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hornyhornyhimbos · 11 months

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"Scream For You" ~ S. Reid

Summary: After a long night of keeping your hands off each other, you and Spencer know just how to make up for lost time.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 1,253

Content Warning: MINORS DNI (18+ content) protected piv sex, missionary style activities, mask kink, hand kink/choking, nicknames (Reader is called angel multiple times, and my love/honey 1-2 times), explicit language, lmk if i missed anything!

Extra Notes: didn't mean for this to become my biggest fantasy, yet here we are alshkshshs

Originally Written: 10/31/2023 through 11/01/2023

criminal minds masterlist can be found here!

halloweek masterlist can be found here!

Limbs were entangled as you and Spencer worked to hold each other close, his foot promptly kicking the door shut as your lips connected. Desperate breaths exited through your lips and into his, while hands roamed over his hair and clothes as you headed toward your shared bedroom.

"You don't know how hard it was to keep my hands off you tonight," Spencer breathed between hungry kisses, hands moving up to your face and pulling you in closer.

"Believe me, pretty boy," you sighed, "I know the feeling."

The night had been miserable, keeping your hands to yourselves. Normally, you would've been able to act as lovey-dovey as you wanted, but instead of the BAU's normal adult-only Halloween gathering, the team's kids were invited too. Wine had been substituted with water, Rossi's shrimp scampi switched out with order-in pizza, and PDA replaced with longing glances across the room.

Spencer's lips met your neck, suckling soft bites on the sensitive skin. He nipped that sweet spot near your pulse point, eliciting a small but salacious noise from you. A hand reached behind him for the bedroom doorknob, practically shoving him onto the bed once the door was open.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, and your hips immediately started to search for reprieve. The seam of your jeans brushed your clit as you rutted against his thigh, Spencer swallowing the moan that tumbled between your lips at the friction.

Your blonde wig was quickly tossed aside, your white sweater following soon after. Spencer's cloak went next, his black tee shirt underneath clinging to his skin in its wake. His Ghostface mask was thrown somewhere—you were surprised he'd even remembered to grab it from the car—but unbeknownst to Spencer, you weren't quite finished with the piece.

"Spence," you sighed as his hands met the button of your jeans. Though undetected in your tone, apprehension was laced in every syllable of your next question. "Can I ask you something kind of weird?"

His lust-blown eyes began to settle, unsure where you were going with the inquiry. "Always, honey." Your heart fluttered at his kindness, always so willing to do anything for you at the snap of your fingers.

"Can you… maybe wear the mask?" Anxiety coursed through you with each word, unsure how he'd respond to your request.

Spencer, ever the gentleman, simply answered, "Whatever you need, my love."

Hands were in hair once again as your lips reconnected, desperate noises filling the air. Your core throbbed against his thigh as you searched for reprieve, and his hands settled on your waist to help you find it. He guided you along the expanse of his leg, watching as your head fell back and your mouth parted into an open 'o' shape.

"Angel," he started, slowing the movements of your hips, palms still tight around your love handles. "I want you to lie back on the bed for me, okay?"

You did as told, watching him move around the space with intent. One second, he was in front of you, removing your pants, then he was reaching for a condom and handing the package to you. You attempted to open it while he moved to pick up the mask, promptly putting it on before proceeding to unbutton his own pants.

Excitement and anticipation mixed together as they raced through your body, your shaky fingers finally finding the strength to open the condom. Spencer slowly slid out of his black slacks and boxers, his cock all pretty and pink just for you. A soft moan escaped his mouth as you rolled the rubber on, slightly muffled by the mask he sported.

Without another word, he was sliding into you, a silent scream falling from you at the stretch. Your hands searched for purchase in the sheets beneath you as he started to slide out, your back arching off the bed at the beautiful sting of his girth.

A hand met your neck, effectively pushing you back onto the bed. The veins of his arm pulsed with every delicious flex, fingers wrapped around your throat the same way he was wrapped around your finger. Sounds of his name hung heavily the air as he began to create that perfect rhythm you loved, every ridge of his cock filling you up.

"Oh, my god, angel," he called behind the mask, "you feel so good." The nickname had your back arching and your walls clenching, earning you another squeeze of his hand.

The coil in your belly constricted with every snap of his hips, moans and expletives slipping between your parted lips as he stretched you out just for him. The digits at your neck tightened their grip again, nails digging into the sensitive skin. Purple spots had already started to form from his previous love bites, but his rough fingertips were sure to leave even more beautiful colors along the skin.

His cock brushed along that wonderful spot deep inside you, eliciting profanities from both of you. His free hand moved to play with your clit, his silent way of saying, Let it go, angel. You can cum.

With a few more rolls of his hips, you were reaching your release. Your veins burned with euphoria as he worked you through your orgasm, jaw falling slack as Spencer pumped his hips harder. You weren't sure if it was the mask, his hand around your throat, or simply how desperate you'd been to have his cock buried in you all night, but something had you cumming harder and longer than you ever had before, your throat going dry as you screamed in pleasure.

Spencer was following soon after, balls slapping hard against your ass as he chased down his high. His seed filled the condom, and for a moment, you'd wished he'd gone without, craving the warmth of him running through your veins.

"Fuck, angel," he said, drawing out the words as his movements started to slow, "I wish we'd had a chance to do this sooner." The words came out breathy and uneven, his head falling back mid-sentence as your cunt involuntarily pulsed and squeezed around his length.

Your shaky hands reached for the mask, throwing it elsewhere before pulling him in for a long and hard kiss. Both of your mouths were surely swollen and chapped, teeth nipping at lips and tongues roaming freely.

His finger still rubbed lazy circles over your puffy clit, not enough to have you craving release again but just enough to tantalize you. Your hands raked down the expanse of his abdomen as your high finally started to settle, his thumb subsequently moving away from the bundle of nerves.

"Anybody ever tell you that your ideas are fucking brilliant?" he asked.

An exhausted huff of amusement left your lips, palms settling on the pudge of his belly. "How about next time I wear the mask and see what it does for you?"

He chuckled, the deep sound sending butterflies straight to your tummy. "Not a chance, angel," he challenged. "If it makes you cum that hard every time and I get to see your beautiful face look like that, you're never gonna get me to take the damn thing off."

"Such foul language tonight," you kidded, leaning up for a much softer kiss than the last ones.

"You bring it out of me," he said, hands moving to link his fingers between your own. "Happy Halloween, my love."

"Any Halloween where I get to scream your name is a happy one indeed."

Happy Halloweek Finale!! 🥹

As previously stated, I totally meant to have this up sooner, but life kicked my butt the past few days and it took me so long to get a chance to edit these last few fics for you guys.

I really hope you guys have enjoyed this week as much as I did! I had so much fun writing all these fics for y'all and getting to celebrate the holiday with you guys. If all goes according to plan, I'm hoping to do something similar to this near Christmas as well so stay tuned for that!

I hope you all had a very happy Halloween and a wonderful Halloweek! Thank you all so much for the love on these fics 🥰

-> taglist: @rupsmorge @writer-in-theory @broken-stardust @reidselle @dungeons-are-too-cold

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thatwasntverycashmoneyofme · 1 year

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𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗋

𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝖿 𝗄𝗂𝗅𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 ‘𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗉𝖾𝗇’ 𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖾𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗏𝖺 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇.

{ 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲 — 𝗂𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗒𝖾𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗅 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗇 𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗇, 𝖻𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗈𝖽𝖾𝖽 𝖿𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗄𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗇𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒. }

silva did keep his word to himself, that he’d follow you around, lowkey borderline stalking you but it’s fine cuz he’s silva a fine ass dilf.

he’d let you catch him a good two weeks after the clacking of your sandals hitting the sidewalk as you stomped up to him a cute pout on your face. "wassup mister silva? why are you keeping tabs on me? am i your next target or are you a creepy old perv."

he smirked taking in your appearance, your hair now in a black wig with brown highlights to your butt and you wearing a band crop top and a long skirt with your beige sandals that clicked as your foot tapped against the pavement waiting for an answer. "i just see something i like, you seem to be using daddy’s money well."

he pushes hair that found its way in front of you to your back, the way his rough hand rubbed against your smooth dark brown skin made him throb in his pants. you look him up and down, he was no where near ugly at all and you could take him.. not in a fight this dude an assassin but ykw i’m talking about.

his whole family are assassins and that was something you didn’t necessarily want on your plate because what if you got too annoying or what if his kids think you want to replace their mom or some stupid shit like that? you just got rich and you didn’t need those problems.

but you told the little bitch of your thoughts to shut up and went with the slut who was talking about licking him three ways from sunday in any and every position since you spotted him. you grabbed his hand that rested on your collarbone gently to not startle the killer in him, your thumb stroking his palm as you looked up at him biting your lips before cheesing and batting your lashes.

"that man was my father but if you’re looking for a ‘daddy’ opening, it’s available." you watched his cat like eyes narrow as he studied your face, grinning, the dullness of his eyes and sunken, but somehow high, cheekbones doing something to you and he could tell. "is that right?" you nod your head slightly in a daze from the eye contact you didn’t want to look him in the eyes but it’s like you couldn’t pull away.

"well i’ll take that into consideration miss y/n." you ‘hmm'd’ when he pulled away, getting flustered when you noticed how close your two were, your checks and the tips of your ears running hot as you pulled your hand from his, folding your arms under your breasts which silva glanced at ofc and you looked off to the side before speaking.

"stop following me it’s weird and creepy, next time say it with your chest." he hums lips curling as he backs away slowly, to the untrained eye and you, it looked as if he were glitching leaving you with a "next time then." before disappearing completely. silva of course didn’t care what you had to say on the case of him 'following' you or whatever but he’d let up, doing the next best thing as he burst into the room filled with computers on top of computers.

"d-dad what’s going on? why’re you in here?" silva disregarded his second son swiping three female action figures off of his desk and closing out an obvious girls anime website as he strode behind him. "milluki i need you to find someone for me." the chubby teen gets into serious mode typing away on his keyboard. "of course father, who is it this time a crook? another assassin? a spider? chrollo? or killua again?"

silva leveled his voice giving away no undertone or motives the corner of his mouth tilted upward, hiding away from his son that faced the multiple screens. "y/n l/n."

𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌. 𝖣𝖮𝖭𝖳 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒 𝗈𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝗒𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝗌𝖾. ©𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗒𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖺𝗅

#city.writes #black writers #black reader #black fem reader #x black reader #x black fem reader #black yn #silva x black!reader #silva x black fem!reader #hxh silva #silva hxh #silva zoldyck #tw black reader #tw not for non blacks 😒

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crimsonscloset · 2 months

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rather than send my just like you doll to the doll hospital as the closest store to me was marked "currently unavailable" for doll hospital services / i wasn't sure how long i'd have to wait / i was nervous due to her being a retired doll, i decided to send her to daedaliaworkshop on etsy. her repair service cost less than ag's prices and included limb tightening.

i could not have made a better decision.

she came back with beautiful curls, and i almost cried when i opened her because she looked and felt almost like she just came from the store! her limbs were super loose when i sent her in to the point she couldn't stand on her own, but before i got her back i got a picture of her standing up by herself and was so happy :)

the seller was super friendly and communicative, and i received my doll within two weeks of sending her in! would definitely recommend checking her out if you don't live near a doll hospital / are nervous about pricing / have an older doll that ag may not make the parts for. she also offers eye and wig replacement services, either separately or as add ons to the full repair service!

pictures under the cut!

before:

(i tried to brush her hair out with an ag brush but uhhh... that was Not working as you can see)

after:

(look at those CURLS.... she came packaged very securely and with a hairnet as well!)

and a low effort pic of her with lanie, for your enjoyment:

(no idea where the shoes for her meet outfit are, probably in storage with the rest of my things. lanie's top is from mapelea and her pants are from the retired jly true style outfit.)

#crimson's collection #also working on finding a new name for her!#when i got her i wasn't super creative with names so i named her based on my actual name #so i want to give her a new one now #lanie holland #ag dolls

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averagejoesolomon · 11 months

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WELCOME TO THE KIDS. God, we are not ready for this installment, I'm so serious. Matt and Rachel are going to kill us all. To say nothing of the upcoming spycraft and general ass-kickery. Thank you for reading this with me. If you're new here, you can read Full Circle in full on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

Before Matt boards a plane to New York, he pastes an OTS-issued mustache to his upper lip and switches the passports in his backpack.

There are no direct flights from Washington DC to Moscow. The reasons for this span far and wide, but the most significant factor also happens to be the simplest—sheer distance. At nearly five-thousand miles as the crow flies, there ain’t a whole lot of civilian aircraft that can make the flight in one go, to say nothing of the fact that neither country is especially amicable to the idea of direct contact. As part of a global effort to reduce the friction between two nuclear superpowers, Morocco offers up its services as the geographical and political buffer between the two destinations, its liminal and atmospheric nightlife acting as the ideal backdrop for the world’s transfers, layovers, and delays.

The trip usually takes eighteen hours if flown straight through, but the gin joints can eat into a full day if given the chance. For his part, Matt’s latest trip takes thirty-seven hours.

But he can’t blame the bars this time around because he doesn’t stop in Morocco, and hasn’t since he picked up a Soviet tail in the CMN terminal last spring. For every US intelligence agent flying through Casablanca, there are five Russian officers waiting on the ground with direct orders to identify and apprehend incoming westerners. The behavior has become too predictable. The Soviets have become too prominent. As Joe puts it: an agent in Morocco is an agent in the grave.

So Matt begins with a trip to New York, then London, then Istanbul, where he switches passports again to fly to Dubai, so he can finally make his way up to Moscow. He survives off of complimentary peanuts and ginger ale, stopping only at the occasional newsstand for the latest local headlines and a fresh packet of M&Ms—one of the few candies sold consistently across international borders. Vigilant airport hours are balanced with the relative safety of the sky, and his only sleep happens alongside the low, rattling drone of jet engines in his ear.

By the time he lands in the Soviet Union, he’s already added a goatee and traded his honey blond hair for a bleached wig that more closely resembles his newly assumed Slavic heritage. After deboarding, he identifies the nearest bathroom to the gate and enters the last stall on the left. As instructed by his CO, he runs his fingers along the wall until he finds a ridge in the tile. He carefully peels back a damn near invisible panel, revealing the compartment Langley promised him. There’s a change of clothes. A pair of contacts. A note written on evapopaper: E ibvltn aely ldrm oor we uti I. The key to this particular skip code was already given to him in New York, which helps him decipher the message that a driver will meet him in Lot 2. Thank God he doesn’t need to hail a taxi.

He drops the note into the toilet bowl and watches it melt from the edges inward. After changing into the provided outfit, he silently shreds his old travel clothes to be discarded in various trash cans on his way to the parking lot. Finally, he pops both contacts in, replaces the panel, and flushes the toilet in case anyone is listening. When he approaches the sink to wash his hands, unfamiliar blue eyes blink back at him from where his own brown eyes ought to be.

Between the sporadic sleep and the changing time zones, he has no idea what the local time is, but the dark sky narrows his possibilities to either very late or very early. The weight of travel saturates every muscle, every joint, every step, but he can’t afford to turn off his senses and slip lazily into the night—not in Moscow. Never in Moscow. After five consecutive flights in less than two days, the hard part has only just begun.

The Soviet Union has always been dangerous to western agents, but the capital has only gotten more hostile in Matt’s time as an operative. Last summer alone, ten US informants were executed in the city, including two of Matt’s most reliable contacts. In the following winter, a handful of Russian specialists left Langley for a field mission and didn’t come home. The last time Matt was here, he met with a Circle informant named Omar who offered to talk in exchange for medication not available in Russia, but easily acquired at a US pharmacy with a forged prescription. Omar is dead now, too, and Matt suspects an assassin finished him off before the illness did. These days, Moscow is a loaded spring trap ready to snap at the slightest tick in the wrong direction, deadly enough that even a skilled Pavement Artist stands to don a disguise or two.

Despite the ocean between them, Joe’s voice rings through Matt’s head. It’s always strongest in Moscow, imploring him to pay attention. Notice things. This is the sort of place where it’s best to lean into strengths, so Matt jumps in with the rest of the red-eyed passengers as the mob progresses through customs, down to baggage claim, and toward ground transportation. From his pace to his posture, he strives to put on a seamless Soviet appearance.

When he reaches the lot, he identifies a license plate number he was instructed to memorize, then enters the backseat of the boxy beige Lada. The driver doesn’t look back when he says, “Nice weather we’re having, yes?” in the sort of thick, Russian dialect that only natives can pull off.

Matt replies in his own practiced Russian. “I hear rain is imminent,” he says. “But I seem to have forgotten my umbrella at home.”

Satisfied with the exchange, the driver shifts gears and squeezes out of his parking spot, working his way toward the main city. By now, Matt knows the streets of Moscow as well as he knows the streets of Hay Springs, so he pays close attention to the route, just in case the driver has been compromised in the past forty-eight hours. The two of them do not speak, wary of bugs. They do not exchange glances, wary of pinprick cameras sewn into buttons. Instead, they embrace their existence as total strangers, not eager to leave any impression of an alliance.

This suits Matt just fine. That is, until seventeen minutes later, when the driver takes a right-hand turn away from the city center, then another.

In this business, in this part of the world, two right turns are a surefire signal to any veteran agent that something significant is about to happen, though it’s impossible to predict whether he’s looking at a positive or negative outcome until the moment actually passes. That’s probably why Joe’s voice is in Matt’s head again, anticipating the worst and providing Matt with escape plans.

The sidewalks look reasonably empty, easy enough to run.

The rear doors appear to be unlocked from the inside.

If the doors are jammed shut from the outside, Matt’s shoe has an iron wedge embedded in the rubber heel, which will help him kick through the window.

The driver isn’t armed, but if he makes a move for the glove box, Matt’s best option is to choke him from behind.

The little Lada pulls up to an alleyway tucked between high-rise apartments and a seemingly abandoned liquor store. There are no streetlights. No witnesses. The driver shifts the car into park and says, “You exit now.”

Risk assessment is a key component of any covert decision and, in that moment, Matt senses some serious risk waiting for him at the other end of that alleyway. At the same time, he also senses an even greater risk if he overstays his welcome with this native Russian driver who, by the way, has about a hundred extra pounds on him. Matt doesn’t need to be told twice. Hands up, he slowly exits the vehicle and prepares himself for the next piece of this rapidly evolving Moscow puzzle.

The instant Matt kicks the door shut and slings his bag back onto his shoulder, the Lada’s engine grinds into full gear with a squeal of the tires. He has officially run out of CIA instructions, but the good news is that he doesn’t have any time to doubt himself before his next priority makes itself apparent. The bad news is that his next priority should probably be to get away from the knife that was just pressed against his side.

The pointed end of the blade pokes along the muscle just above his hip. It hasn’t cut through his shirt yet, but one wrong move could change that and much more. “This is a nice surprise,” Matt says, sticking with Russian in a rushed attempt to keep his cover intact. “Where are we going?”

The answering Russian is good—excellent, even—but it has the subtle lilt of someone who learned it as a secondary language. “Is that all it takes to best you? One knife to the ribs and you roll over completely?” It’s a woman’s voice, and one of the few commonalities between the CIA and the KGB is the rarity of female agents among their ranks. Plus, the hold on the knife is petite and graceful, belonging to someone who was taught to fence before she was taught to fight. Matt decides he’s not up against a Soviet agent, but this ain’t a friend either. Not yet.

Joe’s voice is telling him to fight, but Matt’s curious enough to say, “In my experience, the person with the knife usually gets to make all the rules.” He continues with Russian, hoping that the woman will respond in kind and give him a chance to identify the accent layered below. “And, by the way, if you’re aiming for my ribs, you’re about two inches too low.”

She doesn’t disappoint. British accent, maybe. Or Australian. It really is impressively subtle. “Bold thing to say to someone with a knife to your side,” she says. “Remarks like that could get you killed.”

Matt huffs. “Maybe one day, but not today.”

She twists the knife a little deeper, pricking a hole in his shirt. “And what makes you so certain?”

“Because if you were going to kill me, ma’am,” he says, “I’d already be dead.”

This is a bit of a risky gamble. Few things make one human want to kill another more than spite, and Matt’s gone ahead and welcomed it with open arms. His mama always did say he had a real way about him, when it came to tempting fate. Thankfully, this particular bet seems to pay off as the knife finally falls away from his torso. The woman grabs him by the back of his collar instead, pulling him deeper into the alleyway. “You’ve taken all the fun out of it,” she says with a sigh. “Come with me. And don’t ever call me ma’am—that much will get you killed.”

This is a joke. He thinks. And jokes are awfully promising in a place like Moscow.

At the end of the alleyway, another car sits idling. No headlights. No plate lights. Matt can’t know for sure, but he reckons the brake lights are probably cut, too. In the presence of a car designed for a perfect covert getaway, Matt recognizes this moment for what it is—not an attack, but an escape. A high-tech game of keepaway.

In this particular instance, Matt is not an agent. Rather, he’s an asset in need of transportation, and he’s just met his new driver. When this stranger opens the rear door and shoves him inside, Matt knows that she’s putting on a show for potential onlookers. When she says, “Stay down,” he understands that his silhouette can’t be seen driving through the city. It is not enough to blend in—not when he could have a tail leftover from travel, not when the customs office could have bugged his backpack, not when a patrolman might recognize him from another visit into the city and assign a car to follow close behind. Agents have been known to disappear between an airport and a safe house, which means Matt is only safe if he becomes completely invisible. It’s the sort of thing that can only be accomplished with careful timing, meticulous planning, and an appreciation for redundancy, after redundancy, after redundancy.

In other words, this plan has Rachel Cameron written all over it.

He’s managed to avoid the thought for the past thirty-seven hours—and, frankly, for the entire two years before that—but the idea of being in the same city as Rachel after such a long time away has him wishing for a knife to his side instead. Knife wounds, at least, are an isolated pain with one clear source. They can be cleaned and stitched up. Bandaged and healed. This business with Rachel pings around all of his insides, taking turns with his stomach, his heart, his throat, his lungs. Rancid regret rots his brain and radiates down to every last muscle. Laying alone in the back of a stranger’s car, staring up at the velvet interior, Matt gets caught in a loop of all the things he wishes he’d said sooner.

He didn’t expect it to all stop.

He never should have made her cry.

He didn’t think it would last this long.

He lies, sometimes. He’s sorry he has to lie.

He’s doing good, good, good as often as he can.

Matt has always meant to say these things to her, but the longer they went without, the harder it got to call. Now it feels like too much time has passed to say any of it—like apologizing will only serve as a bitter reminder of just how deeply they tore into one another. Like acknowledging it will only reopen scars that have only just started to heal over.

The longer they drive, the more Rachel’s proximity presses down on his chest, squeezing him into the seat. He knows he ought to count the seconds. Track the turns. Try to get some sense of where they’re headed. But Rachel Cameron fills every last available space in his thoughts and, God almighty, she would lecture him straight to high heaven if she knew how distracted he was.

Once he’s fully worked himself up into a tightly wound ball of unspoken mistakes, the tires hit a gravel drive. The car takes an awfully long route over bumpy back roads and heavily forested hills, which is especially impressive given the lack of headlights, before it finally slows to a stop. His driver turns to the backseat, moonlight catching on the curve of her cheek, an icy white steak against smooth dark skin. “Congratulations on surviving your trip,” she says, and Matt thinks it might be an American southern drawl hiding beneath her Russian, with the way her vowels drawl. “You may leave. Your bag, however, must stay until morning.”

Matt sits upright, his silhouette visible to the night once more. “Sure thing,” he answers. “It’s like I said—the lady with the knife gets to make the rules.”

This earns him a subtle tick of the stranger’s lips. Matt latches onto the near smile and vows to turn into a broad, toothy grin sooner rather than later. But in the meantime, he’ll settle for the semi-charmed side-eye she casts his way, just before she opens the driver door. “Bloody Hell,” she says as she exits, finally switching to English. “She was right about you.”

British. Damn. Matt should have trusted his gut.

Wait.

He bolts out of the backseat and jogs to catch up. “Right about me?” he echoes, falling back into his own American English. “Who was right about me—right about what?”

The Brit’s stride is incredibly long, and would probably be better suited to a runway than barely-used backwoods paths overgrown with weeds. Matt has to quicken his own pace just to keep up with her. “Never you mind,” she says. “This way.”

“Doesn’t seem right,” he tries, “that you get inside info on me when I don’t even know your name—”

“This way,” she says again. “Surely I don’t have to remind you, of all people, that Moscow’s trees have ears.”

Matt has spent a significant portion of his career listening to conversations picked up by precisely placed bugs exactly like the ones she speaks of now. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her the surrounding trees probably aren’t bugged—at least not in the way she expects. The Soviets wouldn’t go to the trouble of tagging each individual tree, only to have an opposing agent uncover them within an hour of arrival. The birds, foxes, and deer, however, are worth a second glance.

Either way, she’s right. The forest is no place for introductions. Instead, he follows as she hikes toward a tiny cabin tucked between one hillside and another. It appears perfectly plain on the outside, built from cedar logs and a tin roof. Shrubs and pines surround the perimeter, and Matt knows from experience that these are probably prickly and unpleasant, making it difficult for any unwelcome guests to get too close. The curtains are drawn. The chimney is without smoke. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say no one was home.

They cover their tracks as they go, wordless right up until they reach the door. Mind split in the dozens of different directions demanded by good countersurveillance, Matt forgets to be nervous until the last minute, when the Brit knocks in a unique, four-rap pattern, then opens the door. The cabin’s light flashes into the nighttime forest, so they waste no time stepping inside.

A new voice greets them. Then again, this voice ain’t really new. Not to him. He’d know this particular voice anywhere, even if he spent years, decades, centuries away. “Grace?”

Rachel Cameron waits for them just inside, seated at a small dining table at the center of a small kitchen. Rachel Cameron has lists, and blueprints, and notes scattered all across the tabletop, the chairs, the linoleum, splayed across kitchen countertops, and taped to cabinets, and stuck to the refrigerator with little black magnets. Rachel Cameron scans one stack of papers with the pencil in her right hand, then another with a highlighter in her left. Rachel Cameron looks up. Rachel Cameron meets his gaze. Rachel Cameron sighs.

Genius. He’s always known the word applied to her, though it strikes him anew. Rachel’s brilliance is better experienced in small doses, when he can slowly acclimate himself to the raw appreciation of it. The last two years have robbed him of his resilience and it’s like he’s seeing her for the very first time all over again.

Except it only takes a single moment for all of their history to come rushing back, filling the room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, until there’s no more space for words, or gestures, or glances. Rachel looks away first, eyes falling back to a set of blueprints, and Matt follows her lead.

Thankfully, their companion cuts through the silence without a trace of discomfort. “Found your boy,” she says, kicking off her shoes. “He’s cheeky, this one.”

Matt starts to protest with “Oh, I ain’t—” at the same time Rachel says, “He’s not my—”

They both stop, and wait, and wait some more. Neither of them meet the other’s eyes. When enough excruciating seconds have passed, Rachel starts again, and Matt lets her. “Thank you for picking him up,” she says. “I know you were eager to stay in tonight, but—”

“But we aren’t taking any chances with this op,” the Brit finishes. “Understood. Really, Rachel. Though I will say, I was a bit surprised at how easily this one came along with a complete stranger.”

It is as if all of Rachel’s years of etiquette training hit her at once. She brings her fingers to her forehead, suddenly remembering. “Ah, yes, sorry. You haven’t been introduced yet.”

“Not unless you count my putting a knife into his side,” she says.

Matt clears his throat, finally finding his words. “In this business, that’s sometimes the only introduction we get.”

The Brit smiles again. It’s still not the full grin he’s looking for, but it’s closer. “Quite right.”

Rachel studies the pair of them, analyzing something Matt can’t see. She squints back and forth between them, her face twisting into something sour, as though she’s not sure she likes what she’s looking at. “Right,” she says, slowly. Then, clears her throat. “Right, well, anyway. Grace, this is Matthew Morgan. Matthew, this is Grace Harris—”

“Baxter,” Grace cuts in.

“Right,” says Rachel, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering again. Matt’s not sure he’s ever seen Rachel forget anything, and he takes note of the fact that she’s gone and forgotten twice in a sixty-second span. A data point he’ll save for later. “Grace Baxter.”

Grace Baxter holds out her hand to shake, meeting Matt with a far firmer grip than he’s expecting. He feels a couple of knuckles pop in his own hand, and resists the urge to call out. “It’s so great to finally meet you,” she says.

That’s an awfully interesting choice of words. “Finally?” says Matt.

Grace does not elaborate. “My husband is around as well, but he’s being a good little agent and sleeping off his jet lag while it’s still dark.”

Matt, who hasn’t had more than two hours of consecutive sleep since DC, can’t quite hide the longing in his reply. “Smart man.”

“Outrageously so. It’s infuriating, really,” Grace agrees. “You’ll see him at breakfast tomorrow, but in the meantime we should all probably join him. The last thing we need is four exhausted agents trying to run an op in Moscow.”

Matt has about a million more questions for Grace Baxter, but none of them form quite right in his head. A fog fills his brain, clouding all of his better thoughts, and he reckons Grace is probably right. He’s useless to Rachel like this, and she’ll be the first to call him on it. “Sounds like a plan to me,” he says. “Do you think we ought to run it by the boss, first?”

Grace risks a glance toward Rachel, who has already returned to one of her blueprints. With Rachel’s attention occupied, Matt steals this chance to take her in. Her clothes are worn with travel and her shoulders slump with a need for sleep. Some of her curls have escaped the denim scrunchie holding back the bulk of her hair, falling into her face, and Matt remembers all at once that Rachel never did know how to stop, once she got started.

“Good luck,” Grace scoffs. “I’ve been trying to get her to sleep for hours. Maybe you can talk some sense into her. She’s been planning since the moment she walked in.”

Matt ain’t got any sense that Rachel doesn’t already have ten times over, and he doesn’t dare pretend otherwise. Thankfully, Rachel recognizes this and provides an answer of her own. “I’ve been planning for the past three months,” she corrects, just as she circles something on the page. “I just wanted to get some last-minute changes down before bed.”

Grace turns back to Matt. “You see? Hopeless,” she says. “You two may do what you please, but I intend to get some sleep. Pulling off a fake kidnapping at the edge of Moscow is exhausting work, you know.”

With this, she sends a playful jab into Matt’s side. Only problem is, Grace’s idea of a playful jab is most people’s idea of a full-on elbow to the ribs, and Matt has to catch his breath afterward. It takes all of his might not to let out an unmanly yelp in front of these two women. “Right,” he gasps. “See you in the morning.”

“Thanks again, Grace,” Rachel calls, not looking up from her writing.

With a wave of her fingers, Grace disappears behind one of the two available doors and shuts it with a twist of the lock. Matt realizes too late that her absence leaves just him and Rachel. Alone. Together.

This silence just won’t do.

“Flights good?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers, scribbling away.

“Abby okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Yes.”

“You okay?”

Scribble, scribble. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” This is worse than the silence, actually. Out of questions and energy stores depleted, Matt decides that his only remaining move is one that has been employed by desperate agents for centuries—a retreat. “Listen, I think I might join the others and try to get some sleep. Unless you need me?”

Scribble, scribble. “Not yet.”

“Great,” he says. “Just point me to my bed and I’ll be on my way.”

Rachel’s pencil freezes mid-sentence. This is Matt’s first clue that something is horribly wrong, followed by the fact that her eyes finally meet his and this time, she doesn’t look away. “No.”

“Um.” Retreat, retreat, retreat. “Okay? I guess I can find it—”

But Rachel is already up, dashing through the sliver of a living room that hosts a single chair, a coffee table, and a throw blanket. When she reaches the second available door in the cabin, blood drains from her already pale face, turning it to an alarming, ashen white. Her voice is hollow and distant when she squeaks out a soft, “No, no, no.”

When it comes to Rachel, Matt is woefully out of practice, but it doesn’t take an expert to see the panic, and Rachel’s panic ain’t built the same way everyone else’s is. The sight of Rachel out of sorts is enough to get Matt’s heart really, truly racing. “Rachel, what are you—?”

She flicks on the light, and when Matt steps up behind her, he’s met with an instant understanding of the situation. “There’s only one other bed,” she says, spinning to face him as she explains. “Abby and I usually share. I booked the safe house when it was going to be the two of us, but between the hospital, and the flights, and coordinating our assets…” Sometimes Matt wonders how loud the inside of her head must be. He suspects she doesn’t realize when her words dissolve between inner and outer monologue. It takes some deciphering to understand her complete thoughts from start to finish. “I forgot. I’m so sorry, I forgot to account for the beds when I switched agents, I’ll take the couch.”

By couch, he supposes she means the ancient loveseat tucked away at the end of the bed. The leather cushions are scratched and cracked, and the silver shine of a spring peeks out from beneath the quilt laid across its back. A grease stain rests along the arm where agents have laid their heads for years and years before. Throughout his travels, Matt has seen more than his fair share of uncomfortable furniture and this one has serious potential to rank among the worst, but this is Rachel’s third strike at forgetfulness when she’s usually a home run hitter. She needs to sleep, and sleep well, and it simply won’t do, for her to sleep on that old thing. “I’ll take the couch.”

“No it’s my mistake, I should—”

“Rachel,” he says, and his hands fall to her shoulders out of habit. Out of familiarity. “I’m sorry, but there just ain’t no way I’m letting you take the couch.” She’s looking up at him with big, brown eyes. They’re glassy, and tired, and he spares Rachel her dignity by ignoring the twinge of tears sneaking into either corner. “She may be all the way in Nebraska now, but there’s no quicker way to get Joy Morgan to Moscow than if I let you sleep on that couch.”

She shakes her head. “Matthew—”

“I’m telling you,” he tries again. “My mama can sense that sorta thing, and believe me when I say she’ll shake down the entire agency to find this cabin and knock me six ways from Sunday, right upside my head.”

“You’re worried that your mother will intimidate CIA agents into disclosing the location of one of their most heavily protected safe houses?”

“You’ve never seen my mama when there’s a matter of chivalry at stake.”

“Matthew, I—” she interrupts herself, this time, freezing when she meets his gaze. “Your eyes,” she says, studying the intimate features of his face. “Your eyes are blue.”

This is outright nonsense, and even more proof that she needs to sleep. That is, until he remembers the light blue contacts. He blinks, as though he might be able to get rid of the color, because everything artificial seems so ridiculous now that he’s in the presence of someone who knows him to his core. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sorry.”

With that, she studies him more deeply, and he notices the faint lines that have started to form where her eyebrows always furrow, the freckles she’s accumulated along her cheekbones with years of missions spent in the sun, the ease with which her lips fall into a tight, even line. Her eyes bounce between each of his, debating her next words before she finally says, “Why are you apologizing?”

Matt’s breath catches, and he knows this is it. The opening he’s been waiting for. But it’s late, and they’re tired, and they both smell like planes, and airports, and taxis. So despite the desperate words trying to crawl from his heart to his mouth, he settles on something softer. “I think we both know I’ve got plenty to apologize for,” he says, finally letting his hands fall. “But I think we both know this ain’t the time to do it.”

Genius. She’s always been smarter than him in more ways than he can count, and this moment is no exception. She’s smart enough to know that they both need clearer heads. That they both need a moment of quiet. That morning will come and they’ll both be better for it, and that tonight is no place for their usual fights. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the bed,” she says, barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t—”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know you aren’t.”

“I’m so tired.”

She has this way of taking small words and making them feel big. Of making them span years, when they shouldn’t last more than a second or two. Rachel isn’t tired, so much as she’s exhausted, and burned out, and lonely, and weighed down—and she manages to convey all of this by simply shaking her head, and folding her face into her hands, and standing in front of him with all of the humility in the world.

He has this way of feeling her when she most needs it, in a way that no one else seems to be able to. Of hearing those great big words tied up in all of her small ones, and trying his best to say the right thing in response. “Let’s get some sleep, then,” he says, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “We’ll get some sleep, and when you wake up, you can tell me exactly what all of those crazy kitchen plans mean.”

Despite herself, she laughs. It's a pitiful, mangled thing, but it still counts. “They’re not as crazy as they look.”

And Matt can’t hold back a smile. “Well thank God for that, because they look…” he tries to find a word, but this is much like everything else Rachel does, in that it defies explanation. “I mean, seriously, Rachel, you’ve gone full Doc Brown in there.”

She shoves him, gently, and Matt makes a show of clasping at his chest in faux hurt. “They’ll make more sense in the morning,” she tells him.

“Everything will make more sense in the morning,” he assures her.

And she believes him. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s enough for them, for tonight, for now. It’s all they need. And maybe tomorrow will be bitter and hard at the center of Moscow, working an op that Rachel has given her whole heart to, but right now is easy and safe. Right now, they’re old friends who need each other more than they knew.

Rachel finds his eyes again, and sighs something that sounds like relief and regret mixed together. “At least let me ease some of my guilt by hunting down a truly outrageous number of blankets on your behalf.”

Matt looks back to the loveseat and knows in his gut that there will not be enough room for more than one blanket. There is barely enough room for Matt, as is. Even so, he smiles at her. “Rachel Cameron,” he says. “I’ll always take any blanket you hand me.”

#Full Circle

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topeein · 9 months

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veronicahairreplacementcenter123 · 7 days

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veronicawighouse321 · 2 months

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mydollsaregay · 2 months

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welp. i finally gave restoring my cécile doll a try. it did not work 😔 her wig is just too thin and damaged. it remained frizzy even after multiple boil washes.

it just ain’t happening 🫠

the worst part is that i can’t even replace her wig, because the only seller who sells wigs even close to her original look has been out of stock for ages (and i honestly don’t really like the replacement wig’s look anyway 😬).

i originally bought this doll with the intention of getting her head replaced by the doll hospital (back in 2023). however, they had already stopped doing head replacements for cécile by the time I tried to get her in, even though she was in the window for retired dolls being supported at the time. 😭

i’m additionally annoyed about all this, as cécile is one of the last historicals that i don’t have as part of my collection (even though i technically own her, i don’t count dolls that i’m still fixing up). the other doll i’m missing is marie-grace, who is also being fixed up - however, she is in great condition, and just needs a few more rounds of acne cream stain removing.

having already invested too much money into this doll (i believe she was around $125, which is way more than i’ve paid for the vast majority of my dolls), i really, really hate the idea of dropping another $250 or whatever just to get this one character. however, i can’t bring myself to buy another tlc cécile after how bad this one turned out, so she’d have to have near-perfect hair for me to feel good about it (which i know that im just never gonna get for a good price, unless im willing to wait like. a decade. and even then its not a guarantee).

anyway. if anyone wants to buy a cécile to use as a base for a custom doll, lmk 😅 she’s actually in really good shape aside from her wig; the only defect i’ve spotted is a white mark on her lip - I haven’t removed it just because i’m scared of messing up her paint lol.

#my posts #agblr #american girl #american girl dolls #anyway im mad. and sad.#and I really am not a fan of shelling out for new in box dolls but I really don’t see another way to resolve this one tbh.

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hairvitalityclinic · 1 year

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saintsir4n · 6 months

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10. Final cancellation

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF TRAUMA, EMOTIONAL ABUSE AND PAEDOPHILIA

BREAKFAST was a lonely affair that morning, surrounded by food but not a parent in sight — out campaigning her father's role as Mayor. Winnie preferred it that way. She ate her pasties without fear of being yelled at for getting crumbs on her uniform, in her nails or hair.

The Dubois' brand new family portrait hung in place of the last. All smiles yet none of them were real — not their true selves like Gossip Girl insisted she wanted to see.

So Winnie kept eating, to fill the void she felt. The terror that consumed her that night and the consciousness coursing through her mind. She pushed back those feelings until they gnawed at her mind, again and again and again.

Perhaps she should take her medication.

Winnie laughed at the thought just before a maid reached the room, announcing she had a guest.

"Zoya should wait outside," she advised but before the maid could contest someone else flooded the room with a basket in hand.

"Zoya?" Monet's voice halted her movements, "You're inviting her here? Impromptu visits to sleepovers I guess anything slides in my absence."

Winnie straightened up, "What are you doing here?"

She took a split second to notice the obvious changes in Monet. The Senegalese twists were replaced with a mahogany-coloured wig that complimented her skin and her matching blazer very well.

She looked mouth-watering.

"I tried calling," Monet answered, taking in the changes in Winnie, how her stress was covered up with concealer and how her hair was styled in a neat bun tightening her already pronounced features.

Winnie abandoned her food and said, "I muted you."

Monet shrugged off the pang to her chest and sashayed over, "I missed you."

"You ignored me," Winnie argued, squinting her eyes at the basket that settled near her plate.

"That's what a break is," Monet insisted sharply, as a chair was pulled out for her and she took her place, ignoring the ire in Winnie's eyes.

"And now you bring food and question my judgment of company? When you know I have a lot to say about the company you keep."

"I brought food," Monet disregarded her retort and nodded to the quaint basket.

Winnie briefly tipped it to the side to see the red velvet cupcakes. "Cupcakes?"

"From your favourite, Cake Man Raven."

"I prefer Brooklyn cupcakes," Winnie deadpanned, taking deep pleasure in the befuddlement on her face.

"Since when?"

"Since Zoya gifted them to soothe over things," Winnie couldn't help her taunting tone. It was inherited. She caught Monet's twitching eye, "Problem?"

"Caesar, could I interest you with some cupcakes?" Monet turned her attention to the stoic man who was never far from the Dubois heiress, "5 stars and Manhattan's finest."

"I prefer Brooklyn cupcakes myself Miss De Haan," The man in question replied, earning a grimace from the De Haan teen. "Perhaps the maids might take pleasure in your choice of bakery."

Winnie chuckled at his rebuttal, "Caesar, you can wait outside. I'll call you if there's trouble."

And then there were two... the rest of the staff who usually occupied the dining room left to teenagers to themselves, or they'd suffocate on the tension.

Monet's body turned in her direction, as her face morphed from one that was recently insulted to a more apologetic expression.

"I'm sorry."

Winnie almost choked on air, "You're what?" She never apologizes.

"I'm sorry. The break was as hard for me as it was for you."

"I doubt that. But go on," Winnie persisted, surprisingly not shooting her down.

"I know the timing wasn't great. But I was being there for a friend," Monet's manicured hands inched closer to Winnie's as she explained, "I know you don't like who-must-not-be-named but trust me, I didn't want it to happen like that."

"And yet it did," Winnie sucked in a deep breath, attempting to regulate her emotions on her own, "I needed you too," she admitted, moving her hands as Monet stared at her with tender eyes, "My doctor, therapist, psychiatrist all wrapped in one gave me medication. I have a disorder apparently, I'm still working on getting a second option."

That caught Money off guard, she practically launched forward to ask, "What disorder?"

"DMDD. Disruptive mood dysregulation disorder. Prone to outbursts, perpetual irritation and fluctuations in behaviour," Winnie drawled, although apprehensive of her reaction, "Couldn't be furthest from me right?"

"Are you taking medication?" Was all Monet could ask.

"I don't need them," Winnie but back defensively.

"You do, you just don't want to —"

"Change? You're damn right. But I've been told they'll just make me a better version of me."

"Who said that? Let me guess your freshman spy," Monet gritted

"No, Ginny," Winnie rolled her eyes before adding, "Billy said it'll help too."

Money didn't think much of either of them, blonde, dull and rich were adjectives that came to mind. She only conversed with Billy because she sat next to him and creative German, and was forced to interact with Ginny because of the girl in front of her.

The girl she had more than just lust for.

And so she cleared her throat, "You should listen to them. I think It'll help. It won't change you, not entirely."

Winnie's eyes nervously met hers before huffing, "You're not here to talk about my mental problems."

"Think of this as couples counselling," Monet cracked a joke.

"I won't."

Monet softly scoffed, "You will if I ask if you want to be my girlfriend."

"We just had a break," Winnie flushed despite herself.

"Because you exposed us. May I remind you that I wanted it to be done the right way. Not some tacky, middle school slip up."

"I don't regret that," Winnie's hands neared Monet's again.

Their eyes didn't glance away, not for a second.

"And I guess I don't either," Monet sheepishly admitted. "Because I have missed you. And as much as I wanted to pick up the phone I couldn't. I needed my thoughts in order. Just like you need yours."

Winnie allowed her explanation to sink in, although their time apart did more damage than prevented in her eyes, she still missed her.

"So I think it's time we start over," Monet suggested, "turn a new page, start anew."

"Because of the brand deals?" Winnie quirked up a brow.

Monet hummed, "Maybe."

Winnie cracked a smile at her teasing.

"Or maybe it's the sex I miss. The kisses — definitely those, I couldn't breathe without them. But most all you. Just you. As entitled, possessive and vindictive you are. You're bloodthirsty like me. You're beautiful and intense and I couldn't stray from you even if I tried."

"Weird way to propose," Winnie rasped.

Their fingers danced over each other before interlinking

"Oh, I'll do something much more extravagant for that," Winnie's breath hitched at her recant, "But until then. Do you want to be my girlfriend Winifred Margaux Dubois?"

"Only because you called me bloodthirsty," Winnie huffed out a laugh, "so yes Monet Mekada De Haan. I'll be your girlfriend. And you are most unquestionably mine."

"But promise me something, honesty over halfhearted truths," Monet said almost pleadingly, batting her eyelashes so much she missed the brief look of guilt washing over Winnie's face.

"I promise," Winnie agreed, blocking out her memories of her last vow that was made.

Monet squealed and Winnie smiled.

They finally sealed their union with a kiss, Monet grabbed her face as Winnie gripped her sides. They moved as if each feverish kiss was their last. Lapping tongues and pleasurable whimpers. Together at last.

They would've stayed like that if it wasn't for someone clearing their throat.

"Caesar, we're busy —" Winnie mumbled against Monet's lips before turning in the direction of the guest who was not who she expected. "Oh Z."

Zoya shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She wasn't expecting a show at 8 am.

She felt the need to explain, whilst averting her doe-like gaze, "Your car pulled up at my apartment 10 minutes early. My dad thought I was getting kidnapped."

Monet made a face as she dragged her judgmental eyes from the freshman to her girlfriend, "Win, hon what is this?"

Zoya gawked, "So it's official? You two made up? Not surprising. Billy cornered me and practically begged that we have a bet about when you two were gonna reconcile. He owes me 50 bucks."

"Didn't realize you were keeping tabs on our life," Monet turned up her nose.

"Our?" Zoya and Winnie chorused, the latter more amused than anything.

But Winnie winced at the glare Monet sent her way, so she rolled her eyes and tried calming the pair of them.

"Girls play nice. I did tell you little Z was like my mentee," she informed, "Monet and I are official now."

"Wow," Zoya blinked slowly.

Unsure if this was for the better or worse.

Monet groaned, "Will I have to deal with that on the car ride over?"

A grin grew on Winnie's face, "I'll distract you."

Monet stole one last kiss from her as they gathered their things and stood up.

"Oh god," Zoya huffed quietly.

Winnie nodded to the table full of food, "Feel free to grab a bite, I don't want to hear your stomach growling on the ride over."

Zoya didn't hesitate to rush over to the table, leaving the couple to walk ahead.

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(@monetdehaan posted)

PICTURES ON WATTPAD!

tagged @winnerd

liked by @winnerd, @akimenz and 46,874 others

smiles with pearls to match!

@g.wells cringe

↳@winnerd suck it up.

↳@billythekid she does plenty of that.

↳@g.wells hush.

@maxtheewolfe awww young love

↳@monetdehaan 😊

↳@lunalaaaaa could've given me a lift

↳@duboisssupdates already love them

@juliancalloway ice queens

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@maxtheewolfe awww young love

↳@alottazee bless my youthful eyes

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↳@audreyhopesfor interesting

↳@winnerd unlike you

@winniesbiggestfan serving even with a partner

↳@monetsoutfits can always rely on her to eat

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@gq 👀

↳@winnerd waiting on that call

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↳@lunalaaaaa 🤭

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Everyone was in attendance for Social Studies, whether they were late or not listening to the rants their teacher went on.

Pairs sat on every desk, Max usually resided next to Winnie but since their not-so-soft launch, Monet replaced his seat. He would've opted for Ginny but she was too busy giggling into Billy's ear to notice he was sitting at the back letting Obie talk his ear off. But what he did do was avoid eye contact with Audrey who continuously touched her boyfriend's face, leaving Luna and Julian who sat in front of them, the latter mumbled her opinion to the former about the brand new couple.

Not even 10 am and everyone was already over the class.

"'Sapphic Sirens' is trending," Monet whispered a little too loudly as she showed off her Instagram feed to her girlfriend.

So many blogs and pages — both fans and foes were talking about them.

"Miss De Haan," their teacher repeated, drawing her attention.

"Yes?"

"Could you answer the question? Does class hold a bigger hold over society or race and gender?"

Monet halfheartedly answered, "All three."

She wasn't focused at all, how could she with Winnie's hand gripping her thigh?

"But one has a tighter grasp," Audrey spoke up, leaning forward whilst Aki leaned back.

"Like your roots," Winnie quipped, amusing a few people.

Julian defended her friend, "Like your tracks."

The teacher frowned, "Ladies stay focused."

"Ladies, don't stay focused." Billy encouraged, sitting up with his cheeky smile.

Max scoffed, "Careful Van Der Bilt, encouraging a Catfight when discussing issues like a gender divide isn't a good look."

Billy shot him a wink.

"Neither is racism, but Audrey was trending about all things involving race," Ginny defended.

"Back on the subject matter please." The teacher insisted, hoping not to lose control.

"Injustice is injustice, especially if it involves all three social divisions you just mentioned," Obie stated, earning multiple eye rolls.

Julian just sent him a soft smile, which he mirrored.

"Hot take Obs," Max muttered, groaning into his hands.

"You could argue that even within gender, an upper-class woman will hire maids to care for her children rather than look after them herself." Winnie voiced.

"Speaking from experience Winnie?" Audrey snarled.

"Just making a point. Within feminism, race exists. White feminists don't operate the same way feminists of colour do. Do you relate to that experience Auds?" Winnie rebutted.

"She can't," Monet smirked

Aki tried stealing the attention of his girlfriend, "But those at the top can make a difference for the working class. An Asian- American like me can help spread awareness of Asian hate."

"But have you Akeno?" Winnie pressed.

"He has," Audrey was quick to reassure everyone.

"But have you?" Monet narrowed her eyes at the blonde who did nothing but scowl.

Luna diverted the topic, "All women will experience harassment even women at the top," she spoke up, even though Julian tensed at the subject matter, "Class is redundant when harassment and sexual assault are involved."

"Care to elaborate, Miss La?" the teacher wanted her to explain further.

A student said, "Money doesn't stop crimes."

Many of them disagreed.

"Well..." Billy trailed off.

"Not all of them," Aki murmured, forcing Winnie to think about her father's words.

Julian gritted, "Depends on who you are."

A few students shot her looks before Luna motioned them all to turn around.

"Your socioeconomic background plays a part in it." Obie spoke up, "You committed a crime, but can you afford a good lawyer to defend you?"

"The city appoints one of you can't, right?" Max added, playing with his fingers.

"Marxism is about the conflict between classes. Whereas feminism is the conflict between genders and racism is the conflict between races. Do you believe there will be changes in all three," The teacher asked all of her students.

Obie believed, "There is change."

That started a bigger discourse.

"Barely," Audrey disagreed.

"In your mind there is," Winnie motioned to his head.

"Delusional," Luna couldn't help but say aloud, shrugging off the look Julian sent.

"Sure there's rules and regulations set in place but people get arrested for hate crimes all the time," Aki went on.

"But not the rich," Audrey added.

Winnie shot her a look, "Shitting on your own Hope?"

"Language," their teacher reprimanded.

"She's hardly one of us," Gin mumbled to Billy.

He snickered, "Hardly."

"Speak up Mr van der Bilt," their teacher insisted, hoping he heard something relevant to say.

"Yes, speak up William," Max taunted.

"Is Audrey saying to eat the rich?" Billy's cheeky smile grew as his eyes flickered between them, "Go ahead Sweetheart, but do it in a better rags than the drapes your mother makes."

Gasped and looks of shock spread throughout the class.

"What did you just say?" Audrey stood up, glowering at the blonde boy.

"Say that shit again," Aki joined her.

"Settle down," The teacher demanded, "settle down. Mr Wolfe, get back in your seats — Miss Dubois put your phone away. Miss Hope, calm down, please. Mr Menzies refrain from saying that kind of language even if it's directed to someone who deserves it."

Billy kept chuckling as he got an even bigger rise out of the couple who sat down.

"Dick," Max snarled, earning another loud laugh from the blonde lacrosse player.

"He's not worth it," Obie told his friends, who ignored him.

"Boys," Luna sighed.

"Right," Julian agreed.

"Girls on top," Monet commented to her girlfriend.

"Classless," Winnie concluded, speaking up "maybe your right class trumps race and gender division."

Monet pecked her lips as several students already rushed to put their things away.

Before the teacher could stop them, the bell rang for a break.

"Class dismissed."

___

"Fuck that!" Zoya exclaimed, "A truce are you kidding me?"

"The freshman has to right idea," Ginny agreed as the girls stood at the MET steps.

Tension had been high since Social Studies and worsened in AP English, Winnie kept Zoya updated, whilst the headmistress told her that she could lose out on her scholarship. The board wouldn't take money from Davis Calloway, so Winnie reassured her she would sort it, free of charge.

Julian frowned, "Don't you think this feud has gone on for too long Z? C'mon I'm your sister,"

"Who wasn't there for you," Audrey piped up from beside her.

"She hasn't been there for me, and you're aware of that," Zoya hissed, "Winnie's there for me."

Monet rolled her eyes and tugged her girlfriend closer.

"She's there for no one," Julian snapped, whilst Luna inched back slightly.

Ginny feigned offence, "I guess I'm chopped liver."

"Well that's certainly more pleasant to look at," Audrey quipped.

Winnie laughed dryly, "Oh, the dull roar speaks again."

"This is who you want to have your back?" Julian pressed her sister, who scoffed.

"Better than someone who lets their friends attack me daily," Zoya defended, glaring around the circle.

"We don't attack. We plan," Luna pointed out, pulling out her phone.

Monet hummed, "Meticulously."

"Obviously not hon, your girl is getting cancelled," Winnie couldn't help but snicker alongside Ginny.

"I'm an innocent fucking bystander," Julian yelled, but that didn't stop their amusement.

"That's true for once." Ginny and Winnie chorused.

Julian angrily shook her head, "Fuck both of you."

Winnie dramatically gasped, "I'm sorry I thought you wanted a truce."

"I never said that."

Everyone realised and turned to the De Haan teen who was pretending she was none the wiser.

"Monet!" they yelled.

She winced, "Yelling. I have youthful ears. Ever since me and my beau talked things out it made me come to the realisation that we all need to play nice. And what screams that than gal pals? Coming together in the face of adversity. A man's at fault and we shouldn't be fighting... anymore."

"No." Ginny instantly shut it down.

She didn't want it. Zoya was wary and sent glances to Winnie who pursed her lips, Julian didn't know what to think and was annoyed by the alliances forming to spite her. Luna was indifferent and wanted to sit down, whilst Audrey awaited Julian's answer.

Winnie spoke up first, "Gin, we have bigger fish to fry, so might as well."

Monet smiled widely, happy that she defended her.

Everyone was startled by her point, but it was clear she was only agreeing because of her girlfriend, which thoroughly agitated Ginny and Zoya, considering they knew the girl wanted chaos like people needed to breathe.

"Fine, why don't we all go around and say something nice about each other?" Ginny mocked but that was certainly an idea.

"We should," Julian breathed out, wanting to turn the other cheek. She was close to hitting rock bottom, so having fewer enemies was a plus. Audrey couldn't help but go along with her. "It'll help. Even though two people standing here cost me an exposure with the big three."

"Cost us," Zoya hissed, "God you sound like Pippa."

"Woah," Luna gasped, whilst Winnie and Ginny sniggered.

Audrey glared at the freshman, whilst rubbing a hand over a hurt Julian's arm.

"Ladies, can we — fuck it isn't that hard to play nice?" Monet rolled her eyes at the hypocrisy.

"Coming from you that's a little rich but okay," Winnie stifled another laugh, "But I'm not going first Mon."

"Fine, I'll start, I like your shoes," Luna had been eying Ginny's Manolo Blahnik satin pumps since the first period.

Ginny shrugged, "I like your face."

Luna smirked.

It was Audrey's turn to compliment Winnie, "You have good fashion sense."

"You have nice lips," Winnie replied, snickering at the pinch Monet gave her.

"Win," Monet hissed, amusing the blondes.

"It was a compliment."

Zoya tried with the De Haan teen, "You have annoyingly genius comebacks."

Monet clicked her tongue, raking her eyes over the freshman before huffing, "Nope, I can't do it."

Zoya threw her arms in the air, "And you wanted a truce."

"Mon," Winnie warned.

"She has voluminous hair," Monet rushed out. "Happy?"

Zoya remained quiet and allowed the forced compliments to bounce around. It was hard, very hard for this group of girls to come together. The impending insults were almost at service level but for now, the fake niceties prevailed. It was time for the last round and Winnie suppressed a scowl when Julian faced her.

Everyone waited and Julian had enough of the silence and voiced, "You're gorgeous."

Monet beamed, her girlfriend was extremely gorgeous.

Casting a wry look at Ginny, Winnie inhaled as she said, "And you're a worthy adversary, beauty and all."

Whether that was a lie or not, they all agreed that their truce would commence for however long it would last.

"Now that's done," Luna clasped her hands together, "we need to find a venue for tonight."

Monet and Audrey quickly agreed and added input, blurting out any and everything to Julian.

Zoya was over it and turned to Winnie, "I need to find Shan."

The Dubois heiress nodded, saying quietly, "Good luck for later."

Zoya was meeting Jeremy O'Harris and didn't need the entire world to know just yet.

"Gin, Winnie, Felice 83 for lunch?" they all turned to see Billy rock up behind them.

Winnie looked at Monet who waved her off, "The driver will pick us up later."

Monet pecked her lips before joining her friends.

"You coming freshman?" Billy called out as Obie, Aki and Max neared.

Zoya shook his head with a smile before hastily looking at her ex who stared in awe at her sister.

She averted her pained gaze and went on her way.

"Julian," Obie smiled.

Aki jogged over, "Audrey."

Winnie and Ginny were met with kisses on the cheek from Billy earning glares from both Max and Monet.

"Do you think this truce you dragged me into will last?" the Wellington blonde asked as they started to walk.

Winnie snorted, "No, but it'll be fun to see who cracks first."

"And when it all blows up and everything explodes?" Ginny asked.

Billy put an arm around her shoulder.

"We protect ourselves," Winnie answered with furrowed brows.

"Does that include Monet?"

"Her too."

"Aww young Winifred's in love," Billy teased, earning groans from both girls.

Ginny already noticed the changes in Winnie's tone. It was happier and calm, unlike Winnie. She wanted to be happy for her closest friend but she had to be cautious. What if she gets distracted?

Winnie tried masking her smile, "Shut up."

Billy blinked rapidly, "Wait really?"

"No."

"I don't trust her," Ginny blurted, eying the glow emitting from her friend.

Winnie nodded, "I know, but for now, we have bigger fish to fry," she cast Billy an odd glare, "Like when do you smell like street meet?"

He frowned, "I had crepes for breakfast."

The best friends exchanged a look before saying, "Street meet."

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(@gossipgirl posted)

Who knew a truce could be on the cards? Between the backstabbing, stilettos and sibling rivalry, can one discussion by the MET steps dissolve the tension drifting through the Upper East Side? My dear followers, you should know that it only takes one match to set a fire, and one tip to break peace. Time is ticking and I'll be the first to know when the hourglass runs out.

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Shortly after lunch, Winnie's irritation was skyrocketing and she didn't know why, so she made a prompt decision and called her therapist during a free period.

She found a secluded spot in the library her parents built and dialled.

She hesitantly listened to the questions being asked and even answered a few. And repeatedly ignored any mention of her medication that she still hadn't taken.

"You told me you're parents gifted you a dog?"

Personally, Winnie would've preferred a cat. It would be low maintenance and would fuck off whenever she needed it too, but Margaux and Lu wanted to see if she could handle responsibility despite all the other dogs they have in the house.

"They buy me a lot of things," she replied, playing with her pen.

"What is this dog's name?"

"Abaddon."

"A place of destruction."

Winnie was taken aback by her knowledge, "Yes."

"And why did you land on that name? Is the dog destructive?" Dr Anchor questioned.

Winnie shrugged, "He's an attention whore."

"You dislike that."

"That didn't sound like a question," Winnie exclaimed.

"Based on your tone of voice, you dislike that Abaddon, your dog, wants attention. Why is that?" Dr Anchor asked.

"It's exhausting," Winnie sighed, even today she interacted with more people she wanted and had a truce thrust upon her.

"Giving him attention?"

"He wants it every day," Winnie went on.

"And you believe you can't give him that attention every day?"

"I don't believe. I can't," Winnie insisted, placing down her pen and glancing around at the row full of books.

"Why is that?"

"I prefer not to build expectations for people," Winnie breathed out, regretting that she called in the first place.

"Because you don't want to let them down?"

Winnie scowled, "Did I say that? No."

"Do you feel like you let people down?"

"I never said that," Winnie echoed.

Dr Anchor pressed, "Are you letting Abaddon down?"

"How am I letting an emotional support animal down? They're supposed to support me. Serve me. But no he wants attention. He wants me to give something that I can't live up to," Winnie ranted.

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't," Winnie gritted out, pulling the phone away when she saw someone else was calling. It was Monet but she couldn't answer now.

"And why can't you?"

"I've told you, you're not listening," Winnie tossed her head back in annoyance as she clenched the pen in her hands.

"No, I am. The wall you built yourself is so high you can't see what's in front of you."

"And what's that?"

"Happiness is an option but you won't let it in because you've convinced yourself you can't have it and so you won't. You won't give yourself over to your emotional support animal. He's there to support you and of course, he's an intelligent pet and understands you're not doing what needs to be done so he wants attention, attention you're not willing to give because if you allow yourself to open up, or even be vulnerable for just a second, you're scared that somehow you'll let him down. A dog with a name that perfectly depicts your psyche."

Winnie hung up immediately.

Her blinking turned rapid as she tried taking in deep breaths.

Her phone rang again. It was Monet.

"Can we leave? I want to go home," Winnie gulped as she waited for a response.

"I'll meet you out front."

___

Winnie didn't discuss the conversation she had with her therapist, in fact on the ride to the Dubois townhouse she tried showing as much attention to her girlfriend – her partner, it was hard but she was working on it.

She wanted to prove Dr Anchor wrong, she wanted to prove them all wrong, why she didn't know. Pure stubbornness maybe but she couldn't stand someone else's image of her, not when she didn't agree with it.

"Perhaps a portrait of our own. Some traditions should hold out," Monet suggested as Winnie watched her reflection.

They were locked away in her en-suit as Monet planned and ticked off ideas for them to do.

Ever since they came out as a couple, they've been asked to do interviews, or profiles in more modern papers. What does a GenZ couple look like? Who dresses who? Who's the dominant? Most of the articles were going to be inappropriate but they liked the thought of it.

Even a few fashion brands reached out for a featured post. Neither of them was surprised, Monet's style screamed icon, similar to Winnie's who portrayed herself as more of a confidant killer.

But ultimately Monet had her eyes set on an internship.

"A portrait for these walls? My grandparents would be rolling in their frames," Winnie laughed as she leaned against the counter in her gown.

"Too bad they can't do shit to stop it," Monet retorted, wrapping her arms around her waist, "Is that hesitancy I detect? Scared?"

"I'm not scared," Winnie playfully rolled her eyes.

"Then that's that, a portrait."

"You have a list of things for us to do right?" Winnie asked, eyes dropping to the borrowed silk two-piece Monet was lounging in. "Can we just do something spontaneous?" she caught the suggestive smirk playing on Monet's lips. "Not that. My head has been spinning all day," all week. "I just want a bath."

"A bath at 5 pm?"

"Too domestic for you, you can snap a pic later, before you go off galavanting to find a venue for the saving Calloway ploy."

Monet didn't have to leave until 6.

"Fine, let's be domestic for an hour," Monet agreed, "But I need a scarf. So do you or is that too black for you?"

"I'll get you your scarf. Might attract a GQ interview while we're at it. Black's the new white," Winnie quipped, as she turned on the bath fit for two.

"About time," Monet beamed, watching as Winnie opened the door to search her nearest bedside table.

"And one more thing," Winnie pulled out two scarves, "I have brand meetings with Ginny and I's agent. We have a perfume that's set to come out in the new year. So if you want to spend more time with me, you'll have to play nice with her."

"There's a truce for a reason remember," Monet's eyes narrowed, "and I'll play nice. You're booked and busy, just like I'll be soon, beside you okay?" she took one of the scarves to wrap around her wig. "We need to find a way to spend more alone time together. Tennis has stolen a lot of your time."

"I don't play tennis anymore," Winnie blurted, drawing a confused look as she sauntered back into the ensuite.

"Why, you go to therapy 3 days a week?"

"Well, now it's 4. My therapist thinks it's best."

"But you can still play."

"Nope, I can't. It's a punishment for a lot of things," Winnie's voice grew quieter, seeing flashes of the file that could trash many families, including the girl who stood right in front of her. "So I'll comply with their demands."

"You shouldn't have to," Monet then suggested, "but I guess I can think of an activity, thorough and time-consuming, that you've already shown you'll love doing."

Winnie squealed when Monet tugged on her robe, "So much for the bath."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(@winnerd posted)

tagged @monetdehaan

liked by @winnerd, @jennaortaga and 97,876 others

a euphoric hour of relaxing.

@winniesbiggestfan i hope she doesn't get her heart broken.

↳@duboisfanpage she's julian's management. it can't be good

↳@ginnyandwinniefaves ikr

↳@winnerd why would i choose anyone less than perfect to be my girlfriend? are you questioning my judgment?

↳@ginnyandwinniefaves of course not winnie, we love you so much.

↳@duboisfanpage be safe our queen.

↳@winniesbiggestfan a power couple then. better than obi and julian already.

@bellahadid hot.

↳@monetdehaan and don't we know it

@monifred4life i'm crying they're so pretty

↳@dehaanfanpage petty and rich 😭

limited comments.

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Max didn't expect to see Winnie knocking at his door at 10 pm.

A coy smirk tugged on his lips as he leaned against the door, "I didn't know you could journey to the Upper West Side."

She readjusted her Versace Medusa coat and shrugged, "Me either."

"Then what are you doing here?"

"A moment of weakness," she stated, then rolling her eyes at the way he was wiggling his brows, "Oh come on, I'm gay."

He pushed open his door, "Come in. not for any funny business, people usually turned to me in times of need."

When Winnie strutted in, she was overwhelmed by the sweet smell in the air, happy family pictures decorating the walls and the warm colours all around.

"Your boyfriend or girlfriend isn't here?" she glanced around after he shut the door.

Max shook his head, guiding her into the kitchen, "No, there was a Cedar hosted tonight, went as well as it could."

"The Waldorfs and Roses were here? I keep up to date with her daughter Blair sometimes, she designs my mom's work wear on occasion," she informed, setting her purple capucine on the counter.

"Nice."

"Why do you look like someone just kicked a puppy?" she noted his frown.

Max looked dejected and not his normal flamboyant self.

"My dads," he replied scratching at his face. They weren't staying in the house. His dad was upstairs, no doubt confused with the constant push and pull, and his Pops was away until the morning.

She quicked up a questioning brow, "You want your parents back together?"

He scrunched up his face, "Who wouldn't?"

"Me that for sure. If they were separated maybe they would cause less shit. But now I think of it, they would be worse, definitely worse off, properly even bring me down with them."

He winced, "I'm sorry."

She blinked, "Why?"

"Your family sounds like hell," he manoeuvred around his kitchen to lean against the counter, "but that's not all. What happened with Rafa, I still don't see it but it was for the best." he tensed when sudden revelations hit him. "I heard he didn't get bail, and that I along with a few of his...concubines won't have to go to court, you're doing I'm sure."

Winnie rested her arms on the counter, "You're already traumatised, reliving it won't help or did you want to go?"

Many parents on the school board happened to have brilliant lawyers or an influence in the courts and that worked wonders when influencing the verdict with Rafa Caparros.

Max took a moment to respond, "I don't know, but thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So what's up?" Max was curious to know why Winnie of all people rocked up to his house.

They were friendly – he was friendly, she was catty, but they rarely had deep conversations.

"I know how loose your lips can be so you have to swear this won't leave this room?" she demanded.

Max pretended to zip his lips and throw away the key.

She sighed, "Well it's no secret I'm in therapy. I was diagnosed with DMDD and I have to take Ritalin, to regulate my moods and I can't bring myself to take them."

She brought the bottle out for him to hold.

He eyed the dose as his eyes darted between her and the label.

"What?" she grew anxious with the silence they were dragged in.

"I'm a pill popper, guilty as charged, but I imagine this not wanting help goes deeper than this bottle?"

She scoffed, "What are you my therapist now?"

"I just got an image of how you are in therapy, yeesh," he laughed to himself, "but what's the problem? Relying on the pills or the loss of control? And don't say you don't know because I'm smarter than that."

Winnie unbuckled her coat, pondering her response and decided on, "I guess the control, okay?" she was also scared that if she ever forgot to take them, she would explode in a pile of rage.

"I know I'm saying this to the most calculated bitch in the city but control is overrated. But what isn't is balance. You know when my dads separated, I got depressed – Ginny probably told you," she nodded and he went on, "It didn't help with my ADD, drugs did occasionally and then I thought...Rafa did but it made it worse."

She leaned closer, "What made it better?"

"People," she groaned at his answer, "Look I know it's not what you wanna hear, partially because talking won't always help your problems. You have to take Ritalin let me guess a couple of times a day. With your self-control, it'll be smooth sailing, believe me. I wish this," Max shook the bottle, "was all it took for me to be okay."

"You could always go to rehab," she suggested after he gave back her medication.

She hastily put them back in her bag.

"Not an option," he paused, "Hey, can I ask how Ginny is?"

She grimaced, "Why, you see her in the arms of another preppy white boy and you want her back?"

Max squinted his eyes, "No, and don't act like I'm jealous."

He told himself he was just curious.

"You are, but your secret is safe with me," she pretended to zip her lips and throw away the key, drawing a deadpan look. "And to answer your previous question, she's happy, annoyed I'm with Monet but when she's with Billy, all it is giggling and sunshine and rainbows. But I don't even think they're together - together, I guess she's apprehensive after what happened with you."

He clicked his tongue, then nodded, "Understandable."

"And what is happening with you? Shouldn't you be over the moon because of your ménage à trois?" she wondered aloud as he rounded the counter to stand next to her.

"I can't answer that because I can't tell you."

"Sounds like a mess," she mused, feigning annoyance when he rubbed the shoulders together.

"It is, but what about you and your thing with Monet? You're official now, should've seen it coming I guess. Followings and fucking every second sounds like a treat."

She couldn't hold back a smile, "It's good."

"Just good? Yikes," he eyed her sceptical expression, "cautious that she'll fuck it up or the other way round?"

"Both."

Mirth shone in his eyes, "Yeah, I'm really starting to see the second D in your DMDD."

She shoved him, "Fuck you."

"But have you thought that maybe exposing the diagnosis will help with brand deals?" he randomly inquired, but she disagreed.

"So I can be labelled Weak Winnie again? No thanks. And my parents already made everyone in the Ostroff centre sign NDAs."

He gawked, "Even the patients?"

She pursed her lips, "What do you think?"

"Okay, I'm not high enough for that discussion, but honestly, if not about you, you could tweet about how the gossip girl was damaging to your mental health. Include some comment about your riches and maybe threatening a lawsuit – we all know you're good with those – and it'll make GG lose credibility."

Winnie surprisingly hadn't thought of that. There were many ways she wanted to make Gossip Girl pay, so that might've been a good place to start.

"Not a bad thought," she agreed.

Max eyed her, letting his gaze wonder, "But can I just say, you have a certain glow to you? We can rule out pregnancy," even know he noticed how comfortable she looked. "but I like it do you?"

"You analyse me a lot."

"And you analyse the word with those scrutinising brown eyes. It's freaky," he mused, leaning back, rounding the counter to open a cupboard.

Winnie pointed out, "You like freaky."

"Aww, you know me so well," he chuckled, "But hey, I've got something for you," he pulled out a small Tupperware full of pastries, "Take these with the medication, I'll make it go down well. Or you can take them and stay."

She begrudgingly didn't want to make the hopeful smile on his face fall but she couldn't stay.

"No, I can't stay," she gratefully took the pastries, "but I'll take some for me and Caesar to snack on the way home."

That made his face light up again, "Sexy bodyguard right?"

"Jesus Max."

"What? I have eyes."

"That we all know."

"But hey – umm," he wrapped his arms around her taking her by surprise, "don't freak out, accept my emotions."

She gagged and tried pulling away, "I'm disgusted."

"You're aroused with loving feelings."

"I'll scream," she murmured against him, "but I don't hate it."

"I know you don't," he slowly pulled away, smiling when she dramatically shivered. He was glad she stopped by, it had been a while since he had a genuine conversation. "Night Pooh Bear."

"Night Wolfe."

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(@gossipgirl just posted)

So... tensions are dying down, for now, new friendships are being made, but that's not all. You guys might not be fighting anymore, maybe you've figured out that your greatest enemy is yourself and that one battle you'll have to fight alone. There might be some who have already felt like they've lost, and those who are inspired not to give up without a fight. And I've seen you all know a lot of fight in you. In the age of cancel culture and Twitter fingers, it's hard not to want to battle until the end. But then some just give up, but rest assured, you're never really alone not when I'm around, xoxo gossip girl.

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a/n:

I wish both the original and reboot included more scenes of the students in classes, talking about the things that might foreshadow plot lines or just for fun. I tried it in with the truce for this episode, I hope it's well-liked because I thought it was time for a time of peace however fleeting it is.

so many conflicts and tensions rising. and not be writing monifred's kiss so far into the story

#wattpad #fanfic #black reader #black girl #catfight gossip girl reboot wattpad #catfight gossip girl reboot fanfic #catfight wattpad #catfight fanfic #gossipgirl reboot #gossip girl 2021 #winniedubois #monet and winnie #winifred dubois #monet de haan x black!reader #monet de haan x fem reader #monet de haan x reader

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