#i think we should start from scratch

[rainbowtiredoftheworld]

I keep seeing software developers with my same degree, who get payed (presumably) the same as me, bragging that they copy-paste code from chatgpt, and like... Do you not have dignity? Aren't you ashamed of yourselves? The average quality of code is already abysmal, what is there to be proud in making it worse?

[kenmaiii]

after two years i finally draw the favorite

[j-esbian]

you know the whole ‘there are no ethical billionaires because to get to that point is dependent on the exploitation of others”

starting to feel like that’s also the case for anyone who achieves a meaningful level of fame.

this is illustrated on a small-scale level by the seemingly endless number of youtubers who appear on my radar only when they are caught in some scandal. it’s not necessarily that youtubers are a uniquely terrible breed; all industries dependent on fame are highly competitive and people willingly step on each other to get ahead. and once you’ve gotten away with that, you feel like you’re untouchable. the rules for other people don’t apply to you because you’ve already proven yourself Better than others, in whatever way that means to you, and maybe you start pushing other boundaries to see what else you can get away with.

talent does not always translate to fame. but, especially in arts industries where it’s nearly impossible to make a living wage without being famous, it seems that way. it’s almost impossible to carve out space to build skill on top of raw talent when you have to work a full time day job, so of course the people who have achieved fame will be able to dedicate more time to their craft. if you’re born without talent, i hope you were at least born rich.

but the guy you’ve heard of isn’t inherently more talented or better at what he does than an indie creator. fame is a combination of merit and marketing

[thesecondface]

Islands of Abandonment - Cal Flyn

Recently read this book on the near miraculous proliferation of life and biodiversity in post-human landscapes, and what a fantastic book it was. This was very much in the vein of Macfarlane's Underland (both being prone to wax poetic on unconventional landscapes) but more, somehow. I'm not sure I can articulate it well – perhaps it was the choice in the unconventional landscape which predisposes the reader to its inherited stakes, or lack thereof; or perhaps it was the direct, clear cut message this book had, that Underland maybe lacked in – but this felt infinitely more personal. I enjoyed Underland; I enjoyed Macfarlane's writing and his infectious awe with the landscapes around him – I thought he painted a beautiful, unsettling picture of the underworld, but it was his awe at the end of the day and not my own. Flyn, however, tells you exactly what she argues for in her book, and I'll be damned if I wasn't sold right there and then:

The idea that 'knowledge deepens with appreciation' and that aestheticism can be taught is so extremely crucial. You have to fall in love with your environment to understand it. You have to understand it in order to save it (if, indeed, it needs saving of the human kind). And this gold mine of a book takes these forgotten, unpleasant landscapes and makes you love them – practicing precisely what it preaches.

(Perhaps this struck so deeply because I was so sheltered a city kid who then went on to geologise, and went on to find out just how much you can learn from simple observation and the scientific process. How little I knew before, how little I still know – how little everyone else knows, and how difficult a task it is to invoke any response besides the unabiding blankness that is the death-knell to all educators – to apply the term liberally. It's something that I quite desperately want to cultivate, this awareness of the environment around me; I want to train myself to love the things that previously held neither appeal nor interest to me, because not so long ago I was that blank and disconnected. It's why iNaturalist was such a revelation to me. This book was another, I think).

[mechanicalbowtye]

read the scratch upd8. little too close to home

[darabeatha]

[placeinthisworld]

TTPD is kinda flawed and I want to know how'd you fix it? tracks, interludes, story telling?

tbh i would scrap the entire idea lmao. i tbink the whole…..idea of this album is kinda wild. in a camp way. like it’s something i would never have thought about. it’s an album about falling in love with a hookup and (apparently!) pinning for them for a decade….snd then getting ghosted by them lmao. it’s like, embarrassing. i think she COULD have done something better with it like she has with all her original stuff, i think i expected more from her than what we got. honestly i would just totally throw away the entire concept. there are a handful of good songs in there that she could have saved for a different project…but ttpdta as it stands feels like something sloppily thrown together in the heat of a meltdown about getting dumped. like she had a deadline she wanted it done by and forced herself to do too much that was unnecessary.

[zarekthelordofthefries]

I don't claim to be a political expert but I do feel like there's probably nuance between "violent revolution is evil" and "if you don't support any and all attempts to burn everything down you're basically a conservative" like I dunno. Maybe not all revolution is the same. Maybe we need to be practical about how we apply violence rather than just feeding our egos with "it'd be nice to blow everything up and start from scratch." I don't think violence is good or evil, it's a tool that can be used to reduce or prevent harm in the world. It's a dangerous tool that should be used cautiously and deliberately, but we also can't afford to leave it unused up on the shelf.

[keypostos]

caleb is the biggest advocate of happy wife = happy life.

in the morning, he waits for you to wake up so he can attack your face with kisses. he starts by smoothing out your hair, poking at your cheeks, and running his fingers across your lips.

your giggles are worth missing that extra hour of sleep anyway.

he plants kisses on your cheeks, forehead, nose, and finalizes with a brief kiss on your lips, leaving you to rush in for one more. and who is he to deny his wife?

okay—technically—his girlfriend. but still.

after your slow morning, caleb decides to take you out for lunch. he holds you close when you walk; his arm is wrapped around your shoulder the entire time. when he feels you lean into him for more (of his body warmth, but he doesn’t have to know that), caleb explodes. he probably runs hotter after that too.

he leads you through grocery stores (“do you think we need this for the fridge?”), flower shops (“caleb, i think this would look great on our dresser”), and the tire shop (“pipsqueak, you really need to get these tires fixed. good thing you can always rely on me, though!”).

you browse for things to make his apartment more homey. he looks for items to stock your (our—as caleb likes to say) fridge with. you joke and bicker and hide your heads when you get stares from older ladies for being too loud. you’ll laugh about this when you get home.

later, for dinner, caleb decides he’ll cook for you at home with the groceries he bought today. he made a new special tonight: some kind of pasta with chicken.

and no matter how many times you insisted on helping, caleb used his evol to push you back onto the couch. but, when you snuck over to him and grabbed his waist, he surrendered. any reasonable man would. how could he not surrender when you nuzzled into him, begging him to let you do something.

at dinner, he cut up your chicken and fed you until you started making pregnancy jokes. what a dream that would be, caleb thought.

then, at night (probably 10pm), you two start heading to bed. caleb hops in the shower with you (“could this be my reward for cooking for you today?”) and runs his hand through your hair; shampoos and conditions it; rubs body wash all over you; and rinses you off.

you repeat the same actions to him, except you like to mess with him ten times more. you rub soap everywhere, but you paid special attention to his abs. and biceps.

though, caleb didn’t say a single thing. he had to fight back the urge to smirk when your hands rubbed up and down his arms. this might’ve been heaven for him.

when you got out, you asked (begged) if you could shave for him. caleb had been growing a bit of stubble, and you’ve always expressed your interest in shaving him since he started growing hair.

so he props you up on the bathroom sink, standing in between your legs while you carefully run the razor up and down his jaw. you’re so gentle with him—much gentler than he usually is when shaving himself.

your fingers prod all over his jawline and cheeks. your featherlight touch sends sparks all over his face, and he can’t help but break out into a smile (even when you scold him). scratch what he said before—this is heaven to him.

when you’re done, you analyze his face as if he’s a sculpture. you trace your fingertips down the slope of his jaw; the high rise of his cheekbones, and over his lips for fun. he playfully tries to bite your finger before you swat at him.

the two of you brush your teeth, and you already know caleb will be bumping hips with you throughout the whole process. what should take two minutes turns into ten—with both you and caleb messing with each other by tickling, pinching, or hugging.

once you two are in bed, your face is pressed into caleb’s chest. he rests his chin on top of your head, and you feel his breaths coming down on you. when you look up at him with glowing, love-sick eyes, caleb presses kisses all over the top of your head.

you angle yourself up slightly, and caleb perks up eyebrow in suspicion. even in the dark, caleb can tell you’re smiling when you push yourself up and kiss him on the lips. it’s a deep kiss: one where you’re thanking him, trying to please him, and loving him all at once.

caleb is on you instantly, with one hand holding your face and the other cradling the small of your back. he puts all of the energy he has left into the kiss, before pulling away and slumping his head on the pillow like a love-starved dog.

“thank you. for today,” you murmur, inching yourself closer to him. “i appreciate everything you do for me,” you press one more kiss onto his lips before you fall into the hands of sleep, “i love you, caleb.”

oh yeah, caleb thinks, happy wife, happy life.

i wrote this in 30 mins can u tell

also idk what’s up w my borders im writing this on my phone so they’re a bit janky loll sorry

[sheliesshattered]

the trouble with trying to rewrite this particular episode is that the episode, as aired, is just so bad that it's physically painful to rewatch

[meowdei]

morning routine — ft. sylus

before you read: established relationships ; gender neutral reader ; sleepy clingy sylus ; banter ; fluff and cheesiness i apologize in advance

“Here we go,” you hum to yourself, rolling your eyes with a knowing smile curled loosely on your lips as soon as Sylus starts to shift in his sleep. “Like a hermit crab,” you tease to his unconscious figure, “no wonder you’re so pale. Do you even remember what the sun looks like?”

“Do you always talk to sleeping people?”

You still at the sound of his voice, hand freezing in the middle of stroking through his hair. He doesn’t like that, either—his head presses up into your fingertips, a silent demand for more.

“You should be sleeping,” you scold gently, fingers returning to their earlier movements. You scratch lightly at his scalp and he shivers, humming in content. Like a cat, you think fondly, purring in your arms at the slightest show of affection.

Your morning routine starts with the same valiant effort every day: protecting Sylus from the sun. It’s honest work: he already doesn’t sleep very much through the night, and if he doesn’t sleep through the day because of a mild setback either, you think a number of poor victims would suffer the consequences of his tired, grouchy attitude.

So, you protect him as he falls asleep while the sun rises, beams of light slipping through the cracks of the blinds a little more with every minute. You watch him—with equal parts amusement and equal parts fondness, you watch every morning as he slowly shifts in his sleep. It starts with him inching closer and closer towards you, and ends with his head buried into your chest and his body curled around you like you’re a shield for the cruel light that disturbs him.

You like this routine, though. It’s the perfect chance to admire him, to bring a hand to trace over his relaxed features—the slightly crooked slant of his nose, the sharp angle of his cheekbones, the defined edge of his jawline. And, of course, your favorite part: the soft, plump curves of his lips. He never does anything to indicate he’s awake, either. Nothing to even hint that he feels you, breathing slow and soft puffs of air peacefully nestled against you.

He looks delicate in slumber. Vulnerable. So agonizingly soft and fragile in a way he normally doesn’t look. (Oh, but does he feel soft, you always think. Sylus always feels so inexplicably soft.)

“I would be sleeping,” he finally grumbles, but it’s playful as he shifts to hide his face deeper into your chest while his nose presses against your collarbone. “But someone disrupted my efforts.”

“No, I protect you,” you huff, “with the way you avoid the sun in your sleep, you’d think the vitamin D would poison you.”

“If it was poisonous, then I’d be dead,” he sighs dramatically, cracking a crimson eye open and looking at you like he’s wounded. “You do a terrible job at keeping me shielded.”

“Maybe I’m trying to kill you in your sleep,” you wink, “ever think of that?”

He chuckles, voice low and still laced with the evidence of sleep from the raspiness of it. You smile softly at the sound, pressing a chaste kiss to his head while he moves to bury it into the crook of your neck. There’s something oddly comforting about it—holding him like this. Holding him while he hides into your body, melts against your skin, sinks weight onto you because you take it and he can.

“Go back to sleep,” you murmur sweetly, rubbing a slow, soothing hand up and down his bare back and tracing his spine. “I’ll make sure the sun knows not to bother my big, sleepy, vitamin D deficient baby.”

“I’m not vitamin D deficient,” he huffs.

“So you agree you’re a big, sleepy baby?”

He snores dramatically, pulling a giggle from your lips. A kiss presses to the skin of your neck, and they come from a pair of lips that feel suspiciously curled—like they’re smiling. You wrap your arms around him a little tighter, because close just doesn’t feel close enough when it’s him.

“Let’s hope I wake up without being poisoned,” he hums, half-asleep once more as you trace a finger along the sharp, muscled curves of his back.

You press one more kiss to his head before murmuring, “I’ll see what I can do.”

He lets out a gentle snore again, real this time. He’s sound asleep with his body molded against yours, routine like it is every morning���you protecting him from the sun, and him falling into your arms.

I just want to hold him while he peacefully rests and hide him away from the sun so he can sleep well like he deserves because he’s a BABY

To me he’s a baby :(

[muli-wam]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna hated you. He hated you with a passion. Scratch that, Sukuna despised you.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna hated your snarky comments towards him and your feigning innocence when coach came around. He hated the way coach would use your "talent" as an "example" to the rest of the team like you were some pro athlete who's ability should be a standard.

He hated the way you'd tilt your head up in pride when you'd finish a 100 meter sprint in 11.64 seconds (which was only .4 seconds faster than him), walking past him silently with a face that said, "try and beat that," and he hated coaches bias comments about how great you were just because you were his daughter.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna loved track and field, he truly did. He strived to be the best not only because it boosted his ego, but also because he needed to get that full ride scholarship if he wanted to get into college. It was his only chance at going pro and he was not going to give that up.

But as of late, his hatred toward you and his determination to beat you blurred that love for the sport. He just wanted to win. Against you.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna who wanted to throw himself across the field when coach told him he had to be partnered with you for "training".

"Scouts are going to be at this weeks meet and we need you to be at peak performance. Especially if you want that scholarship," coach says, raising a knowing eyebrow toward Sukuna.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Sukuna grumbles, dragging his feet as he makes his way over to you. He rolled his eyes at the way you tied up your spikes all confidently and the way you started stretching like you knew exactly what you were doing. God, he wanted to puke.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna who grumbled and groaned and complained the entire time you tried talking to him. He hated every idea you threw at him, and rolled his eyes every time you so much as blinked at him. No, he didnt want to jog a couple warm up laps, no he didnt want to stretch (with you), and no, he absolutely didn't want to talk about what he needed to improve on.

Sukuna was the best, he didn't need to improve on anything. It's literally just running.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna who's baffled when you say

"You sure? Because you run like you're trying to prove something instead of just running," you say while swinging your arms.

"Also, your stride is a bit sloppy...I think we could work on that?" You suggest and Sukuna is caught off guard for a moment.

You didnt sound like you were teasing. You seemed to actually be pointing out a flaw and Sukuna didn't like that. He didnt need improvement. But the nagging feeling telling him you were right itched at the back of his mind.

"Tch. My stride isn't sloppy." He grumbles, crossing his arms, his stubbornness evident.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna who considers that maybe you were right. Maybe he did need to work on some stuff, but he doesn't want your help. Unfortunately for him, he doesn't have a choice. So, Sukuna swallows down his pride—only some—and gives in.

"What would you...suggest..." He's obviously not use to asking for help.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna who already saw improvement from your training. You had him practicing high knees, side steps, and calf hops, and Sukuna could already see progress.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna didn't want you to get the wrong idea though. just because you were helping him did not mean you two were friends. Far from it, actually. With your advice, it gives sukuna an opportunity to get better than you, which was his ultimate goal.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna goes home with a strange warmth pooling in his stomach—one he refuses to name. He didn't recognize this feeling, the warmness he felt. The amount of attention and care you were putting into his training really caught him off guard.

You were being...sweet? The way your soft hands felt against his shoulder when he did a good job at something, or the way your eyes would light up when you saw his improvement.

The entire time during practice he kept telling himself that he still hated you, that this was just for a couple more months until you guys graduate and he never has to see you again. That he was just using you for his benefit so then he could be the best.

But why did his stomach turn every time you praised him? Every time you looked at him, he felt a tightness in the back of his throat—not like he was about to vomit—it was different.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna recalls all the past times you both interacted, his memory shifting perspectives of you. You were kind. Encouraging. And somehow, all of that made him feel worse. You never had an ounce of pride in your bones, always so humble.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna wonders if it ever really was hate. Or maybe he had been lying to himself all along. I mean, hes never had a conversation with you, only exchanges due to forced proximity, coaches orders. Hes never recalled a time where he ever not hated you.

It seemed like the moment he met you, he despised you without a reason, but now that he actually talked to you, he found himself burning for more.

But, It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t anything. It was just training. That’s all. Or that's what he was telling himself.

Track Runner!Ryomen Sukuna got a taste of your sweetness—and now he’s addicted.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦　⁺ 　 . ✦

A/n: hello hello hello I'm freaking out anyway I hope you like it skaterboy!ino is coming out next love you guys bye

Oh also sukuna and reader are seniors in high school now, but they will be graduated and in college before the smutty stuff happenss 😌↕️

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[spideyjimin]

hot water | jjk

—  pairing: jungkook x female reader 

—  genre: establish relationship au, a tiny bit of fluff, and mostly purely smut 

— rating: 18+ 

—  summary: you’re on your honeymoon with your new husband, Jungkook, a man you’ve been in love with for years. you’re also in your ovulation period which leads you to constantly want to fuck your handsome husband.

—  words: 2,625

—  warnings: mention of sex, strong language, swearing, teasing, dirty talking, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, sex in jacuzzi, rough sex, and creampie.

—  author’s note: don't even ask me where this is coming from... 🥴 lmao it seems i can't see pictures of jungkook without having wild thoughts 🫠 hopefully you enjoy this drabble & let me know what you think ✨

MASTERLIST

Jungkook rests against the jacuzzi’s wall with exhaustion.

“Mhh,” you say as you sit on his lap, your arms resting on his broad shoulder. A little devious smirk appears on your face as you watch your husband. “Wanna fuck,” you whisper before pressing a gentle peck on his lips.

His eyebrows raise. “Pumpkin, we just finished fucking,” a little chuckle leaves his pretty lips. “Little Kookie down there is getting tired.”

You take a quick look down while you move back your ass. Since he’s sitting on the edge of the jacuzzi, his cock is not entirely underwater. His quite huge crotch is half hard, still recovering from the steamy session you just had.

This honeymoon has so far been filled with scorching moments between you and your husband. Well, before you tied the knot, he promised you he’d fuck you senseless once married, and he has kept his word.

“Maybe we should leave the jacuzzi, and shower before going to bed,” your husband suggests. “It’s getting late.”

His hands move to your waist, his thumb caressing your soft skin.

“What?” you pout with the biggest doe eyes. “I’m serious, angel,” your hands move up to his wet hair to play with it. “I’m so so horny right now.”

Jungkook is taken aback. Since this morning, you’ve been fucking like rabbits; you even had to take a nap in the afternoon to rest a bit. For sure, he promised you a lot of sex on your honeymoon but he never expected that much sex. He’s even surprised by his own stamina. He’s unstoppable, but now, he’s not sure he can follow you.

“Are you serious?” he furrows his eyebrows.       

You look down at his toned chest while still playing with his hair. “Yes.”

Your husband chuckles. He can’t believe you.

“We did it this morning,” he starts saying. “We even had to take a nap to recover from it.”

You can still remember how he fucked you so well this morning.

“And now, you’re just so needy in the jacuzzi,” he adds. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m down for it. I promised it before we got married, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to follow up if we keep going like that.”

“I’m ovulating, angel,” you pout. “And you look so fucking hot all the time, especially with your hair wet like that,” you explain.

“Ooh,” he simply says. “That explains it.”

For the past seven years, your husband got to experience the ovulation period. You can get pretty wild during that period. It’s not all the time, but most of it, you get to fuck a bit more than usual. He never complained because damn, you’re a living goddess.   

“Your toned body drives me completely crazy,” your fingers now run down to his torso, your nails scratching him a bit. He hisses at the feeling and his limp cock twitches.

“I know,” he whispers. “Last month, I was just taking a shower and you begged me to fuck you because my head was thrown back and my muscles were flexed.”

You both chuckle at the thought of what happened last month in the shower. However, you both agree that it was a wonderful stress-relieving moment. Back then, you were absolutely stressed about the wedding. You had no reason to be nervous but there was so much work behind it and you wanted it to be as perfect as possible. It was your day after all. It’s a day you’ll forever remember.

“You’re super hot when you shower,” you smile at him. “Even after, when your hair is still wet.”

That, he knows it so well. You’ve repeated it so many times, even at the very beginning of the relationship.

“You too, pumpkin,” he says back.

His face gets closer to yours, his eyes darkening with evident lust before his lips whisper in your ear. “You constantly turn me on, yn,” his teeth grab your earlobe. “You’re a fucking goddess, my fucking goddess, and don’t even get me going on our wedding day.”

Your teeth bite your lower lip. This man is teasing you and turning you on with his deep voice in your ear. The simple feeling of his hot breath against your skin excites you. Your pussy clenches around emptiness.

“Tell me,” you teasingly say. 

“That white wedding dress embracing perfectly every curve of your body drove me crazy,” he murmurs in his deep voice. “As the day was passing by, I wanted one single thing.”

Your husband can make you come only with his deep voice and his words. This is incredibly hot.

“I wanted to undress you and fuck you senselessly.”

A little and barely audible moan escapes your mouth. As he’s speaking, your hands slowly run down to his abs, causing your man to shiver.

“That’s what you did,” the words slip from your mouth as you’re brought back to that night.

You were both exhausted, but you didn’t want to fall asleep without sharing an intimate moment. You wanted to close the day by showing each other how deeply you love the other. Without any doubt, you’ll both say that it’s by far the best sex you had. It had a different taste; it was the first time you did it as husband and wife. It wasn’t just sex that night; it was the celebration of your love. It simply was love.

“It’s what you’ve been doing since that day,” you add.

“Only because you constantly turn me on, pumpkin,” Jungkook presses a wet and burning kiss on the crook of your neck.

His kisses slowly move from your neck to your shoulders to your cleavage but he stops right on top of your breast. Your eyes slowly flutter shut due to the increasing pleasure caused by your hubby. Your hips buck forward, your core brushing against his half-hard dick.

“Let me show you how much you turn me on,” you whisper almost out of breath.  

“Show me, pumpkin,” he answers.

Although he’s kind of exhausted, all he wants now is to have his dick buried deep inside you. A sight leaves his lips as he feels you sliding up and down his cock. He’s surprised that you didn’t even wait a bit after his words. In a matter of seconds, you grabbed his cock and pushed it down inside you.

There’s no doubt that you’re terribly needy.

Slowly his half-awakened dick gets hard. “You’re getting hard,” you whine as you continue to move up and down his cock.

Your husband buries his face in the crook of your neck. “All for you, pumpkin,” he says against your skin. He’s becoming a moaning mess with his face hidden against you. Your fingers find their way to his hair so they can play with it.

Playing with his hair is something you adore to do while sharing an intimate moment. Jungkook adores that.  

“Pumpkin,” he whispers before leaving your neck to look at you. “There might be some remaining cum over my dick.”

Although his cock was partially underwater, you can feel the stickiness of his cum. It’s quite normal considering the fact that you just finished having sex.

Jungkook is mentioning it because you agreed to wait a bit before having kids. It’s your dream to start a family but before, you’d like to enjoy your married life. You’ve been together for many years, waiting eagerly to get married. So you want to at least enjoy for a year before considering starting a family.   

“Are you scared to get me pregnant?” you teasingly say before pressing a kiss on his cheek.

Even though you mutually agreed to wait, the thought of getting you pregnant makes him become rock-hard inside you. This turns him on beyond comprehension. Right now would be a perfect time since you’re ovulating. All he’ll need to do is cum inside you, filling you up with his seed. Also, you’re already married so there’s no need for protection or coming outside you to avoid an unwanted pregnancy.

“Oh, you aren’t,” you stop moving your hips, your eyes deep into his.

“Why would I?” he asks. “You’re my wifey now.”

Hearing him calling you his wife is also a big turn-on. Jungkook understands it when he feels your walls clenching around him. A soft moan leaves his pretty lips at this sensation.

“And now you have a sort of breeding kink,” you add with a smirk on your face. “Should have married you earlier,” you whisper.

“Eeh, I don’t have a breeding kink,” he protests although his cock betrays him.

“Then why are you hard as fuck inside me?”

It takes him a moment to find something to say.

“Well, first, I’m inside you with your walls clenching around me,” he tries to defend himself. “Then, you’re so fucking hot. Whenever I see you, I get hard.”

You move your hips up which makes him hiss at the feeling. He’s only getting harder, especially if you tease him like that. Your face gets closer to his, your lips pecking his.

“You can lie to anyone, angel,” you whisper against his lips. “Anyone but me,” your cunt sucks up his cock as you push down your hips to meet his. A very deep groan slips from his mouth once he fills you up to the brim, his eyes instantly fluttering shut.  “Is it because I’m ovulating?” you teasingly ask.

Your arms wrap around his shoulder and you press your chest against his. This contact sends shivers all over his body.

“Fuck, yes,” he answers.

“Alright then,” you say before pressing a gentle kiss on his lips. “Fuck me, angel.”

His mind instantly goes wild, imagining you filled with his seed and watching it leaking from your body. The mere thought of getting you pregnant makes his cock twitch inside you. He can already picture you pregnant with his child. Fuck, there’s nothing else that he desires right now.

Even though he wanted to wait a bit before getting you pregnant, the way he’s been turned on by you for the past two days makes him want to start a family now. By the looks of it, you also want it. Well, you biologically crave it. This is something totally normal.

“You don’t have to ask me twice,” he says before thrusting his hips up.

The two of you start moaning quite loudly. You don’t really care if anyone can hear you. All that matters now is to be once more overwhelmed with pleasure. A pleasure procured by each other. Jungkook messily thrust his hips to meet yours, not giving you a chance to move your hips. The hot water is going everywhere as he fucks you in it.

Since you fucked minutes ago in the exact same jacuzzi, you already caused quite a mess so you’re just adding more water everywhere. Thankfully, this jacuzzi is inside the suit you booked for your honeymoon. Nobody will see you otherwise, you’re sure tons of people would have been traumatized by you and your hubby.

Your fingernails scratch his shoulders while this man pleasures you with his little monster. For sure, his shoulders will be red once this is over. Your husband doesn’t care since he’s completely lost in bliss.

“I love it when you fuck me raw,” you whisper in his ear.

His cock twitches inside you.

“I can’t wait to feel your cum inside me,” a deep whine slips out of your mouth as he thrusts into you brutally.

Jungkook is losing himself as you tease him. If you don’t get pregnant after this honeymoon, he’ll be surprised.

“Don’t say such things, pumpkin,” he breathes out, his eyes looking deep inside yours.

For a brief moment, you take in the man you married two days ago. Although your body is speaking louder than your heart right now, it warms you to be here with him. Your relationship had many ups and downs, and for a long period, it was very challenging. His parents never truly accepted you for many reasons, and there was a period where they did everything they could to separate you. You thought you’d never survive that period.

But your love proved you wrong.

Since the very first day, you constantly choose each other. There’s not a day that goes by where you don’t choose each other. It’s silly but that’s what makes your relationship work. Jungkook always comes first, and he always puts you first as well.

Eventually, his parents realized that trying to separate you was in vain. They ended up accepting you and since then, you’ve been having a very great relationship with them. You’re truly grateful you all managed to overcome your differences.

“Why?” you ask while caressing now his round face.

“Otherwise I won’t last.”

“I’m not asking you to last long, angel,” you whisper in between moans.

His hips snap faster, and his hands move to your back to hold you as much as possible. The space where the jacuzzi is placed is filled with your moans, the sound of his balls slapping against your core, and the sound of the water splashing everywhere.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re such a fucking tease tonight, pumpkin.”

Well, whenever you’re desperate for his cock, you’re a damn tease. You’ll push him to the edge as much as possible just to get what you want.

“I know,” you deviously smile. “But you like it,” your hand moves to his hair, your fingers playing and pushing his hair while you’re slowly but surely getting overwhelmed by pleasure.

By the way he’s fucking you, you know he’s getting close. He’s being more and more sporadic, groans falling out of his pretty mouth at an impressive pace, and your name slipping in between the moans. He’s so so hot right now. You’re actually surprised he’s still able to be this energetic after all the sex you’ve had today.

“Just admit you like it, angel,” you say.

Before you can even comprehend what is happening, Jungkook completely explodes inside you. The feeling of his hot cum filling you up causes your orgasm to hit you violently. None of you didn’t last long this time around, but this is the second round in less than thirty minutes.

For a couple of seconds, none of you moves as you’re trying to come down from your high. Jungkook presses a soft kiss on top of your nose, his eyes scanning your face contorting with pleasure.

“Fuck,” he finally says when your breathing is finally back to normal. “This time you took the dirty talk to a whole other level, pumpkin.”

You hide your face in the crook of his neck. “I know,” you whisper against his skin. “I’m desperate.”

He giggles while holding you tight in his embrace and placing kisses on top of your head. You finally remove yourself from his cock, but remain in his arms a little longer. None of you can believe that he came inside you. When you’re horny, you definitely go wild but Jungkook loves it.

“Pumpkin,” he says while caressing your back. “You’re shivering, maybe we should leave the jacuzzi.”

“Don’t want to move,” you pout.

“We have to,” he says. “I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Mmhh,” you say as you hold him tighter.

Since you’re not moving, Jungkook stands up, his arms holding you firmly. There’s no way, he’s staying in there with you freezing. He walks to the bed after grabbing a towel that he put around your body. You stay around him like a koala with your legs wrapped around his waist, not wanting to leave him at all.

After that, you both fell asleep like two babies, exhausted by all the sex you had during the day.

[reiding-writing]

hi!! can you write more of the banter between enemy!reader and spencer but like now he goes beyond limits and like tells her the team would be better without her in their lives or something drastic and then she either goes missing or badly injured by the unsub??

404. /spencer reid/

if spencer is going to continue shutting down all of your ideas for leads in front of the team, then you’re going to track the unsub down yourself. you don’t need his approval anyway.

s1!spencer x enemy!reader 5.8k angst. series masterlist. main masterlist.

CW | typical criminal minds violence, spencer is a real twat, details of kidnapping and grievous bodily harm, catatonic trauma response. imagine this like halfway through season one.

The moment you step into the precinct, you feel it in your chest—a tightness, a heaviness. It’s not just the fatigue of being called in at 3 a.m. or the smell of stale coffee and desperation thick in the air. It’s the kind of tension that says we’ve been chasing ghosts and getting nowhere.

You glance across the briefing room. The local PD is gathered awkwardly along one wall, arms crossed, faces pinched with defensiveness. They’re not happy to have the FBI here. You don’t blame them—getting sidelined in your own case is a bitter pill to swallow. But this unsub isn’t playing fair.

“This is the third victim in two weeks,” the lead detective mutters, flipping through crime scene photos projected onto the wall. “Each time, the unsub leaves a note. Always handwritten. Always addressed to us. Sometimes directly to me.”

Morgan leans forward, eyes narrowing. “He’s taunting you,”

The detective scoffs. “He’s gloating. This one said, ‘You didn’t catch me last time. What makes you think you’ll get it right now?’”

“Classic narcissistic behavior,” Elle murmurs. “But there’s more to it,”

Hotch’s voice is calm but pointed. “He’s not just showing off. He’s testing you. He wants to see if he can outsmart us next.”

You shift in your seat, arms crossed, gaze flicking from photo to photo. The unsub’s pattern is clean, almost surgical. No evidence left behind, no usable prints, no DNA. Victims all abducted within ten miles of each other, murdered within 48 hours, left posed—like the unsub wanted the scene to say something.

Spencer sits to your right, scribbling notes in that tiny chicken scratch of his. You pretend not to notice the way he looks over at you when you suggest a geographic clustering theory.

“I think we should be focusing on the clusters—if the unsub’s circling familiar territory, it could give us a window into their comfort zone. Maybe even a home base,”

Spencer doesn’t even look up. “Or they’re using the local geography as a red herring. Throwing us off on purpose. Which is more likely with his intelligence level,”

You grit your teeth. “Or maybe you just don’t like when someone else has a theory first.”

There’s a flicker of tension across the table. JJ coughs awkwardly. Spencer finally glances over, his eyes sharp behind his curls.

“Just trying to eliminate bias,” he says flatly. “You might want to try that sometime.”

It starts small. A glance. A jab. You throw it back, and the fire spreads.

—

You and Spencer used to be good at this—banter, playful jabs, mutual intellectual sparring. It was light. It was fun. 9 months of almost playful hatred. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being any of those things.

You know why, you both do. But you’re still too stubborn to actually address it. So now, every briefing is a minefield.

“He’s organised,” you say, tapping a finger on the evidence board. “He’s probably keeping souvenirs. There’s no way he’s not revisiting these crime scenes in some capacity,”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “That’s a reach. He’s already getting his fix from the letters. Revisiting is more common in disorganised killers with obsessive traits. But, by all means, let’s base our strategy on assumptions,”

You round on him, the heat rising in your chest. “You always do this—cut people down because they didn’t quote a research paper in their suggestion. Not everything is from a journal article, Reid. Some of us work off instinct

He doesn’t blink. “That’s a shame.”

The room stills. You can feel everyone watching you now—JJ's uncomfortable glance, Morgan’s frown, Hotch’s silent disapproval. Elle shifts like she wants to step in, but thinks better of it.

You clench your jaw. “Just because your IQ is the highest in the room doesn’t mean your word is law,”

“And just because you talk louder doesn’t make you right,”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Gideon’s voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “We are not here to flex egos. We’re here to stop a killer.”

You force yourself to look away, biting down on every retort itching to escape. Spencer doesn’t say another word either, but you can see it in the way he tightens his grip on the pen—he’s not finished. Not even close.

—

By midday, the briefing is over and you’re elbow-deep in case files, staring at photos of victims and crime scene reports that blur together. You’re trying to hold onto the idea that this is about the work, not about him, but Spencer’s voice grates in your head like static.

“Victim number two was killed in a different manner,” you point out, “which might indicate a loss of control or a change in the unsub’s emotional state,”

Spencer scoffs from across the room. “Or it might indicate that your profiling is, yet again, based on faulty interpretation,”

You look up slowly. “You’ve got a real talent for being insufferable,”

He shrugs. “Just pointing out the facts,”

“You’re not pointing out anything. You’re just undermining me. Again.”

He walks closer now, arms crossed, eyes full of cold disdain. “Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with being right, you’d actually be useful,”

Your jaw clenches so tight it hurts. “And maybe if you got over the sound of your own voice, we wouldn’t waste half our cases cleaning up your messes,”

Spencer steps in even closer, and now it’s personal. “You’re reckless. Impulsive. You go off instinct like it’s a badge of honour when really, it just makes you sloppy,”

You fire back without thinking. “You’re emotionally stunted and completely incapable of functioning outside a textbook,”

The words hang in the air like a punch.

Silence spreads. The local cops glance over from their desks. One of them murmurs, “Damn,”

Then Gideon slams his hand on the table.

“Enough,”

His voice is sharp, final. “Both of you. I don’t care how long this has been brewing—this is not the place. You’re acting like children, and you’re making this entire team look like amateurs,”

You glance down, throat burning. Spencer doesn’t say anything. He’s stone-faced, but you can tell from the twitch in his jaw that he’s stewing.

Gideon’s not finished. “I don’t want to hear another word out of either of you unless it pertains directly to the case. Are we clear?”

You nod. Spencer doesn’t move.

“Are we clear?” Gideon repeats.

“Yes, sir,” Spencer mutters.

You don’t trust yourself to speak.

As you start gathering your files, Spencer’s voice cuts through the tension one more time—this time quieter, but not quiet enough.

“You know, we probably would’ve caught him already if you weren’t dragging us down.”

The words hit like a slap. You freeze.

The room goes dead silent.

Spencer looks away like he didn’t just say it. Like it didn’t just split something open.

You don’t respond. Not with words.

You finish collecting your files, slam the folder shut, and walk out of the room without a glance back.

—

You don’t say a word as you walk out of the precinct. You don’t slam the door or stomp your feet—there’s no drama, no outward explosion. Just a quiet, ice-cold silence that coats you like armour.

Let them think whatever they want. Let him think he won.

You move with purpose, jaw tight, eyes fixed ahead. You’re done trying to reason with people who have no interest in listening—especially a certain genius with a superiority complex. You tried to play by the rules, work within the team, but apparently the team doesn't think you have anything worthwhile to offer.

Fine. You’ll do it on your own.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—JJ, probably, or Hotch, maybe even Gideon trying to pull you back into line. You ignore it. Instead, you pull out your notes, flipping through the photographs you took earlier, the ones the team waved off as nothing—redundant, too similar to previous kills, “unremarkable,” Spencer had called them.

But they weren’t. Not to you.

The unsub had made a mistake. A small one, but a mistake nonetheless.

In victim three’s crime scene photo, the position of the body had been ever so slightly rotated compared to the first two—enough that most wouldn’t care, wouldn’t notice. But the shadows were wrong. There was too much light coming in through a window that didn’t face the same direction as the other houses in the neighborhood. And the blood pattern—it had streaked upward at an angle.

Someone had moved the body. After the kill.

You’d mentioned it in passing. Spencer had dismissed it as “grasping at straws.”

Well, straws were all you needed.

—

You hole up in a dingy motel room a few blocks from the latest crime scene, spreading every case file and crime scene photo across the bed like a map to something only you could see. Your eyes flicker between documents, stringing together tiny inconsistencies—the make and model of the air conditioner in victim four’s apartment, the mismatched doorknob in victim one’s home, the off-center towel rack in number five’s bathroom.

The unsub didn’t just kill these people. He replaced things. Adjusted details.

Controlled them, even after death.

You flip back through the files, heart hammering now, and scan the addresses again. You map them out on the motel’s bedside notepad, drawing circles, checking distances between the apartments and the kill sights. Mixing and matching scenes chronologically or otherwise. And then you stumble on it.

A perfect crescent, not random but intentional. All ten locations arced around a center point—a forgotten stretch of suburbia with an abandoned cul-de-sac, a place zoned for housing development ten years ago that never got off the ground.

It’s the only place the unsub hasn’t struck yet.

It’s also the only place that could tie them all together.

You glance at your phone again. The screen is blank. No new calls. No new messages. Not from the team. Not from Spencer.

And maybe that’s a good thing. You don’t need him to validate you. You don’t need anyone.

You grab your gear, shove your files into your bag, and drive.

—

The cul-de-sac is quiet.

Not in the way quiet neighborhoods usually are, but dead quiet. No birdsong. No dogs barking. Just a biting, eerie stillness that settles in your bones the moment you step out of the car.

The houses are in varying states of decay—some half-built and gutted, others with boarded windows and cracked sidewalks. You grip your flashlight tighter as you move through the overgrown path between two units.

You keep your gun low, your ears straining for sound.

The data you gathered had pointed you to the house on the far end—the only one with signs of recent activity. The windows had been cleaned. The door, repainted.

You creep up the porch, careful not to make a sound. Your breath clouds in front of you, and the air feels colder here somehow. Heavier.

You reach for the doorknob. It turns easily.

Unlocked.

That should’ve been your first red flag.

The interior is dark, but not untouched. A table in the front room is neatly set for two. Plates. Silverware. A bottle of wine. It looks more like a dinner party than a murder scene.

You sweep the room, clearing corners, keeping your steps light. Nothing jumps out at you, but your gut won’t stop twisting.

Then you notice it.

On the wall.

A photo.

Your heart stops.

It’s you.

Snapped from the side, no more than a few hours old. Shot through the window of your hotel room, small map of the city in hand. The image is taped to the wall with surgical precision. Below it, a tiny note, one you have to walk right up to to read.

Congratulations.

You barely have time to react.

There’s a sharp sting in your neck.

You reach up instinctively, but your fingers are already clumsy. You turn, try to raise your gun—but the world tilts violently.

A face emerges from the shadows. Smiling. Calm.

“You should be more aware of your surroundings,” he says, almost apologetically.

And then everything goes black.

—

You drift in and out of consciousness. Time becomes slippery—your mind fogged, your limbs numb. Every now and then you feel something cold against your skin, a tug at your wrists, the uncomfortable pinch of something sharp near your ankle.

When you finally come to fully, you’re tied to a chair.

Hands bound behind your back. Ankles strapped to the legs of the chair with zip ties. Your head throbs, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth—blood, probably.

The room around you is dimly lit. It’s not the main house anymore. You’ve been moved.

It looks like a basement. Concrete floors, unfinished walls, a single exposed bulb hanging overhead.

There’s a table nearby, neatly arranged with tools—not weapons. Instruments. Brushes. Tweezers. Surgical gloves.

You inhale shakily. You’ve seen what hems done with them before.

“You’re awake,” a voice says behind you.

You flinch as he steps into view.

The man is unremarkable in every way. Tall-ish, average build. Brown hair, clean-shaven. The kind of face you’d pass on the street and forget within minutes.

“You came here thinking you’d be the hero,” he muses, walking around you like he’s inspecting art. “They all do. You think your badge makes you invincible.”

You don’t say anything. You’re still trying to conserve what little energy you have, mentally calculating your options.

He crouches in front of you, smiling. “You found me. That makes you smart. Smarter than the rest of them, maybe.”

You meet his gaze, steel in your voice despite the pain. “They’ll come looking for me.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replies. “I’ll lead them right to you if I have to. Whether you’ll be salvageable though, is up for debate,”

He walks to the table, picking up a small silver scalpel, running a gloved finger down its edge.

“A portrait is a powerful thing. It’s like capturing a snapshot of a person’s soul. Of course no true portrait is taken without the proper preparations being put in place first.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t show fear.

You just stall.

“They’re going to kill you,” you say evenly. “The second they find out what you’ve done, you’re done.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Then I guess we better speed things along,”

—

The sun had long since set when the rest of the team finally packed up for the night. The precinct lights buzzed with the kind of fatigue only unsolved murders could generate. Tension still clung to every surface, like dust no one could wipe away.

You’d been gone for hours.

And no one noticed.

Gideon assumed you’d taken some space after the confrontation—he’d scolded you both sharply enough in front of the local cops to warrant that kind of retreat. Morgan figured you’d gone to cool off, maybe back to the motel, maybe to follow up on a lead solo out of spite. JJ worried but didn’t say anything, not wanting to stir the already tense dynamic. Elle even offered to call, but Hotch had waved it off.

“She’s probably just blowing off steam,” he said. “We’ll regroup in the morning.”

And Spencer?

Spencer hadn’t said a word. Not one. He’d returned to his paperwork, methodically scribbling notes, analysing patterns, and doing everything in his power to ignore the hollowness you’d left behind.

He told himself you were being petty. Immature. Childish, even. Storming off like a petulant child after a simple observation.

But by morning, the quiet had stretched too long.

The motel clerk confirmed you never came back last night. Your room key remained untouched. Your bed, still made. Your rental car, gone.

JJ’s face turned white. “She always checks in. Always.”

Morgan’s voice was sharper than usual. “She would’ve called if she was going somewhere. Even if she was pissed.”

Elle was already reaching for her phone, scanning through emergency numbers and local hospitals. “We need to start looking now.”

Hotch gave a tight nod, reaching for his radio. “She wouldn’t go dark this long, not in the middle of a case. Not without telling someone.”

Then Gideon walked in with a manila envelope in his hand, face grim. “We just received another message.”

Everyone stilled.

He handed it to Hotch, who opened it slowly, bracing himself. Inside was a note—typed, this time—and a single, polaroid photograph.

JJ read it aloud, voice catching:

“At least one of the FBI Agents you corralled to help was intelligent enough to track me down. Too bad they weren’t prepared for the aftermath.”

Hotch turned the photo toward the group.

You.

Bound, unconscious, head lolled to one side in what looked like a concrete room. Your face was bruised. Blood smeared your temple. Your hands were zip-tied behind you, your body slumped forward like a discarded puppet. The lighting was dim, shadows slashing across your figure like jagged teeth.

A basement. A storage room. Somewhere hidden, somewhere wrong.

JJ gasped.

Morgan swore under his breath.

Elle closed her eyes and muttered, “No…”

And Spencer—Spencer leaned forward slowly, brows knitting as he examined the image.

“We need Garcia to enhance it,” he murmured, already reaching for his phone. “Maybe we can track down the camera. Or a reflection. Or—”

“Well,” he added suddenly, voice clipped, “She obviously wasn’t that intelligent if she got caught,”

The words dropped like a stone in still water.

The entire room turned toward him.

“What did you just say?” Morgan snapped.

JJ’s mouth dropped open. “Spence—”

But it was Gideon who moved first, stepping forward, voice low and dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, “and I will bench you for the rest of this case.”

Spencer blinked. “I didn’t—”

“No.” Gideon cut him off. “I don’t want excuses. I want action. You think you’re the smartest person in the room? Good. Prove it. Use your genius to get over yourself and find her.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything anyone had felt since the case began.

Spencer stared down at the photo, jaw clenched.

And then, finally, he swallowed his pride and got to work.

—

He isolated the enhanced image on the screen of his tablet, pushing aside his guilt and anger like clutter on a desk.

Don’t think about what you said.

Don’t think about the way you looked when you walked out.

Don’t think about the fact that you might not be okay.

Focus. Analyse. That’s what he’s good at.

“Lighting first,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.

He zoomed in on the image, filtering the background. The bulb overhead was exposed, casting distinct shadows.

“That angle suggests a single overhead source,” he muttered. “No side lighting. Probably a basement. At least eight to ten feet deep underground.”

He paused, adjusting the contrast on the image. “There’s no natural light at all, which rules out windows. Walls are unfinished. Cinderblock. Mortar lines are tight… That’s not a pre-’80s build. It’s too clean,”

Morgan leaned in. “So what—newer construction?”

Spencer nodded. “Late 90s or early 2000s. This wasn’t improvised. It was planned. It’s structurally sound, like a finished or semi-finished basement that’s just… been stripped down,”

Elle pointed to the corner of the image. “What’s that? Right behind the chair,”

Spencer zoomed in again. “It looks like… rust. A drainage pipe, maybe. Industrial-grade. Not common in most basements unless there’s risk of flooding. That, combined with the cinderblock, suggests this could’ve been built in an area prone to high groundwater. Maybe even flood plains,”

JJ frowned. “We’re not near the coast,”

“No, but if you look at the housing map…” He switched to a digital layout of the neighbourhood. “This cul-de-sac was supposed to be part of a larger development. Half of it was never completed because the land didn’t pass inspection,”

Hotch narrowed his eyes. “He’s in one of those unfinished units,”

Gideon nodded once. “Then we start there. We canvass the entire development. We don’t stop until we find her.”

Spencer looked at the photo one last time. His throat was dry. His chest ached. He thought of what he’d said—we would’ve caught him if you weren’t dragging us down—and suddenly it sounded less like a petty jab and more like a curse.

He looked up at the team.

“I’m coming with you.”

Hotch nodded. “Good. You’re going to lead the search.”

—

The SUV was quiet on the way to the development site. No one played music. No one made jokes.

Spencer sat in the front seat, his fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against his knee. He was trying not to picture you in that chair. Trying not to imagine what the unsub had done in the hours since that photo was taken. But he couldn’t stop the images.

You, bloody and bound.

You, unconscious and alone.

You, thinking no one was coming.

He had no right to worry.

No right to be scared.

But he was.

The words echoed in his head.

“She obviously wasn’t that intelligent.”

He wanted to take it back. Shove it into his mouth and swallow it down until it never existed. But that’s not how words work. They cut, and they cling, and they stay.

When they arrived at the development, the team split up fast. Morgan and Elle took the north end. JJ stayed with local officers to coordinate grid sweeps. Hotch and Gideon led the way into the southern row—newer units, all empty.

Spencer broke off on his own.

He had a gut feeling. It didn’t feel smart. It didn’t feel strategic. But it felt right.

And for once, he let himself trust that instinct.

The fifth house in the row was quiet.

Too quiet.

The front door was slightly ajar. No visible signs of forced entry. No sound from inside.

The front door creaked open under Spencer’s hand. The house was stale with disuse—thick air and thin silence. He moved cautiously through the entryway, gun raised, heart a thunderous rhythm in his ears.

Every shadow stretched too long. Every corner felt wrong.

Footsteps pounded behind him seconds later—Morgan, Hotch, and Gideon falling in silently. Elle and JJ soon followed through the back, their weapons drawn, movements swift and precise.

Then—

A noise.

A soft creak.

Second floor.

Hotch motioned with two fingers, and the team surged upward.

They found him in one of the back bedrooms. The unsub.

He was standing in front of a half-boarded window, arms crossed, calm like he was waiting for them. No fear. Just smug, eerie satisfaction, the kind that made your skin crawl.

“You’re too late,” he said simply.

Morgan didn’t hesitate. “On the ground! Now!”

But the unsub didn’t comply. He moved fast—reaching for something under his coat.

Hotch fired first. A warning shot into the drywall, forcing the man to freeze mid-movement. Morgan lunged in, tackling him with a grunt. They struggled, fists swinging, feet skidding across the half-carpeted floor.

Spencer stood back, watching the scuffle like it was underwater. His fingers twitched against his sidearm, but he didn’t fire. Couldn’t. His eyes were already scanning—behind the man, past the empty bedframe, to the blood on the floor.

He wasn’t thinking about justice. He was thinking about you.

By the time Gideon and Morgan got the cuffs on the man, Spencer was already moving—down the stairs, through the hallway, toward the door at the far end of the house.

There was a lock on it. Heavy. Old.

Spencer kicked it once. Nothing.

Twice.

On the third kick, the door gave way.

The basement smelled like mold, metal, and something sharper—sweat, maybe. Or blood.

The light flickered overhead as he stepped inside.

And there you were.

Slumped in the same position as the photo, tied to a chair, your wrists bound so tightly they’d gone purple. There was blood at your temple. Bruises down your neck. A split lip. Dirt smeared your cheeks. Rips in your shirt.

But you were breathing.

Barely.

Alive.

He nearly collapsed with the force of the relief.

“Hey,” he said softly, kneeling in front of you. His voice cracked. “Hey. You need to be conscious right now,”

Your eyes fluttered, but didn’t open.

You didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Spencer's voice dropped lower, to fend with a failed attempt at lightheartedness. “You’re at a higher risk of permanent brain injury if you’re unconscious, and I doubt you need that on top of all of your other issues—”

His hands trembled as he reached for the zip ties, too afraid to touch you at first.

Morgan burst in behind him. “We need medics! Now!” he shouted up the stairs.

JJ’s voice echoed from above. “They’re already pulling up!”

Spencer carefully cut the ties, his fingers brushing your wrist. Your skin was cold. Too cold.

He looked at you again, eyes searching for any sign of recognition. A flicker of life. Of you.

Nothing.

When the medics finally came, they moved with military precision, lifting you from the chair, strapping you onto a stretcher. You didn’t resist. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“Low blood pressure. Likely concussion, threads pulse,” one of them said quickly, checking vitals.

They spoke in clipped medical shorthand as they wheeled you out. The words blurred in Spencer’s ears.

He didn’t follow.

Couldn’t.

He stood there, in that grimy basement, staring at the chair you’d been tied to. The blood smeared into the floor. The shredded zip ties left behind like bones.

He should’ve stopped you.

He should’ve known something was wrong last night.

He should’ve said something—anything—besides the venom he’d spat.

His hands curled into fists.

Upstairs, he could hear Morgan shouting at the unsub as he was dragged away.

“You think you’re clever? Huh? You think this makes you some kind of genius?”

The unsub just smiled. “She came to me.”

Spencer’s stomach turned.

—

Outside, the late morning sun was rising, casting long shadows over the front lawn as paramedics loaded you into the ambulance. JJ stood nearby, arms folded tightly, barely breathing.

Elle was silent, her eyes rimmed red.

Hotch was speaking with local police, organising statements and chain of custody. And Spencer stood off to the side, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, face unreadable.

He didn’t go to the ambulance.

Didn’t try to see you again.

He didn’t think he deserved to.

You were silent. Still unresponsive. Not out of stubbornness, not anger, but trauma. Something had shut off in you, and Spencer didn’t know how—or if—you’d be able to come back from that.

He hadn’t just pushed you away.

He’d left you alone long enough to almost die.

—

The hospital was a cold place. The sterile white walls seemed to hold no comfort, and the bright fluorescent lights buzzed incessantly, as if trying to shatter the fragile quiet of the room.

But the team couldn’t shake the relief.

You were alive. Not unscathed—far from it—but alive. The doctors assured them you would recover physically, though they hadn’t made any promises about the mental scars.

But there was a sense of something else in the air, something they couldn’t quite name yet.

Gideon paced outside your room, eyes shadowed by a tiredness that went deeper than just the case. Morgan leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his face taut with unsaid words.

Elle was in the hallway, sitting on a chair with her head in her hands, her phone still in her lap. She hadn’t spoken much since they left the house. JJ hovered near the nurses’ station, keeping herself busy with menial tasks, but her face was pale—gripped by some invisible weight.

And Hotch, though outwardly composed, carried the same heavy air of guilt.

But no one felt it as sharply as Spencer.

He was pacing in the hallway, arms stiff at his sides, a muscle in his jaw twitching with every breath. He hadn’t said a word to anyone since they’d arrived at the hospital, and though he’d checked in with the doctor, he hadn’t really listened.

Spencer’s mind was still replaying the look in your eyes when you were pulled from that basement—the emptiness, the unspoken words, the brokenness. And for the first time, he was painfully aware of the distance that had been wedged between you.

The anger, the insults, the barbed exchanges—it hadn’t been just his defence mechanism, and he hadn’t realised how much damage it had done until now.

But now you were silent, and Spencer could feel the full weight of what he’d done pressing down on him like a vice. You were the one who’d been hurt the most—physically—and still, it was his words that had broken you.

—

When he finally pushed open the door to your room, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting.

You were propped up in bed, the sterile white sheets bunched around your body. Your face was bruised—still swollen—but your eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. There was nothing there. No emotion. No spark. Just an emptiness that he didn’t know how to fill.

Spencer hesitated, his footsteps slow and deliberate as he crossed the room.

You didn’t move when he sat in the chair next to the bed. You didn’t acknowledge him at all. Your gaze remained fixed ahead, unfocused, distant.

For a moment, Spencer just watched you. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but the words didn’t come.

It was only when he spoke, his voice sharp and broken, that the silence shattered.

“What you did was reckless and idiotic,” he said, his tone colder than he intended. “You could’ve died. You left without backup, without even thinking about the risks.” He swallowed, forcing his words to keep coming. “You could’ve—you should’ve—asked for help.”

He paused, waiting for some kind of response. Something—anything—but there was nothing. You didn’t even blink. You just stared ahead, lost in the haze of your own mind.

Spencer’s fingers clenched into fists. “You think this is some kind of game? You think you’re invincible?”

Still nothing.

He leaned in slightly, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. “Goddamn it, I’m trying to help. But you need to stop acting like you’re the only one who matters here. This isn’t just about you.”

Nothing.

The silence stretched on, a taut wire between the two of you, the gap between him and you feeling like an abyss. Spencer couldn’t stand it. His gaze dropped to the floor, a wave of shame crashing over him.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t know how to fix it.

For the first time in his life, Spencer Reid felt like he was completely and utterly lost.

—

The team began to gather in the waiting room outside your room, and no one spoke. Even the air felt thick, like the stillness before a storm.

It was Elle who finally broke the silence. “I can’t…” she trailed off, her voice catching in her throat. “She… she won’t even look at us.”

Hotch, though normally composed, looked exhausted. His hands were folded in his lap, his eyes shadowed by the weight of the situation. “She’s been through hell, Elle. We can’t just… expect everything to go back to normal.”

Gideon looked up from his place near the door. “No, it’s not that simple,” he said quietly, voice low but unwavering. “But I’ve seen this before. Trauma like this… it changes you.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the door to your room. “She’s going to need time, and we’re going to need patience. But we also need to acknowledge what we did wrong,”

The room grew quieter, each member processing the truth in their own way.

Morgan, who had been pacing with his hands in his pockets, spoke up. “Spencer’s not handling this well. But none of us are.” His voice was strained, but it held a sense of certainty. “We didn’t see it. We didn’t see how bad it was getting for her.”

JJ closed her eyes briefly, guilt flooding her expression. “We should’ve known. We should’ve stepped in. The way she and Spencer were fighting—it was too much. We should’ve told them both to stop before it got to this point,”

“I’m just…” Elle’s voice wavered. “I’m just so angry at him. How could he say those things to her? He was the one who pushed her.” Her eyes were wide, a mix of disbelief and hurt. “He acted like he didn’t even care, like she didn’t matter

Hotch sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “We all failed her in some way.” His eyes flicked to Gideon. “And now Spencer’s struggling to process the fact that it’s his words that have hurt her the most,”

Gideon nodded slowly. “There’s no way to fix it right away. But what matters now is how we move forward. For her. Not for us.”

[dazedantics]

Mark doesn't like pair projects.

It's not that he's better at working alone. He'd much rather have one or more people there to help get the job done since he isn't exactly the brightest.

But every time the teacher starts, "Alright, this next assignment you're gonna be in pairs." He'll sit there, gripping his worn pencil praying to himself, "please pick our partners, please pick our partners," over and over.

He isn't often so lucky.

See, Mark doesn't have any friends in this class. Or in general. So he never has the luxury to make knowing-eye-contact with that one person he knows will always partner with him for anything.

If only William were here. Then he wouldn't have to look so obviously nervous as the seconds pass.

He'll sit at his desk pretending to be busy. Mussing with his notebook, digging through his backpack, fixing his shoelaces, a weak ploy that buys him some time for someone to hopefully come over and pick him first. Or at least enough time for everyone else to pair, the moving bodies distracting the teacher away from him starting the work. Alone. In the back of the classroom. The far back where he goes unnoticed as usual.

He thought the stares the pairs next to him give, whispering as he slumps into his chair to further get out of sight, were bad enough. They knew him as the lone weirdo at this point.

But lately his tactics of laying low have failed as his teacher started asking you to invite him to join your group.

You're kind enough about it. Smiling and taking his hand as you lead him over to your desk. Neither you nor your partner mention how the teacher told you to talk to him. And he doesn't bring it up either.

He's grown a little relieved actually. Still does his lingering-by-the-backpack thing until you come and drag him over. But at least he has the peace of mind knowing he won't be solving all these confusing packets alone.

But then you start bringing your stuff over to sit at his desk instead. Setting out your notes, reading over the instructions and asking him where you should start.

"We can split up the research part to make this faster. And it's a bit like that last assignment we had, so I'm pretty sure we could just paraphrase what we already wrote there instead."

He looks over your shoulder, searching for your usual partner, thinking they're about to come and join you. But they don't.

Okay, weird. Maybe they're just not here today?

"It's due by the end of the week, so we could take turns bringing it home for the artsy parts?"

He's a bit too distracted by the sight of your friend elsewhere in the room, working with their own partner already.

"Mark?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Sounds great. Um ... let's start?"

You work on the project together and it's not so different from doing it in a group of three. Just glad to have someone to split the work with, he decides he doesn't need to ask why you chose to go to him first this time.

Until you start going to him again. And again. And again.

You even choose to sit at the desk next to his once the teacher does that "pick your own seat" thing every quarter.

Then he just has to ask.

He watches you as your scrawl on the poster board. Hand nervously scratching his neck, biting the inside of his lip, foot tapping before he speaks.

"Why are you here?"

"Hm?" You finally look up from your work.

His stomach feels jittery. He fears for his phrasing in case you suddenly realize you had enough of him and decide to punch him in the gut.

"You know. Like ... why are you sitting with me? Don't you want to be working with your friend?"

You pause, pencil hovering above the page. "Do you ... want me to go away?"

What? He didn't just accidentally push you away from him, did he?

"No, no! It's not that at all! In fact, I'd love it if you didn't leave me ever. I mean- not like that! I just mean that, uh, you just- you never bothered to partner with me before? You know, if the teacher is making you stick with me for some reason, you really don't have too. And um, you haven't been around your friend much recently? Since you're with me."

He wasn't sure where to look as he awaited your answer.

Your sudden smile made his gut churn even more. Was that a condescending smile or?

"Well, the teacher did ask us to at first. But, you're actually kinda cool. I like working with you. And my friend has been busy trying to flirt with their crush. And I dunno about you, but I'd rather not be stuck as the third wheel for any situation." You chuckled.

His stomach seemed to be flipping. Was he feeling sick?

"So is that why you've been acting nervous this whole time, or are you really always like this?"

He cleared his throat, shifting to sit up straighter. "Um yeah, no. I, uh, that's ... that's all I ...," he sniffed. "Um, so problem five?"

You laughed again, scooting closer and placing a hand on his paper to shift it toward you.

You didn't seem as painfully aware of how close your soft hands were to his plain ones.

"What don't you understand about it this time?"

He was aware you'd gone over this certain problem over ten times already, but he was positive he wasn't going to be able to focus on it any better now that he had a whole slew of new questions to flood his mind.

You think he's cool?

Well, if you think that good about him now, what other good things do you think about him?

Do you think about him a lot when you're at home?

Could you start to?

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

This Wasn’t in the Contract

Word Count: 1,6k

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: When a gossip account claims Lando Norris has a secret girlfriend, he jokingly confirms it—except he names you, his childhood best friend, as his mysterious partner. Now, you’re stuck fake-dating the most unserious man on the grid.

________________________________________________________

Chapter 1: A Joke Gone Too Far

You weren’t the type to start your day by checking celebrity gossip, but apparently, you should have been.

Because if you had, maybe you wouldn’t have woken up to 237 unread messages and a phone call from your mother screaming, “HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME YOU’RE DATING LANDO?!”

“…What?” Your brain was still booting up, barely processing her words as you squinted at the sunlight streaming through your blinds.

“Don’t play dumb! It’s all over Twitter! ‘Lando Norris soft-launches secret girlfriend!’”

That got your attention. You bolted upright, nearly knocking your laptop off the bed. “Lando did what?”

“I don’t know, you tell me! Did you think I wouldn’t find out? The neighbors are texting me about it! The neighbors!”

You barely heard her as you scrolled through your phone, your heart pounding. Sure enough, there it was—a blurry paparazzi photo of Lando, looking suspiciously happy as he walked through Monaco. The caption?

Lando Norris spotted out with mystery girlfriend. Who is she?

Well, it’s not me, that’s for sure.

But the real problem wasn’t the article. No, the problem was the Twitter chaos that followed.

@F1TeaSpill: Lando Norris has a secret girlfriend… my life is over.

@WAGwatch: McLaren’s golden boy is TAKEN. The girl remains unknown, but sources say they’ve been dating for months.

And then, the worst part.

A verified tweet from Lando himself.

@LandoNorris: Fine, you caught me. It’s Y/n. We wanted to keep it private, but oh well.

You stared at the screen in horror.

“…I’m going to kill him.”

Your mom gasped. “I knew you were dating! My baby girl is in love!”

You hung up.

________________________________________________________

Chapter 2: How to Accidentally Get a Girlfriend

It took exactly four angry phone calls and one very aggressive Uber ride to track Lando down at his apartment. The second he opened the door, you shoved your phone in his face.

“What. The. Fuck.”

Lando blinked at you, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He was still in his pajamas—a McLaren hoodie and boxers, because of course he was. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

You ignored him, scrolling aggressively through Twitter. “Did you—did you seriously just announce to the entire world that we’re dating?!”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, so, hear me out—”

“No.”

“—I thought it would be funny.”

You took a deep breath. Counted to five. “You thought it would be funny?”

“In my defense, it was funny.”

You smacked his arm. “Lando!”

“OW—okay, okay, look!” He took a step back, holding up his hands. “There was this dumb article saying I had a secret girlfriend, and people wouldn’t shut up about it. So I thought, why not have a little fun? I didn’t think people would actually believe me!”

You stared at him, unamused. “Lando. You have millions of followers. Of course they believed you!”

“…Oh.”

“Oh?”

He winced. “I mean… in hindsight, yeah, that makes sense.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “This is so bad. My mom thinks it’s real. People are probably stalking my Instagram as we speak!”

Lando hesitated. “So… what if we just roll with it?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, that signature cheeky smile that meant he was about to say something very stupid. “Think about it! We fake date for a while, mess with the media, then ‘break up’ later. It’s the perfect plan.”

You scoffed. “Perfect for who?”

“Both of us!” He threw an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the way you stiffened. “You get clout, I get people off my back about my dating life, and—bonus!—we get to mess with the internet. Win-win-win.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. “That’s literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“…But?”

“…But it would be kinda funny.”

He gasped. “So you’ll do it?”

You sighed. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but fine. One month. That’s it.”

Lando beamed. “Deal. Now, let’s get to work.

You frowned. “Work?”

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Time for our first ‘couple’ Instagram post.”

You were already regretting this.

________________________________________________________

Chapter 3: The ‘Soft Launch’ Debacle

If someone had told you that by noon, you’d be sitting on Lando’s couch with him hovering over you, analyzing potential Instagram captions for your fake couple post, you would have laughed in their face.

Yet, here you were.

“This one’s good,” Lando said, showing you his phone.

You squinted at it. ‘My ride or die. ❤️’

“No,” you said flatly.

He pouted. “Why not? It’s cute!”

“It’s cringe.”

Lando rolled his eyes, flopping onto the couch beside you. “Fine. What about—‘Finally caught myself a podium-worthy girl’?”

You stared at him. “Lando.”

“Yes, love?”

“Shut up.”

He burst into laughter, nearly falling off the couch. “Come on, Y/n, help me out here! We need to be convincing.”

You sighed. “Can’t we just post a normal picture?”

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p.’ “We need romance. We need passion.”

“We need therapy,” you muttered.

But you gave in. Because somehow, against all logic, you’d agreed to this stupid fake-dating scheme. You allowed Lando to take a selfie of the two of you, his arm slung around your shoulders, his grin wide and cheeky while you tried not to look like you wanted to strangle him.

Fifteen minutes later, it was live.

@LandoNorris: She said yes. ❤️

“…Lando,” you said slowly.

“Hmm?”

“This makes it sound like we’re engaged.”

“Oops.”

“Oops?!”

But it was too late. Twitter had already exploded.

@F1GossipGirl: WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE SAID YES??

@McLarenFan4Life: Engaged. ENGAGED. I need a moment.

@Y/nDefender: okay but if y/n makes him less of a menace on the track i support it

You groaned. “You suck.”

Lando, completely unbothered, smirked. “Oh, fiancée, you wound me.”

You were going to kill him.

________________________________________________________

Chapter 4: McLaren is Concerned

The next day, you made a mistake.

You agreed to physically show up at McLaren’s HQ with Lando.

You should have known it was a bad idea when, the second you stepped inside, his PR manager spotted you and immediately looked stressed.

“Lando.” The poor man looked like he hadn’t slept since 2018. “Care to explain?”

Lando, ever the picture of innocence, grinned. “Explain what?”

The PR manager sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The engagement. The internet meltdown. The sponsorship offers from wedding brands.”

You choked. “Wait—what?”

Lando just laughed. “People love love, mate.”

The PR manager turned to you, exasperated. “Are you really engaged?”

You opened your mouth to deny it—

“She doesn’t like labels,” Lando cut in smoothly, throwing an arm around your waist.

You resisted the urge to shove him into a wall.

“…Right.” The PR manager didn’t look convinced. “Well, just… keep it under control, okay? We don’t need another Daniel Ricciardo social media incident.”

You weren’t sure what that meant, but judging by the way Lando immediately sobered up, it was serious.

“Got it,” Lando said, suddenly obedient.

You made a mental note to ask Daniel about that later.

________________________________________________________

Chapter 5: Paparazzi and Near-Death Experiences

Two weeks into the fake-dating scheme, things escalated.

First, the paparazzi started following you everywhere. Which was fine—except for the fact that Lando used this as an opportunity to be an absolute menace.

“Y/n, darling,” he said loudly one day outside a café, dramatically pulling you into a dip like you were in a bad rom-com.

You struggled in his grip. “Put me down before I punch you.”

“Ah, my sweet, violent love,” he sighed.

The cameras loved it.

Then, there was the incident with the McLaren team barbecue.

The entire grid had been invited, which meant you were subjected to hours of hearing Max and Charles tease Lando about his ‘wife.’

“She must be an angel to put up with you,” Max had joked, sipping his drink.

“I’m a delight,” Lando shot back.

You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to blush when Charles leaned over and whispered, “I think he actually likes you.”

Which was ridiculous. Obviously. Right?

Right.

(Then Lando draped his jacket over you later that night when it got cold, and you started questioning everything.)

________________________________________________________

Chapter 6: The Fake Breakup Plan

By the third week, you and Lando had a problem.

Your parents—who had never once taken anything you did on the internet seriously—fully believed you were dating.

Which wouldn’t have been a big deal, except now your entire family wanted to meet Lando.

“My mom keeps asking if we’re doing a destination wedding,” you hissed one evening, pacing around Lando’s apartment.

He snorted. “Tell her I’m thinking Monaco.”

“Lando, focus!”

He grinned. “Relax. We’ll just fake a breakup.”

You paused. “…How?”

“Easy.” He leaned back, stretching. “I’ll cheat on you.”

You nearly choked on air. “Excuse me?!”

“Not really,” he said, rolling his eyes. “We’ll stage something. Maybe I get ‘caught’ with a model or something.”

You frowned. “…We could just say we broke up because we realized we’re better as friends.”

He stared at you. “Where’s the drama in that?”

“You love drama.”

“I live for it,” he agreed.

You groaned. “Fine. But no cheating scandal. We’ll figure something else out.”

Lando pouted. “Boring.”

You ignored him, but deep down, a tiny part of you was unreasonably annoyed at the thought of him fake-dating someone else.

Which was dumb. Because this wasn’t real.

Right?

Right.

…Shit.

________________________________________________________

Chapter 7: When Fake Starts Feeling Real

Somewhere along the line, you stopped noticing when Lando reached for your hand in public.

You stopped flinching when he casually draped an arm around your shoulders.

And you definitely didn’t mind when he pulled you into his side during movie nights, letting you steal his hoodie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was fake. You knew that.

But then, one night, he looked at you—really looked at you—and said softly, “You know, I think I’d actually marry you.”

And for the first time, you didn’t have a comeback.