like a ghost, like a grim reaper come to collect what he felt he was owed. She smiled that coy smile and waved around those waifish arms, all the while nursing a cigarette or a drink, fully aware of what her spoiled son got up to under the cover of darkness when no one could see your abuse at his hands.

Your last period had been your last straw, shuddering at the memory of Roman keeping you prisoner on top of him as he ate you out so long that it started to grow painful at some point. When he finally sank into you—in more ways than one—you couldn’t even try to enjoy it, too overstimulated to the point where you kept trying to get away.

Roman was sound asleep when you ran.

…but he was wide awake in time to run after you.

You truly didn’t even know where you were going, so set on just getting away from the terrifying boy that you just let your feet carry you. The biting air cut at your skin, and the leaves crunched beneath you. It was only moments ago when his voice had rang through the trees, your name bouncing off of the trunks as he desperately called for you.

“I can smell you!”

That fact did not deter you, sure that you could escape him. Every whip of a branch cut into you, and you knew the blood that you felt was the very same blood he smelled. The steep inclines and downward slopes of Hemlock Grove slowed you down, tiring you out, and your chest hurt from your harsh sobs. You had just pulled yourself up a small hill when you fell to the ground.

You were not alone.

“Y/N,” Roman snarled, a guttural edge to his voice that made you cry harder. “Get back here!”

He screamed it so passionately and loudly that it actually made you wince, and your vision was blurred from your tears as you clawed at the ground, fighting to get away from him. His fingers dug into your pants, preventing you from moving as much as you wanted, and despite the fact that you knew no one would come, you screamed for help when he crawled up your body.

He slammed your head into the ground, impulsively, and you saw stars in your vision. He succeeded in what he wanted, halting your movements for a time as you fought to collect yourself. In that time, Roman had already covered your frame, chest completely pressed down on your back. His hand closed around your throat, pulling your head back some.

“Don’t be stupid,” he roughly told you, lips at your ear. “Don’t be fucking stupid.”

You clawed at the dirt and leaves as his other hand reached beneath you, sliding into your pants with ease and cupping you. He made a noise of appreciation at the feel, and as Roman told you that you’d never escape him, he sank his teeth into your neck.

In your despair, you accepted this truth.

[theamazingannie]

Was thinking about if I had the ability to go back in time to my former self knowing what I know now I’d go back to freshman year of college and do it all over again (I thought maybe high school but tbh I don’t want to have to go through all that again even if I could make it better) but then I realized that that would mean all the shows, movies, albums, etc that I love now that weren’t out then would not exist and I’d have to wait for them and that would be such tourture

[munson-blurbs]

Summary: After a beer pong challenge gone horribly wrong (or right, if you're Gareth), Eddie has to shave his head. As much as you'll miss his signature curls, you have to admit that his new look isn't all that bad...

WC: 1.6k

Warnings: smut (18+ only, minors DNI), drinking, beefy!Eddie, mention of Eddie's weight gain, Eddie + Reader are both 25, oral (f!receiving), unprotected p in v

Based on a request by @josephquinnsfreckles and a conversation with @blueywrites about the lengths we'd go to for beefy!Eddie.

Divider credit to @saradika

It was all Gareth’s idea. 

Gareth had been the one to crack open a Pabst can and make a snarky remark about knowing he could beat Eddie in beer pong. 

Had been the one to say that Eddie had gotten soft in the five years since graduation, to which Eddie winked at you and replied, “I think my girl would say the opposite.” 

Had been the one to up the ante with a “little bet.”

You shot Eddie a warning look that he ignored, opting instead to meet Gareth’s challenge. “Fine. When I win, you gotta let me pierce your eyebrow.”

“Okay,” Gareth rolled his eyes, “but when I win, you have to shave your head.”

At the same time as you blurted out, “absolutely not,” Eddie grinned and said, “you’re on.”

Jeff laughed from his spot on the couch. “Thank God. You’ve had the same haircut since, what? Ninth grade?”

“Eddie,” you hissed, pulling him over to the side. “You can’t get rid of your hair.”

Your boyfriend had shrugged nonchalantly as though the state of his beautiful brown curls didn’t depend on a drinking game. “Relax, babe.” He pulled you into his side. “He’s never beaten me in beer pong. None of these losers have.”

That’s why you now find yourself stationed outside of the bathroom in Grant’s apartment, too afraid to glimpse at the commotion inside. The sound of the electric buzzer was bad enough. 

The guys are all blissfully oblivious to your turmoil; even Eddie is cackling and asking Gareth to give him a mohawk. You can only assume that he obliged once you hear the four men erupt into a round of raucous laughter. 

“Last piece,” Gareth goads, a muffled zzzzzz coming from the buzzer as he presses it into Eddie’s scalp. “Aaaaand…done!”

Done. 

All of Eddie’s hair now lay on the tile floor, because he lost a bet to Gareth Emerson.  

The hair that he pulled back into a low bun before working on his motorcycle. The hair that you twirled around your forefinger whenever he kissed you. The hair that you loved weaving your fingers into as he kneeled before you, leaving teasing kisses along your inner thighs before devouring you.

If you had known he would be bald at the end of the night, you would’ve begged to let his hair tickle between your legs once more. 

“Whaddya think, babe?” Eddie peeks around the corner. His eyes, hazy from a night of drinking, stare into yours. Even drunk, he still seeks out your approval. 

Too bad you’re speechless. 

You’ve become accustomed to Eddie’s various metamorphoses. When you first met Eddie, he was lanky, only relying on assorted snacks and copious amounts of Mountain Dew. It was how he’d survived all of those years of food insecurity. And while you loved his body then, nothing could have prepared you for how he looked just two short years later. 

His biceps now hold muscle and softness; you often find yourself unable to risk the temptation of biting into them. His stomach has also acquired a slight heft, a pleasant side effect from eating three square meals a day. His jeans now cling to the curve of his ass and no longer require a belt. 

But his hair? That had always stayed the same:curls that frizzed at the first sign of humidity, worn like a badge of honor. You couldn’t picture him without it. 

If you had, there’s no way you could have imagined him looking so damn sexy. 

Eddie laughs at your shell-shocked expression, your widened eyes and dropped jaw. “That bad, Sweetheart?”

“No…’s good. Really, um, good.” Your throat is suddenly dry, and you swallow just so you don’t cough. “Can I feel it?”

He nods, and you brush your fingers over his bare scalp. Your touch is met with a soft fuzziness that was never there before. 

Long-haired Eddie looked wild and chaotic, a Tasmanian Devil of a man. But buzzed-haired Eddie looks tough. Strong. Like he’ll destroy any other man who dares look at you. 

And it makes you absolutely primal. 

“I think we broke her,” Grant whispers loudly, and the rest of the room breaks out into tipsy giggles, slapping at each other and stumbling back into the kitchen for more ill-advised drinking.

Eddie frowns, not able to read your expression. “It’ll grow back,” he says, one ringed hand rubbing your back. He lets his fingers linger on the curve of your ass and gives it an inconspicuous pinch.

“C’mere.” You take advantage of the guys’ distractedness and pull Eddie into the nearest bedroom. The moment the door shuts and the lock clicks, you’re pressing your lips to his. On instinct, his denim-clad leg slots between yours, creating a hint of friction against the seam of your own jeans.  

“Fuck, Sweetheart.” His words are muffled by the barrage of kisses. “Can’t just clobber me like this; gonna get me all worked up.”

“Maybe that’s what I want.” You drag your forefinger up his fly, relishing in the way his cock is already beginning to harden. 

Eddie practically throws you onto the bed, his biceps flexing with the sudden movement. “Gotta make this quick, yeah? Don’t want those idiots interrupting us.” With that, he tugs your pants away from your body, practically tearing off your cotton panties along with it. 

“Oh, honey,” he coos, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and throwing his head back. “You’re already soaked.” He smirks before nipping at the soft flesh of your thighs, alternating between kisses and bites. “All this from a little haircut?”

All you can do is nod, leaning back so he can wrap his arms around your upper legs and fully bury his face into your weeping cunt. “Mmph,” he moans against you. You reflexively reach down to grab onto his locks, stopping when you’re met with his newly buzzed hair. Instead, you pull him in closer until his nose nudges your clit. 

You say his name on an exhale, your pussy clenching around nothing as his pointer and middle fingers part your folds. You’re spread open for him, a blank canvas for him to create art. “Inside. Please.”

He might be inclined to make you beg further, but the threat of his buddies banging on the door has him relenting quickly.     

Eddie’s grip on you tightens and his fingernails leave crescent-shaped divots. A breath catches in your lungs, your mind blanking when he greedily laps up your arousal and plunges his tongue into your hole. 

His groans vibrate against you. “So much easier without my hair in the way.” He pulls back to catch his breath, his chin already shining. Brown doe eyes peer up at you, once again waiting for you to approve. 

“K-Keep going,” you mumble, only acutely aware of the party occurring in the adjacent room. “Need you so bad it hurts.”

“Don’t want my sweet girl hurting.” The pad of Eddie’s thumb makes small, concentric circles on your clit, making your whole lower body tense up in anticipation of your orgasm. “There we go. No need to pout.”

Your back arches when he dives back in. He maintains his rhythm, inhaling deeply when the bulb of his nose brushes against that sweet spot. Pleasure is right within your reach, your hips moving in tandem with his ministrations to chase that glorious high. 

It isn’t as though Eddie has ever been bad at oral; you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you come on his tongue. But now that he doesn’t have to constantly shake his hair from his eyes—now that he has an unobstructed view of just where to touch you—he hits each stroke with perfect precision. 

“Eddie—holy sh-shit, Eddie—right there right there right fucking there!” Your release crashes over you faster than it ever has before. It’s as though Eddie has transported you to another planet, another galaxy, another universe, and you will yourself to float back down just to reciprocate the pleasure he’s given you. 

His pants button is already undone, hidden behind an oversized Metallica t-shirt, your fingers finding the hint of pudge on his lower tummy. “One of my old pairs,” he says sheepishly. 

They’re gone in a flash, along with his pre-cum stained boxers. He climbs on top of you, hard cock in his fist, and runs it through the mixture of saliva and arousal at your core. 

“‘M not gonna last long,” Eddie murmurs, locking his gaze with yours. He’s not embarrassed; he’s proud that he can bring himself to the edge just by eating out his girl. 

You can’t stop the scream that emanates from your throat when he pushes inside you, but you also can’t be bothered to care about anyone else hearing. All of your thoughts center around Eddie filling you wholly and the sacrifices you’d make to keep him inside you forever. 

He punctuates each thrust with an animalistic grunt, taking as much as he can with every snap of his hips. “My…good…girl,” he pants. “My…good…fuckin’…girl.”

“All yours. All yours, Eddie.”

Eddie’s eyes roll back as you submit yourself to him. “Gonna come. Gonna come inside you, fuck, Sweetheart!” With one final movement, he spills into you. 

You cry out his name once more, letting your hand fall to the small love handle just above his hip bone. Another one of your favorite places to bite, especially when you could sneak up on him and catch him off-guard. 

He flops down, his fuzzy head tickling your jaw as he nuzzles into your neck. “The buzzcut really does it for ya, huh?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

--

[shewroteaworld]

Unsub Bait

Premise: For the fourth time, brilliant sunshine!reader is asked to bait the unsub. For the first time, Spencer has a problem with this.

Word count: approx. 2,000

Tw: canon-typical discussions of violence

Author's Note: Welcome to the second installment of brilliant sunshine!reader (meaning highly intelligent sunshine!reader) x Spencer Reid! While you don't have to read my first brilliant sunshine! reader fic to understand this one, I would highly recommend reading it. It's titled "I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't." Hope you enjoy! :) <3

“Here’s an overview of the first phase of the operation: (Y/N) will go undercover as a college student at Yale. She’ll get acquainted with the unsub at Speakeasy, the New Haven bar where he assesses potential victims. We’ll apprehend him in the act of attempted kidnapping.” Hotchner listed for the team.

You’d played unsub lure almost a comical number of times. Once? That’s a once in a million task required to capture a once in a million unsub. Twice? You’d only have two nickels, but it’s weird that it happened twice, right? But four times? 

You’d already joked to Hotch that you should add “professional unsub bait” to your resume. 

It would’ve been more comical if it wasn’t so scary. 

You took a deep breath as you stared at the photos of the victims on the mahogany conference room table. Melissa Grey. Audrey Bernstein. Alivia Johnson. You could see your 21-year-old self in their eyes. You remember being so young and full of anxiety; you were near graduating from MIT. You couldn’t sleep at night from worrying if you had already lived up to your potential and would spend the rest of your years a washed up gifted kid– an academic has–been. After graduation, you proved to yourself your worth.

The college juniors in the photographs had their lives cut short by the unsub before they had the opportunity to find out what amazing places their brilliant minds could take them. You were about to allow said unsub to nearly kidnap you. 

That is, if you didn’t blow your cover. Then, he would hold you hostage or attempt to kill you as soon as possible by skipping his usual "kidnap and torture" routine.

Rationally, you knew your field experience more than prepared you for this task. Also, you knew your team had your back. They always kept you safe and healthy. The one time you were put at serious risk, you had to fight to be left alone after the case closed. But, you’re not sure if all the facts in the world could adequately calm your adrenal glands.

“Is this necessary?” Spencer suddenly interjected.

You turned to Spencer in surprise. “It’s the quickest way. We have twenty-four hours,” You said.

The unsub had a pattern; a girl was dying once every two weeks, and, when the the local and Connecticut police force combined failed to contain the situation, the BAU was brought into the case 36 hours before the next killing. With his eidetic memory, you were certain Spencer couldn't forget the time restraints if he tried, hence why you were stunned by his sudden brazenness. However, given Spencer's traumatic relationship history and your budding romance, Spencer's behavior was a lot more likely.

You and Spencer had been dating for a couple weeks. Despite being certain the team had their suspicions, you kept your relationship on the downlow. Strong boundaries were a good thing to keep when your relationship was in its fragile, formative era. Plus, you both agreed it was best to keep a high level of professionalism. 

This was the first time Spencer broke protocol.

“I think there’s another way.” Spencer continued. “It’s unsafe and illogical to put anyone’s life into considerable risk if there’s another viable option.”

“Are you implying I’m being rash, Reid?” Hotchner asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Usually, Spence would look away and take a breath. He’d at least have the decency to act timid, especially given the fact the entire team pulled multiple all-nighters in an effort to catch this serial killer. Instead, he leveled with Hotchner’s glare and asserted himself further. “I just think we’ve gotten a little too comfy using (Y/N) as an unsub lure. The more we do, the more probable a disaster will occur with her in the line of fire.”

“Spencer,” Morgan cut in gently. There was sympathy in his eyes. “We’ve done this with (Y/N) before. We’re good at reading her. And she knows the drill. We’ll keep her safe.”

“Yes, because that’s something we can certainly guarantee when she’s 3 inches from a serial killer.” Spencer deadpanned. 

“Reid. A word.” Without waiting for Spencer’s reaction, Hotch left the meeting room. With a hard look in his eye, Spencer filed after Hotch. You were relieved he was still obedient despite being ornery.

For a few moments, the team sat in silence. 

Rossi broke the spell with the scrape of his chair. “Well, I for one, am going to take this impromptu intermission as an opportunity to grab coffee. Any requests?” Rossi asked. 

“I’ll take a barbajada.” You joked half-heartedly. 

“Very funny, (L/N). Any requests the office Keurig can complete in less than five minutes?” 

The team rattled off their go-to office drink orders, but it faded to white noise. During your friendship, Spencer would always care for you when you had to lure the unsub. He’d be more attentive on the jet ride in and out. He’d check in on your mental state directly after the unsub was arrested and always called you once you got home. Once, after the particularly stressful unsub encounter, he sent you links to PTSD articles and even offered to help you schedule an appointment with a specialized therapist through the FBI’s mental health services.

But he’d never once intervened with a plan for you to go undercover. You knew Spencer Reid was nothing if not rational. He knew Hotch valued every member of his team. He knew Hotch would never send you undercover if it wasn’t necessary to stop a killing spree before more young women became statistics. 

Therefore, you knew Spencer was thinking about Maeve. 

You stood. 

“Where you going, Beauty Queen?” Morgan asked.

“Just heading to the restroom.” You lied. 

You walked down the hall and crept up the stairs. You tiptoed down the east wing of the second floor to avoid clicking your heels against the concrete. 

You crept to the side of Hotch’s office. You pressed your back to the wall.

Hotch said something indecipherable. An angry Reid answered.

“And all I’m saying is, she is not a cat with nine lives! She has one life. One precious life, that I think we’ve been a little too careless with.”

“Reid, you know I would never risk putting (Y/N) in harm’s way if it wasn’t the best course of action. She’s experienced with this. The team is experienced with this.” 

A beat of silence passed.

“Promise me that if you have so much as an inkling her life is in danger–”

“We’ll do everything in our power to get her out of there.”

“That’s the thing! ‘Everything in our power…’ It’s not enough. How many times have we told families we did everything we could when all they have left is a body bag?” 

Your heart froze. Both of the voices lowered. You could only catch bits and pieces of Hotch’s speech. You were never an eavesdropper, but despite your better nature, you crept around the corner towards the door.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone to an unsub, Spencer. I know how it sticks with you. I know how it changes the job. But you have to trust us– the team. We’re going to protect her. And we’re going to be there for you,” Hotch said. 

Spencer sighed. "How did you do it?" Spencer's voice cracked. "After Haley, Hotch? I’m not sure if I can survive this.” He sounded seconds away from tears. 

At that moment, you knew you would not sleep comfortably at night if you continued to be a fly on the wall.  You tiptoed back down the east wing and waited for Spencer at the bottom of the stairs.

Ten minutes passed before Spencer appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Spencer?” You called. 

His hazel eyes were tinged pink. He walked down the stairs nonchalantly. “Hey, um, would you mind if we discussed part of the case file real quick? Privately? It could help, um…” He cleared his throat. “Develop your persona.”

“Yes, of course.” 

Spencer didn’t look at you as he power walked down the hall towards the janitorial closets. For the first time since you started dating, he didn’t adjust to your walking pace. 

He flung a door open and yanked you inside. 

Carelessly, Spencer slammed the door behind you. Before you could get a word in, he pulled you into a bear hug.

“Spencer.” You whispered. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

He nuzzled his nose into your hair. 

You stood in the statue of a hug for two minutes.

“I can’t lose you.” Spencer whispered.

“You won’t.”

Spencer pulled away from you. He bent down to look you in the eye. He squeezed your shoulders. His eyes danced with emotion. There was a deep ache, a whirlpool of sadness that you knew a lifetime may never heal. What perplexed you was the hardness that you could only read as anger. 

“I…” He sighed. He hung his head. He dragged his palms down the slope of your shoulders to your forearms. It was like he was taking a cast of you with his hands. 

“I’m not dead on arrival. I’m still here. I’m coming back on that jet ride home with you. I’m going to be okay.” You reciprocated his shoulder squeeze. “You’re going to be okay.”

Spencer shook his head. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I care about you. It’s a part of the girlfriend package.” Spencer pulled you into another constricting hug. 

 “I can’t fathom how difficult this must be for you.” You whispered.

Spencer pressed his forehead to yours. “Promise me when you go out there, you won’t worry about me. I want you to only focus on you, your surroundings, and making sure you get out of there.”

“I promise, Spencer.” You said, though you weren’t sure if that would be the truth.

“And one more thing,” He said. His irises were so close to yours you could pick apart the layer of green and brown. “As soon as you feel unsafe, you call someone. If you have any inclination he’s going to overtake you–”

“I call the team.”

He took a step back and ran his hands through his hair. “I know you’re strong. I’m not trying to insult your field work.”

Your heart cracked. “Spencer, love, I know that. I’m so happy you care about me. I just wish this situation hurt you less.”

He dropped his hands to his sides. His brows furrowed. He stared at a random point to the left of your face.

“Can you do something for me? Before we leave?” He asked, still not meeting your gaze.

“What is it, Spence?”

He took a deep breath. He met your eyes again. “Dance with me.” 

“What?”

“Dance with me. I…” He inhaled deeply. “I never got to dance with Maeve before she…I barely even got to hold her. I won’t make the same mistake twice.” 

You closed the distance between you and Spencer. You cupped his face in your hands, and he instinctively leaned into your touch. His eyes shone with tears. “I’ll dance with you for the rest of my days, Spence.” 

He whipped out his phone. He turned on a slow jazz song you played for him last winter on an impromptu hot chocolate date. 

Your heart skipped a beat. You could go on that same date again, but it would have a whole new color to it. 

He slid his phone onto a cleaning supply shelf. He pulled you to his chest. Your head nestled right beneath his collarbone. You wrapped your arms around his mid back.

You danced, bodies pressed together like puzzle pieces, in silence until the song ended. The symphony of emotions didn’t cease with the final brush of the snare. 

Spencer continued swaying with you.

“I’m going to be okay.” You whispered.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You can’t promise me that.” He held you even tighter. “But I can promise you I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you come home to me.” 

Author's Note: Hello to all my new followers! I'm so glad you're here! I'm so grateful for the overwhelmingly positive reception to "I'll Hold Your Weight When You Can't." Hope you enjoyed this piece as well!

I hope you have a great day or night wherever you are in this crazy world.

xoxo,

shewroteaworld

[disillusioneddanny]

If It Makes You Happy (then why the hell are you so sad?)

Tim took a bite of his ravioli and looked around the table at his family. It was Sunday dinner. A monthly tradition where every member of the family adopted or otherwise came to spend a few hours together. It didn’t matter who was arguing with whom, or how estranged from the family you were at the time. You still had to attend the monthly family dinner. However, there were times when Tim wondered if anyone would notice if he stopped attending. If he no longer came to the dinners where he sat mostly unnoticed by the rest of his family. Where he typically sat in silence, having not uttered a single word throughout the entire event. Would they ever realize he was gone? Did they even realize he was there in the first place? 

A part of Tim truly doubted it, if he was being completely honest with himself. Maybe that was why he hadn’t been able to share with the family his upcoming exhibit. 

Tim was in his fourth year of college. Where he was getting a degree in Art, Technology, and Culture. It was a major that allowed Tim to immerse himself in photography, video art, creative coding, and so much more. He had gotten to work in traditional analog and digital photography. Played around with film and art in ways he had never thought of before while also learning about cultural theory, the expression of ideas, and cultural practices which gave him the chance to truly discover himself. It was the first time he had ever chosen something for himself. 

His entire life he had been groomed to run a business. To at first take over Drake Industries one day and then later Wayne Enterprises where he was unfortunately CEO. But then he had learned about the ATC program at Gotham University and he had fallen in love with it.  He had always been obsessed with photography and even film later on as he grew older and spent his days alone in dusty old Drake Manor. And he had always loved to learn about cultures, he ate up the stories from his parents and their trips abroad. Had spent countless nights watching the people of Gotham and how they did things, and had absorbed it all like a sponge to make up for the fact that he was just a lonely boy living in a manor by himself. 

Even when he had joined the Bats and had made his tiny little place with them, he still fell back on his love for learning about others and his desire to tell their stories. It had just become an intrinsic part of Timothy Drake. 

And now here he was, slowly creeping to the finish line. He had his senior showcase coming up. A requirement for all students who were receiving a bachelor of fine arts. He was to show off all of his best work from the last four years. It was a chance for him to show everything he had learned, and to display his work with pride. 

He had toyed with the idea of inviting everyone to it. To let them see the love that Tim had cultivated over the last four years. He was set to graduate in just a few months and the pride he felt for himself was tremendous. And if Tim invited the Wayne family to his senior showcase, then maybe they could come to his college graduation and share the achievement with them then too. 

It was a big time in Tim’s life and he wanted to share it with them. 

He listened as a lull came in the conversation and carefully cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the others. 

“I have a senior showcase this weekend for my BFA. It’s at six in the evening in the Wayne Arts Center on Gotham Campus. I would be happy to see you all there,” he said hesitantly, eyes firmly trained on his plate of food. 

“That sounds nice, Tim. I’ll try to be there,” Bruce said politely before going back to his conversation with Jason and Dick. Tim felt eyes on him, though, and slowly looked up to find his little brother giving him a curious look. 

“What?” He asked, still trying to calm his heart just a bit. He still wasn’t sure why he came to these things, why he was even here. Just talking to the Waynes gave him anxiety. Just being here reminded him how much he didn’t belong. How other he was compared to the rest of the kids that Bruce had adopted? 

Damian tilted his head to the side. “I was not aware that you were getting your Bachelor's in Fine Arts. Will you tell me about your degree program? I have been thinking about getting an Art History degree but have been torn between that and a business degree.”

Tim gave him a small smile and rested his chin on his hand as he started to tell Damian all about his degree and how he was enjoying the program at Gotham University. The rest of the family went on to their own conversations while Damian listened with rapt attention to Tim describing the ATC program at Gotham U. 

The rest of the week was a whirlwind as he prepared for his senior showcase, he had sent out invitations to everyone he wanted to come see his work. The Team had already made a reservation to take Tim to lunch before the showcase before helping him get everything ready. And as the day came to be, they had made good on their word, taking him to his favorite Vietnamese restaurant in Gotham before taking him to the gallery. He blushed as he listened to his three best friend gush over his artwork, as they listened to him explain each piece. They asked questions and made remarks about what their favorite pieces were and even tried to buy a few pieces only for Tim to promise to give each of them prints of his photos. 

The three had left with quick goodbyes, each one giving Tim a hug and congratulating him before they made their way from the gallery. The rest of the evening dragged on as people came by and asked Tim about his photos and the small films that played on the movie screen on one wall. He smiled and explained each photo to anyone who asked. He had wanted to showcase his vigilante photos of the bats and birds but it had been too much of a risk to do so. 

Instead he had shown off his photos that showcased all of his favorite parts of Gotham. From the beautiful gothic architecture, the gargoyles that looked out over the city. He showed the photos from the last time Ivy had thrown a fit in Robinson Park and covered the entirety of the grounds with flowers. He showed the pictures of community from Crime Alley and the beauty of the strength of Gothamites who had managed to survive the worst of the worst. 

He also featured pictures of his family, of Dick hanging from a chandelier, of Damian training Titus to do a trick. He had a picture of Bruce, Alfred, and Jason sitting side by side as they each read a different book. One showed Cass as she posed for the camera in her favorite ballet form. They were some of his most treasured memories, there for everyone to see and enjoy. Tucker between the one of Damian and the one of Dick was a photo of Tim. He had taken forever to set up the camera and get the timer right. Alfred had simply chuckled the entire time as he continued to offer to take the picture for Tim but no one was meant to be behind the camera for that picture. It was the only family portrait of his entire family. Cass, Damian, Tim, Dick, Jason, Bruce, Alfred, they all sat smushed into a single couch together, wide smiles and laughs on each of their faces as Tim beamed from the far side, leaning into Alfred’s side. 

The gallery was meant to showcase culture that was important to Tim. To showcase the life that he loved and treasured. And even if he never felt like he quite fit in the Wayne Family, even though he knew that he was the expendable one, the replacement, he still treasured his family. It was why he had invited them, he had wanted them to see just how important they were to Tim. And maybe they would realize he was important to them too.

Only, the rest of the evening seemed to drag on, and not a single person from his family ever stepped through the door. He waited, shoulders tensed and smile polite. Every bit the gentleman that Janet Drake had trained him to be as he stood with his hands clasped in front of him. He kept glancing at the clock, waiting for Bruce or Dick or someone to walk through the doors, to say hello and look at all the work that Tim had put in the last four years in college. The hours ticked by until it was nearing ten pm and the gallery started to clear out, custodians came in and started to clean up around him. 

Tim cast one final look at the doors before he turned to his photos and started to take one off of the wall. 

“Master Timothy! I am so sorry that we are late,” a voice said and Tim quickly to find Alfred and Damian walking through the doors of the gallery. A small smile spread on Tim’s face as Damian bound forward. 

“I apologize,” Damian said softly, staring up at Tim with disgruntled eyes. “I got into an argument with Father and then Titus scared Alfred the Cat and we spent the last three hours searching for that blasted cat and when we realized the time we came straight here,” he said. “What did the others think of your exhibit?”

Tim’s smile fell and he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “They uh, they didn’t show up,” he said quietly. “But if you’d like, you guys are the last ones to show up. I’d love to show you everything.”

Alfred’s face fell at that as he stepped forward and clasped a hand on Tim’s shoulder. “That is their loss, my dear boy. I would love to see your work,” he said. Before he could stop himself, Tim pulled Alfred in for a tight hug, burying his face in the old butler’s chest as he held him close. 

“Thank you,” he whispered before pulling away. He glanced down at Damian and smiled. “How about I show you my work and then if my advisor is still here you can meet her and talk to her about the ATC program.”

The fourteen-year-old nodded his head once. “I would appreciate that,” he said before grabbing Tim’s hand hesitantly. He followed quietly as Tim showed them his pictures of Gotham, explaining the stories behind each one before he showed them his favorite pictures. His pictures of home and both men let out soft gasps as they looked at them. 

“Master Timothy, these are beautiful,” Alfred said, stepping forward to take in the picture of him, Bruce, and Jason. 

“The lighting for this is amazing, I did not know that I even smiled like that,” Damian said softly as he took in the picture of him smiling at Titus. 

“Oh Tim,” Alfred said quietly, losing all strict politeness that Alfred held so dear to his heart as he took in the family portrait. “This is amazing, Timothy. So absolutely perfect. I remember when you took this photograph. It was right after Thanksgiving dinner last year.”

“I was so irritated, Todd had gotten mashed potatoes in my hair,” Damian said with a huff, a small smile tugged on his face. 

“I did not even realize that Master Richard and Master Jason were hugging in this picture,” Alfred said, a soft smile sti on his face as he took in the way Dick had his arms wrapped around Jason’s shoulders, a wide smile on his face as he laughed at something Jason had said. A small smile sat on Jason’s face, his eyes brighter than Tim had seen since the older man had come back from the dead. 

Alfred tore his eyes from the picture. “How much?” he asked. 

Tim blinked. “What?”

“How much for the picture?” Alfred asked him, turning back to the family portrait. 

“For you?” Tim asked, blinking again in surprise. “Free of charge, considering it a thank you for coming to my senior showcase.”

“I would like this one of Titus and me,” Damian piped up. “It would be lovely on my desk in my bedroom.”

Tim sniffed, his chest tightening slightly. “I would be more than happy to give you both the original copies.”

“Timothy,” Alfred said, turning back to Tim, that soft, kind, smile on his face once again. “I am so incredibly proud of you.”

The vigilante’s eyes burned furiously. “I-I thank you,” he said, a soft sob slipped out of his mouth before small arms wrapped around him. Damian hugged him tight, his face pressed against Tim’s chest. 

“I am so sorry that our family forgot to come to your showcase, Timothy,” he said stiffly. “You are incredibly talented and it is their loss for missing out on this.”

Tim pressed a hand to Damian’s back, feeling tears building behind his eyes that threatened to spill over. “Thank you,” he whispered. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he looked around and spotted his advisor. “There’s Professor Maheshawen. She’s my advisor. We can go talk to her and you can ask your questions, okay?”

Damian nodded and pulled away carefully, smoothing down the front of his sweater before he followed after Tim to meet his professor. Leaving Alfred to continue staring at the pictures with a kind smile on his face.

Alfred Pennyworth looked at the smiles on his charges faces and let out a breath. One of these days, Bruce and the others would realize just how important Timothy was to their family, how he was the one who held them all together. He only hoped that they would not realize that lesson too late in life. At the very least, Damian was now starting to understand just how wonderful Timothy Drake was. 

[macfrog]

2003: a dbf odyssey

a @chloeangelic x @macfrog fic

greetings greetings one and all. welcome to the fucking circus. chloe cupcake and i have a gift for you. we put our heads together, took turns writing a classic dbf fic, and here is the hellscape we created. please enjoy. [this is entirely satirical and just for funsies. no harm intended. no tw discourse required. love u]

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: your dad's best friend, in your childhood bedroom, with his hard cock out. and that's all we have to say on that

warnings: unspecified age gap, tale set in 2003, female masturbation, creepy joel, praise kink, size kink, fingering, unprotected piv, degradation, angst!

word count: 4.6k

chloe's masterlist | max's masterlist

The sun shines through the window of your childhood bedroom. You’re still reeling from an argument you just had with your mom, over the degree you just spent four years and fifteen grand on. She doesn't understand your passion for fossils, she never has, and during every family function, only one person asks you how school is going. 

Joel Miller, your dad's best friend.

He’s tall. Broad. He’s built like a Dorito. Flamin’ Hot Cool Ranch. He drives a truck and he listens to dad rock. One time you saw him in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt. You asked what that was, and he said it was a band from “before your time, darlin’”. You swooned at the pet name. 

He’s quiet and unassuming. Lingers on the outskirts of every gathering your parents throw. He likes to talk about construction, and wood carving, and little else. At least, that’s what you thought, before you came back home after graduating. 

Suddenly, he started glancing in your direction every time you came into the room wearing a tight little top with significant cleavage. He would clear his throat at dinner and wipe a bead of his sweat from his forehead at BBQs. 

You always called him Mr Miller, and ever since graduation, that name made him blush. Last Thanksgiving, when his family was over for dinner at your parents’ house, you started asking him about old movies, and he grumbled, then told you about 2001: A Space Odyssey. 

He said he couldn’t believe that a girl with a paleontology degree had never seen A Space Odyssey before. Promised he’d show you it sometime. ”Smart girl like you will love it,” he said. 

You had opened your mouth to respond, to lend him the quirkiest retort you could think of, when your dad had bumbled into the room, shoving you out of the way. He brought up the latest Austin Ice Bats game, took Joel up in a conversation you couldn’t be a part of - you knew nothing about minor league ice hockey. 

Your mom called you through to the kitchen and asked you to help her with dinner. When you came into the kitchen, she started asking you if you’d gone on any dates recently, if there were any cute guys in your college classes. 

You rolled your eyes, “No, mom, none of them are my type.” 

She huffed while handing you a pot of mashed potatoes, “What’s your type then?” 

You didn’t want to tell her that your type was older men. Really old, in their fifties. Your type was Joel, but you couldn’t tell her that. Instead, you described what you thought Joel might’ve looked like when he was younger. “Brown hair, beards maybe,” you said, and turned on your heel before walking into the dining room and setting the pot on the table. 

You glanced over the place settings. Your mom had already put down everyone’s drinks. Yours and Sarah’s - a glass of water each. She says water helps with clear skin. Her own - a white Russian cocktail. And your dad and Joel’s, side by side - two beers, dripping with condensation. You paced around the table, formulating a plan. 

As your mom’s voice drew nearer down the hallway, you quickly switched Joel’s beer for Sarah’s water, sitting him next to you.

When he came into the dining room with your father, you noticed that Joel was looking at you with dark, sultry eyes. He gave you a tight lipped smile as he sat down in his chair, then turned to your mother, “Looks great.” You felt his knee knock into yours under the table, but he didn’t move away. Heat pooled in your stomach. Your chest tightened, threatening to burst from the confines of your tight t-shirt.

The same t-shirt you’re wearing right now - sat at the end of your bed. Remembering the way his denim jeans felt on your bare leg. You lie back on your sheets and stare at the ceiling, thinking of his swollen muscles under his flannel shirt. The tuft of chest hair sprouting from over the collar. The veins in his hands as he passed you the salt. 

You were holding a pair of jeans in your hands, about to slide them over your legs when you looked down to see a wet spot in your panties, and now you can’t ignore the throbbing in your core at the thought of seeing him again. 

You carefully trace your fingers over your panties, grazing the wet spot, feeling your cheeks burning from the awareness that it’s your dad’s best friend making you wet. 

You lift the skirt of your barleycorn sundress and open your legs, knees wide on your springy mattress. You hope that it doesn’t make a sound as you push the fabric aside, dragging your fingers over your most sensitive spot.”Joel,” you whimper when your fingertip brushes your wet opening, but you’re startled when you hear the doorbell ringing. 

You pull your hand out quickly and your eyes flare open, chest heaving. You sit up, throw your legs over the side and slip on your jeans, button them up and turn to look at yourself in the mirror before heading downstairs, feeling the low throb deep inside of you as you carefully walk out into the hallway and hear your father greeting Joel as he comes in the door. 

“Howdy,” he says when he spots you descending the staircase.

You hold tight onto the handrail, afraid you might topple over from the sight of him and the fluttering between your legs. “Hi.”

Joel’s eyes travel from your face down your body, ending up on your legs. You suddenly feel self-conscious, but all the same, secretly thrilled that he’s staring at you in this way. You stare back, eyeing him up and down from his scruffy beard to his dusty lace-up boots. Your eyes meet again as you reach the bottom step.

Joel sniffs once. “The hell are you wearing a dress and jeans for?” he asks.

“It’s called fashion,” you sass, and he grunts in response. “Ready to watch the movie?”

“I’m readier than a fried egg on the San Antonio Boulevard sidewalk, darlin’.” There’s that pet name again. You bite your lip and walk into the living room, trying to regulate your breathing. Your dad is already on the couch, remote control in hand, saying he has rewinded the DVD and that the two of you are being slowpokes. 

“The old man’s got jokes,” Joel grumbles, motioning for you to sit down in between him and your dad. 

The three of you put your feet up on the coffee table in front of you. You angle your feet towards Joel’s, your pinkie toe nudging against the sole of his boot. He crosses his ankles and settles back into the couch, folding his arms and prodding your side with his elbow.

“It’s a classic,” he mutters, and you giggle.

Your dad’s head whips around to face you from your peripheral like he is watching a tennis match. “What’s so funny?” he bleats.

“Nothing,” you and Joel chime, focusing hard on the screen. You smile smugly at the fact that you have an inside joke with him, something just between the two of you.

You can’t focus on the movie when your dad turns it on, and you suspect that Joel can’t either by the way he shifts around in his seat. “Got ants in your butt, buddy?”, your dad snorts, and Joel waves dismissively while you stifle your laughter. 

“Just feel like I’m sinkin’ into the couch here,” Joel says, “‘S too soft.” 

Soft, you replay the way he says it, over and over in your mind. You wonder if he’ll think you’re soft if he touches you with his rough hands.

“This movie sucks,” you announce, halfway through. “I can’t believe I had never heard of it. I thought it only came out two years ago?”

Joel snorts. “It came out in 1968 and was directed by Stanley Kubrick, dingus. 2001 is just the title of the film.”

Your face flushes fifty shades of fuchsia. Your dad guffaws on your left side, clapping his hands together like an annoying seal. His laughter is so loud that he almost doesn’t hear his cell phone ringing until you point it out to him. 

“Yellow,” he says as he answers, and chuckles at his own joke, then holds up his finger and turns to the side, mumbling something into his phone. “Be there in twenty,” he says, then hangs up, and turns to you and Joel, “Gotta go pick up your mom but I should only be about forty five minutes as long as she doesn’t drag me into a conversation with her girlfriends. Y’all gonna be okay here?” 

You both nod and sit still as your dad groans and gets up from the couch, listening as he disappears into the hallway to put on his shoes and jacket, then the door shutting. 

You go to grab the remote control to keep playing the movie, and accidentally spill some of the Coke from the can you’re holding. Joel is looking at the screen while you look at the dark stain on the couch cushion, and instead of getting up to get a paper towel to clean it with, you scoot a little closer to Joel. 

He clears his throat and puts his hand on the back of the couch, right behind your shoulders, not saying a word. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife and you glance down at his crotch to see the bulge in his jeans, then look up at him. 

He looks at you for a second, then furrows his brows, “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

“Thinkin’ about bones.”

“Bones?”

“Specifically the one in your pants, Mr. Miller,” you say and bat your eyelashes, and then, “Just kidding.” You turn your head back to the TV but you can see that he’s still looking at you. “I was actually thinking about the Micropachycephalosaurus.” 

“What did you say ‘bout my pants, darlin’? Could swear you said somethin’”

“Nothing, I promise,” you giggle and look away. 

Then his hand comes to your thigh, long fingers splayed over your jeans, thumb tracing back and forth, igniting a flame inside of you. 

“W-what are you doing, Mr. Miller?”, you ask nervously, feeling the heat pooling in your panties again, and this time, it’s not because of your imagination. 

“Lookin’ real pretty tonight,” he says, and his other hand comes to your shoulder. You whimper at his touch. “Can just call me Joel, you know that,” he scolds with a wink.

“Th-thanks, Joel.” 

You feel his hand come up under your chin with a featherlight touch, turning your face up to meet his eyes. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and your face feels hot, your heart beating fast. 

He looks at you through big brown eyes. You blink softly back, trying to transmit a code to him to clue him in on the ache making your thighs clench. You wonder if he knows Morse.

Joel grips your jaw and leans in, his smoldering eyes flashing between yours and your lips. He purses his own and before you know it, his warm mouth is flush against yours, his tongue pushing inside. He licks along the rim of your teeth and you open your jaw, letting him explore your wet gums.

In an instant, you pull yourself on top of him and remove his flannel, ripping the buttons apart and scattering the cloth to the couch. Joel’s hands curve around your round tits, he rolls your pebbled nipples between his thumbs like fiddling with a console controller. You roll your hips forward with a moan.

He's so hard. You look at him with wide eyes and a pout, “You're so hard.” 

“Are you wet f’me, pretty girl?”, he asks. You know it's wrong, your dad could be home any moment, but you frantically nod. 

“Good girl,” he says, and traces his fingers along the edge of your jeans, barely making contact with your skin. 

He stands from the couch in one fluid motion, and you squeal at the sudden way in which you’re lifted in the safe grasp of his arms. It’s astounding how strong he is. How able he is to sweep you into the air, carry you out of the living room. How his biceps bulge as his boots thud up the stairs one by one.

He reaches the landing and pauses, eyes scanning the four closed doors. He steps forward and kicks open the one closest to your bodies, before realizing it is the bathroom and reversing out again.

“Pardon me,” he mumbles an apology, and you giggle again.

“It’s the one on the right,” you instruct, and he shuffles down the hall carpet before bumping your door open. He pauses for a moment when he enters the room - your childhood bedroom. 

“Haven't been in here in years,” he says, and you know he's referring to when he helped your dad take out the old closets and replace them with new ones. You still have the same closets. Maybe he's admiring his work. You look at the posters on the wall and your floral bedspread. 

Then he lays you down on the bed and sighs. “These old knees,” he grumbles, “And my fuckin’ back.” 

You giggle. 

“Mind if I take this off, darlin’?”, he asks, gently tugging at the bottom of your barleycorn sundress. You nod again, feeling your face getting hot and your panties sticking to your pussy. 

Your back arches as he slips the thin fabric from your body, your breasts spilling out of their polyester prison. Joel straightens up, admires the view and hums to himself.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he muses, then bends again to press his body against yours. His fingers tussle with the waist of your jeans, the petite buttons only women's clothing seems to have, and you growl at the effort it takes for him to derobe you. 

“I know,” he says, lips close to your ear, “‘S these big ol’ hands. They get in the way of everythin’, baby.”

You whimper pathetically, wanting nothing more than those big hands to get in the way of you. You shove your fists beneath the denim when he finally undoes the zipper, and help him drag them from your legs. As soon as the heavy fabric hits your floor, Joel’s removing his own jeans. Now, only your underwear and his separate you.

There's a wet spot on his boxers already and you whimper when you place your fingertip on it, biting your lip when he growls at the sensation. “M-Mr. Miller,” you whine, “Can I see your cock? It looks really big.” 

“‘S real big, sweetie, are you sure you can handle it?” 

“Y-yes, Joel, I'm a big girl.” 

“‘F you say so,” he grumbles, then takes off his boxers, and you admire the sight of his manhood. You've never seen a big cock like that, a real thick and long one. You don't think it'll fit inside and you gasp, eyes flashing open while you start to creep backwards on the sheets. 

“Keep the panties on,” Joel orders, following between your legs. His hairy knees push deep into the plush cushion of your mattress, his fist jerks slowly up and down his dick, which seems to only grow larger the closer he gets.

You nod obediently, biting your bottom lip. Your eyes stick on the dribble of precum he swipes with his thumb. You fall back, head sinking into your pillows, and Joel hovers over you, one hand by your head. 

You peel your underwear to the side, now positively soaked. Joel’s hand leaves his member to cup you, feeling your dripping mess. “So wet f’me,” he whispers, and you moan, long and ragged. 

Then he touches the tip of his finger to your opening and watches you squirm while he starts to push it in, entering you with one thick finger. You take all of it in stride, and you frown when he retracts it. 

“So eager,” he says triumphantly, then adds another, and you feel the coil inside you start to tighten. You can't reach as deep as he does, nobody can except for him. Your dad's best friend, in your childhood bedroom, with his hard cock out. Tears start pricking your eyes as you get closer. 

You whine, “I’m gonna come, Mr. Miller.”

He clicks his tongue, “Just Joel,” and then he picks up the pace of his fingers, pushing them inside you until you gush all over your sheets and his hand, feeling the tears sliding down your temples and your fists gripping the sheets tightly. He made you come, it's like a wet dream. 

You gasp when you see the mess you made and he chuckles. “Sorry Just Joel - I mean,” you shake your head, clearing the hazy fog of sex your orgasm left behind, “Joel.” Your cheeks heat with embarrassment.

“No need to apologize, sweet girl,” he whispers, pinching your cheek with his soaked fingers. Your own cum stains your skin, somehow cooling against the stifling hot air in your room. The air filled with lust and sex.

He draws his hand back, wraps it back around his cock, rubs your gleaming slick up and down his thickness. He groans as you coat him, head tilting back to the ceiling. For a second, you wonder if he will actually fuck you, or if he’s just here to jerk off using your cum, kneeling over you.

Your query is answered when he returns his gaze to yours and leans over you again, running the tip between your folds. Your body jolts at the contact, overstimulated and spent already. But Joel doesn’t care. The man gives no fucks.

“Fuckin’ tight,” he groans as he makes space for himself inside you, pushing the head in and impaling you on his fat girth. You feel so full. 

He bottoms out and moans. You watch a drop of sweat gliding from his hairline and down his temple, then crane your neck up to kiss it. His tip kisses your cervix on every thrust and you grip his broad shoulders, hanging onto him while he pounds you. 

“Good girl, takin’ this big fat cock,” he praises, panting into the crook of your neck. 

“Oh, fuck,” you feel the band inside of you tightening, about to snap, but then he pulls out of you and wraps his fingers around his cock again, stroking himself and snarling when he tells you to turn around. 

You’re spent, limbs wrung out like a rag, but you force yourself up while you look at his cock dumbly, seeing his precum dripping out and onto your sheets. Suddenly, you hear him, “What’re you waitin’ for, sweetheart?”, and you immediately turn around and onto your hands and knees, seeing a photo of your parents on your window sill. 

You screw your eyes shut so you don’t think about them, and try to focus on Joel penetrating you from behind in one motion, going full hog, filling you to the brim with cock. “F-feels so good, Joel,” you squirm and moan while he slips his large hands onto your hips, fingers splaying out over the curve of your asscheeks, pulling you back so he can fill you relentlessly. 

His skin slaps against yours, the air in the room quickly filling with nothing but the sounds of his moans and yours, his wet and yours, his body and yours. Your eyes squeeze tight until you see stars, raining down over the darkness behind your eyelids. Your whole bed shakes vigorously with the rate Joel pounds into you, mattress knocking against your nightstand and sending the objects on it tumbling to the floor.

Joel notices as one in particular - your Satisfyer Pro 2 Gen 2 Air Pulse Stimulator, which you find good but really intense with its sucking power - rolls across the wooden floor. His grip tightens on your hips and he chuckles. “‘S a good girl like you doin’ with a thing like that in her room, huh?”

Your back curls. You moan in response. “Umm,” you mumble nervously, trying to think of a response when you see his lips curve into a smirk, “I- I was trying to come, last night.” 

“Oh yeah? Thinkin’ bout what, young lady?” 

Your cheeks burn with embarrassment. You were thinking about him. He can tell - he brushes his thumb over your cheek. “Were you thinkin’ about me, darlin’?”, he asks, and you don’t respond. You look at him with wide eyes. “‘S alright, I’ve been thinkin’ about this tight little pussy, blowin’ my load in the shower. I ain’t ashamed to admit it, you’re a real pretty girl.” 

Your pussy gets wetter when you think about him touching himself and you wonder how it looks. Your dad would kill him if he knew, and you’re surprised Joel would tell you something like that, but it makes you so wet. 

The image in your mind forces you to arch your back, your body curving before Joel into the mattress. He grunts each time his hips come into contact with the plushy meat of your ass, telling you good girl and squeezing you just right as his cock hits you so deep you feel him in your chest.

“I’m - gonna - cum - again,” you pant, words muffled by the floral pattern your lips are smushed into. “Joel - I’m -”

“I hear ya, baby,” he says, hips snapping. His voice is rough, hoarse. He sounds like he needs some NyQuil. You make a mental note to offer him a refreshing glass once you’re done. “Cum for me, go on. Know you need it.”

Your walls close around him as you do as he says, tightening around the intrusion in your pussy. 

His cock begins to twitch deep inside you and he shoves you by the ass off of him. You tumble to the bed and roll over just in time to be drowned by his cum, thick white ropes spraying all over your tummy and tits. You worry with the ferocity of his release that it might reach the photo of your parents, but you’re too caught up in the pleasure of the moment, your own spend spilling out of your tight little hole.

“Fuck yeah,” he groans, “Take that cum.” Then, all of a sudden, his face drops and he freezes in place. He looks at you, covered in his semen, then runs his hand over his face and tucks himself back in his pants. He looks stressed as it dawns on him that he just came all over his best friend’s daughter.

“Joel,” you say carefully. 

“Yes, darlin’”. He winces when the word leaves his mouth. 

“W-what if my dad finds out?”

He runs his hand over his beard. “I don’t know,” he says, “I gotta go.”

“But w-wait, Joel!”

He’s already shuffling out of your room, hopping as he tugs his jeans back over his hips. “M’sorry, baby, I have to-”

“Wait!” you yelp, tearing your underwear from your body. You almost trip over the fabric as you hop down from your bed. “Take these!”

You throw the panties across your room and Joel catches them against his chest, scrunching them into a ball. You sit back on your heels, totally naked in front of him, smirking at the thought of him crossing paths with your dad in the hallway and knowing the secret he holds in his jeans pocket. Knowing that he just fucked his best friend’s daughter, in her childhood bedroom.

His cheeks heat with shock. Your panties are dripping wet. He nods and tucks them into his back pocket and adjusts the crotch of his pants over his still hard cock. 

Suddenly, you hear the front door opening. 

Your parents are home. 

You gasp and fumble with your jeans, trying to put them on with shaky hands while you hear Joel step onto the first floor, just leaving the staircase as the door shuts behind your parents as they come in. 

“Hey, buddy,” your dad calls, and you hover at the top of the stairs. “What- whatcha doin’ with your shirt off?”

Joel stammers, scratching the back of his neck. Your mom stares at him, eyes raking up and down his hairy torso. You feel a hot pang of jealousy at her wandering eyes on the man you just fucked.

“She, uh,” he motions up to you, now stepping slowly down the stairs, “She spilled her drink down my shirt.” He reaches for the crumpled flannel, whipping it in his hands and throwing it over his shoulders.

Your mom tsks. “So clumsy,” she says, shaking her head. “Did you get it cleaned alright?”

Joel nods, jumping a little when you arrive at the bottom of the stairs by his side. He’s still buttoning the shirt. “Yeah, all cleaned up. Thank you, ma’am.”

You feel a surge of excitement shoot through your veins, feeling your wet leaking out onto your jeans and knowing what lives in Joel’s pocket. You sway back and forth, hands clasped behind your back, smiling innocently.

“Sweetie,” your mom calls over, “Why don’t you go walk Joel to his truck?”

“Y-yes, mom,” you stutter, and motion for Joel to walk ahead of you. 

“Have a good night,” he says and pats your dad on the back on his way out. 

You watch every one of his heavy footsteps down the hall and out of the house, slipping on your Crocs before you follow him out, closing the door behind you. 

The two of you linger outside of his truck for a moment. He looks over your shoulder, squinting in the Texas sun as he looks towards the house. You look at the gray in his beard, the curve of his nose and his salt and pepper hair. 

Part of you hopes he’ll ask to see you again, but he’s your dad’s best friend, it could never work. He kicks a small rock with the toe of his boot, arms folded. He leans against the truck and looks up at the sky. 

Your stomach flutters at the sight of him and the feeling of his sticky cum on your stomach, gradually absorbing into your skin. 

“Guess I’ll see you ‘round,” he says and straightens up. He purses his lips while he looks away, then at you. 

You giggle and tuck your hair behind your ear, “Um, yeah.”

“Then I’ll teach you a lesson ‘bout not payin’ attention while watchin’ a movie,” he says, and his voice is sultry and raspy. His fingers are around your chin, tilting your face up to him. “You’ve been a bad girl, lettin’ your dad’s buddy fuck you like a little slut.”

Your lips smush between his finger and thumb. “Yesh, Mr. Miller,” you push between your teeth.

“The hell’d I tell you? It’s Joel.”

You nod fervently. “Yesh, Jool.”

He releases you and opens the truck door, eyeing you constantly as he gets in. 

You pick at your nails nervously as you watch him start the truck, and then drive away. 

You lean against your parents’ Honda Civic and look up at the sky, closing your eyes and sighing. Your teeth come to bite your lower lip into your mouth, tasting him on your tongue. Your dad’s best friend. 

He promised he would teach you a lesson. You wonder what the lesson is.

[fairybinie]

pairings: choi beomgyu x gn!reader

genre: fluff, humor, angst, high school au (seniors), drama club, enemies to lovers, social media au + written chapters

synopsis: popular and menacingly wicked choi beomgyu has the entire senior class wrapped around his finger. the high school drama club has cherished y/n as their veteran for four years. to fulfill beomgyu’s graduation requirements, he must join y/n’s drama club despite his grudges. unbeknownst to everyone else, y/n and beomgyu have their history. they’ve kissed before (or more like y/n has bitten his lip to bleed) and beomgyu hasn’t lived it down ever since. y/n cannot stand this guy. they can make it through the entire year as the leads in their play, right?

warnings: profanity, mentions of kissing, beomgyu teasing y/n constantly, alcohol, will add more if needed.

featuring: the rest of txt, OC character, isa from stayc.

start date: march 13, 2023

end date: tbd

updates: monday, wednesday, friday

status: ongoing

notes: i told y’all beomgyu would get his own love story! i’m really nervous releasing this after my previous smau, but i’m excited nonetheless to share this with you all. thank you to @boba-beom especially for helping me plan this story and @iyeonjuni for the lovely header as always. i hope you all enjoy this smau and i cannot wait to start this new era <3

taglist (closed): @iyeonjuni @odxrilove @iuwon @ijhyo @cherr-y-eji @ameliesaysshoo @enhacolor @cherrybeomgyu @wccycc @hyukabean @strawberri-uyu @hyuntaena @feyregels @boba-beom @luvnhwa @tyunsion @ashxxgyu @bibinnieposts @laylasbunbunny @robinsluva @shiguresohmas @h00nerz @beomsbeanie @stepout-09-15 @ox1-lovesick @soobsdior @ifwtyun @peachy-yabbay @sunlightwoo @ttyunz @rikijackson04 @miyawwn @aintgeluh @baekhyunstruly @wxderingthoughts @moontyuns @soobpricity @hyeinszn @txtbrainrot @phenomenalgirl9 @fatoompie @stellz581 @bluebearybeom @extriella @1-800-ryujin @galaxyhalloes @tae-ology @dekusgirl @xavi-in-kpopland @obeymeharemowner @bailies-me

send an ask to be apart of the taglist!

profiles 1 / profiles 2 / act 1 / act 2 / act 3 / act 4 / act 5 / act 6 / act 7 / act 8 / act 9 / act 10 / act 11 / act 12 / act 13 / act 14 / act 15 / act 16 / act 17 / act 18 / act 19 / act 20 / act 21 / act 22 / act 23 / act 24 / act 25 / act 26 / act 27 / act 28 / act 29 / act 30 / act 31 / act 32 / act 33 / act 34 / act 35

please do not translate, modify or repost on other platforms.

© fairybinie

[love-lilly02]

The Challenge— Chapter 9

When you died, you were going to have an all white funeral. 

It was something that had been decided by your entire family, not even by your agreement but by tradition. According to them, a funeral was a celebration, not an occasion to be sad. 

When you joined the 141, they were required to ask how you wanted preparations to be set up, if there were any “special requests.”

Your mom answered that one for you. 

Never in his life did Gaz actually assume he would show up to a funeral in white. 

He almost thought he would have to do it. 

“This is bull shit!”

Soap’s yell snaps Gaz out of his thoughts, and he looks back at where the man is sitting on the edge of his seat yelling at the others in the room. Specifically you, who’s sitting there half in tears. If your laughing or crying is still completely unknown to him. “That clue is bull shit and you know it.”

“I’m literally HANDING you the answer!!” You yell back at him, almost choking over both your words and laughter at the same time. 

“NO. YOU ARENT. THAT ANSWER IS SO SHITTY A TOILET WOUKDNT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT!!!” Soap hollers back, and the rookies explode with laughter. 

“ITS A FUCKING MOVE THEY DO!”

“I don’t know what the fuck a pas de deux is but it does NOT. EXIST.”

“Bitch i was one of these hoes for twelve years, I WOUKD KNOW”

And so it continues. It had started out with a simple game between the four of you, well, three considering Si opted out, but it quickly turned into a good natured screaming match over the game. Headbands always turned out like this though, at least whenever Soap played. 

“Thirty seconds, suds.” Price grumbled from the couch, and you snapped your fingers quickly, trying to think of something to give him a hint.

“Fuck uhhh, okay The Nutcracker?”

“Actor?” 

“No, no but you’re close. They move around a lot more?”

“A soldier.”

“No, damnit. Like, like— fuck, fuck!! Okay pink fluffy skirts-“

“DANCER!”

“Yes!!” You scream, and you both jump for joy. Everyone in the room cheers, and Gaz even notices Ghost crack a smile under his mask. 

“Fuckin ‘Pas de Deux’ what kind of a clue is that” Soap grunts, knocking back another drink. You just roll your eyes, sighing loudly. 

“It’s literally a dance move everyone knows. I could have said pirouette and you still wouldn’t catch on, I don’t see a difference.” The silent insult makes him chuckle, and Gaz’s smile widens.

“Lay offit ay? Not my fault nobody knows dance terms.”

“I actually knew that.” Gaz pipes up, and Ghost nods in agreement. “It is a pretty common dance move.” 

You throw your hands in the air as if to say see fucker, I was right. 

Soap just rolls his eyes. 

“Didn’t know you danced,” Gaz said, lifting his drink to his lips. He tries to ignore the way your eyes follow the movement, or how it takes you a few seconds longer than usual to respond. 

“Mhm. Did it with my sister for a while. Wasn’t very good, unfortunately.” Gaz nods, humming. 

“When’d you quit?” He asks, pretending to swirl his drink around in the glass. 

You eye him suspiciously, trying to blink through the haze the alcohol has made in your mind. “Few years back, round the same time I enlisted.” 

Gaz nodded. It felt wrong, using you for information like this. But this had become more than just some challenge for him, it was genuine curiosity. Like there was a constant itch in the back of his mind that he couldn’t get to die down unless he got some answers. 

Usually, Ghost was the tech person. He would be the one to hack cameras, snoop on people, be the physical stalker. The problem they all ran into, though, is that a lot of your life was online. You were the youngest of them all, younger than Gaz even, and while they gave you shit for it, it meant you were way more online than they were. 

Because of that, they couldn’t rely on just your files to tell them everything. There was a world hidden somewhere in all your deleted accounts, messages encoded in emails and photos from after your graduation. Piecing them together was too big of a job for one man alone, especially men of their age. 

So they didn’t do it alone. 

It took your near death experience to make grown ass men to realize how fucking stupid they were being about this. Simon said it himself, the 141 didn’t operate by itself. It was a team. They were a team. They did things together, which meant they would get  their answers together. It also meant they would get to share you at the same time, but that wasn’t a foreign concept to them. 

And none of them really had an issue sharing with each other. 

That night, after everyone else had turned in , Gaz got to work. He used the best lead of you he had (your beginning of the year photo for Junior year, taken just before everything disappeared) and worked his way down. He flew through all of your files, finding names, dates and addresses. Long ago he figured out that numbers were the most important thing in a task like this. Without them you could get nowhere. He followed paths he had taken dozens of times, different directions to get to the same conclusion. There wasn’t anything there. Just like you predicted, it all stopped at your junior year. 

This time, though, that wasn’t what he was looking for. 

Once he hit that wall again, He went back and retraced his steps. He included references to clubs in his search, finding every extra circular at your school and looking into their history. Nothing came up for a long, long time. 

It was nearly sunrise before he found something. Normal people would have seen this and not batted an eye, but Gaz was too keen in his research to miss it. 

In an article about your schools dance team, just a few months before graduation two names glared out on the screen at him. Your name, and someone else’s who rhymed quite well with yours. The gears spun in his head, and he laughed to himself in pure shock.

They were on a a wild goose chase for the wrong person. 

It explained why he was physically unable to find anything on you, because he wasn’t even looking for you in the first damn place. He was tracking down your sister. 

He took the two names and pasted them into his system, hitting enter on the keyboard. 

Over three hundred search results came up, but only one caught his eye. 

“Local College student gets killed in school shooting, family is left devastated.”

He might have to do a bit more digging than he thought. 

Finding the photos was the easy part. Now that he knew who you were, they were everywhere. You really had gotten up to a lot behind their backs, you had at least tried out every club once and volunteered everywhere in your damn state. It was impressive that you managed to switch personalities so quickly, going from someone so loud and outgoing to… well, you. He knew hiding this much information wasn’t easy, having to go under an alias a few times to escape capture taught him that the hard way. But you did it with ease, as if you…

Oh. 

Oh.

He had to tell Price.

AN: if you can spot the audio reference and tell me which audio it comes from, who made it and give me a time stamp i’ll post the next chapter early (as in; as soon as i see the ask/comment)

[trickphotography2]

The Perfect Match

Every third week in March, fourth year medical students find out where they'll be going for their residency. A quick 2.2K word one-shot of Jake's girlfriend going through that process.

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The nervous energy in the auditorium was almost overwhelming as the clock ticked closer to 11:50AM. All across the US, fourth-year medical students gathered in ceremonies like this, ready to find out where they would be headed in just a few months to begin their residency. It had been a long week - on Monday, everyone received an email letting them know if a residency program had selected them. For those who got one, it was a waiting game to see where they would be moving. Those who hadn't been selected went through the nerve-wracking SOAP process, hoping to secure a job after graduation. With the number of medical graduates increasing faster than residency positions, it wasn't always a guarantee. 

You, however, already knew where you were going and what specialty you would be practicing. For months last year, you'd flown across the country, interviewing with residency programs at different installations and civilian hospitals—backups in case you didn’t match with a base hospital and had to compete for a civilian spot. And a perk of matching through the military was getting notified of your posting in mid-December, while civilians had to wait until the third week of March. 

On December 15th, you received that wonderful email alerting you that you had matched into Emergency Medicine at Naval Medical Center San Diego. Not only was Emergency Medicine a competitive specialty, but the location meant that you would finally be able to be close to your long-distance boyfriend, Jake, after seven long years.

A chance encounter over Spring Break freshman year led to late-night calls when he returned to Annapolis and you to College Park. For four years, you lived 35 minutes apart in Maryland, stealing as much time as possible together over the weekends. And after graduation, you had a long conversation about your future.

Jake had been clear from the beginning that he wanted to be a pilot, just as you had been firm about attending medical school. He supported you as you struggled through Organic and Biochemistry and tutored you in Physics. He would try not to laugh as you traced his skin, naming the muscles, bones, and systems as you reviewed for anatomy. Care packages showed up at your apartment when you spent as much time as you could getting clinical hours, volunteering in a research lab, and studying for the MCAT. Jake knew how important getting your CV ready was and tried not to complain too much when your weekends spent together were mainly catching up on chores or sleep.

Senior year, you were offered a spot at Florida State University College of Medicine. Jake had been notified in his junior year that he had been accepted into the flight program.

After graduation, you and Jake packed up your things and drove to Florida together. He had a few weeks until he had to report to Pensacola, just a 3-hour drive down I-10 from where you would be in Tallahassee. The apartment you got was right across the street from the med school, a small one-bedroom, but you knew you wouldn’t spend much time there anyway. It would be a place to eat and sleep, but most of your time would be spent on campus or driving to Jake’s in Pensacola. He would only be there for a few months until transitioning to the next base, and you wanted to spend as much time together as possible. 

Unlike other medical schools, FSU required students to start in the summer to complete the Anatomy course. Over the short term, students would complete a full-body dissection. The smell of formaldehyde became commonplace, and the TAs warned you to wear shoes and scrubs you wouldn’t hate to throw away in August. 

They were right. 

It was a rough transition to med school, but it was manageable. And you loved it. Your professors ensured you treated the cadavers with the utmost respect while gently encouraging competition by announcing a dissection team winning each week. The faculty brought you to a rural community to learn about rural medicine, sharing food and stories with those less fortunate. The physician assistant students joined on the trip, and you learned about an inter-professional day that you’d be expected to participate in later - role-playing a case with MD, PA, pharmacy, and social work students. 

And while you were working toward your dream, Jake was getting closer to his. Nights were spent catching up, and he was so excited to tell you about his flight training. He promised to get his civilian pilot license as soon as possible and rent a plane to take you up in the air. On the rare weekend you didn’t need to spend in the anatomy lab cramming for an exam, you drove to his place late Friday night and headed back to Tally on Sunday morning. 

In August, Jake requested time off to come and see you celebrate finishing your first semester. Seated in the audience, he watched as your faculty member helped you don your first white coat, and you recited the Hippocratic oath. The one-week vacation before Fall term started wasn’t long enough, but you enjoyed waking up in Jake’s bed and going to the beach.  

Joining the military had never been in your future, but the longer you spent around Jake and his friends, the more commissioning in the Navy seemed attractive. A medical officer recruiter spoke at the college, and you signed your paperwork. After spending a few weeks working in a clinic during the summer after the first year, you headed to Rhode Island to complete Officer Training. Jake called you as soon as you graduated, welcoming you into the service with only some light teasing about outranking you. As an Ensign, you would be forced to salute your Lieutenant boyfriend when you saw him. 

It was harder to see each other when he graduated from flight school and was stationed in California, but you managed to get by with phone calls and vacations. Toward the end of your second year, Jake was sent on deployment as you studied for the Step 1 exam - testing your foundational knowledge and one of the most intimidating exams you faced. The school gave you dedicated study time, and you took advantage of his offer to study at his apartment in Lemoore. His buddy, Coyote, met you at the airport and drove you to Jake’s apartment. A bouquet of flowers was sitting on the counter, and you stared at them as you mentally ran through Anki decks to quiz yourself.  

Jake came home the last week you were there. Fully recovered from the 8-hour exam, you greeted him with all the other family members on the flight line. It was the first time you saw him in his jet, and you made sure he knew how much you appreciated the sight. But too soon, you had to return to Florida and pack up your apartment in Tally to move to Pensacola for your last two years of medical school. On your last night in Lemoore, Jake took you out dancing and promised he would request leave to visit soon. 

Between your rotations and his shitty schedule as a junior officer, it was hard to see one another. At the end of your third year, you hit a rocky spot and talked about breaking up. But cooler heads prevailed, and you promised to do your best to match into a residency near him. He agreed to try and get orders to be closer to you once you graduated. 

Jake had been your first call on December 15th. Sobbing, you told him you’d join him in San Diego, where he’d been stationed for the last four months. 

The last-minute plane tickets had been expensive, but it had been so worth it to spend Christmas with him, making plans to move your stuff across the country, and finally be together. He’d held your hand as you pulled your name from the NBME Match Database, officially alerting the civilian hospitals you’d interviewed at that you were no longer hoping to match with them. 

So, while your friends waited anxiously to open their envelopes, you felt a sense of calm. In nine short weeks, you would be back in this auditorium wearing your dress whites under your cap and gown. After getting your diploma, your new orders would be published, and you would be promoted to Lieutenant. And after? Jake was scheduled to return from a deployment in a month and requested leave to help you pack up your apartment and start the cross-country road trip. 

Eight years of hard work would culminate in moving in with the man you loved. Who could support you in person as you went through the hell of residency and got used to being a full-time Naval officer. 

The Dean crossed the stage and welcomed everyone. As the clock struck noon, she encouraged everyone to open their envelopes.

Tearing it open, you stared at the words confirming your future - Emergency Medicine, Naval Medical Center San Diego. 

Jake.

Cheers broke out, and you turned to hug your friends as they screamed with happiness or smiled to hide disappointment on not getting their top choice. 

The ceremony began with each regional campus called up to allow the students to announce their match.

You hadn’t planned on going on stage. The trip back to Tally had only been to see your favorite staff members and to support your friends as they found out where they would be moving. They had brought their family members, partners, and kids to share in the moment. You had come alone, preferring your family to go to graduation instead. But your friends dragged you into the line and handed your name card to the smiling staff. 

“Hi,” you said, leaning into the microphone after the Regional Campus Dean introduced you. “I just wanted to say thank you to all of my friends and family. Without you, I wouldn’t have made it through all of this. I matched in Emergency Medicine and will be moving across country to be with my boyfriend, who kept me sane throughout all of this. And I’ll be at Naval Medical Center San Diego

The crowd cheered louder than they had for any of your classmates. Blushing, you lifted your hand and waved, stepping back and quickly walking toward the Campus Dean to shake his hand. But as you neared, he smiled and took a step back.

You froze.

Jake grinned. 

Wearing his dress whites, he quickly strode toward you, pulling you into his arms. “What are you doing here?” you demanded, blinking away tears. 

“Wasn’t gonna miss your Match Day, darlin’,” he replied.

“You’re supposed to be on the carrier!” 

“Might have lied about that.” There wasn’t a trace of regret on his face. “You worked so hard for this, and I wanted to surprise you. My beautiful, smart, adrenaline junky doctor girlfriend.”

“Not yet - won’t be a doctor for another few weeks.” 

“You’ve got it in the bag. But I figured since you’re already trading in a couple of ranks - med student and Ensign…” Taking your left hand, he reached into his pocket and lowered himself to one knee. 

Vaguely, you heard the crowd get louder, but you couldn’t tear your gaze away from Jake as he held out a diamond ring. 

“I thought maybe we could change girlfriend to wife. Will you marry me?” 

Unable to speak, you nodded quickly. Jake leapt to his feet and kissed you, smiling against your mouth. 

The next few minutes were a blur. You hugged the Deans while Jake shook their hands, and your parents met you off stage - Jake had called to let them in on his plan. His parents texted him after watching the proposal on the school’s livestream. After promising to meet up after the ceremony, Jake joined you in the student section while your parents returned to their seats. Your friends hugged you, whispering excitedly as you showed them your engagement ring. 

And later, after a celebratory dinner with your family and drinks at the beer garden with your classmates, you tumbled into bed with Jake. You could taste the beer on his tongue as he licked into your mouth, and you grinned when your ring caught the light and shimmered.

“Lieutenant and Lieutenant Seresin,” Jake chuckled, catching your hand and kissing your ring. “Sounds kinda nice.” 

“Mmmm,” you hummed. “My diploma will be issued in two months, Seresin. Then I’m applying for my medical license and getting all my onboarding paperwork done for NMCSD. I might have to go by my last name for a bit… but I kinda like how it sounds with Lieutenant…”

 “It does sound nice,” he agreed. “You sayin’ I’ve got 2 months to get it official, or are you telling me you wanna keep your last name?” 

“Dunno,” you shrugged. “I’ve spent the last four years thinking I’d practice under my own name.”

“How do you feel about hyphenating?” 

Your eyebrows shot up, “You’d be okay with that?” 

“Darlin', you did the hard work, and it’s your name. As long as I can call you Doctor Seresin at home, I don’t care.”

In the middle of May, you stood at attention on stage in your whites, having quickly changed out of your cap and gown. The medical recruiter, a local chief petty officer, had been called onto the stage to publish your orders. Forcing yourself not to smile, you pressed your lips together as he read out your name — your new, hyphenated last name and all. 

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Notes: I used to work in a medical school, and went through three years of working on Match Day. It was one of my favorite events because of the level of excitement. (And yes, we did have a proposal one year.) But it can also be a really hard day - as state above, the number of residency spots is lower than the number of people who graduate. Every year, people go through the SOAP process and don't match. Which means they have to find something to do for a year, and then start the process over again.

Definitely didn't plan on writing this - I think in about an hour? - but I watched a class I worked with Match today and it kicked up a lot of feelings. I had the pleasure of watching young students grow into doctors, and play some small part in that.

As always, thank you to @mamachasesmayhem for encouraging me to write this, and for giving feedback.

[sumsumstrashbin]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐚 ~ 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 𝟏.𝟕𝐤

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐮𝐩, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 (𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫), 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

𝐚/𝐧: 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐠𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐟. 𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐟𝐬 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬. 𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐯𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐲 𝐚𝐮!

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

You and the Marauders had been friends since your sixth year at Hogwarts. Your friendship with them began in the library one day while you were studying for a test. They had decided that you would be the victim of their prank for the day, sneaking up on you and causing your books to levitate and fly right out of the library. 

Instead of letting them feel the pride of another successful trick, you decided to get them back. After spending the night brewing a very special potion, you carefully constructed a prank on them the next day. You promised Nearly Headless Nick that you would find him some rotten roast beef in exchange for his help. At breakfast, the ghost stole an item off of each of the Marauders, causing them to chase after him. As they ran out, you slipped a bit of potion into their drinks before returning to your seat casually. 

The four boys entered the Great Hall again, out of breath from their chase through the halls. They all collapsed into their seats, downing their drinks without a second thought. 

It only took a few moments for the potion to kick in, much to your delight. They were all chatting normally, when their voices started to transform. Within a matter of seconds, their voices were high-pitched and squeaky. Thanks to you, they spent the rest of the day with highly irritating voices that no one could bear to listen to.

They were completely shocked that anyone managed to prank them back, and they highly respected you for that. Although you found them annoying at first, they quickly became some of your closest friends.

Soon after becoming friends with them, you and James began facing constant pestering from the other three: they constantly spoke of how the two of you totally liked each other, and that you’d be a great couple. Of course, both of you denied it and continued to stay friends. 

After graduation, you made sure to stay in touch with them. You would often see them multiple times a week, visiting them in their shared home or hosting them at your own. You and James had managed to deny your feelings for each other throughout seventh year and up until now. Well, until last week when he finally mustered up the courage to ask you on a date. You were shocked, but you had been hoping that he felt the same way since you had met, so you happily accepted his offer. He was equally surprised to hear you agree, but made sure to give you no time to second guess your decision. He gave you a date, time, and location, and left immediately. 

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

It was the day before your date with James, and you were spending the evening babysitting your godson, Draco. You and Narcissa met at Hogwarts, as she was a prefect when you started. Although she was much older than you, she quickly became an older sister figure, and the two of you remained close. When Draco was born, she granted you the role of being his godmother, as she trusted your good nature and believed that you’d be a better option than Bellatrix. 

Draco was only a few months old, so he didn’t require much entertainment. He had been asleep for most of the time, but you kept the bassinet right by the couch so that you could keep an eye on him. While he slept, you were spending your time reading a book.

The peaceful silence of your home was broken by a knock on your door. You stood up, placing the book down on the couch and checking on Draco to make sure that he was still asleep before heading to the door. 

You opened the door to be met with a very sad and very wet James Potter, holding a soggy bouquet of flowers while his hair dripped water onto your doormat. His glasses were also covered in droplets, so he took them off to wipe them down before putting them back on his face.

“James? What are you doing here?” You questioned, taking in his soaking wet appearance.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here? You stood me up! I waited an hour for you!” He exclaimed, folding his arms. The wet bouquet of red roses slapped against his chest, causing water to flick right onto your face.

You wiped your cheek, looking at him with a perplexed look. “Shh, lower your voice. And what are you talking about? It’s the 16th. Our date is tomorrow.”

He stood there, completely dumbfounded. “What? I thought- are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You said the 17th.”

“Oh…I am so stupid. I put the wrong date in my calendar. Uh…” He looked down at the flowers, sighing before offering them to you. “I got you these.”

You smiled, taking the dripping wet bouquet from him. “Thank you, James. You’re a sweetheart. And an idiot.”

“I know, I know. But it adds to the charm though, doesn’t it?” He grinned cockily. “Since I’m here already, can I come in? We could always just move our date to today. And to your house instead of a restaurant.”

“We can, but I don’t think you’ll want to.”

“Nonsense.” He said, stepping past you and into your house. He kicked his shoes off, pulling out his wand and using a charm on himself to dry his clothes and hair. “Why wouldn’t I want to stay- oh.” His gaze landed on the self-rocking bassinet in your living room. “Who the hell is that?”

You stifled a laugh at his question. “That’s my godson, Draco. I’m babysitting.”

“Draco as in Draco Malfoy?” He asked, lowering his voice as he walked over to the bassinet. 

“Mhm. Remember how I told you guys that Narcissa asked me to be his godmother?” You unwrapped the rose bouquet, starting to cut the stems to fit into a vase.

“Right. He has his father’s blindingly blonde hair.” He snickered to himself, settling on the couch.

As soon as he sat down, Draco woke up and immediately started to cry. You cursed, putting the scissors down to go and dry your wet hands. As you prepared to go soothe him, James picked him up. “I got him.”

“Are you sure? I can come get him.” You said, wiping your hands on the hand towel.

“Yeah, of course. Don’t worry about him.” He said, beginning to rock Draco in his arms. “Am I doing this right, though?” 

You smiled at the sight of your crazy “friend” attempting to calm a screaming baby. “Yes, that should be fine.”

Draco began to settle down, and James sighed in relief. You were so busy watching them that you had stopped paying attention to what you were doing, which resulted in you cutting your finger. You yelped in pain, looking down at your bleeding finger. “Oops.”

“What’d you do?” He asked, walking over with Draco in his arms. 

“My hand just slipped. It’s nothing.’ You said, going to the sink and running the water over it. 

He shifted his position so that he could hold Draco in one arm, taking his wand out with his free hand. “Let me see.”

You shut the water off, showing him your finger. He aimed his wand at it, using a bandaging spell to wrap it up for you.

All of the time you spent waiting for him to ask you out, combined with his kind gesture of the  flowers, soothing Draco, and tending to your finger was enough to make you want to grab his face and kiss him right then and there. 

“Why did it take you so long to ask me on a date?” You questioned, looking up at him.

“Well, I didn’t know that you wanted me to. Trust me, I wanted to, and Sirius never shut his mouth about it. I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship. If I knew you were waiting for me, I would have asked the day after you pulled that prank on us.”

“Really?” Your heart fluttered at his words.

“Of course. Have my feelings for you not been obvious this entire time?” He queried, subconsciously rubbing Draco’s back to put him back to sleep.

“I guess they have been to everyone else, but not to me. I didn’t want to risk ruining our friendship either.” You admitted.

“Well, it’s certainly ruined now, and I couldn’t be happier about it. I’ve waited a long time for this, Y/n. And I know this isn’t an ideal first date, but it doesn’t matter to me. I’m just happy to be with you.”

“Me too.” You smiled, taking Draco from him gently. “I’ll put him back down and then we can spend some time together. Will you move the bassinet into my bedroom for me?”

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

James had helped you move Draco into your bedroom before the two of you settled onto the couch together. The warmth of the fireplace was keeping the chilly weather out, and the dim glow was illuminating the room in a soft light. 

“Now that he’s asleep again, we should take advantage of our moment of freedom before he interrupts again.” James spoke, breaking the comfortable silence. “...I didn’t mean that in a suggestive way, I just meant that we can enjoy our first date in peace.” He clarified, chuckling nervously.

Before you could respond, he spoke again. “Alright, maybe I did mean it in a suggestive way.” Without hesitation, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours. Despite being so eager, he kissed you with such tenderness that you could feel heat rising in your cheeks. After a few moments, he pulled away to look into your eyes.

“I waited way too long to do that.” He stated, glancing between your eyes and your lips.

“Yeah, it’s about damn time.” You said, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into another kiss. 

The two of you spent the rest of the night sharing kisses and hushed conversations over the crackling sound of the fireplace. You ended up under a warm blanket, cuddling on the couch and basking in each other’s company. 

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

[leveloneandup]

Christen Press on returning to soccer following ACL tear, season three of The RE—CAP podcast

Christen Press, the all-time leading goal scorer in Stanford history, has starred for club and country since graduating in 2010. With the USWNT, she has won two World Cups and scored 64 international goals. Press has played overseas professionally, including a stint at Manchester United, as well as in the NWSL with the Chicago Red Stars, Utah Royals and currently with Angel City FC.

After tearing her ACL in June 2022, Press required four surgeries and an arduous recovery. She returned to her first training session on Tuesday, after which she spoke to SBJ about her rehab and the new season of her podcast. Along with Tobin Heath, Megan Rapinoe and Meghan Klingenberg, Press founded a media and lifestyle brand called RE—INC in 2019. She and Heath are the co-hosts of the RE—CAP podcast, which returns for its third season on Thursday. The first episode includes appearances by USWNT legend Abby Wambach and author and podcast host Glennon Doyle.

On returning to the pitch . . .

I am currently in the car driving home from my first training. I would say the road to recovery happens very slow, and then yet it happens all at once. I have been back in the team environment for almost four months. So it's been a long time that I've been integrated into the environment, and it took four months for me to get ready to be in a warmup and a passing pattern — really simple, basic stuff. And I felt very ready for it. I felt almost underwhelmed by how easy it was because I've done a lot more complicated things, and yet it was also entirely overwhelming and joyful to be so connected to my teammates and be celebrated in the way that I have been these last two days.

I'm very grateful for that. They say it's the hope that kills you, and as I drive home, I just have this big smile on my face because I can't help it. I can't help hoping. I can't help believing that I'm going to make it back, and it's going to be everything that I see in my head. I'm relentlessly optimistic, I'm naively positive, and I like that about myself, and I'm not I don't intend to change it. I think the way that it left me feeling was just like, yes, I can do this.

On monitoring her rehab . . .

I'm a person of devices, so I have quite a toolkit, I'd say, of ways that we're tracking and measuring. The truth is we're really still working through issues with my knee, and I have chronic scarring of the knee, so I can experience some discomfort and some swelling that could lead to more scarring, which is incredibly rare, because most people don't scar after a couple months after their surgery. I'm now over nine months for my surgery and still at risk of scarring. So it just means that I have to try very carefully with how much impact my knee can take.

We're being careful, but we're progressing. In terms of my overall fitness, what my GPS has said is that I've got to like 60% of a match load, which is all that I really need to get in terms of volume. And yet, in the warmup and the passing pattern today, it felt like I played a 90-minute game. I was so fatigued. There's training, and then there’s really training. There's no way to get fit for football, except for playing football. And I've done a ton of running, I've done a ton of lifting, and now it's time to play.

On how deep she gets into data . . .

My performance staff would laugh because they said they've never worked with a player that cares so much. So right now, I wear a Polar Watch that I was given in like 2015 from the national team. It's just old school. And I wear my Apple Watch, which is connected to my GPS so I can see all my data live, from heart rate to distance to speed to all that. And then I do sleep with an Oura ring — although I'm not endorsing any of these products, I'm not connected to any of these products — but I do sleep with an Oura ring and track my sleep and my stress levels.

On season three of the podcast . . .

Our show really is about authenticity, and it's about creating a more inclusive space for sports and including diversity of perspective. And so that means we have hard conversations, and we have honest conversations and we have vulnerable conversations, and we have a lot of fun — the same spirit and joy that you saw last year during the World Cup edition of the show. We're back, and we're bigger than ever.

On the origin of the creating the podcast . . .

I never thought I would be in media. I think that's even more true of Tobin. There's two typical paths for athletes after soccer, and it’s coaching and broadcast. ‘So Christen, do you want to be a coach?’ ‘No.’ ‘So Christen, then you must want to be a broadcaster? I was like, ‘No.’

That's an interesting part of the story, but first and foremost, we decided to launch this show as current and active players, and that's unique and different. It's not really a stepping-back-from-soccer thing. It's current players trading stories and having a little bit more space to dictate the narrative.

And then secondly, we really approach this as business leaders. This is our business, this is our company. We are a 3C company: content, community and commerce. The most amazing thing about women's sports is the community, and we're trying to build the coolest women's sports community in the world in our membership, and we're feeding that with amazing content.

And I think because we have such an authentic and vulnerable relationship with our audience that we've developed over the last five years that we've been building this business, it made sense for Tobin and I to be our first piece of content that was really more large scale and more widely accessible. But the plan will be to find like-minded people that sit at the intersection of sports, progress and equity, to continue to hear stories from an insider's perspective. It really disrupts the industry in that way.

On topics they plan to cover in season three . . .

We're going to be talking about women's health, particularly in sport, which is obviously a really hot topic, and representation in sport — how we make it more diverse and equitable for more people, be it across the gender spectrum, the orientation spectrum, across different races and classes. I think that's incredibly important. Soccer in America is an upper-middle class sport, and almost everywhere else in the world, it's a very accessible sport that's found on the street. That's really the spirit of football, so that's really important to us.

On the role of athletes as activists . . .

The interesting thing about the community that surrounds women's sports in particular is they care about a lot more than the sports, and the values transcend beyond the pitch. And that's about diversity, inclusion, progress. And I think that's just inherent because it is disruptive in itself to see women embodied, powerful, unapologetic and also very celebrated the way that you do in the professional sports world today. The people that it's drawing in are the same people that want to march, and they want to create change and they want to stand up for what they believe in.

It's so embodied in the Angel City culture. The professional team that I play for has just nailed it. And when you're in the stadium, it's electric, and win or lose, it's a different type of vibe than any other sports arena I've been in because there's a connection point for all of the audience. They care about more than the X's and O's. They care about what we represent to them, the progress and the opportunity that we as women athletes represent.

On the versatility of women athletes . . .

It's always been that way in women's sports, and it's just becoming more popularized. I think the expectation is that we would always be multifaceted as women and expected to do multiple jobs in multiple roles, if we were going to have careers. And so it really did take to me and my personality to be a player and also be a leader off the field, on the US women’s national team, going through the Equal Pay lawsuit, going through the reestablishment of our players association.

For me, it was such a balancing sense of purpose that I continue to create space in my life for that, and I think that's what we've done with our business, RE—INC. RE—INC is reimagined, incorporated. We set out, in 2019 when we started this company, to reimagine the status quo, to reimagine the way women are seen and experienced in sports. And it's a very bold and ambitious goal, and we do it in a multifaceted way. And I'm really, really proud of that.

[violetasteracademic]

On Being a Published Writer: Without a Degree

This is a bit of a vulnerable share today, and I am writing it after a sleepless night, the monster of anxiety and shame weighing heavily on my chest. However, I have come far in life and undergone an incredible amount of healing, and refuse to be ashamed of my past. I hope sharing this can help even one person like me remember that when it comes to craft, when it comes to art, the only thing stopping you from being worthy is you.

This year, I became a published writer. After years of hard work and dedication to my craft, I finally felt good enough to begin submitting my work to literary magazines. I'm proud of that accomplishment. It's a little tag I get to add to my bio now as I submit work that helps make me feel *valid.* But that quickly, all it takes is for someone to remind me that I did not have access to a degree, that I did not learn from the best, and I will spend the rest of my life without a formal education behind my writing, and they achieve the goal they set out: to make me feel less than for not having their background.

In America, the education system is for profit and public school system inconsistent. There are many factors that can contribute to whether or not a person gets through it successfully, and it often has little to do with intelligence, work ethic, or strength of character and drive before the age of 18.

So here is my story:

I graduated high school with a 2.1 GPA.

My first hospitalization (out of the 17 I would have in my life) for edometriomas happened at age 15. I spent the majority of high school struggling with chronic pain, stage four endometriosis and the accompanying endometriomas cysts, and illness. By age 16, social services was threatened by my school to be called on my home for suspected neglect and abuse. I moved out of my house that year, and was given temporary guardianship by a friends family.

By the end of my senior year, I continued to bounce around between friends houses, sometimes sleeping in my car, and struggled to keep on top of my coursework. I was enrolled in the work study program designed for students who had to keep a job during their high school years, and earned school credits for staying employed.

Despite all of this, I still maintained high grades in Advance Placement literature and language, proceeded to get 5's on my AP tests (a perfect score, and a rare accomplishment) as well as near perfect scores on my ACT's. I spent every spare second reading and writing from the moment I learned how. My intelligence and comprehension were not the issue. My health and my home life were.

The only reason I got into college at all was because I decided to audition for a school play freshman year. Much to my surprise, I was cast in the lead role, and thus the course of my life was set. I poured everything I had into acting, I finally had a purpose and something to keep me out of having to go home after school. Still, applying for colleges was one of the most stressful and shame inducing experiences of my life. I got into many top performance programs in the country, then would not get into the university itself with my GPA. The conservatories that did not look into school performance did not provide the financial assistance required for me to attend.

There was one university that offered limited talent admissions that would allow the university admission requirements to be overlooked for students that had displayed exceptional talent in their specialized field of study. I had to put together a request for the school board, complete with letters from my high school teachers providing context for my low GPA paired with high test scores, character assessments on my likely ability to maintain the minimum required GPA in college, as well as a letter from the head of the performing arts department of the university stating that I was worthy of this talent exception. The wait was unbearable. But I was accepted. And I was approved for the work study program that allowed me to gain employment at the university to help offset the cost.

I felt like my whole life had changed in college. I had gotten in. I had gotten out. I was a new person, no one knowing about my past or the stain of my struggles. I had a fresh start. While I continued to battle my illness throughout college, it was manageable with a consistent bed to sleep in every night, as well as access to physical and mental health services. And although I tested out of being required to take any English classes with AP, I still filled my elective credits with writing classes. Screenwriting, playwriting, poetry, creative writing. Performing became my work, and writing became my joy. I took every class that sounded remotely interesting, often filling my schedule more than required on top of my work and performance load.

I am withholding some of the more personal details of my life, but when I finally moved out to LA, I hit the ground running. I accomplished more in a few years than fellow artists and performers who had been out there for more than a decade. And I valued every person I met. I was in small, independent theatre shows with Juliard grads. I was on professional sets with wildly naturally talented people working to get their GED with no formal education but that undeniable *it* factor. People from all walks of life set out for the Angel City to make it, and I was one of them. I also began writing again, this time short films and audition monologues. I began writing pieces for friends and classmates at their request. I secured my first talent agent with a performance piece that I wrote, along with an offer to renegotiate my contract to include literary representation should I complete a script worth shopping. I began to organize applications for writing fellowships at top studios, when my condition became so severe the only option to move forward with my life was surgery. And then my life completely changed again.

I came out of that surgery with nerve damage that left me unable to walk for six months, as well as developed a new permanent nervous system disorder.

My career and my life never recovered. I was permanently changed. However, during that time, I turned one of my sci-fi short films I had written into a 160k word novel, with outlines for a trilogy. While it was one of the darkest times of my life, writing got me through it. I moved out of Los Angeles to a more affordable city and threw myself into writing. I learned that ivy league schools like Stanford, Harvard, and Yale shared their syllabi for continued study coursework online, including the required textbooks for the courses. Example here. I took myself through the textbooks and coursework of top schools, I took every local workshop possible when it was in budget. Any education on craft that was within my means, I reached for.

I will never be able to change the course of my life. I will likely never be able to go back to school. However, this amazing video by Bandon Sanderson helped me overcome my shame, my lack of access to returning to higher education when my life and career were irrevocably changed: Be Anything But an English Major

I had already done what he had encouraged, pick a subject I was passionate about, fill my college coursework with things I found interesting, and let it inform my writing. While this is not to disrespect or degrade English majors or say successful authors think the degree is worthless, I am simply sharing to say this video helped ME combat against English majors who made me feel worthless for not having access to their diploma.

So to anyone feeling insecure today, you do not need a degree in the arts. Whether you want to be an author, an actor, a painter, a fashion designer, a poet. And I say this as someone whose greatest privilege and joy in life was getting a performing arts degree.

We must continue to prioritize art being accessible, value diverse backgrounds, and wish for it to be open and available to all. We must continue to treat art as subjective, and reject ideals that learning from a certain set of paid individuals makes all other opinions, choices, or ideas invalid.

There is no dollar amount I could give to a piece of paper that would make my mind, my intelligence, and my ability to organize and understand words in an impactful way that would make me more valid than I am today. There is no degree that could replace my work ethic, my empathy, my desire to write stories to do good. To give something to the world and help people survive in the ways that I had needed to survive.

Maybe I'll tell this story again one day, and it will help another young person with my background believe there may be more in life than the cards they were dealt. Maybe this will be the first and last time sharing these words. Maybe I'll never get another piece published, but will continue to write fanfic and poetry and prose pieces to share on the internet for free because I believe in my heart it is valuable. To look at myself, and my work, and deem myself worthy of my efforts and passion.

I am proud to be a member of the community of published writers without a degree.

I am even more proud to be a member of online fandoms full of writers, artists, creators, contributors and more who give their free time and energy towards something that does nothing more than make others happy.

So,

to the people who look at the stars and wish.

to the stars who listen— and the dreams that are answered,

this one is for you.