#like FBI or CIA or something | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fandom-imagines-stories · 8 months ago

Text

Fire Drill

Aaron Hotchner x Reader

Words: 2020

Requested by Anon: Hi can you do one where the reader is pregnant and she comes to visit Hotch at work and when she’s getting ready to leave she trips on the last step and hotch and the team rush to her side and hotch force her to go to the hospital to get checked out

Notes: Okay, I know I don’t do requests, but this just seemed like such a nice break after finishing part one of The In-Betweens S3. I’m not opening requests, but thank you for sending this in because I had fun writing it. I’ve never written for Hotch before, so it was nice to branch out! I hope you like it.

More Criminal Minds: HERE

He hadn’t been expecting you, otherwise he would have told you not to come. It was chaos in the bullpen, FBI and CIA scrambling about to finish wrapping up the case- a rogue agent on a kidnapping spree to get information on his family’s deaths.

Aaron couldn’t help but pity him. The man’s wife and two daughters were killed in a car accident, but the nature of his work made him paranoid enough to convince him of foul play. And, while the CIA had been reluctant to cooperate, the working teams were able to reach a peaceful conclusion, the agent facing trial and the victims sent home to their families and lives.

You were surprised to find the BAU so busy. Of course, your husband hadn’t been allowed to disclose anything about the case, but you suspected it must have been big to require all this manpower.

“Mrs. Hotchner!” A friendly voice called over the commotion.

Agent Jareau’s smiling face appeared from a sea of serious scowls.

“JJ,” you smiled, relieved to finally see someone familiar. “What’s going on, Strauss’s retirement party?”

She laughed and made a face of ‘I wish.’

“Big case. Long story.” She took your hand to lead you through the wall of suits. “Hotch is in his office.”

“I think I see him.” You stood on your tiptoes to get a glimpse into the elevated office but there were just too many people. “Where’s the team?”

JJ laughed and pointed to the conference room. “Hiding.”

Sure enough, you could just spot the lanky form of Dr. Reid standing in front of the board, solving some long and complex equation. Agents Morgan and Prentiss were discussing something about the file in front of them and Dave Rossi looked like he just wanted to go home.

While you watched them, another agent barreled by you, hardly noticing that you were even there, let alone that they’d almost knocked you over. Stumbling back, you reached for something to grab onto.

A hand took hold of yours.

“Careful,” Aaron, despite his cautious tone, gave you a small smile. “It’s a circus in here.”

“So I noticed, Mr. Ringleader,” you beamed, kissing his cheek.

“Is everything okay? You didn’t tell me you were coming.” His eyes flicked down to your middle, worry growing with his words.

You held up a to-go bag with your free hand.

“Lunch emergency. Code red, Agent Hotchner.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, come on.” Keeping hold of your hand, he guided you through the mess to the somewhat quiet refuge of his office. He closed the door behind him, sighing with relief.

“You have no idea how nice it is to see you.”

“I should hope so.” You gave him a mock pout. “You’ve been holed up here for two days. I missed you.”

“I know.” He leaned down, kissing you sweetly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You rustled his hair. “Hence, lunch.” You set the bag of pasta on his desk. “Mariano’s.”

Aaron smiled, leaning his head back with a happy sigh. “You’re a saint.”

“I know.” You took the containers from the bag and placed them on his desk. “The team looks tired.” You handed him a fork.

“It’s been a long few days.” Aaron took on his serious work-voice. He gazed out over the bullpen. There was a tension you knew all too well built up in his shoulders. Like he held the weight of the world on them.

“Seems like it.” Tearing off a piece of garlic bread, you watched him watch the world. He stood there for a while before you gently grabbed his hand. “Aaron.” You brought his hand to your lips. “Eat.”

Like snapping out of a trance, your husband returned to himself, his eyes softening and the hard set of his mouth lifting into a smile.

Aaron moved his chair around his desk to sit beside you rather than across, his leg grazing yours. You passed him the garlic bread.

“So,” you started, popping a piece into your mouth, “anything not super-secret-classified about your day?”

He thought for a moment. “Reid recited three pages of Freud from memory, Garcia continues to scare me with her hacking ability and my beautiful wife brought me lunch.” His leg nudged yours again affectionately. “What about you?”

“Nothing special,” you shrugged. “I just got assigned the Brunner case.”

Aaron coughed, nearly choking on his chicken parm.

“The ADA’s giving it to you?”

Your face broke into a wide, excited smile. You nodded. “She said, and I quote ‘You’re the only one I trust to get that bastard behind bars.’” You beamed.

Aaron set his food aside and pulled you into his arms. “Sweetheart, that’s amazing.” He kissed your forehead, then your lips.

Your husband wasn’t one for PDA, so any exception always made you feel like a blushing schoolgirl.

“I start prep on Monday,” you said as he sat back again. “Then maybe you’ll be the one waiting up for me.” You stole a bite of his meal. “Lot of late nights in my future.”

His excitement slowly morphed into concern.

“Before you say anything, I already spoke with Dr. Brown, and she said I'll be fine as long as I still get plenty of rest.”

“And do you actually plan on getting plenty of rest?”

You raised a brow, teasing, “Are you the pot or the kettle in this scenario?”

He snorted. “Well, honey, I’m not four months pregnant.”

“I could still kick your ass in court and you know it, Agent Hotchner,” you smirked.

“I don’t doubt it.” He picked at his food, seemingly lost in pleasant thought.

You, content that you’d won the potential argument, glanced back out at the office. A harsh tension still hung in the air, the two agencies clearly not thrilled to share their success with the other. Familiar faces emerged from the other room, prompting your question.

“Have you told them yet?”

“Told who what?” Aaron asked, pretending to be more focused on his food than what was on his mind.

You rolled your eyes. “The team. About…” You pointed at your almost-showing belly.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “No.”

“You should.” You looked at Reid’s fidgeting hands and Prentiss’s tired frown. “They look like they could use some exciting news.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. You may not have been a profiler, but you knew your husband.

Telling them made it real. Real meant the real world. The real world meant danger. Danger meant loss. The longer you could both live in the beautiful, safe, fantasy world, the easier it seemed.

“Aaron-” You started, but were interrupted by an awful shrill mechanical shriek. You grimaced, putting your hands over your ears. “Don’t tell me there’s a fire drill.”

Aaron shook his head, worry settling into his expression.

“Stay close to me.”

You made no argument there. Regretfully abandoning your meals, Aaron kept an arm around you as you reentered the chaos. People were cramming around the staircase doors, shouting and grumbling at each other.

“So much for ‘calm and orderly fashion’,” you muttered.

Aaron gently tugged on your arm. “This way.”

One of the doors had a shorter line, but only slightly. By the time you made it through the door, the stairwell was packed with people hurrying down, paying no attention to the people around them. At some point, Aaron lost hold of your hand.

“Y/N?” He called out.

That’s when he saw you fall.

You didn't even see who ran into you. They just rammed into you from the side, pushing their way down the stairs. Your foot caught on the wall, your arms reeling for something to grab onto, but unlike last time, you weren’t fast enough. You tumbled forward. The people in front of you kept moving, leaving a set of hard stone stairs to break your fall.

“Y/N!” Aaron yelled.

You hit the ground and were pretty sure someone stepped on you. Catching yourself with your left hand, you felt a sudden, painful snap. You bit back the scream of pain, but it escaped nonetheless.

“Everybody move!” Aaron’s commanding, panicked voice took over the stairwell, joined by other voices.

“Mrs. Hotchner, are you okay?” Dr. Reid appeared in front of you. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“It’s my wrist,” you winced, trying to move your fingers. “But I think I’m okay.”

Someone lifted you up.

“We need to get her to the hospital,” Aaron said. His dark eyes were wide and frantic and focused on you.

Morgan rushed by. “I’ll get the car.”

“Aaron, I’m okay,” you said again, but he ignored you.

“Prentiss, find out what’s going on,” he ordered. “There shouldn’t be a drill.” He feared the worst. This was planned. Someone was waiting outside to gun everyone down. Someone was after you.

“On it.” She hurried off as well.

“I didn’t get a chance to examine it fully, but it looks like it might be broken,” Reid added.

“Aaron-”

“You’re going to be okay.” He spoke more to himself than to you. “You’ll be okay.”

You were, in fact, fine. A broken wrist, sure, but all together could have been worse. But then came his second concern. One you could clearly see on his face as he spoke to the doctor.

“You really freaked him out,” Agent Prentiss said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this.”

“I told him everything was fine,” you sighed, laying a hand over your middle. You didn’t know how, but you could just tell everything was alright. It had to be. But he needed to be sure. “Thank you, Agent Prentiss. For getting to the bottom of it all.”

“Please, call me Emily.” She smiled. “He must have thought it was something planned and sinister.”

Someone had put a fork in the microwave. Apparently, agents are definitely not geniuses. Except for Dr. Reid, of course.

You laughed. “The dangers of your job, huh?”

She shrugged.

A moment passed.

“So are you going to tell everyone?” She blurted.

Your mouth fell open.

Emily raised a brow. “It isn’t hard to guess by the way he looked at you. And you haven’t taken your arms off your stomach since you got here.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms fully. “Profilers.”

She laughed and put a hand on yours. “I’m sure everything is fine.”

Aaron walked into the room with the seriousness he usually reserved for cases. But when he looked at you, he let out a sigh of relief.

“Dr. Brown said everything is fine.”

“I told you.”

You wouldn’t admit it, but for a second you were terrified. But seeing him happy and relieved made it all go away.

He was at your side in seconds, kissing the top of your head.

“You thought Brunner was after me, didn’t you?” You asked, realizing why he’d been so interested in the alarm.

“It crossed my mind.”

“Yeah, well,” you gripped his tie and pulled his lips to yours. “He’s going to have to try harder than a spoon in the microwave.”

“That’s not funny.”

You kissed him again. “It’s a little funny.”

The whole team was waiting, each looking more worried than the last.

“Guys, I didn’t get shot,” you teased. You held up the cast on your arm for emphasis.

“We know.” Reid gulped, fidgeting with his sleeve. “You just seemed to fall pretty hard and-”

“We just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” JJ said.

You peered at each of them and put your good hand on your hip.

“Alright, how many of you know?”

The pretend confusion on their faces told you all you needed. You cast an exasperated look at your husband.

“Damn profilers.”

The group laughed. Dave gave you a hug and Morgan shook Aaron’s hand.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Hotchner.” Dr. Reid said, smiling through his usual timidness. He turned to Hotch. “I’m really happy for both of you.”

“Thank you, Reid,” Aaron said. The two embraced, the sight warming your heart.

You wrapped your arms around your husband. Aaron kissed your temple.

And you would be okay.

#criminal minds imagines #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #thomas gibson

787 notes · View notes

cosmosluckycharms · 2 months ago

Text

Bug like angel incorrect quotes yet again

miguel version

honestly could also be read as non bug like angel idk

Kidnapper: We have your daughter

miguel: I don’t have a daughter?

Kidnapper: Then who just asked for warm milk and made us cut the crusts off her sandwich?

miguel: Oh god, you have spider!reader

spider!reader: This is miguel, he's… not my assistant, some other word.

miguel: I’m her carer.

spider!reader: Yeah, my carer. he cares so I don’t have to.

spider!reader, trying her first ever cup of coffee: I am ENERGY!

miguel, an avid coffee drinker, on his twelfth cup of the day: Someone slap me awake or I am literally going to fall into a coma in ten seconds.

miguel: spider!reader, can you help me? All of my clothes keep disappearing for some reason.

spider!reader, wearing a hoodie that's 5 times bigger than her size: Spooky.

spider!reader, very tired: Can I sleep in your bed?

miguel: *half asleep* spider!reader, this is a queen-sized bed. That means it’s for *gestures vaguely to himself* the Queen.

spider!reader: School sucks.

miguel: I know, but you have to do it so you can get a job.

spider!reader: What are jobs like?

miguel: They suck.

spider!reader: Holy shit, miguel, do you know what this means?!

miguel: Kid, whenever you start doing this, nobody knows what you mean.

miguel: Are you ever going to listen to me?

spider!reader: Yes. Absolutely.

miguel: When?

spider!reader: When you're right.

miguel: Why are you like this??

spider!reader: I used too much "No More Tears" shampoo as a kid and I haven't felt a single emotion since.

spider!reader: You believe me?

miguel: spider!reader, you’re the last good person on this planet. I‘d believe cartoon birds braided your hair this morning.

miguel: What are you doing here?

spider!reader: I could ask you the same question.

miguel: I live here. This is my house.

spider!reader: I should probably ask you a different question.

miguel: I'm going the fight the next person who insults spider!reader.

spider!reader: I hate myself.

miguel: Alright, square up.

spider!reader: Bitch.

miguel: Blocked.

spider!reader: Wait unblock me I need to tell you something.

miguel: Unblocked.

spider!reader: Bitch.

miguel: I can never give spider!reader shit because I’m jealous of them. They look at their life and say, “Sweet! This is perfect!”

miguel: I look at my life and say, “Welp. Time to get drunk.”

spider!reader: I want a trip down memory lane.

miguel: *proceeds to grab every warrior cats book they have and sets them in spider!reader's lap*

miguel: I heard you needed these?

spider!reader: YES! ALL OF THEM!

miguel: In the past year you have managed to piss off the LAPD, ATF, CIA, FBI-

spider!reader: NBA.

miguel: …?

spider!reader: Snuck into a Cliffords game.

spider!reader: I got grounded for a whole week just because I came home late.

miguel: Well, you deserved it. I mean, getting everyone's hopes up like that and then showing up again.

miguel: You’re alive.

spider!reader: No need to sound so disappointed.

spider!reader: Why does my arm shake and turn bright red when I’m eating dirt?

miguel: Why are you eating dirt?

spider!reader: Did I ask you if I should eat dirt? No, so answer my question.

miguel: spider!reader, no.

spider!reader: spider!reader, yes.

spider!reader: Here comes the lightning!

spider!reader, whispering: You've got to imagine it coming out my fingertips, wherein I am an almighty wizard.

miguel: Ok, currently imagining that. Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all.

spider!reader: Am I in trouble?

miguel: Take a guess.

spider!reader: No? miguel:

Take another guess.

spider!reader: So what’s for dinner?

miguel: I can’t tell you, it’s a soup-prise!

spider!reader: …

spider!reader: Is it soup?

miguel: I soup-pose it could be! *winks*

spider!reader: Please, enough with the soup puns!

miguel: Wow, you’re soup-per mean.

spider!reader: STOP! *one hour later*

spider!reader: It’s fucking tacos?!?!?!

miguel: spider!reader, are you drinking… drinking hydrogen peroxide?!

spider!reader: It says H2O2! That means it’s the sequel to water!

miguel: spider!reader, I beg of you. Please, PLEASE go to the doctor.

spider!reader Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?

miguel: *Turns on the kitchen light*

spider!reader: *Sitting at the table, eating bread*

miguel: It’s four in the morning.

spider!reader: Turn the light back off.

spider!reader: I’m the smartest, wisest person in this group.

miguel: Really? Then why is your hand stuck in a vending machine?

spider!reader: I paid for my Mars Bar, I’m getting my Mars Bar.

spider!reader: *is throwing stones at miguel's window*

miguel: You have a phone for a reason, spider!reader!

*THUD*

miguel: DID YOU JUST THROW YOUR PHONE AT MY WINDOW?!

miguel: *very seriously* You need to stop doing weird things to cope with the stress. Going outside might help.

spider!reader: I went to the park today.

miguel: There you go! I hope you got something from that.

spider!reader: *opening their coat* This duck.

pt 1 cause theres gonna be more i js ran out of image space

#spider bat!reader #miguel x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel spiderman #spiderman 2099 #platonic #x teen!reader #x child reader #miguel ohara #spider reader #spider!reader #father figure #father figure miguel

318 notes · View notes

kiyomitakada · 8 months ago

Text

i know its a classic. possibly cliche already. but i do wonder about Tumblr In The Death Note Universe probably more than i should

2 notes

💅 toxicbff Follow

if i see one more post attributing kira's powers to ~supernatural powers~ instead of the obvious fact that the cia is doing a coup I'm going to start giving You the heart attacks

💅 toxicbff

of course i saw the news how does that not prove my point further

the idea that all the police around the world could be mobilized by one single person is ridiculous (just look at this list of how many civilian militia there are globally)

heart attack victims don't seize the way "lind l tailor" did

i don't know how to tell you that You Can't Kill People Just By Knowing Their Name And Face because this is Real Life and not the newest grimdark marvel villain

people need to stop being scared of the ~bogeyman in the closet~ and wake up to the fact that usamerica is trying to take over the goddamned world

💅 toxicbff

im going to kill you all and nuke this website

#sayonara you weeaboo shits

2,925 notes

👾 lets-go-geeks Follow

DO TRUMP NEXT

🕵🏾‍��️ penny-penelope Follow

LIKES TO CHARGE REBLOGS TO CAST

16,375 notes

❤️‍🔥 lovesickened Follow

i know its stupid but im so fucking scared for my brother i heard that seven people died this week at the prison he's in and iinjust dont kenow what to do ihate him for ehat he did to mom but i never wanted him to die

#vent tw #delete later

0 notes

🏎 fastandyurious Follow

if i get a single more comment about why i don't tag "genderbend" on my kiratective fics i'm going to blow up the entire building. we don't know EITHER of their genders. why don't YOU tag your mediocre yaoi genderbend instead

🔆 sparkling-world Follow

…OP, you realize the news reports all consistently use "he," right?

🏎 fastandyurious

of course i do???? just because you see something on the news doesn't mean you have to believe it?????? they don't have any information on kira yet but i'm supposed to believe the fbi knows their gender already??????? also kira is literally a fucking girl's name my classmate in elementary school was called kira

🔆 sparkling-world

Kira comes from the Japanese romanization for "killer," it isn't gendered whatsoever.

Also, evidence shows the majority of serial killers are male, so I'd argue that the statistics favor the fujoshis here.

🏎 fastandyurious

well evidence shows that female serial killers are just more fun to write about and I'd argue that you're ignoring my fucking POINT which is that we DON'T KNOW KIRA'S GENDER and if people don't want to read lesbian kiratective they can FUCK OFF MY BLOG

🥚 i-offer-eggman Follow

I offer you an Eggman in these trying times.

🔮 I-stands-for-le-gay Follow

@lashitpostcalligrapher yo can i get "the statistics favor the fujoshis" on my tombstone

#fandom: kira rpf #ship: kiral #never heard it called kiratective before… #also uh. prayer circle for op's classmate lmaoooo

2,107 notes

💃🏻 modelingmadness Follow

BOYCOTT EIGHTEEN MAGAZINE

THEY ALLOW KIRA-SUPPORTING MODELS AND ARE COMPLICIT IN THIS MASSACRE

SOURCES HERE AND HERE (TRIGGER WARNING: KIRA DISCUSSION)

PUSH BACK AGAINST HEART ATTACKS

🧚🏽‍♂️ harubaru Follow

golly gee ^_^ suddenly i feel like taking to the high seas in a way that the eighteen company cant get profit from. oh no ! who left this link here

🐦‍⬛ kuro--misa Follow

thanks for the link but jesus fucking christ man what happened to free speech. misa-misa's parents were killed by a burglar who kira punished. did you all expect her to just sit there, look pretty, and say nothing about it?

you people only like models when they're nice pictures for you to consume. you only like them two-dimensional and smiling and hot. the second a woman actually speaks her mind she's thrown to the wolves

💃🏻 modelingmadness

DID YOU NOT SEE MY BANNER YOU PIECE OF SHIT

#BLOCKED

140 notes

🐦‍⬛ kuro--misa Follow

lol. lmao even

#they blocked me but whatever #official eighteen site just said misamisa wont be in the next issue #(eighteen sucks but i kind of want to use it more out of spite now) #so much for apologism huh? #god. i feel sick. #hasn't she been through enough.

1 note

🥷🏻 kira-imagines Follow

Imagine you're going home after a long day. Suddenly there's a sound. "Huh? Whose there" you ask, dropping your keys on the floor. Then you feel it. A knife pressing in your neck.

"Don't move kitten" Kira purrs behind you. "You're all mine now…"

#kiraxreader #kiraxoc #kira #kira rpf #kira investigation #kira fucker #kira fudger #kira lover #kira haters dont touch #kira haters please touch #kira supporters please touch #l

5,733 notes

asahi-the-student-deactivated201

Hello, everyone! My little sister told me about this microblogging platform (I admit, I'm a Twitter refugee) and that many of you are discussing the Kira investigation on here. I'm really interested in hearing what your thoughts are!

💋 sunny-sayu Follow

let the record show he lasted like. a day

#i think it was the imagines that did him in #bro is so sensitive :p

15 notes

kiyomitakada

the world could be beautiful

[next post]

[ @deathnotetober day 14: trigger ]

#death note #light yagami #sayu yagami #misa amane #lawlight #by uh. technicality.#does 'trigger warning' fit the prompt i hope it does…#also there are two (2) rickrolls in this post #the other links are all to actual fun stuff :3 #good luck #deathnotetober #edit: fixed the FUCKIGN reblog dividers GOD DAMN IT #unreality #caps #edit 2: fixed the reblog dividers again theyre transparent now #…………wow i really just. spent four hours on this huh.#maybe i am experiencing slight mania #only slight #death note tumblr

551 notes · View notes

grimoirguestbook · 10 months ago

Text

Book of Bill Website Codes

(Organized by category with notes)

Here's my list of inputs that work on the website :)

Hopefully the read more works like I think it does and I don't accidentally spoil anybody

That being said by clicking read more you will see All of the codes I have found so far

Please be mindful and try not to spoil anybody else with this information. So please be careful if reblogging

I got everything I have collected/found on here, it's a bit messy right now but After I take a small break I'll reorganize and add notes but for now everything's on here, please so check out the posts linked in the log as once I lost all leads I looked to their post for other inputs :)

Also feel free to put any you know of that Aren't on here in the replies I'm sure there's some missing

I will be updating as I find more so check back in if you can! :)

Thank you!

They'll be categorized by

Neat Tv text- Nothing special the tv just gets some text to it

Tab pages-brings you to another tab/website

Audio/video- Audio/video clip plays

Readables- A picture will pop up on screen that you can read

Printables- You can print them :D!

Other- Hard to categorize

Note:

If an * is next to a name that means that you can get different results for the same prompt

(Any personal notes will be in parenthesis)

-> An arrow means that the Passwords are found in the previous page

ex- Page with code that translates to "dork"-> Dork

Slashes/mean/that/any/of/the/prompts/listed/will/take/you/to/the/same/page

Blue text with an underline is a link! Haha! would you look at that! it works!

Will Keep this updated as I find more and will Note the logs at the end of this post

?????

For the mason page anagrams I know WHO they are I just don't know WHAT to do with them, i know it says cryptogram codex at the bottom i think i have to do something with the anagram results but I'm unsure what that is. Stanford Pines Stanlie Pines Gideon Charles Gleeful Preston Northwest Pacifica Elisa Northwest

Notes to Dipper Prompt: (Unsure why- Maybe going to Blind eye page and blurring it but changes from dipper being told to stare at the sun to "I THINK ITS WORKING! STARE HARDER! HARDER!" and the page looking burnt I Think it has to do with how many input codes you enter, It now says "you've almost solved it" and is even more burnt than before, it is now full black)

Neat Tv text-

Pines

Blendin

*Triangle

Axolotl

Ducktective

Book of Bill

TJ Eckleburg (Great Gatsby)

Nothing

Something

*Ciphertology

Deer Teeth

Scalene

Scrimbles

Fortnite/skibidi/ohio/rizz/crypto/elon/gyatt/Doge

Life

Death

Portal

Question

Answer

Euclid

*Well Well Well Being

Reality

The Universe

Journal 1

Journal 2

Journal 3

Theyll see/They'll all see/I see

Filbrick

Disney/Disneyland/Mickey Mouse

CIA/FBI/NSA

333 Sundapple Lane Cozy Creek IL 60714-94611

Season 3

Season 2

Season 1

Caryn

Euclydia

Skeleton

Who are you

Burnside

Family matters

When will I die

Multilevel mark/caesaratbashvigenere

Scientology

Easter egg

Sevral times

oh yes they both

Am i Blanchin

Bye gold

Youre insane

History

Hologram

Scalene

Euclid

Titans Blood -> Owl Trowel

Text Chain (You get questions who's answer is another password)

Riddle->Yes -> Mountain Dont -> Lyre Liar -> Harolds Ramblings -> Union Made -> 29121239168518 -> Grebley Hemberdreck -> Rat -> 3466554 -> Tinsel Snake -> Torture Mentally -> Xgqrthx -> 333 sundapple lane cozy creek IL 60714-94611-> MutliLevel mark->emmaline butternubbins->Dispense my treat

What i thought it was (with answer sources):

Answers found in TBOB- Don't Know, NA, Mcguckets dream page, Medieval page, Anti-Cipher Section- tonic page, Anti Cipher Section- Newspaper, Top Secret page, Textbook page- Skin, Dark Ages Page, Anti Cipher Section-Epilogue, A winter break- footprints page, Book of Bill Cover options page, Never trust a wizard page, Have you dreamed this fellow ad (references informercial in show)

Tab pages-

Abuelita

Dippy Fresh

Alex Hirsch/Alex/Hirsch

*Stan/Stanley (his outfit in ebay searches plus a READABLE with SICK music mind you-Check readable section for more info)

Grunkle Stan

*Gideon (second option unlocked after fully "mableizing" the room)

Waddles

Mcgucket/ Old man McGucket/Fiddleford

Bill/Cipher/LLIB/LLIBREHPIC

Bill Cipher/Rehpic

Zyler (Goes to same place as Craz)

Craz (Goes to same place as Zyler)

Toby Determined

Gravity Falls

Mystery Shack

Not a phase

Blanchin

Peak

Cray Cray

Fixinit1

Meow

Fuck alex/Fuck you alex

Globnar

Monster

Audio/video-

Babba/Discogirl

*Gideon (unlocked after fully "mabelizing" the room)

Tad Strange

Pinata (DEFINATELY WORTH WATCHING)

Vallis Cineris (Found on wall when lightning strikes)

Hey Nerd

Weird (Love him)

Spookemups/Spooky/Scary

That's just a/Theory/Gametheory/Matpat (<3)

One Eyed King-> Naitsuaf (Morse Code) ( early years page)

Forget the past

Im still on your mind

Dorito/Nacho

Just fit in

Rubberhose

Love/Boyfriend

Hectoring

Conspiracy

God/Frillium/Help me

Burned inside

Kook

Kubrick

Small/audio log/music (nothing showed up at first, turned off tv and strange audio played, needs to be reversed)

L is real 2401 (soos my boy)

Readables-

Mason (Dippers real name)

*Dipper (personal notes in ???- keep opening the card to get different results)

Pacifica-> PlatinumPaz

Ford/Standford/Sixer

Wendy

Robbie (def worth a look IMO)

Soos-> Pinata

Cursed (Translated from candle in background)

Ad Astra Per Aspera

Blind Eye->Theyll see (Will blur if clicked on, cannot un-blur, may change dipper?)

Weirdmageddon

Lies

Sorry

Booberry (Decoded from popsicle stick)

Even his lies are lies (Front paper)

Tantrum ( code on Bills Mugshot page)

Suck it Merlin

Shave your Grandma (leads to dippy fresh page)

Baby Bill/baby/lalalalala/daddy/mommy

Owl Trowel

Hotxolotl->Seven eyes-> r34lity

Love ya bro

Fuck/Shit/Fuckyou/bitch/slut/sex

Baaaa-> Black Sheep

naitsuaf (click are you ready-> Sign "pleasure doing business with you -candle light turns blue- OR be a coward (losing sound effect plays)

oroborous-> Frillium

Glass sand beach

math/trigonometry/

horror/creepypasta

destruction is a form of creation

unreality

you can't kill an idea

virus

Occurremusiterum

*Stan (click multiple times to get-once there click "how he beat me several times)

Card

Theraprism

Dionarap->stod eht tcennoc

Printables-

Tyrone/Clone/Paperjam

Curse Wittebane (translates runes on page about witches)

Paper is just book skin ( BE WARNED: automatically downloads a photoshop file and crashses the cite)

Irregular (has code on it)

Divorce/breakup

Other-

Mabel (You get fun stickers and a popping sound :) )

*Giffany ( You put her name in multiple times and it forcibly downloads pictures of her and a text document to your computer, scared me a little Not gonna lie here)

Kings of New Jersey (downloads "secret code" font)

cryptogram codex (downloads cryptogram fonts)

dispense my treat-> Kook (downloads a bunch of cool wallpapers)

Log:

One hour after posting: Added 17 new words

Found by me: Booberry, Mountain Dont, Xgqrthx, titans blood, lyre liar, haralds ramblings, union made

Accidentally found by looking at a post: Sorry

Gifted by replier (Thank you!): MATPAT, yes, no, Fortnite, life, death, portal, question, answer

30 minutes after last update: 9 Words added

Found by me: Theraprism, 29121239168518, Grebley Hemberdreck, Rat, 3466554, Tinsel Snake, Torture Mentally, Fordtramarine, Gun (shocked that worked It was a joke- "bill cipher has A GUN")

Like THREEEEEEE ish hours later?

Found by me: one eyed king, well well well being, shave your grandma, paper is just book skin, even his lies are lies, forget the past, irregular, euclid, tantrum, suck it merlin

Like 12 hours later

Found by me: Reality, Baby Bill, Reality, The universe, Giffany (why is it two Fs, Blarg) They'll see, I'm still on your mind, Journal 1, Journal 2, Journal 3

Gifted to me by a replier (Thank you!): Owl Trowel

Idk- Later

Found by me: hotxolotl, lova ya bro, kings of new jersey, fuck, just fit in

Found on twitter(JasonRitter): Dorito, Blanchin'

Gifted to me by Replier(Thank you!): Gideon's option knowledge

Even MORE later:

Me: Seven eyes, r34ality, filbrick, disney, skibidy, rizz, ohio, love, cia, fbi, rubberhose, 333 sundapple lane cozy creek il 60714-94611, bahhhh, black sheep, naitsuaf, oroborous,theyll see, theyll all see Frillium, occuremusiterum (some of these i gave myself because i was really close but just missed a small detail/spelling)

Taken from here and Here Because I got stumped: Season 3, Season2 , Season 1, Glass shard beach, caryn, Euclydia, Peak, Theory, Cray Cray, Help me, mickey mouse, hectoring, divorce, breakup, skeleton, math, history, monster, gyatt, who are you, fixinit1, conspiracy, riddle, cryptogram codex, horror, creepypasta, trigonometry, god, boyfriend,baby, lalalalala, scary, trigonometry,just blendin, morality, burnside, family matters, when will i die, elon, multilevel mark, goodnight sally,paper jam, tourist trap,the duchess approves,shape, scientology, meow, nacho, crypto,sevral times,easter egg, oh yes they both, daddy, mommy, burned inside, destruction is a form of creation, i see, unreality, you can't kill an idea, am i blanchin, fuck alex, fuck you alex, fuck you, shit, bye gold, nsa, globnar,disneyland,kook, kuibrick,virus,that's just a, you're insane

Next day

Found online: Dionarap, stod eht tcennoc, dispense my treat

567 notes · View notes

secretmarvelsideblog · 3 months ago

Text

AU idea that I will probably never write but can’t get out of my head. Buckle up bitches.

Warning: stuckony. Ok you’ve been warned.

In a timetravel accident (Pym Particles, Strange, or other misc time travel plot device), Tony gets stranded in Siberia in the 50s. The people who save his ass are HYDRA. He already knows Russian from Nat, so to save his own skin, he becomes a HYDRA agent under the name Antony Starkov, and of course immediately begins passing info to SHIELD. They’re skeptical at first, can’t teach an old dog new trick and all, but he’s an amazing study and under torture refuses to admit being FBI, CIA, or SHIELD.

The Winter Soldier’s handler is a man named Oleksandr Melenevsky, a sadist who takes his torture of the Asset too far, even by HYDRA’s standards. Tony is assigned to the position of Handler after Melenevsky almost kills the Asset during a ‘punishment’. Not that HYDRA cares about the health or safety of their Asset beyond its tactical value, but all the same they aren’t stupid enough to risk their most valuable asset being killed unnecessarily.

Tony always calls him ‘Winter’ rather than ‘Asset’ or ‘Soldat’, less dehumanizing that way and he can’t just call him Bucky Barnes in front of a kajilion HYDRA agents. In private, Tony whispers in English to Bucky, telling him about his life before HYDRA. They keep wiping him though, so Tony never runs out of stories. He thinks they start to stick, after a while.

After five years stuck in the past, Tony gets extracted. His last words before vanishing are “catch you on the flip side Buckaroo”.

When Tony returns to the present, still done up in his HYDRA gear, Bucky freezes.

“Handler Starkov,” he breathes

“That’s my name- wait, no it’s not, that’s gonna take some getting used to- anyway I guess that means you remember, huh?”

“Yeah, I remember you- you were never on their side at all, were you?”

“No, but that doesn’t excuse what I’ve done.” Tony looks supremely guilty now, dipping his head. Steve looks on in shock.

Bucky only smiles, “If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been someone else, someone much crueler if I had to bet. It’s coming back now, you were downright kind, not very HYDRA of you.”

“Still, I was your Handler. I used your trigger words and forced you to kill. I was HYDRA. I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

“Well, you’ve got in anyway. I forgive you, deal with it.” Bucky smirks.

Tony smiles sadly, “I forgive you too, for my parents I mean. I can’t in good conscience hold that against you, and I’m sorry that this is what it took for me to see that.”

…

Tony returns to the tower, learning that it’s been two years in the present since he’s been gone. Thankfully, he hasn’t been declared dead yet, which makes everything so much easier on the legal front. He settles back into the team dynamic with a few bumps, specifically Steve has a hard time accepting him back.

It’s only when Bucky has an episode and Tony is the only one who can take care of him that Steve internalizes that Tony isn’t the enemy, he isn’t HYDRA. The trio grow closer at it quickly becomes apparent that Tony is the only one who can take care of Bucky on his bad days.

During those episodes, Bucky will revert to the base programming in his head and not know where he is. Before Tony came back, the Asset’s response was to lock itself in the room and try to figure out where it is and what the mission is, denying itself care in the absence of an authority figure to approve anything.

When it sees Handler Starkov though, it recognizes him as its Handler, but also as Safe. It gets a vague sense of panic, like the alternative to Handler Starkov is something so bad that its mind has blocked it out not just from the wipes, but also from regular old trauma. It will comply with Handler Starkov to the letter, it will not give him a reason to send it back to wherever it came from.

It eats and drinks what Handler Starkov puts in its hands, though there has been no mission and thus no need for rations. It relaxes slightly at his touch when he bathes it, though there is no blood and minimal grime to wash away. It even sleeps on the bed which Handler Starkov designates for its use, though it has never been cleared to use that equipment before. Perhaps it has performed exemplarily, and earned a reward? This has not occurred before, but by now it is sure that Handler Starkov is not like any other handler.

Steve is just glad that someone is able to take care of Bucky.

Steve and Tony bond as they lead the Avengers and over taking care of Bucky, and though Steve had only ever loved Bucky, he finds himself developing feelings for Tony and then guilt for said feelings. He’d never cheat on Bucky, and he’ll get over this little crush.

Meanwhile Bucky builds upon the base feeling of Safe he has around Tony, to something deeper. But he’d never cheat on Steve, and Tony had been his Handler. How fucked up is that? It was practically Stockholm Syndrome, and besides, Tony could have anyone, why would he ever want Bucky? He buries his feelings.

Tony, for his part, is in crisis. He’s only just got back from being a HYDRA goon, and now he’s falling not only for Captain Spangles (a crush he’d been holding onto for a long time but that’s between him and God) but the Manchurian Candidate too. See, as the Winter Solider, Bucky had been pretty unresponsive, and Tony hadn’t had much interest beyond trying to protect him from HYDRA. Before that, all Bucky had been was his parents’ murderer. Now though? Now that he was spending real time with both super soldiers? He was falling harder than he ever thought possible, for both at the same time. Damnit.

Things come to a head when the three are captured together. Tony gets hurt real bad, and as he’s on the verge of death, he confesses. When they get out, it’s Bucky who awkwardly asks if, in the future, you can date two people at once. Tony, not really remembering what he had said, gives them a crash course on polyamory. He thinks they’re pulling his leg when they ask him to join their relationship, but then it comes out what he said, and Tony has no choice but to realize that Steve and Bucky are being sincere. He accepts.

#tony stark #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stuckony #au idea #fanfic idea #the winter soldier #stucky #Stony #winteriron

178 notes · View notes

historicity-was-already-taken · 3 months ago

Text

Can’t sleep, and, as is my wont, I fell down a horrifying internet rabbit hole,* this time about September 11, 2001.

I was in seventh grade French class, in the Hudson Valley region of New York, when I got a call from the front office that my mom was there to pick me up. Steven B. commented: “a lot of people are getting picked up this morning!”

My mom was crying, she tried to explain what had happened, but I think my brain kind of rejected what she was saying. I didn’t really get it/appreciate what happened until I was 19 or 20, when I was a collections management intern at the 9/11 Memorial Museum before it opened to the public.

That’s when I finally Got It and everything I’d been repressing. Every year after that I would watch the live news footage from that day on YouTube.

It haunts me, not just because of what happened, but because of what it led to. How much pain, how much grief, how much suffering and war and genocide could have been averted if the FBI and the CIA hadn’t been locked in a power struggle? Where would/could the country be politically if the two orgs had compared intelligence and intervened?

As a historian, I think it’s important avoid binary thinking like “oh a, b, and c happened and that’s why Elon Musk is staging a coup.” It’s obviously much more complex than that. What’s occurring in the USA Federal government is the result of decades of careful GOP planning and strategizing and if we can isolate a cultural moment that “led” to it, it would be the election of Ronald Reagan, and even that is far too simplistic.

Idk, I’m rambling. I don’t consider myself to be old, but it’s almost like I refused to grasp what had happened that day in 2001 because I was cognizant of the fact that something massive, something of global historic import, had just gone down, and my 12 yo brain couldn’t deal with it.

But now I’m 35 and I saw history. And that was the end, I think of the world the Baby Boom generation raised their millennial kids to thrive in.

At some point I binge watched Fringe, and that shot where it’s revealed that Leonard Nimoy is in the parallel universe because the camera pans out and it’s revealed that his office is in one of the WTC towers? I couldn’t breathe for a minute.

*once in grad school the rabbit hole was the genocide in the Balkans in the 90s and everything I read that night is seared into my brain.

ETA: I’m intentionally not discussing that things I saw and learned working for the museum, and my feelings about the deaths which occurred that day. It feels almost…unholy to talk about that stuff online. I don’t believe in god or a higher power, but “holy” is the only word that makes sense there.

#when ur old enough to analyze shit that went down when you were 12 from a historical perspective #tw: 9/11/01 #cw: 9/11/01

225 notes · View notes

stadiumbleachers · 3 months ago

Text

Trophy Wife:

Spencer Reid x Reader

Blurb: Reader is ,unknowingly, the wife of a criminal. Spencer Reid is tasked with unfolding the web of lies her husband has placed her in. Somewhere along the way, the lines get blurred.

Content: Sexually explicit. MDNI

Word count: 5.3K

When Spencer Reid first invaded your carefully coordinated life, you were swirling a glass of Pinot noir and contemplating how you would use your husband’s platinum card to make up for another missed date.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, already reaching for the stool on your right.

“No, go ahead” you mumbled, barely taking your eyes from the counter. Then you smelled his cologne, something dark and musky. Taking a sip of your wine, you glanced at the stranger beside you.

He looked nothing like the men your husband associated with. He had a head of shaggy hair and an almost innocent look you hadn’t seen in years. Best of all, he stared directly into your eyes.

You raised a perfectly manicured brow at him. You weren’t stupid. Nowadays,only men who wanted business with your husband or wanted in on his secrets would dare to approach you.

“I don’t usually come to places like this,” he admitted, his slender fingers drumming against the bar. His voice was smooth and slow, like he was weighing every syllable before he let it leave his lips.

You finally turned your body slightly toward him. “And yet, here you are.”

A small, almost sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Here I am.”

The bartender slid a drink in front of him—something neat and simple. You took the chance to really analyze the man beside you. He wore a crisp white button down shirt with pristine black slacks. No flashy jewelry- he didn’t seem to be in the business of men like your husband.

“I’m Spencer, by the way, forgive me if I’m being impolite”

You took his outstretched hand and watched as he placed a ghost of a kiss on your knuckles, but his eyes were looking past you at the mostly empty bar. You waited until he finished scanning the room to tell him your name.

Spencer wrapped his fingers around the glass but didn’t take a sip.

You leaned in, intrigued despite yourself. “So, what brings you here? Business or pleasure?”

A quick look at his waist revealed a subtle bulge under his belt. A gun. Maybe he’s law enforcement.

He hesitated, but just barely. “A little of both.”

There was something about the way he said it, the way his gaze flickered across your face like he was already reading you. Like he already knew why you were here - alone, swirling expensive wine in a designer dress bought with dirty money.

You should have turned back to your drink. You should have finished it, and gone home to the penthouse where your husband wouldn’t be waiting for you.

Instead, you met Spencer Reid’s eyes and asked, “And which one am I, detective?”

Shock flashed across his face but he quickly schooled his features. “Observant,” he murmured, squinting his eyes slightly like he was reevaluating you. “But I’m not a detective.”

You hummed, wrapping a finger around a stray coil that escaped from your puff. “CIA then? No…FBI?”

His lips pressed together, neither confirming nor denying, but that was answer enough.

“You must know who my husband is.” It wasn’t a question.

Sadly, you thought you knew who your husband was until a year ago when all those lucrative business deals came to light for the fraud they were. Now he was busy covering his tracks and had no time for you.

Spencer exhaled, his fingers tapping against his untouched drink. “I do.” He waited for a beat. “How much do you know?”

You let out a soft laugh, taking a slow sip of your wine. “I know why a man like you might be looking for him, but the details are all hidden from me.”

Spencer studied you, waiting, as if he didn’t know whether to believe you.

You swirled the deep red liquid in your glass before setting it down. “If you’re wondering whether I love him, that’s hardly relevant.”

He shuffled a hair closer, voice barely above a whisper “And if I’m asking whether you’re willing to help me?”

Your pulse jumped, but you didn’t let it show. You weren’t naive enough to blindly trust this man.

Instead, you studied your French manicure, gleaming against your brown skin.

“That depends,” you mused, “Help you with what, exactly?”

Spencer reached into his pocket, producing a card. He slid it across the bar, his fingers brushing yours- warm, steady, but deliberate.

“Call me any time, night or day,” he said simply.

You lifted the card between two fingers, turning it over. Then you tucked it into your clutch, and snapped it shut.

You picked up your glass, taking one last slow sip before standing. “Have a good night, Agent.”

…

Weeks after meeting you, Special Agent Spencer Reid was dozing off on a jet somewhere over America when his phone rang.

“Hello?” He grumbled, forgotten documents fell from his lap as he shifted.

“I’m sorry. This is stupid, there’s just no one else I can call that he hasn’t blocked out of my life and he’s a complete psycho-”

“Hold on.. let me just…slow down and tell me what happened”. He sat up straighter.

You swallowed hard around the ball in your throat, then opened your mouth to speak but nothing came out.

“Okay, you don’t have to talk. Just breathe with me. Deep breath in…” he filled his lungs up loud enough for you to hear and draw a shaky inhale.

“And out…”

You followed his lead and more warm salty tears flowed down your face but your throat hurt just a little less.

“He-he put a knife to my throat,” you finally whispered, your voice strained. “I thought he was finally going to snap and kill me”

A sharp inhale from the other end of the line

“But he didn’t,” Spencer said, his voice softer now, deeply aware of how delicate your situation was, “You’re safe for now?”

You glanced around the dimly lit bathroom where you had locked yourself, gripping the edge of the marble counter. You caught a glimpse of the bags under your eyes. The result of sleepless nights looking over your shoulder.

“For now,” you murmured.

Spencer sighed in relief “You did the right thing calling me.”

A bitter laugh almost slipped past your lips. “I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” he said firmly. “You’re stronger than you think. And you’re going to get through this,I can help you”

Something warm unfurled in your chest at the certainty in his voice. You weren’t used to someone speaking to you like that. It had been a while since you felt like you had any control over your own life.

“I need you to listen carefully, okay?” Spencer continued, his tone turning more focused. “We need intel on his next move; who he’s meeting, what deals are happening, anything you can get.”

You sucked in a breath. “He keeps all that locked up; passwords, secured files. I don’t even know where to start.”

“You don’t have to,” Spencer assured you. “Just get close enough to hear. Watch where he keeps his phone, his laptop. If you can get access to his schedule, that’s even better.”

“You’re asking me to hand over my husband to you on a silver platter. What do I get?”

Spencer didn’t hesitate. “I’m asking you to help put an end to this. To protect yourself. What you get is freedom, a whole new life away from the mess that man has put you in”

You should have been terrified. Maybe you were. But there was something else, too. The way he spoke to you, the way he guided you through your panic, it did something to you.

“I’ll do it,” you whispered.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

You felt your face heat up and fought the small smile creeping onto your features.

You shouldn’t have liked the way that felt. But you did.

…

From that point on you were your husband’s shadow. You were dutiful and doting and willing to comply to his every whim if it meant you were close enough to hear his plans.

When it was safe, you and Spencer would talk on the phone or he would send notes through the officers assigned to watch your house, some more personal and sweet than you would expect.

After sitting in on a lunch meeting at the office, you learnt that there were “assets” to be received four weeks from now. But that’s all you knew because your husband and his partners would talk in code around you.

Using your secret second phone you texted Spencer to meet you urgently at your favorite place - the library.

The library was quiet, the scent of old books thick in the air as you traced your fingers along a random spine, pretending to read while you waited.

You felt him before you saw him—Spencer moved quietly, but there was the feeling of his eyes on you. Then, suddenly, a hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you between two tall shelves.

“You’re reading Alice in Wonderland?” he asked,, amusement lacing his voice as his eyes flickered to the book in your hand.

You smirked, slamming it shut. “I had to pick something to look busy.”

His lips twitched. “Did you know the writer, Lewis Caroll, had a neurological disorder that caused strange hallucinations and affected the size of visual objects, which can make the sufferer feel bigger or smaller than they are. So in a way he was Alice”

You blinked at him, momentarily distracted from the danger of your situation. “Wait, really?”

He nodded, and the corners of your mouth curled slightly. “That’s kind of… interesting.”

He looked surprised. “You think so?”

You shrugged. “I just didn’t expect a criminal profiler to be into children’s literature”

“I didn’t expect a trophy wife to be into it either,” he shot back with a small grin.

You gasped at his attempt at a joke but before you could reply, the sound of footsteps made you tense. Spencer’s hand pressed against your lower back, guiding you swiftly into a small, dark broom closet.

It was tiny, barely enough room for the two of you, and suddenly, you were much too aware of how close you stood. His breath was warm against your cheek, his chest barely an inch from yours.

“Tell me what you found out,” he murmured, his voice low.

You swallowed, trying to ignore how fast your heart was beating. “At the meeting, the hospital CEO, Daniel Grant, was there. So was one of my husband’s finance partners.”

Spencer’s expression darkened. “Which partner?”

You told him the name, and he went completely still. “He was in the news a few months ago. His niece has kidney failure and she’s on the transplant list.”

The pieces snapped together in your mind, but Spencer was already moving, pulling out his phone. “Garcia, I need a location trace on my suspect and Mr. Daniel Grant. See if they’ve traveled together recently.”

There was a pause, then a muffled response from his tech analyst. Spencer’s brows pulled together. “Three cities. All places where people have gone missing in the past two months.”

Your stomach churned. “Oh my God.”

He met your eyes, his own filled with something determination. “It’s organ trafficking. That’s what they’re shipping. Your husband is harvesting organs and selling them to the highest bidder.”

You took a shaky breath. You knew he was a criminal, but this was something else.

Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, discreet recording device. “You need to get him talking. Try to get a direct admission of what he’s doing.”

You hesitated. “If he catches me, I might be up for auction by the end of the week”

“He won’t.” Spencer’s voice was steady, reassuring. “You’re smarter than he thinks. Just slip this into his office, somewhere he won’t notice. I’ll handle the rest.”

You nodded slowly, taking the device and slipping it into your pocket.

Spencer’s eyes lingered on you, something unreadable in them. Then, before you could process it, he leaned down and pressed a soft, fleeting kiss to your cheek.

The warmth of it spread through you, and when he pulled back, he looked just as stunned as you felt.

“Shit. I don’t know why I did that,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

You studied the tiles under your feet. “I don’t know why I liked it.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Look, before this goes any further, you gotta know I’m no more good for you than your husband is,” he said quietly. “What I do is dangerous in a whole other way. You don’t want me.”

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to step back. To nod.

And then you turned and left, even as the ghost of his kiss lingered.

…

“How do you feel about balls?” You asked with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Spencer was busy squeezing water out of his hair from his early morning shower when you called.

You giggled and sprinkled more flour onto the rolling pin you were using to prepare cinnamon rolls.

“He’s having a gala this Friday. It's masquerade themed. We do it every year as a charity event for the hospital”

The ‘he’ in question was in the office finishing up plans.

Spencer hummed, “And you think that would be the right time to apprehend him? Is he showing signs of running off?”

“Well, we usually go a on a trip out of the country after the gala, so he’s probably been using the event as a cover up for-”

“Yes!” Spencer exclaimed around his toothbrush, pausing to spit out toothpaste, “Didn’t he give away like 500 bicycles last year? What’s the big gift this year?”

You carefully cut the cinnamon roll into the desired pieces and placed them on the baking tray while you thought.

“Um…I think I heard them saying anatomy sets”

Spencer went silent on the other end of the line.

You frowned, wiping your flour-dusted hands on a towel. “Spencer?”

“Anatomy sets,” he repeated slowly. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head. “As in, like… models of organs?”

“Yeah, like those little fake kidney models they give to med students.” You shrugged, unaware of the shift in his tone. “It’s a whole thing about education and inspiration for future doctors. Why?”

Spencer felt himself getting excited. “Because our inside man just confirmed that an ambulance will be at the gala for a technology demonstration. And according to your husband’s latest conversation with his finance associate, the one you recorded, his ‘special gift’ is being dropped off in that ambulance before it gets taken to the hospital.”

Your stomach dropped. “Don’t tell me he’s putting a real kidney in the boxes…”

Spencer’s voice was thrumming with energy. “Yes, you brilliant woman. Then they’ll claim it’s from an accident victim or something to make it look like a perfectly legal organ donation - so it can go directly to his partner’s niece without raising suspicion.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, heart racing. It made perfect sense. The hospital had a long waitlist for transplants, and donors had to go through an extensive screening process. But if an organ miraculously became available at just the right time that was just the right match, no one would question it. They’d think it was a stroke of luck.

“This is why he’s been so calm,” you whispered. “Even knowing I’m watching him, he still thinks he’s untouchable.”

“Not for long,” Spencer said darkly.

You swallowed, gripping the edge of the counter. “So what do we do?”

“We let them follow through with the drop.” He explained steadily. “We let them put the organ in the ambulance. That’s when we strike before any of them had a chance to run, and before he can run off with you.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “We’ll need people inside.”

“The team will be there,” Spencer assured you. “It’s a masquerade, which means we can blend in. No one will suspect a thing.”

You closed your eyes, inhaling deeply.

This was it. The final move.

For the first time, you felt a spark of hope that this nightmare would soon end.

“You’re going to be okay,” Spencer said quietly. “We’re almost there and it’s all because of you”

You gripped the phone tighter, his voice grounding you.

“I don’t think I can take all the credit” you smiled to yourself, “wait…what are you gonna wear?”

“…It’s a surprise”

“Oh, come on. Please?” You pouted

There was a pause, then you could swear you heard the smirk in his voice, “I’ll save you a dance”, then the click of the call ending.

…

The masquerade gala was dazzling and the air was thick with laughter and music. Your husband moved through the crowd like a king holding court, completely unaware that his empire was about to crumble.

The tiny recording device felt like it was burning a hole through your dress. You had it. Proof of everything—the meetings, the payments, the horrifying logistics of how the “assets” were acquired and shipped.

Your palms were damp, nerves threatening to consume you as you stood at the edge of the ballroom, watching, waiting for your moment. You ran your hands down your black satin that hugged your figure perfectly.

Then, you felt it.

A familiar presence behind you, the faintest brush of warmth near your shoulder. And then his scent; dark, musky cologne that made you feel warm all over.

You turned before he could speak, your heart slamming against your ribs as you looked up into deep brown eyes beneath a sleek black mask.

He tilted his head slightly. “Dance with me?”

You nodded, afraid that if you spoke you might accidentally confess your feelings for him.

Your fingers slipped into his, and he pulled you effortlessly onto the floor, one hand settling at the small of your back, guiding you through a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

The room blurred, the noise fading as he pressed closer, his lips barely brushing your ear.

“Do you have it?” he murmured.

Your heart pounded as you reached between you, slipping the recorder from your pocket and tucking it against his palm, fingers lingering just a second too long.

His grip tightened, a silent reassurance. “You did good,” he whispered.

A shiver ran through you. You shouldn’t have cared what he thought. But you did.

You swayed together, bodies pressed closer than necessary, moving in perfect sync. Every brush of his fingertips against your waist sent heat curling through you. Every glance, every shift, felt electric, like the entire room had disappeared and it was just the two of you.

Then an icy chill poured over you at the sound of an unwanted voice.

“Darling.”

The word snapped through the air like a whip.

Your husband.

Spencer pulled back immediately, his grip loosening, though his eyes stayed locked onto yours.

Your husband extended a hand, waiting. “Come now.”

You exhaled shakily, slipping your fingers from Spencer’s grasp, stepping back into the life you were about to leave behind.

But not for long, at least that’s what Spencer promised you.

Your husband led you up to a podium and removed his mask. He told the guests about the gifts they had chosen this year and invited everyone to head outside to see the newly renovated ambulance he was also donating.

Your hand was held tightly in his as he led you to the parking lot. With the cool night air flowing through your neatly braided hair, you took one last look at the people around you.

“I need the restroom,” you murmured, your voice even.

Your husband barely nodded, already turning back to the awe of onlookers.

You didn’t look back as you walked away. Even with the sound of undercover officers drawing their weapons and shouting instructions.

Tears blurred your vision but you kept walking until you came around the other side of the event venue, face to face with Spencer Reid standing with one hand on his gun. Behind him was a getaway car to take you to a safe house.

You collapsed into him, and let yourself cry. He wrapped one arm around you, and used the other to open the back door and place you in the car.

“I got you, sweet girl. It’s all over” he whispered to you, rubbing your back in soothing circles. He slid in beside you and shut the door.

When you finally calmed down enough to look him in the eyes, you almost couldn’t bear the open and concerned expression that stared back at you.

He slowly lifted a hand and wiped away a rogue tear.

“Okay let’s get you out here” he smiled softly and reached for the door but you grabbed his hand

The words spewed out before you could stop them,

“Wait. I know you’ve been so caring towards me because it’s your job. You put bad people away and I appreciate it but if this is the last time I see you I have to tell you-”

Soft, warm lips molded to yours and silenced your racing thoughts. The world went fuzzy, all that existed was the smell of his breath as you inhaled and the feeling of his large hands on the sides of your face.

Spencer pulled back slightly and rested his forehead on yours, shallow breath tickling your cheek.

“Me too,” he said.

He took your hand and placed it on his tie, using your fingers to pull it open, all while he stared into your eyes. He let the unspoken words linger for a beat.

“Are you sure you want this?” He asked finally

“Yes… please” you whispered, afraid to break the bubble around you two

Spencer pulled you back in by the side of your neck and kissed you again, slower this time. You savored the feeling of his lips, titling your head to let him in deeper. He curled his tongue into your mouth, taking the breath from you. He used his thumb to pull your mouth open more then took your tongue between his lips and tongue to suck it.

Arousal pooled deep in your belly, and your toes curled in your heels.

With a wet smack he released your tongue and turned your head to the side. He rubbed his nose over the side of your neck, deeply inhaling your perfume.

“Smell so good” he mumbled into your skin. He pushed the strap off one shoulder then kissed from behind your ear to your collarbone. He made his way back up, sucking and biting this time, then soothing the abused skin with a blow of cool air.

You arched your back against the seat, sweat pricking at your brow. A soft moan escaped your lips that made Spencer smile against your skin.

He made his way to the other side of your neck and lavished it with the same attention. Your dress now hung precariously low, your nipples almost on display.

When he found a spot behind your ear that made you let out a long breathy moan, he grinned deviously,

“Right there, huh?”

You hummed in response but Spencer wasn’t satisfied, he pushed down the top of your dress and exposed your nipples. He gently grazed the palm of his calloused hand over one and you flinched at the shockwave warm pleasure spreading from your chest.

“Oh…you’d rather me touch you here?”

He moved over to the other nipple and just barely kissed it, “Or here?”

But you were distracted. Eyes screwed tight and writhing in your seat, that just wouldn’t do. He immediately stopped touching you and leaned back to started undressing himself.

Confused at the sudden pause you opened your eyes to see Spencer taking his shirt off.

“W-why’d you stop?” You panted, squeezing your thighs together.

“I thought you didn’t like it. You never answered my question” he put on an air of nonchalance while unbuckling his belt. You were paying rapt attention to the bulge under his zipper.

“I did like it, it just felt…”

Spencer put a finger under your chin and forced you to look into his eyes, “Felt what?”

“Too good” you admitted.

He sighed softly and took your hand in his, raised it to kiss the inside of your wrist, “There, that’s what I wanna hear…” Spencer kicked off his pants, leaving him in just boxers. “Now come sit here”

He grabbed your waist and helped you to straddle his lap. The change in angle forced you to look down into his heavily lidded eyes.

He leaned in and nuzzled his nose between your breasts, licking the skin there.

While his hand worked your dress further down your body, he slowly kissed a circle around your nipples, careful not to touch it directly. You whined at the lack of attention where you needed it most

He hummed thoughtfully and spoke directly to your right nipple, “Is this perfect little nipple perking up just for me?”

It took all your remaining brain cells to answer him, “Yes it’s just for you, Spence”

Finally, he slid his warm, wet mouth over your nipple and sucked hungrily. With one hand he cupped your other breast and rubbed your nipple gently with his thumb.

Heat erupted over your chest, you felt your heartbeat between your legs with every lap of his tongue.

Then he switched to the other side, leaving a dark purple hickey on the underside of your breast.

Your hips moved on their own, grinding down your eager cunt onto his clothes bulge. He grinded up, meeting your movements with groans around your tender nipple.

When he was satisfied, he released it slowly between his teeth and the sensation had you teetering on the edge of overstimulation.

Spencer took your lips between his to distract you while he tore your gown open, revealing your lace panties underneath. You gasped at the sound and tried to cover yourself but he was quicker than you. He held your thighs apart on his lap and looked down, licking his lips like a lion about to devour prey.

He used a single finger to touch the outside of your panties where they were damp with arousal. You sighed softly and he pressed his fingertip over where your clit was nestled and your legs trembled in anticipation.

Spencer looked back up into to her eyes and wrapped a hand loosely around your neck, “Can I taste her?”

You nodded frantically. He squeezed his hand just a bit tighter, “I need words,sweet girl”

“Yes, you can have whatever you want” you told him

He grinned at that and pecked your lips one more time before he turned sideways then pushed you back until your upper body was lying on the seat. Your legs remained in his lap and he pulled up your groin to meet his face, leaving you almost upside down with your head pressed on the door.

Spencer pulled your panty to the side and marveled at the sight of your cunt on display to him.

“So pretty” he whispered to your labia before he placed a gentle kiss there. Slowly he started lapping up the wetness there. His tongue sliding between the lips to massage the throbbing walls inside. He barely stopped to take a breath. Switching between stroking you inside with his tongue and sucking on your clit, he had you crying out loudly, your toes curling and back arching impossible further up.

While your eyes rolled back he slid a finger into your tight heat, twisting and curling until he found the spot that made you shake.

He slowly increased to three fingers curling up into that rough spot inside while rubbing circles around your clit with the tip of his tongue. The sound of your pussy slobbering over his hand was drowned out by your cries of pleasure.

With one last expert stroke on that perfect spot inside Spencer switched to sucking right below your clit like a straw. Stars burst behind your eyes and your thighs locked up while you jerked against the pleasure. With big gulping breaths you rode out your orgasm, finally opening your eyes to see Spencer’s satisfied and wet face.

He put down your legs and repositioned himself to crawl above you, held up by his elbows on either side of your face.

“Was that good baby? Think you’ve had enough?”

Your blissed out smile almost faded when you felt the ghost of his clothed cock brush on your leg.

“Nooo, I want it” you wedged your hand between your bodies to grab hold of it.

He chuckled at your eagerness. “Alright, you can have it” He sat up briefly to remove the last of his clothing and it sprang free. His long creamy dick with a pink fat mushroom tip stared back at you and your mouth watered.

Wasting no time, Spencer nestled back between your legs, pressing your thighs as far apart as he could in the enclosed space. He held his dick in his hand, swiping along your slit and catching the hood of your clit on each swipe.

“Spencer please, I need it-”

You were cut off by your own moan when he pushed the tip past your entrance while he groaned at the squeeze of your walls around him.

“Biiiiig stretch” he talked you through it as he pushed inch after inch inside. The tight grip pushed his skin back but he kept going, hungry for more of you.

“Ah- ah-, it’s deep” you mewled while staring up through hooded eyes.

He pushed the very last bit inside, the tip bullying your cervix with each shallow rock of his hips.

“I know baby, you’ve got a perfect little pussy but I gotta make it fit, okay?” He leaned in close, putting his chest on yours and meeting your open panting mouth with delicate kisses.

Gradually, he started longer and deeper thrusts, drawing out pornographic sounds from you. Your head rocked against the inside of the car door but you didn’t care.

With a tilt of his hips, Spencer found that spot inside you and massaged it over and over with his hard dick, until your eyes were screwed shut and your kisses turned into moaning into each others’ open mouths.

Spencer sat up slightly, grabbing the underside of your knees and pushing your legs up to your chest. Looking down at your puffy cunt and spat on it, then used the spit to rub your clit with the same speed as his thrusts.

He used his body weight to fold you even further, hitting you spot deep and hard with a hand wedged between you pinching and rubbing your clit.

“That’s it, let it go for me,” he commanded you.

Shaking from the immense heat coiling inside you, you thrashed your head side to side and finally released a noiseless scream as your orgasm took over.

Your visions blacked out and your hips pounded from the rush of blood. You reached around Spencer’s sweat slick back and held tight while he chased his own release.

“So good…so perfect…” he grunted into your neck.

When he finally came inside you, his teeth clamped down on your neck.

After a few minutes of lying there in blissful silence, Spencer pulled out slowly. He was satisfied to see his cum leaking out of you.

“Are you okay?” He asked while he helped you put your dress back on.

“Yeah, I’m great…” you said while you looked around for your panties “It’s too bad this will never happen again.”

Spencer smiled to himself. He would let you believe that for now but deep inside he knew now that he had a taste of you, he could never let you go.

…

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x black!reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfiction

184 notes · View notes

furioussheepluminary · 10 days ago

Text

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐜𝐨𝐥

pairings: liar x liar, non idol au

synopsis: lies

warning: lies, ft minsung, hyunjin and changbin

a/n: if you have extra eyes for errors no you cant.

previously...

The house was quiet. A deep, heavy kind of silence that wrapped itself around the walls like a second skin. Only the occasional creak of old floorboards or the low hum of the fridge dared to stir. Bang Chan stood at the doorway of his room, the faintest sliver of light from the hallway catching the rigid line of his jaw. He glanced down the corridor toward your room. Your door was shut. He’d waited long enough, listened for your breathing to settle, watched the soft shuffle of movement behind your door stop. You were asleep. Finally.

He stepped back in and closed his door behind him, locking it. The folder he brought back earlier in the day—one he hadn’t dared open in front of her—now sat like a loaded weapon on the desk by the lamp. Cream-colored, slightly wrinkled, marked with a simple black label:

OP–SHADOWGATE : EXT-4271

He opened it. Slowly. The pages were crisp, printed in typeface and scattered with clipped photos, redacted names, and codes he recognized as off-grid intel. Private databases. Not FBI. Not CIA. This file had been buried beneath four layers of encrypted shell companies and abandoned ops.

But what hit him first was the photo.

You. Y/N. But not as he knew you.

The Y/N in the file wore darker clothes, your hair shorter, your eyes sharper. You looked… cold. Calculated. Military-grade precision in every movement. Every surveillance still of you was timestamped—none of them recent. All of them deeply embedded within reports about missing data, covert meetings in Singapore, Berlin, Tunisia… and one photo that made the breath catch in Chan’s throat—

A handshake. With a known arms trafficker.

What the hell? Page after page confirmed it.

Y/N L/N. No government affiliation. No agency tags. No loyalty flags. Not FBI. Not CIA. Not Interpol. Not even MI6. Instead, three bold letters marked the top corner of one document:

SCU. Chan stared at it, blinking.

Special Covert Unit. A name only whispered in the deeper shadows of intelligence circles. It wasn’t part of any official government. It was a freelance shadow operation—made up of former agents, soldiers, defectors, and ghosts. People who didn’t officially exist anymore. People who could do what governments couldn’t.

And you were one of them.

He ran a hand through his hair, standing abruptly and pacing across the room. The betrayal simmered just beneath his skin. You had lied to him. Let him believe you were an agent, his colleague. You played the role perfectly.

And now, he realized, you’d probably been tracking him. This wasn’t partnership. This was surveillance.

FLASHBACK — 5 HOURS AGO

The dim alley behind a nondescript Vietnamese café. A man stood near the loading door, lighting a cigarette with trembling fingers. Bald. Tall. Wire-rimmed glasses and a nervous tic.

Chan approached with his hood up.

"You said you had something I needed," he muttered. The man barely looked at him. “Your girl’s not who you think she is.”

Chan's silence made the man nervous. He reached into a leather pouch and handed over a sealed file.

"She’s on her own payroll. SCU. Has been for years. She's gotten in deep with people you’d shoot on sight. Singapore? That was the third time she’s crossed paths with Petrov. She might not even want you alive.”

Chan had stared. Said nothing. Took the file and left.

The rage started to build in his chest. A quiet fury. His heart beat hard against his ribs, but his hands were steady. He didn’t know what her game was yet… but he would. He grabbed his burner phone from beneath the loose floorboard under his bed and tapped out a quick, encrypted message to Jisung:

BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

He hit send and watched the message disappear into the black void of the encoded network.

Then he stared at the door. The one separating him from the woman who saved his life—

and may have been the one holding the blade to his throat all along.

---

The sharp ping of a notification cut through the heavy silence of the room, cracking the late-night calm like glass underfoot.

Jisung groaned into the pillow, half-buried under a tangle of bedsheets and the warm weight of Lee Know draped across his back. Lee Know stirred slightly but didn’t wake. His face remained tucked against Jisung’s shoulder, breathing soft and slow.

Jisung squinted at his phone from under the covers, fingers fumbling to unlock it.

One New Encrypted Message — Burn Line [CHAN]

> BIRD’S IN SHADOW.

SHE’S SCU. NEED A DEEP DIVE. NO MISTAKES.

PRIORITY ONE.

DO. NOT. TELL. HER.

That jolted him awake.

He sat up too fast, causing Lee Know to mumble something and shift with a sleepy arm reaching for him. Jisung gently slid out from under him, muttering, “Sorry, baby. Emergency. Sleep,” pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Lee Know didn’t even flinch—dead to the world.

Jisung padded out of the room barefoot and pulled his laptop from under the couch cushions in the living room. His fingers flew across the keys like they’d been waiting for this exact command.

SCU.

He already didn’t like it. SCU wasn’t just off-books. It was the stuff of ghost stories shared between agents over whiskey and paranoia. An elite, unaffiliated covert unit—ruthless, self-sustaining, and impossible to track. The fact that you were one of them? That was bad enough.

But what he found next was worse.

Kallisto.

He hadn’t seen that name in years. The last time it came up, a Russian scientist had vanished from a NATO stronghold. The whispers pinned it on Kallisto—a faceless middleman known for smuggling secrets, laundering intelligence, and forging high-level cover identities.

Every major intelligence server had fragments of Kallisto's digital fingerprint, but no one could identify him.

Until now, obviously. Jisung cracked open one of SCU’s old Istanbul logs. He cross-referenced Y/N’s operation history, missions involving black sites, off-grid assassinations, chemical extraction. And there it was.

An encoded drop-off record.

Marked: KALLISTO — ESCORTED CARGO: L/N

The IP trail was faint. Half-wiped. But he knew this code. He knew this formatting. His eyes widened.

"...No way."

He dug deeper. The metadata on the embedded cryptographic pings led back to one person.

HWANG. HYUNJIN.

“What the actual hell…” Jisung whispered. Hyunjin. The eccentric art dealer. Hacker. Occasional ghost in the machine when they needed access to black market caches. Your silent little tech whisperer. The guy you “called sometimes.”

Hyunjin was Kallisto.

The black-market ghost tied to former Russian intelligence circles. Jisung leaned back in the chair, letting out a long, low breath. His skin felt clammy, the adrenaline finally catching up to him.

You had lied. Big time.

And suddenly, everything about you—your calm, your silence, your innocence—it all made sense. He stood, went back into the bedroom, and gently shook Lee Know awake. “Minho… wake up.”

Lee Know blinked up at him, groggy but alert. “What’s wrong?”

Jisung knelt by the bed. “We’ve got a problem.”

---

They sat side by side on the couch now, Lee Know scrolling on his own device, eyes scanning the material with practiced calm. Jisung was pacing.

“She’s SCU. Confirmed. But that’s not even the worst part—she’s been working with Hyunjin. He’s Kallisto, babe. Like, the Kallisto.”

Minho stilled, a slow exhale leaving him. “Petrov’s operations. The Geneva leak. That guy?”

“Yeah. And Y/N had contact with him on record. Multiple times.”

“So, either she’s compromised,” Minho muttered, piecing it together, “or she’s playing some kind of deep game. Either way…”

“We can’t let her know we know,” Jisung said. “She’s too good. The second she suspects, she’ll vanish.” Lee Know nodded slowly. “Then we make a backup plan. Containment strategy. Something in case she decides to flip on us.”

They leaned over the laptop together. Drawing lines. Mapping timelines. Creating an algorithm that would flag any divergence in her behavior.

“She’s not FBI,” Jisung added softly, almost like it stung.

Lee Know watched him, his hand finding Jisung’s knee. “This is bigger than her now. We play nice. Act like we trust her.”

“And if she decides to go full double-cross?”

---

SOMEWHERE IN BERLIN — FIVE YEARS AGO

The rain was silver in the glow of neon. Cold. Soaked into the cracked asphalt like bloodstains washed clean too many times.

Hyunjin leaned against the shadowed mouth of an alleyway, hood up, hands in the pockets of a double-breasted coat tailored to perfection. Beneath it, a handgun pressed against his ribs and three encrypted drives waited in his briefcase like poison seeds. His gaze flicked upward, catching the silhouette of the woman through the haze—sharp steps, no hesitation, like she wasn’t scared of anything.

She shouldn’t have been there.

And yet… there she was.

Y/N.

She didn’t flinch when she saw him. She didn’t blink, either. Just stood before him like she already knew his name.

“You’re Kallisto?”

He smirked. “I don’t usually get called that to my face.”

“I’m not most people.”

God, that voice. It wasn’t soft—it was steel sharpened in silence. She carried herself like a storm that forgot how to scream. Beautiful in a way that made him ache, because it came with distance. She was untouchable. Purpose incarnate.

She was his type of problem.

---

PRESENT — SOMEWHERE IN TURKEY, KALLISTO’S SAFEHOUSE

Hyunjin sat barefoot at a sleek marble table, screens aglow in the dim light, lines of code reflecting in his tired, brilliant eyes. Cigarette smoke curled into the air like a dragon’s breath, untouched. His hair was half-tied, sleeves rolled up, black ink peeking from the veins of his forearm.

One screen displayed a dossier.

L/N, Y/N. Alias: Sparrow. Former asset of Operation Daggerfall. Unverified handler clearance.

He stared at her picture longer than he needed to. They’d met in Berlin by accident—but what followed was no coincidence. Y/N had needed access to something no agency would touch. The CIA had written her off. MI6 had wanted her dead. The FBI wouldn’t touch her without a valid background.

Hyunjin gave her one. He buried her records so deep no database could scratch them. Gave her a full identity, a backstory rooted in minor ops and forged casework. He made her real, not just on paper but in the eyes of the federal machine.

Why?

Because she was the first person in his life who didn’t ask him who he worked for.

And he liked the lie that he wasn’t dangerous around her.

---

THREE YEARS AGO — RUSSIA, THE BLACK VAULTS

K.B.V. — Komitet Bezopasnosti Vnutrennyaya. The Committee for Internal Security.

Hyunjin had been part of them once—not fully initiated, but deep enough. A rogue intelligence offshoot made of remnants from the KGB, rebranded under the skin of modern espionage. Hyunjin had been brought in as a teenager. A prodigy. A cyber mercenary capable of crashing entire power grids and rerouting missile guidance in under seven minutes.

He had worked operations where no one left alive. Where targets were innocent, and missions weren’t labeled necessary, just paid.

But somewhere along the way… he cracked.

It was a girl, actually. A blonde. From France. He never talks about her. After that, Hyunjin started playing both sides. Selling intel to the West. Helping the ones meant to disappear. That’s how he ended up in your orbit—how he became the one man you could count on to clean up her messes.

But he never told you about his KBV roots. Never told you that your fingerprints were once auctioned on the dark web and he was the one who bought them before someone else did.

He protected you. He watched your walk into fire. He patched her comms. He killed for her—quietly, efficiently. And every time you said “thank you” in that clipped, mission-focused tone… a small, pathetic part of him ached. Because you never looked at him the way he looked at you.

---

He pulled up footage—grainy but clear. The gala. Again. The kiss. Chan’s hand on her waist. Her lips against his. Hyunjin stared at it like it betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in the chair, exhausted.

“…You never wanted me,” he said into the silence. “But you keep calling.”

He closed the screen and locked everything down. Then turned to the window, watching a city he didn’t belong to breathe in the dark. And in a hidden vault under his floorboards, a letter addressed to Y/N sat sealed. Unread. Unsent. Just in case he ever didn’t come back.

---

The morning peeled itself from the edges of the horizon, warm gold bleeding into the sky like ink dropped into water. The air was still damp from the night rain, and the cobblestones outside the safehouse glistened faintly in the soft light.

Inside, Y/N zipped up the final bag with the kind of practiced grace that made it clear this wasn’t her first covert exit. She wore a dark hoodie, her hair tucked beneath a cap, and had the quiet look of someone already in the next country in her mind. Chan watched her from the doorway, arms folded, his face unreadable except for the faint shadow beneath his eyes—a storm bottled too neatly.

He knew. Everything. But she didn’t know that. He grabbed his own bag off the floor, slung it over his shoulder. “You double-checked the back exit?”

“Twice,” she said, brushing past him lightly. “You’d be surprised how many ops go south just because someone forgot to check for cameras.”

He gave a small, empty smile. “Wouldn’t surprise me at all.” They stepped out into the dawn.

---

The taxi smelled faintly of cigarettes and lemon-scented wipes. The driver grunted something in Czech and pulled away from the curb, the soft rumble of the car the only real sound as the city began to stir around them. Chan sat by the window, his hand curled loosely near his mouth, eyes locked on the blur of minarets and rooftop pigeons sliding past. Y/N sat beside him, her gaze forward, one leg bouncing slightly.

He broke the silence casually, voice wrapped in silk and smoke.

“You ever work with anyone out of South Carolina?”

Her eyes flicked to him. “SCU?” A pause. Careful, he thought.

She shrugged. “Not directly. They’ve got their own ghosts. You know how it is—oversight, contracts, a lot of red tape. Why?” Chan tilted his head, still watching the window.

“Just… someone mentioned a woman in one of my old circuits. Said she moved like she wasn’t trained by the Bureau.”

Her eyes narrowed just slightly, just long enough for him to catch it. “You think I move like that?” He smiled faintly, turning to look at her now. “I think you move like someone who doesn’t wait for orders.”

That earned a breath of a laugh. “Maybe I don’t.” They lapsed into silence again. But in Chan’s mind, wires were already reconnecting. Her answer wasn’t defensive—it was practiced. Slick. And vague enough to slide past the truth without ever touching it.

She’s good, he thought. Too good.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the departure’s terminal. Morning travelers bustled past with overstuffed luggage and sleep-laced chatter. Chan and Y/N stepped out, blending in with the chaos like shadows.

As Y/N adjusted the strap on her carry-on, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.

[Jisung]: Your flight's confirmed. Prague to D.C, gate C-22. You board in 1 hr. You’re welcome.

Chan’s burner buzzed next. He checked it discreetly, heart thudding low and slow like a warning drum.

[Jisung]: Kallisto = Hyunjin. Confirmed.

He’s deeper in Russian circuits than we thought.

Do NOT confront her.

Play along. We’re building the counter-plan.

Chan’s jaw tightened. Just slightly. He slid the phone back into his jacket, turned to Y/N with that easy, almost-charming look he wore like armor.

“C-22,” he said. “You want coffee before we go through security?”

She blinked, surprised for a second by the shift. “You’re buying?” He smirked. “You’re still recovering from that fish crime you ordered last night. I owe you.”

As they walked into the terminal, he walked just a step behind her. Watching. Calculating. And the entire time, he smiled like he didn’t know a thing.

---

The room was dimly lit, washed in a cool blue glow from the multiple monitors lined across the wall like portals to chaos. The table was cluttered, half-empty mugs, a bowl of almonds, USBs scattered like confetti, and at the center of it all: Jisung, hunched forward in a hoodie, eyes flicking fast over the screen.

Lee Know sat behind him on the edge of the couch, arms folded, head tilted with that signature mix of exasperation and fondness. His hair was messily laid back, and he wore nothing but a black sleeveless tee and joggers that slung low on his hips.

“Baby, it’s past three,” he said gently. “Your brain’s going to short-circuit. Come to bed.”

“I can’t,” Jisung mumbled, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. “We just pulled up something off that Turkish backdoor server. There’s something encrypted buried under the Havana list—some weird metadata…”

Lee Know sighed through his nose, padded barefoot across the floor and crouched beside him, eyes scanning the screen.

“… ‘OSCAR,’” he read aloud.

Jisung leaned in closer, typing furiously. “That name was tagged on the Havana trade manifest. Not as cargo. As the person who signed off Petrov’s transfer. But this doesn’t make sense—there’s no trace of her anywhere. No photo. No paper trail. It’s like someone built a ghost and gave her a name.”

Lee Know stared at the file; expression unreadable for a second. Then he stood, walked behind Jisung, and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, pressing his lips to the side of his boyfriend’s head.

“You are too sexy to be this stubborn, you know that?”

“I’m trying to focus here.”

“And I’m trying to get you to sleep so you don’t pass out in the middle of a firewall breach tomorrow morning.”

“I said I’m fine—”

Lee Know leaned down and kissed him again. This time slower. Then once more. Again.

Jisung’s fingers slowed on the keys. “Lee Know…”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing.”

“I’m kissing you.”

“Why are you kissing me?”

“Because when reasoning fails, seduction prevails.”

“I hate you.”

“You’re lying.”

“I am lying.”

Lee Know slipped around and gently straddled him on the chair, pressing their lips together properly this time—hands warm against Jisung’s jaw, mouth coaxing the tension out of him in lazy, warm kisses. Jisung gave in with a soft groan, arms looping around his waist.

“Just a minute,” he murmured against Lee Know’s lips.

“Take your time,” he whispered back, dragging the kisses slower, lazier, trailing from his jaw to his neck. “I’ll keep you here till the sun comes up if I have to.”

They didn’t speak after that. They just swayed together in the low light, lost in something too tender for words—breaths mingling, mouths brushing, the tension of espionage fading for a moment into something personal. Familiar.

Then,

PING.

The laptop chimed. Jisung blinked against Lee Know’s collarbone, dazed. “That… was the metadata dump. It decrypted.” Lee Know groaned dramatically and flopped back into the couch, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “If that turns out to be a decoy file, I’m deleting the internet.”

Jisung pulled himself up, adjusted the screen—and then froze. His brows furrowed, fingers hovering above the keys as an image popped up.

“Holy sh—”

“What?” Lee Know sat up. Jisung didn’t look away from the screen. His voice dropped.

“That’s her. Oscar.”

An elegant silhouette in grayscale. No face. But the metadata showed something else: A log of clearance codes used during Operation Nightfall. Signed off… under the name Reynolds.

Lee Know leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“…They’re working together?”

Jisung nodded slowly, jaw clenching. “And they were in Havana.”

---

Rain whispered against the windows of the high-rise apartment, streaking the glass in slanted gray lines. The place was sharp—clean lines, sterile decor, too polished to be personal. Just like the man who lived in it. Reynolds stood in front of the bar, pouring himself something darker than his thoughts. The amber liquid sloshed into the tumbler with a quiet clink of ice. He looked tired. More than tired. Worn. His tie was loosened, top buttons undone, and there was a trembling tension in his jaw that hadn’t been there the day before.

Behind him, Petrov leaned back on the leather armchair like a cat that knew it had nine lives. He wore black, all black, a cigarette lazily perched between his fingers despite the no smoking sign Reynolds always insisted on. His eyes tracked Reynolds like a man who expected a bullet—but wasn't scared of it. “You look like shit,” Petrov said calmly in his thick Russian accent, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling.

“I ran into Oscar last night.”

That got his attention. Petrov straightened, the smirk dissolving from his face like fog. “…She’s here?”

Reynolds turned, drink in hand, and gave him a cold, slow look. “In my goddamn living room, Viktor.”

Petrov held his gaze. “I didn’t call her.”

Reynolds’ voice cracked with low fury. “Bullshit. You compromised the gala. She shook your hand in the middle of gunfire. You were a goddamn beacon.”

“I was saving your operation—”

“You were making yourself the center of it,” Reynolds barked, slamming his glass down on the bar with a sharp crack. “Now she thinks we’ve lost control. She thinks I have. She threatened to light this entire op on fire if I don’t have Bang Chan’s head before the deadline.”

Petrov rose from the chair, the smirk now fully gone. “I swear to you; I didn’t say a word to her. She doesn’t know about Chan. Not from me.”

“She knows enough to show up unannounced,” Reynolds snapped, stalking forward. “And if we don’t get in front of this—if we don’t figure out something, she’ll pull the plug and do it her way. And her way? It’s not clean. It’s not political. It’s nuclear.”

They stood there, the weight of a thousand betrayals thick in the air.

Petrov flicked his ash into the tray, then muttered, “So what now?” Reynolds pinched the bridge of his nose, thinking. Calculating. The mind of a man who'd sold both secrets and souls for survival.

“We give her something,” he said finally. “A breadcrumb. Not Chan. Not yet. But something that makes it look like we’re playing ball. And in the meantime—”

He looked up, eyes sharper than a blade in the cold.

“—we come up with a contingency plan. In case she decides we’re no longer necessary.” Petrov nodded slowly, then lifted his glass.

“To desperate partnerships,” he said dryly. Reynolds didn’t toast. He just turned away, staring out at the rain.

“God help us all if she realizes how far off-script this really is.”

---

Terminal 2, Gate 22, En route to Washington D.C

The check-in line was long, but not noisy. But Y/N wasn’t distracted. Not really. She stood a few paces behind Chan as they waited at security, watching him with that instinctive sharpness she'd honed for years. Something about him was different. Distant. Not cold—but guarded. He hadn’t said more than ten words since they’d left the safehouse.

She watched the tightness in his jaw as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hand gripped the strap of his bag a little too hard. His lips were set in a firm, unreadable line.

And Y/N, despite every instinct telling her to just play it cool, found herself leaning toward him gently as they passed through the security scanner.

“You alright?” she asked softly, keeping her tone light. “You’ve been weirdly quiet. Not that I’m complaining. It’s just… not your usual kind of quiet.”

Chan looked at her. For a moment, his eyes flickered. Like something inside him softened just enough to let the truth nearly spill out. But instead, he offered a faint smile—a hollow one.

“Just tired,” he said. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Nightmares or intel?” she teased, her voice playful but careful. He let out a small exhale, neither confirming nor denying. Just moving through the moment like a man carrying too many unspoken truths.

She didn’t press. Not yet. As they approached the gate, their boarding passes beeped and they crossed into the jet bridge, walking side by side in the sterile tunnel that led to the aircraft. The hum of the engines rumbled ahead, but her mind stayed focused on the man next to her.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes. Maybe it was instinct. Or maybe it was that unshakable thread between them—tension, trust, and something else they never had the courage to name. Just before they stepped into the plane, she said, “You know… whatever it is you think I’m hiding from you… maybe just ask me, Chan.”

That stopped him. He turned to her slowly, brows barely lifted, lips parting slightly as if caught off guard. She gave him a small shrug, eyes calm but not challenging. “I’m not saying I don’t have secrets. We all do. But if you want the truth, you can always ask for it. I won’t lie to you.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Because the file still burned in his bag. The truth already stared him in the face, and yet—her voice made him hesitate. Made him doubt. And that scared him more than anything else. He nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor for just a beat too long. Then he stepped into the plane, leaving her to follow behind, unaware that the first real fracture had just begun.

---

The room was dark except for the flickering light from at least six different monitors. Strings of code cascaded like falling rain across black screens. The air smelled faintly of soldered wire and burnt coffee, evidence of Hyunjin's relentless routines. His desk was a chaotic masterpiece: old USBs, passports, a disassembled burner phone, and a half-finished oil painting of a fox that had long since dried unfinished.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, a single cigarette resting between his fingers but never lit. His gaze flickered over the final set of coordinates he’d decrypted an hour ago.

Location: Prague > Departure: DC

Subject: BANG C. / YN

He exhaled sharply through his nose. They were moving faster than expected. With the same elegance he brought to his art, Hyunjin leaned forward and opened a separate interface. His fingers tapped quickly, unlocking a channel so heavily encrypted it would take even the best black hat a week to scrape the metadata. But Oscar? She’d receive the message in seconds.

He clicked the microphone icon and spoke low into it:

> Oscar. Your package is mobile. Destination: Washington D.C. ETA six hours. Suggest containment on landing. You still want the ghost or just the soldier?

He released the mic, leaned back, and pressed SEND. A soft beep confirmed it was received and decrypted. He sat there, motionless, fingers steepled. His eyes didn’t blink for a few seconds. Because despite what he had just done—despite the mask of cold indifference he wore so well—it wasn’t just a mission. Not when it came to her. Not when it came to Y/N.

Hyunjin whispered under his breath, “What the hell are you doing, pretty girl…?”

He was about to pull up the next operation file when another alert blipped in the corner of his primary monitor.

Incoming Message: UNRECOGNIZED KEYCHAIN

Encryption: NERVE Protocol / Red Spider Variant

Location masked

Brows lifted. He hadn’t seen this protocol in years. Only a handful of elite black-market hackers used it. Most of them were ghosts. Off-grid. Untraceable. Curious, he opened the message.

> KALLISTO. I see you. You can paint in Prague, hide in Spain, sip tea in Seoul. But sooner or later, I'm gonna unplug your router and use your bones as Wi-Fi extenders. :) – spider.exe

Hyunjin blinked. Once. Twice. Then he snorted—actually laughed. Loudly.

“Spider.exe?” he muttered. “That’s cute. Very cute.”

He leaned forward and quickly activated three different defense protocols, sealing his connection routes and initiating a trace sweep. Not to find them—he wouldn’t succeed. But to at least see what sort of game they were playing.

He stared at the signature tag of the hacker’s handle again. It was old-school. Reckless. Personal.

“…Who the hell are you?” he whispered, the smile still on his lips, eyes sharpening like a wolf finally smelling blood.

Because someone was watching him.

And even though they were clever… Hyunjin had survived the K.B.V. by being smarter.

---

Jisung leaned back in his chair, legs folded, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up as he spun a pen between his fingers. The laptop screen in front of him still had the encryption pulse active—the same encrypted system he’d used to poke the bear.

Or rather, poke KALLISTO.

Lee Know was somewhere in the background brushing his teeth, humming a tune from that one old K-drama he refused to admit he liked. But Jisung? He was grinning, eyes wide and glinting with mischief as he typed again into the Red Spider interface.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Yo Picasso.exe — you draw fast but you paint slow. FYI, I'm the nightmare that crash-lands your Dropbox and plays Baby Shark on loop till you cry in Morse code. Wanna play tag, comrade?

ENCRYPTED SEND > DELIVERED

Beep.

He waited. Not even fifteen seconds. His eyes caught the alert on screen.

INCOMING TRANSMISSION – USER: APOLLO.S13 // KALLISTO

Encryption Signature: Modified Russian VektorShell – Unscramblable

Jisung whistled. “Damn. Old school and expensive…”

Then the message decrypted.

RECEIVED MESSAGE

> Tag requires two players. You don’t ping like NSA, but you’re not FSB either. Your syntax is juvenile, your jokes? American. But your footprint is clean. Too clean. Either you’re new, or you’re very good. So tell me: how long have you been inside my system?

Jisung blinked. “Oh, he thinks I’m inside.”

He cracked his knuckles, rolled his neck, and grinned like a devil in a hoodie. “No idea who I am? Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

He quickly began coding his reply—half jokes, half riddles, all wrapped in a sarcasm sandwich.

OUTGOING MESSAGE

> Define ‘inside.’ Metaphysically? Emotionally? Or spiritually? Because honestly, I’ve been living rent-free in your RAM since you sent Oscar that voice memo. C’mon, Kallisto. Play a little.

Another beat.

Ding.

KALLISTO REPLY – 1:38 RESPONSE TIME

> Cute. But cute things die first. Keep poking, spider. When I find your web, I’m setting it on fire.

Jisung snorted, closing the lid of his laptop slowly like he’d just made eye contact with the final boss of a game. He leaned back further, arms crossed behind his head.

“Oh, he mad mad. Baby boy got attitude.”

Lee Know walked in, towel over his shoulder, frowning. “You’re flirting with Russian hackers at again?”

“…Technically he’s North Korean-trained but, y’know, semantics.”

Lee Know sighed, but smirked. “You’re not gonna tell him who you are?” Jisung grinned. “Nah. Not yet. Let’s see how long it takes Picasso to realize he’s been painting on my canvas.”

---

FLIGHT 297 – SOMEWHERE ABOVE KENTUCKY

Cabin dim, engines humming low, and the soft glow of overhead lights pooling like moonlight around their seats.

Y/N leaned back into her seat, head tilted toward the small window, watching as clouds slithered past in the night sky like pale ghosts. The plane wasn’t packed—just a scattering of sleepy passengers lost in their own silence. She’d been watching Chan from the corner of her eye for about twenty minutes now.

He was quiet. Too quiet. And something about the way he’d been since they left the safehouse was… off. Not cold. Just… calculated. Like he was mentally running risk assessments on everything, including her.

She didn’t press. Not immediately.

But curiosity and survival had a similar itch, and eventually, she turned toward him, voice soft. “So… what’s the plan when we land in D.C.?”

Chan didn’t look up right away. His gaze was fixed on the seat in front of him, fingers tapping rhythmically against the fold-down tray. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat, casting her a quick glance before leaning a bit closer.

“Friend’s place,” he said simply, voice low. “Guy I trust. His name’s Changbin.”

Y/N’s spine straightened by less than a millimeter. Her eyes didn’t blink. Her breath didn’t skip. But something in her stomach knotted.

CIA.

She knew the name. Not from files, but whispers. Operation Scarfall. Beirut. The Berlin Deviation. He was the CIA handler you didn’t want to get on the bad side of. And he was close to Chan?

Shit.

But her face? A masterpiece. She smiled gently. “How close are we talking?” Chan exhaled a quiet chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “He almost got me court-martialed on my first inter-agency mission. Gave me hell for three weeks because I mislabeled a cipher doc.”

Y/N blinked. “Sounds like a great first date.”

Chan gave her a look, one that almost held a smile—almost. “He earned my trust the same way I earned his. We nearly died pulling each other out of a blown-out building in Benghazi. Haven’t been able to get rid of him since.”

Y/N nodded slowly, still pretending. Still sweet. Still the Y/N he thinks he knows. “And you think he’s the best place to start?”

“He’s not just a friend,” Chan said, voice flattening slightly. “He’s a fixer. Quiet but connected. If there’s anything left buried in D.C., Changbin can dig it up, burn it, and sell the ashes to the highest bidder.”

Y/N tucked that away. Filed it next to “Find a way to keep Changbin at arm’s length.” Chan’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her features. “Don’t worry. I’ll be the one to break the situation down to him.”

“Situation?”

He hesitated. “You. The mission. All of it.”

“Ah.” She crossed one leg over the other, lips curling into a soft smirk. “You think he’s not already ten steps ahead?” Chan scoffed lightly. “He probably is. He’s probably listening to this conversation right now. But I owe him the explanation anyway.”

She nodded, turning her gaze back to the window, watching the lights of a city far below flicker like dying stars. And deep inside—beneath the calm, beneath the softness—she wondered:

How long could she keep playing this game? Because it wasn’t just Chan anymore. It was CIA. And Changbin. The man who once interrogated KALLISTO in a shipping crate in Kaliningrad.

This was going to get messy.

REAGAN NATIONAL AIRPORT – WASHINGTON, D.C.

The air is heavy with dew and anticipation. The city sleeps—restless and unaware.

The plane’s wheels kissed the tarmac with a soft, tired bounce, jostling the passengers gently awake. Cabin lights blinked on fully, casting shadows over drawn faces and travel-weary limbs. Y/N stirred beside Chan, stretching subtly as the pilot's voice crackled overhead, welcoming them to the District of Columbia.

They moved in silence, the kind bred not of awkwardness but of focus—of sharpening blades before the next fight.

Baggage claim was a ghost town, the conveyor belt humming like a tired lullaby. Their duffels arrived quickly—black, nondescript, and heavy with secrets. Chan hoisted his without strain, glancing once over his shoulder as Y/N lifted hers. Always watching. Always calculating.

Outside, the chill was sharper than expected, the kind that bit through jackets and whispered of coming storms. Chan stepped a few paces away from her to the curb, phone in hand, raising it to call a cab. And that’s when her phone pinged.

One message. Unknown number.

Encrypted tag: MirrorOp-11.

She unlocked it, frowning faintly as the screen displayed:

> The spider’s getting closer to the web.

Better check your corners. – K

Her breath hitched just slightly—barely, but Chan caught it.

Unbeknownst to her, as she tilted the screen just slightly for a better read, he caught the top of the message from over her shoulder. His gaze flickered, lips twitching into a slow, almost amused smile.

Kallisto.

He knew that message wasn't from just anyone. And "the spider"? It was one of Jisung's oldest hacker tags—playful, dangerous, elusive. The digital equivalent of a red laser pointer and a loaded gun. Still pretending not to have seen a thing, Chan turned and flagged down a taxi with an easy wave, his voice calm.

“Over here.”

The yellow cab rolled up with a tired groan, headlights splashing across their faces. He opened the door for her first like always, and she slid in, her phone slipping into her coat pocket. Chan followed and closed the door behind them, then leaned in to the driver.

“Northwest. 14th and T Street,” he said smoothly. The driver gave a nod and pulled out into the sleepy city streets, tires whispering over damp asphalt.

Y/N’s expression was mostly neutral, but Chan didn’t miss the subtle tension in her posture, the tight hold on the strap of her bag, the way her eyes darted once to the rearview mirror, checking for tails out of habit.

“You okay?” he asked casually, glancing sideways at her. His voice had that soft, worn edge like coffee at dawn. “You looked like you saw a ghost back there.”

Y/N turned to him, lips already lifting into a gentle, practiced smile. “Yeah,” she replied easily. “Just... tired.”

He tilted his head, studying her just a beat longer than necessary, then nodded. “Of course,” he said, leaning back against the seat. “You’ve been through hell.” His tone was comforting. Reassuring. The protective leader. But his thoughts?

If you only knew what I saw.

If you only knew who I’m talking to. And what we’re building behind the curtain. The cab turned onto a main road, headlights cutting through fog, and the Capitol slowly began to rise like a giant in the distance watching them.

And Y/N?

She pressed her lips together and glanced down at her phone once more. She didn’t reply to the message.

Not yet.

Because suddenly…

It felt like someone else was watching the spider too.

---

The taxi hummed quietly as it pulled up in front of a narrow street lined with quiet row houses modest, but timeless. Each brick home had the same bones but showed off its own personality: a windchime here, mismatched flower pots there, paint chipping in just the right way. And in front of one—olive green door, cracked white trim—was where Chan told the driver to stop.

“Here,” he muttered, already reaching for his wallet.

Y/N stepped out first, stretching her arms with a quiet sigh as Chan paid the driver. The morning air was still cool, birds chirping overhead in the sleepy hum of D.C. suburbia. They looked like tourists, really. Two travelers with their bags and fatigue under their eyes. Nothing suspicious. Nothing wild. Just two people with too much history tucked into carry-ons.

As the car drove off and the sound of its tires faded, Chan walked up to the doorstep and gave three sharp knocks against the wood. There was a pause. Then footsteps. A shuffle. The squeak of a hinge and the door cracked open.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice, deep and raspy, still thick with morning. “Who the hell fucked you?”

Chan barked out a laugh. “Real welcoming, Bin.”

“Hey,” Changbin grinned, stepping back so they could see him fully. He was barefoot in sweatpants and a black tee, hair messy, a toothbrush still in his mouth like a cigarette. “Had to be said. You look like a war crime.”

“I was a war crime,” Chan said with a smirk. “Come on, Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward cautiously, bag slung over one shoulder, eyes darting over Changbin with subtle appraisal. She recognized the CIA air before he even spoke—calculated eyes, compact build, that low hum of suspicion always thrumming under the surface.

Changbin blinked at her. “And you are…?”

Chan shifted beside her. “FBI. She found me.”

There was a beat. Then Changbin’s lips twitched.

“A she found you?” he said, brow raised. “Damn, low blow, bro. I thought the Ghost of Langley would be found by some tatted-up Russian or an old white guy named Walter, but this—?” He let out a breathy laugh. “Nah, I like this better.”

Chan rolled his eyes and flipped him off as he crossed the threshold. “Eat shit.”

“Already did. The yogurt expired two days ago,” Changbin shot back, closing the door behind them with a heavy clunk and twisting the locks. He looked back at them. “Make yourselves at home. Couch is yours. Kitchen’s to the right. Don’t touch my protein powder or we fight.”

Y/N smiled politely, easing her bag down by the wall. The space was cozy in that ex-operative kind of way—bare walls, sturdy furniture, hidden cameras in the corner if you looked hard enough. Homey... if your version of home came with bulletproof blinds.

Chan looked over at Changbin again, that subtle softness tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I missed you, bro.”

That wasn’t something they said easily. Not in this world. Not unless they meant it. Changbin’s expression flickered. “Yeah, well… you better’ve. I had to watch your name bounce through six different kill lists like a damn ping pong tournament.” He crossed over and pulled Chan into a half hug, the kind where you clap each other’s backs hard enough to bruise. “Good to see you in one piece, man.”

“You too.” Chan stepped back, grinning. “How’s your girl?”

Changbin snorted, dragging a hand through his hair. “Mad at me. Thinks I took a late-night op to avoid therapy again.”

“Did you?”

“Obviously.” He gave a shrug like: what’s a man to do? “She’ll forgive me. Eventually. I bought her a plant.” Chan shook his head with a smile. “You’re gonna die in your sleep.”

“Probably. At least I’ll die pretty.”

And just like that, the door to safety had shut behind them but the door to strategy, to planning, to war, had quietly opened. And no one said it aloud yet, but it was there in the glances, the sighs, the heaviness behind every word.

Because this wasn’t just a safe house.

This was the first chess move.

I can't wait for my lovely blue to see this 😙

Taglist: purple means I can't tag you

@whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @pessimisticloather @alisonyus @rockstarkkami @morkleesgirl @yoongiismylove2018 @imeverycliche @katchowbbie @pixie-felix @maisyyyyyy @katyxstay @day138 @necrozica @nebugalaxy @strsforjsb @iknowyouknowminho @imagine-all-the-imagines @jc27s @igotajuicyass @jitrulyslayyed @sh0dor1 @idiotmaterial @leeknow-minho2 @btskzfav @glenda2107-blog @jeonginnieswifey @makeawitchoutofme @nikki143777 @sharnnnnnn @akindaflora @chungdol @lillymochilover @lixies-favourite-cookie @heartsbystars @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @rachmmb @min-doesnt-know @maxidential @ebnabi @burntbang @therealmrsbahng @ari-hwanggg @xxxxmoonlightxxx @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz @woozarts @zerillia @lveegsoi @queenofdumbfuckery @intartaruguinha @lorialia @btch8008s @jamroses @hhwangsmoon @pnkcasket @alix-nai

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc 💗

#stray kids #skz #stray kids x reader #straykids #skzco #bang chan #bystay #han jisung #hyunjin #christopher bang #bangchan #chris bang #bangchan scenario #bang chan x reader #skz chris #christopher bahng #skz fanfic #skz fic #~kc's 💗

108 notes · View notes

cobbled-peach · 23 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ long, lonely time

Where Spencer Reid isn't built for dancing, or waiting. But he does both for you

cw: BAU fem!reader. Minor injury (bruises). Fluff!!!!! Reader wears a dress. Implied intimacy. a/n: I was listening to unchained melody and was possessed to write this. enjoy!! w/c: 2.5k

Spencer Reid has never been a good dancer.

No coordination with his hands, even less with his feet. Stiff shoulders, uncertain rhythm, a mind that’s too busy analyzing the beat instead of feeling it. It’s a mystery he never cracked. The thought of surrendering himself to the music, of moving fluidly and letting go, is all too much for him. And yet, tonight, in the midst of all the chaos, all the noise, all the strangers surrounding him, dancing is the one thing Spencer wants to do more than anything.

It's the night of the Federal Service Recognition Ball – a formal event hosted by the FBI in collaboration with other federal agencies. An initiative to celebrate interagency success, reinforce cooperation, show gratitude for the men and women serving the country. For Spencer, it’s a reminder of everything that’s wrong.

It’s too much. Music a few decibels too loud, too formal, too much celebration. Too many people pretend that everything is okay when so much of it isn’t.

The opening address is delivered by the FBI’s Deputy Director. Stiff. Over-rehearsed. Full of words that are meant to inspire but somehow lack the weight they should carry. He talks about force collaborations, cross-agency victories. And the fallen – a list that seems endless, punctuated by hushed, respectful murmurs. He flinches at least three times, worried that your name will be next on the list, shrinking back from the dry cadence of names and memorials.

Spencer barely touches his dinner. Prods at the food like it personally offended him.

To his left, Rossi entertains the table with stories from his books, his charisma effortlessly charming. To Spencer’s right, a stiff CIA liaison who makes no move to engage with him, not even offering a smile at Spencer’s attempt at humor. Best to remain silent instead.

And maybe it’s better that way. The conversation doesn’t matter, not really. What does matter is the fact that his mind is miles away and has been for weeks.

He can’t stop thinking about you, and how much easier things would be if you were beside him in this sea of suits and ballgowns. The thought of you brings both the warmth of love and the sharp sting of absence.

It started three months ago, back in the briefing room.

The lights were too bright, too cold, too clinical. The team sat in a dull silence, folders spread across the table like autopsy reports. Strauss was speaking in a tone that was too detached for the situation, detailing the operation. The target, the organization, the possible fallout. All routine.

Then, your name. The word undercover. The air shifted and became tight, heavy with implication.

Spencer tensed beside you. His back went rigid. His fingers gripped the pen in his hand so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. It wasn’t his place to.

Hotch had nodded. Brief hesitation, speaking with quiet reluctance. ‘I agree. You’re the best fit for this. It requires someone with your psychological profile. Someone who can stay grounded in a constructed identify and play the part without losing themselves.’

Spencer heard the catch of your breath.

‘When do I leave?’ you asked, your voice steady, but laced with something that Spencer couldn’t place.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Strauss replied.

Spencer’s pen snapped. No one said anything about it, the room engulfed in silence with a tension that was palpable.

Later, back in your apartment, the silence felt suffocating. It was a silence that screamed, said everything at once and nothing at all.

The TV showed a muted black-and-white film neither of you were watching. You curled into his side on the couch as he absentmindedly traced circles on your back, tracking the rise and fall of your breathing.

‘I should say something smart right now,’ he had whispered, his voice hoarse, like it hadn’t been used in hours.

You hummed quietly, lost in your own spiraling thoughts.

‘I’m trying really hard not to be selfish,’ he added after a moment, his voice barely a whisper, accompanied by a smile that didn’t even try to reach his eyes.

‘You’re not.’

‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘I told you to say no. I want you to stay. Be safe. Be mine.’

‘I am yours.’ You had shifted slightly, lifting your hand to lace your fingers through his. ‘But this is what the case calls for, what I trained for, Spence. You know that.’

He nodded, eyes closed, nose brushing against your hair. ‘I know.’

‘I’ll come back,’ you had promised, your voice soft but firm.

‘I’ll count the hours.’

The two of you had gone to bed then. Not with the urgency of fear, but the aching tenderness of people trying to remember every detail. The curve of your shoulder, the taste of your skin, the way you whispered his name like a promise. He tucked it all away in his mind, like he was preserving the memory for safekeeping.

And just before sleep claimed you, he had pressed a kiss to your forehead. Lingering. Like it needed to last until the day you came home.

Two weeks before the ball, Spencer found himself staring at his phone for far longer than was acceptable. A text message. Typed and deleted. Typed again, partially deleted. He hesitated. Finally, with a soft exhale, he pressed send.

Just in case this reaches you: the Recognition Ball is in a couple of weeks. I’m going. You’d hate it. Too much protocol and overexaggerated glamour. But I’m still asking you to come with me. You can even steal my dessert, if you want. I’d just be grateful to see you. That’s all. I miss you more than I can explain. Please come home to me, when you can.

He hadn’t expected a reply. And he didn’t get one. But it felt right to send it.

And now here he is, standing at the edge of the ballroom, nursing a glass of sparkling water that has long since gone warm, watching as couples dance across the polished marble floor. A celebration of heroes, attended by people who carried ghosts.

Someone from Interpol asks if he wants to dance. He smiles politely, shakes his head. A gentle decline.

JJ gives him a soft squeeze on the arm as she passes, and Morgan offers a quiet nod from the bar, lifting his glass in solidarity. Hotch meets his eye from across the room with an unspoken understanding.

Kindness, but not enough. Not when he was still reeling from the emptiness of your absence.

‘Can’t imagine this is your idea of a good time,’ came a voice from behind him, warm and measured.

Spencer turns, and it’s Blake. Champagne glass in her hand, dressed in slate-gray, expression as calm as ever. No smile, but an undeniable softness in her eyes.

He exhales, gaze dropping to his untouched glass. ‘Not exactly.’

Blake steps beside him, and together they watch the dancers glide across the room.

‘I always thought the forced elegance of these events was a little exhausting,’ Blake commented, her voice low like they were sharing a secret. ‘And dishonest. Like the world has paused for us, when it really hasn’t.’

‘She would’ve thought the same.’ Blake doesn’t need to ask who he’s referring to. ‘She’s still out there,’ he mutters next, voice barely more than a rasp, jaw tight. ‘In the field. I don’t know where. I don’t even know if she’s safe. And… people are celebrating like she isn’t out there right now, doing something dangerous.’

‘She’s okay,’ Blake says, quiet but firm, her hand gently finding his way onto his arm in a warm and steady touch. ‘Don’t grieve her before you have to, Spencer. There’s a difference between loss and simply waiting.’

‘I’m still waiting,’ he affirmed. ‘I’ll always be waiting.’

‘Good,’ she nods. ‘Just don’t forget to live while you do.’

The music shifts. A slow tune, the crackle of old vinyl piped through expensive speakers. A familiar sound, almost like an intrusion. Spencer freezes, heart suddenly stuttering in his chest. Painful. Achey.

The song. Your song.

His grip on the glass falters, and he sets it done carefully, hands trembling. How many times had he danced with you to this song? It wasn’t something he’d expected to hear tonight, and not in a room full of strangers, but there it was, drifting through the air like a haunting whisper. A song reserved for the two of you, now spent alone, shared by couples who aren’t you and him.

Oh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for your touch…

He turns to Blake, but she’s already gone. He doesn’t remember her walking away. The pain sets in deeper, then. Having to manage this alone. The memory hits him with more force than he’s capable of managing.

You, barefoot in the kitchen, spinning in circles with flour on your cheek. A record player humming, fuzzy but comforting. Him, burning pancakes, trying to lecture you on the brand of maple syrup you’d bought.

‘Real maple syrup would have a lower glycemic index than this. This is—’

‘Spence, baby,’ you interrupted him with a laugh. ‘Tell me later. Just dance with me.’

He did. Relented and stepped away from the ruined pancakes. You swayed together, laughed together. He felt your fingers in his hair, your nose against his neck and your breath against his collarbone.

He can almost feel that breath now.

A long, lonely time…

His chest tightens, his pulse thundering in his ears. He’s pushing through the crowd now, needing air, weaving through the dresses and tuxedos, his breathing shallow and uneven, the song having stolen the air straight from his lungs.

He feels too exposed, like everyone in the room is reading his memories.

It hurt – God, it hurt so bad – to be here without you.

And time goes by, so slowly…

Then—

He feels it. The shift in the air. A familiar presence so engrained in his soul that his heart recognizes it before his mind does. He doesn’t even need to think about it.

There. Across the room.

You. Your eyes scanning the crowd, searching, as if you could sense him in the same way he felt you.

He didn’t even need to look hard. You were unmistakable, a picture of grace and understated elegance, wearing a deep blue dress that trailed behind you like ink spilling across the floor. He can see it from a distance, the bruise blooming across your collarbone, another fading on your arm. But you were alive. You were here. The sight of you made Spencer’s heart ache. It felt like he’d been holding his breath for weeks, and now, he could finally exhale.

And time can do so much. Are you still mine?

Your eyes found his. Tired – not broken, but worn. Real. And then, that smile. Soft. Familiar. It almost undoes him.

Time fractures around him, slowing to a stop as he walks toward you. His feet move, his brain lags behind. He doesn’t know how, but he’s suddenly right in front of you. His hand reaches for your waist, tentative at first, like you’re an apparition that’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

You turn into his arms effortlessly, like no time has passed. Like you’d never left. His grip tightens then, fingers trembling as they interlocked with yours and he pulled you closer. He felt your arm wrap around him, hand resting between his shoulder blades. And suddenly, breathing is easy again.

Neither of you speak. No words are needed. And he’s thankful for that, because the moment he saw you every word in the English language was forgotten to him.

I need your love, I need your love, God speed your love to me.

You sway together to the song. Slow and unhurried. Stood amongst a crowd that matters no more.

Your head rests gently against his shoulder, and the weight of your presence is like a balm to his soul, his cheek brushing your temple. He isn’t sure how long you dance together. It doesn’t matter. The music has changed, but you haven’t. You still moved, pressed against each other, the rhythm of being whole again.

‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ he says, barely audible.

‘You invited me,’ you reply with a soft smile. ‘I didn’t want to miss it. Or seeing you in a tux.’

He laughs. It’s shaky and uneven, choked by emotion. ‘Please… never leave like that again.’

‘I don’t plan on it.’

Later, the door to your apartment clicks open with the low creak of disuse. He hadn’t set a single foot in here since you’d left. Didn’t think he’d be able to bear it. He steps in behind you, hand still gently laced with yours, refusing to let you vanish again.

Your heels are off before the door even shuts, the relief you feel immense as you lean against the wall, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment at the familiarity of everything. The four walls around you, the man holding your hand. The weight of everything – the evening, the mission, the months apart – all press down on you simultaneously. Spencer watches, recognizing the fatigue in the way you hold yourself, the exhaustion in your eyes when you open them again.

‘You need sleep,’ he murmurs. A fact.

‘You’re meant to say something like, “you look beautiful.”’

‘You look beautiful,’ he amends with a small smile. ‘But you still need sleep.’

He steps closer, wraps an arm around your waist like he’s gently trying to piece you together with just his touch. ‘You’ve been gone a long time,’ he points out.

‘Mm. I missed you every day,’ you say, fingers gently brushing his knuckles as they sit against your waist. ‘I didn’t handle it very well. Being away from you.’

Spencer doesn’t say I missed you too. Doesn’t need to. You already know. He shows it in the way he holds you tighter, in the kiss he presses to the corner of your mouth like he’s trying not to cry. Gentle, but a little desperate.

He guides you through your apartment, bodies still swaying, carrying the ghost of the music from earlier. You move with each other, a perfect dance of your own.

‘Spence?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Can I have a proper kiss, please?’

It’s slow and unhurried when he presses his lips to yours, time finally on your side again. When you pull away, he’s still chasing the warmth of it.

‘I can’t believe you’re really here,’ he whispers, touching your face, brushing his thumbs along your cheeks.

‘Get used to it,’ you respond softly. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Eventually, black tie is exchanged for soft clothes and pajamas. You’re curled against his side beneath a shared blanket, flicking idly through channels on the television. It’s almost exactly how it was the night before you left, except this time there’s no silence that aches. Just the gentle hum of safety, of being home.

‘2229,’ he says, pressing his lips to your hair as you lean into his side.

‘Hm?’

‘The hours,’ he responds, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. ‘I can stop counting them now.’

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #cobbled peach #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #this is kind of shit and i sort of don't like it but enjoy xx

142 notes · View notes