#also what if agents had to come up to you like

[lulujamesspencer]

I think for sensitivity/authenticity readers you need to approach it like any other outside reader or editor: approach it as you would a therapist and pick one that fits with your style of working, actually reads and likes your genre, and will be able to give their edits/critiques in a way that is accurate AND kind. This is especially important for neurodiverse folks (solidarity fist bump to my RSD neurodiverse folks).

Story: About 10 years ago, I graduated seminary and had an idea for a theological non-fiction book on mulit-faith spirituality, which also strayed into politics and other issues. I wrote an introduction that I thought was good and interesting, so I sent it to someone who I thought would give me good advice on some of the topics, since she had experience in those areas, and maybe point out if I'd gone too far afield with some of the topics.

When I got their comments back, it was devastating and soul crushing. They ripped it to shreds, and, in areas I thought we shared similar opinions they shredded my manuscript as if they put it in a wood chipper then stomped on the mulch. Much of it the shredding was due, I think, to a mininterpretation of my wider neurodivergent thinking, but it may just be that I didn't explain myself right or... well, I just don't know, since it was hard to get past their criticisms and telling me how I was completely stupid and wrong about all of it. Now, if their comments were more like, "I don't think I agree with this statement. Did you mean for it to come off saying XYZ?" of "This doesn't happen in my experience, could you explain what your thought process was here?" I probably would have been fine, but instead they were angry and mean and assumed I didn't have knowledge about certain areas when I actually did have extensive knowledge. It was my first foray into non-fiction and as I said earlier, it was soul crushing. I really wanted to write that book, and still wish I could, but to this day I can't even start writing non-fiction without thinking about that and getting extrememly anxious. (And yes, I go to therapy, etc etc) For my fiction stuff, I'm much more careful about who I let read my early drafts. My Wife is my first reader/listener and she loves scifi and fantasy and she's able to give me feedback that's constructive, but also kind and compassionate. I have a great editor who is also very good at giving me constructive edits and feedback, but is also very kind and compassionate in the way she does it. I have a lot of friends from different experiences in life that I am comfortable asking questions of if I need to check things and I'm also very good at research. This, so far, has worked for me, and now I have 5 books of fantasy and science fiction out.

This is also why I self-publish. The constant rejection of traditional publishing would stop me from writing all together. I still can't write non-fiction in book form and that was from just one person who didn't really think about how their criticism would effect me. I also don't do writing groups, as many writing groups use a model that would absolutely ensure I never write again. So, if you are an editor, beta reader, part of a writing group, or even an agent or publisher, know that your rejections, harsh criticisms, or tough love, doesn't improve most writers, especially neurodivergent writers. Know that a lot of writers DO want to do justice to characters from experiences that they don't have experience in. I've heard stories like mine with really mean sensitivity/beta readers, and a number of those people will never write again, or never write publicly again. Please be aware that you can kill someone's passion and talent, possibly permanently.

And writers, be careful who you ask to read your stuff, and if someone has been mean, know that it's not you or your writing. Try not to give up, or give in to the tapes in your head that tell you you're horrible. Find better people to read your stuff.

On sensitivity readers, weakness, and staying alive.

The other day I was part of a Twitter conversation begun by a fellow-author on the subject of sensitivity readers, in which he said that no serious author would use sensitivity readers, and spoke of work being “sanitized”. The conversation devolved, as it often does on Twitter, but it got me thinking. It must have got someone else thinking too, because a journalist from the Sunday Times got in touch with me the next day, and asked me to share my ideas on the subject. Because I have no control over how my words are used in the Press, or in what context they might appear, here’s more or less what I told her.

I think a lot of people (some of them authors, most of them not) misunderstand the role of a sensitivity reader. That’s probably mostly because they’ve never used one, and are misled by the word “sensitivity”, which, in a world of toxic masculinity, is often mistaken for weakness. To these people, hiring someone to check one’s work for sensitivity purposes implies a surrendering of control, a shift in the balance of power. 

In some ways, I can empathize. Most authors feel a tremendous sense of attachment to their work. Giving it to someone else for comment is often stressful. And yet we do: we hand over our manuscripts to specialists in grammar, spelling or plot construction. We allow them to comment. We take their advice. We call these people editors and copy-editors, and they are a good and necessary part of the process of being an author. Their job is to make an author’s work as accurate and well-polished as possible.

When writing non-fiction, authors sometimes use fact-checkers at the editorial stage, to make sure that no embarrassing factual mistakes make it into print. This fact-checking is a normal part of the writing process. We owe it to our readers to be as accurate as possible. No-one wants to look as if they don’t know what they’re talking about.

That’s why now, increasingly, when writing about the lives and experiences of others, we sometimes use readers with different specialities. That’s because, however great our imagination, however well-travelled we may be and however many books we have read, there will always be gaps in our knowledge of the way other people live, or feel, or experience the world. Without the input of those with first-hand knowledge, there’s always a danger we will slip up. That’s why crime writers often consult detectives when researching their detective fiction, or someone writing a hospital drama might find it useful to talk to a surgeon, or a nurse, or to someone with the medical condition they are planning to use in their narrative. That’s why someone writing about divorce, or disability, or being adopted, or being trans, or being homeless, or being a sex worker, or being of a different ethnicity, or of a different culture – might find it useful to take the advice of someone with more experience.

There are a number of ways to do this. One of my favourites is The Human Library, which allows subscribers to talk to all kinds of people and ask them questions about their lives  (Check them out at https://humanlibrary.org/). The other possibility is to hire a specialist sensitivity reader to go through your manuscript and check it. Both can be a valuable resource, and I doubt many authors would believe that their writing is sanitized, or diluted, or diminished by using these resources.

And yet, the concept of the sensitivity readers – which is basically another version of the specialist editor and fact-checker – continues to cause outrage and panic among those who see their use as political correctness gone mad, or unacceptable wokery, or bowdlerization, or censorship. The Press hasn’t helped. Outrage sells copies, and therefore it isn’t in the interest of the national media to point out the truth behind the ire.

Let’s look at the facts.

First, it isn’t obligatory to use a sensitivity reader. It’s a choice. I’ve used several, both officially and unofficially, for many different reasons, just as I’ve always tried to speak to people with experience when writing characters with disabilities, or from different cultures or ethnic groups. I know that my publisher already sends my work to readers of different ages and from different backgrounds, and I always run my writing past my son, who often has insights that I lack.  

Sensitivity reading is a specialist editorial service. It isn’t a political group, or the woke brigade, or an attempt to overthrow the status quo. It’s simply a writing resource; a means of reaching the widest possible audience by avoiding inaccuracy, clumsiness, or the kind of stereotyping that can alienate or pull the reader out of the story.

Sensitivity readers don’t go around crossing out sections of an author’s work and writing RACIST!!! in the margin. Usually, it’s more on the lines of pointing out details the author might have missed, or failed to consider: avoiding misinformation; suggesting authentic details that only a representative of a particular group would know.

Authors can always refuse advice. That’s their prerogative. If they do, however, and once their book is published, they receive criticism or ridicule because their book was insufficiently researched, or inauthentic, or was perceived as perpetuating harmful or outdated stereotypes, then they need to face and deal with the consequences. With power comes responsibility. We can’t assume one, and ignore the other,

Being more aware of the experiences of others doesn’t mean we have to stop writing problematic characters. Sensitivity reading isn’t about policing bad behaviour in books. It’s perfectly possible to write a thoroughly unpleasant character without suggesting that you’re condoning their behaviour. Sensitivity is about being more authentic, not less.

People noticed bigotry and racism in the past, too. Some people feel that books published a hundred years ago are somehow more pure, or more free, or more representative of the author’s vision than books published now. You often hear people say things like: “If Dickens were around today, he wouldn’t get published.”

But Dickens is still published. We still get to read Oliver Twist, in spite of its anti-Semitism. And those who believe that Dickens’ anti-Semitism was accepted as normal by his contemporaries probably don’t know that not only was he criticized by his peers for his depiction of Fagin, he actually went back and changed the text, removing over 200 references, after receiving criticism by a Jewish reader. And no, it wasn’t “normal” to be anti-Semitic in those days: Wilkie Collins, whose work was as popular as Dickens’ own, managed to write a range of Jewish characters without relying on harmful and inaccurate stereotypes. 

But it isn’t automatic that a book will survive its author. Books all have shelf lives, just as we do, and Dickens’ work has survived in spite of his anti-Semitism, not because of it. The work of many others has not. Books are for readers, and if an author loses touch with their readers - either by clinging to outdated tropes, or using outdated vocabulary, or having an outdated style – then their books will cease to be published, and they will be forgotten. It happens all the time. What one generation loves and admires may be rejected by the next. And the language is always changing. Nowadays, it’s hard to read some books that were popular 100 years ago. Styles have changed, sometimes too much for the reader to tolerate.

Recently, someone on tumblr asked about my use of the word “gypsy” in Chocolat, and whether I meant to have it changed in later editions. (River-gypsies is the term I use in connection with Roux and the river people, who are portrayed in a positive light, although they are often victims of prejudice.) It was an interesting question, and I gave it a lot of thought. When I wrote the book 25 years ago, the word “gypsy” was widely used by the travelling community, and as far as I knew, wasn’t considered offensive. Nowadays, there’s a tendency to regard it as a slur. That’s why I stopped using it in my later Chocolat books. No-one told me to. It was my choice. I don’t feel as if I’ve lost any of my artistic integrity by taking into account the fact that a word has a different resonance now. On the other hand, I don’t feel that at this stage I need to go back and edit the book I wrote. That’s because Chocolat is a moment in time. It uses the language of the moment. Let it stand for as long as it can. 

But I don’t have to stay in one place. I can move on. I can change. Change is how we show the world that we are still alive. That we are still able to feel, and to  learn, and to be aware of others. That’s what “sensitive” means, after all. And it is nothing like weakness. Living, changing, learning – that’s hard. Playing dead is easy.

[rave-rz]

Those critiques were everything I hoped they would be. Now tell us about MHA.

Are your grievances the same as our grievances? Where'd the show lose you? What arc had the glasses come off?

A lot of my issues with My Hero Academia are pretty easy to find on tumblr, I reblog some of my favourite posts from time to time but the posts I tend to agree the most about are from Justatalkingface, Bibibbon and Saphhic-Agent, as well as A List Exists on Youtube. This is gonna be hard to explain my thoughts on so LONG RANT Incoming lmao. My thoughts ended up going everywhere so nothings really all that ordered rip.

Regarding when the show started to lose my interest? It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but I started off enjoying my time but once we got to the Sports festival I started to lose the wind in my sails. I already have loads of issues with Bakugo but my main gripe with him started during the sports festival, how a big of a deal the story made his fight with Uraraka. How he was taking her seriously from the very beginning. Except that's hard for me to believe when this is pretty much the only time I can remember him ever fighting the way he did during the manga, standing still and waiting for his opponents moves. When does he ever do that?? Starting at this point in the story you realize Horikoshi has favourites and you can tell which ones lol. It's Aizawa, Bakugo and Endeavor. Now I understand these are the characters that people love and they make money but still, if I can feel your favoritism through the pages? That's not good. Horikoshi has a habit of stating things and just sorta expecting the readers to deal with it? Like there's no easing into anything it's just 'this is happening, I hope you accept it cause we're moving on, now turn the page'. He states there was GENOCIDE that happened towards people with mutant quirks, moving on. He implies quirkless people are also discriminated against, moving on. He introduces the quirk singularity and the possible end of the world, we're moving on. Hell he kills off his main 3 antagonists, having his 3 main characters effectively fail and yet we still move on, only Uraraka got to actually react to anything and even then it's not great since she's blaming herself for getting stabbed.

He also seems to develop a hatred for introspection as the series goes on? By the end we're left mostly speculating on major character's thoughts and motivations, we don't really know why Deku decided to become a teacher or what he thought of Shigaraki and what happened to him, we don't know how Dabi felt in his last moments, or more importantly how Shouto felt about the ending of the fight (I mean, he specifically invented a move to beat Dabi without hurting him (cold fire, sure) but not only is his brother going to die but his 'failure' caused his other siblings and mother to step in and get permanently injured, how does he feel about that??). Characters slowly become a hivemind towards the end, all having the same opinions on the events (Everyone reacted pretty much the same to Aoyama's traitor reveal, despite no one ever really interacting with him and if they did, they didn't seem like him all that much). Characters just aren't allowed to be wrong it feels, in the sense that if they come to a conclusion and it's not the factually correct one, it's pretty quickly corrected by another character like Deku. Admittedly this one might be spotty since I remember thinking this but at the same time my mind cannot come up with a specific example, it might be in the todoroki family sub arc.

Now when it comes to the characters, I actually like the idea of characters more than the actual characters since I don't like how Horikoshi decided to write 90% of his characters. Like Hawks could've been really cool if he wasn't regulated to a sidekick by the end. One character I have very strong opinions on is Dabi, I hate how he was written and by extension Endeavor and the rest of the Todoroki subplot.

Now uh, here is a hot take: I didn't like Dabi's dance (as a reveal). As a chapter it was really cool! But as a reveal of Dabi is Touya it felt less like a reveal to the characters and more of a confirmation to the readers that they were right and this chapters a little treat for waiting so long for this reveal to happen.

Cause let's be honest, almost everybody pegged Dabi as a Todoroki, even before people knew Shouto had multiple siblings and Touya was revealed to be 'dead'. It was practically treated as canon for fanfic writers. But as the manga went on it never brought up Touya or the traitor at all until the last sprint and boom we got Dabi's dance and THEN we'll get his backstory. Because readers got Dabi first, tying him to Touya who we don't get any info on until after he's revealed to be Dabi. A lot of their reactions end up being

because logically, why should they care? Who Touya was has been essentially a non-factor to the entire story. No one has every talked about him, we know absolutely nothing regarding who he was until after Dabi's dance. The reader's opinion on Dabi has been made by this point in the story (290 chapters in) and it's too late to change it with just a sad backstory. (haine-Kleine made a really good post regarding it). Not to mention everything Dabi did meant literally nothing since not a damn person reacted to him brocasting that he was 1. a murderer, 2. the #1 hero's supposed dead eldest son (now a murderer), and 3. abused by said hero along with the rest of the family. Like nothing came from that at all, even the main character told him that Endeavor's trying to change as a rebuttal. So nice going Dabi, your on roll with failing lol. Onto Endeavor cause I'm gonna be quick lol. His atonement arc sucks since not only did he not really do anything to acheive that. He just kept repeating how he intends to atone, and the best (and probably only) way to work towards that would be for him to confront Touya as a father and not a hero. Except no, he not only sends Shouto to deal with Touya (so he and hawks can fight the more important thing), but when he does deal with Touya it's cause he had too (and it was done as a hero). In the end he just sorta lost nothing of significance? He's in a wheelchair yeah but that's not really what I call a concequence to his shitty behavior. He retired as a hero sure, but he was always gonna do that. Bro could've been cool if the story kept him as a heavily flawed individual who actively tried to improve knowing he'd lose more than he'd gain, but instead every character gasses him up lol. This is getting too long so I'm gonna touch briefly on 2 more things and that's it lol. The ending 'solves' most of it's issues by essentially saying 'our people are in charge so we're doing it right'. Hawks is HPSC president and he's just better at it I guess, Uraraka is expanding quirk counseling (despite not know what the issues were? And also just not mentioning Toga ever) and Shouji is helping stop the heteromorph racism peacefully. Again, we're back to 'we're moving on' since these guys are fixing these issues! How? Don't worry about it, turn the page. Finally, a I would've loved to see more focus on the 'academia' part of the story. Despite Horikoshi clearly being uninterested in UA as a concept. He tries to make you believe 1-A is this found family which given their interactions, I don't believe for a goddamn second. We know barely anything about the any character and any tidbits we do know are from character sheets outside the story. The 'academia' in My hero Academia could've been the time to learn about characters and develop them/their relationships. Learn why each of them wanted to even be there. Cause every character is quite literally a 'good person' in the 'I wanna be a hero to save people' way. Which isn't inherently bad but if every character is like this? No thanks. This is why I don't like Stain (Man showed up in the end, was a hinderance and then died), he's introduced along with the idea that people in this world choose to be heroes for multi reasons. Some do it to save people but some also do it for the paycheck. Yet every character we see has that 'instinct to save those in danger' no matter their attitude, the only exceptions to this are Endeavor and Mineta. One of which is admired as a good hero or person who's trying to be good by the cast and the other is someone no one takes seriously. Even Uraraka was introduced as being in it for the paycheck, but pretty quickly overshadow by her learning how much she wants to help others. Okay I'm cutting myself off there lmao. But yeah, A lot of my complaints are pretty common I think. I started having issues with the story starting at the Sports festival/Stain arcs but Overhaul was awful. Final arc was even worse lol.

[kalpasio]

kalpas owns at least a 2 of those ‘kiss the cook’ aprons I feel it in my bones (I feel like he would grumble for the rest of the day if he was wearing one and you didn’t kiss the cook) (make this canon please mihoyo ik I’m right) -babygirl kalpas anon

no you're so right!!!!! definitely has like a stack of the same "kiss the cook" apron because he keeps burning them and theyre cheaper to get in a 10 pack for some reason and griseo has stolen one for herself that's covered in paint

oh my gosh you'd have to like BOOK IT out of the kitchen if you wanted to avoid kissing him. he just stands there staring you down until you do as the apron says and he 100000% has spent the entire day throwing dirty looks when you just grabbed a poptart and only gave his very floofy hair a pat before leaving. if you don't give him a kiss when he's making dinner, he's not taking the apron off until you do. can and will wear it for the rest of the day. and sleep in it. and if you don't kiss him for the whole day?

first of all, you are stronger than me lol. he's definitely gone from silent brooding pouting to "if anyone comes near me I'm setting this place on fire" and you have to make a very brave sacrifice for the rest of the base and give him a kiss. probably several. he will keep making snacks and wearing the apron until you've paid off your debt

[halfbaked00q]

Im soooo weak to when Bond is like casually being used or exploited at his expense for some ostensible Greater Good except the situation doesn't HAVE to come to that, not really, and he's so inured and even numb to it that he barely pays it any mind; meanwhile, Q absolutely minds and is very indignant on his behalf and works overtime to like either try to avert or forestall the situation before it gets to the point where Bond has to dig his own claws into more of his soft underbelly to offer up on the sacrificial alter of politics of all tawdry things, or to manufacture a way in which he does the needless "needful" so as to spare Bond at least one unnecessary additional wound upon his psyche.

bonus if Bond finds out and maybe after being angry or indignant about it - I don't need you to do my job for me, Q, this is what I'm here to do - and either Q tells him/lets slip or he deduces that like, this isn't Q thinking he can't get the job done, this is Q finding him precious and worthy of protecting, and like. he's just very in awe of that and does in fact feel very safe and cherished within the cradle of his Quartermaster's regard

[arthur-lesters-spinal-cord]

Dollins au

(Which I used to think was cannon)

Story time:

Back in the early days of me getting into this podcast I stumbled across a lot of fanart for Malevolent, specifically Potato-lord and Izel

I was in the middle of season two and I had no idea who the season four characters were but I fell in love with Noel almost instantly.

And as everyone does when they are super normal about a fictional character they have yet to meet in cannon I read and re- read his wiki page a lot.

Now one of the things that the wiki fails to tell you is that the Butcher and Noel start working together within the timeframe of the podcast.

Instead it just says this:

I had seen and enjoyed a lot of Dollins stuff by this point and extrapolated from the art and the wiki that Noel and Collins had been working together for a decent amount of time.

It would probably be useful for The Butcher to have a man in the force if something were to happen to him or if he needed to get some evidence handily disappeared.

I also guessed that due to the dreamlands and training from the war Noel is dangerous enough on his own just in a less obvious way than The Butcher (I still believe this).

Essentially they were a serial killing power couple.

Thats it. Thats the au that was cannon to me for a very long time.

[enhanced-operatives-division]

Junicrane/Starstruck Ramble

I will not be brief, all under the cut

To clear some things right off the bat:

No corpse, no proof with Juniper. Obligatory this is set in a canon where he's alive and adjacent to the agency in some way.

Reggie & Juniper are just gay to me, but I don't mind any interpretation of their sexuality

The games are set in 1967/68 to me (based on a couple bits in game) which is before it was legal to be gay in America at least (1971), which is relevant to how I interpret canon as being somewhat grounded in reality, despite unrealistic elements.

This is just an insane amount of headcanons/elements of and AU all culminated into one post. I will talk about some headcanons like they're just facts because they are established in my head, and it saves me over explaining literally everything, however I will explain some parts a little bit for clarity.

Alright. Actual beginning of the ramble:

Juniper is a character to me who had gotten so lost in his job as an actor and a social presence that in the end his whole life revolved around that 'role'. Because of this, by the time he's put into the situation where he's around the Agency, he basically knows nothing about himself, though he doesn't realise at first. Furthermore, what little identity he had has changed in so many ways. He's no longer a beloved famous actor in the prominence of public light, he's legally dead and he tarnished his career just before he was supposed to die, with the bonus of that making him lose the majority of his estate. From that, he also has horrific facial scarring from the electrical burns from literally having his face fried. I believe a friend of mine made a post about this a while ago (I also think they were the first to think it up also), but, to me, Juniper has a permanent trimmer in his right arm (aka his dominant hand) from the electrical current and it is messing with his nervous system.

All in all, he's not doing great, but he's too proud to admit that he's not doing great, because if anything, what's left of his ego is all he has as a defense since he's deep in unfamiliar water.

Before ending up around the agency (I have multiple interpretations of this, so I'm just going to bring it up generally), he'd never actually seen Reggie, and his only impression of him is a single voicemail, which was his only reference he had to later impersonate him. Juniper probably has very little feelings other than the ones he projects onto him because of Phoenix and that, at the very least, he's physically attracted to Reggie to some degree (that's like the beginning of how everything else would tumble into place in this sort of interpretation at least).

And on Crane's side? His feelings towards Juniper are probably very intense and muddled. On the one hand, he adores musical theatre, and that's his now ex-favourite actor. The thought of just casually being around him blows the bit of fanboy in him away at first because THAT'S the GUY, plus the inklings of a celebrity crush which still poke at him. And then there's the rational side of him, which knows Juniper has committed absolute atrocities on the side of Zoraxis, and hates him for that. Then there's how much Juniper comes off as an asshole at first because he refuses to cooperate with anything the Agency tried to put in place. He finds Juniper endlessly frustrating, and yet he's stuck working with him since, afterall, he's the one who knows the Agency's history with Juniper the best. I imagine him acting a lot like how he does IEYTD 1 around Juniper.

At this point, I'm just describing the pitch for a romcom.

I think the start of their relationship with one another largely started with Juniper trying to wind Crane up. It was a way of getting his attention, and I don't think Juniper knows why he's so dead set on that at first, because I don't think he realises he has a crush on 'this grump' at first. (I think that's actually the fun part about these two, because it's almost like a role reversal of the celebrity crush dynamic. This ex-big name actor has a TERRIBLE crush on an average joe and it is KILLING HIM.) But of course the Agency keeps them together because Juniper is at least conversing with Crane, so it's a start.

Through one way or another, they actually get talking casually, at least mildly at first. It takes Juniper a long time to fully deconstruct the wall he's built, and the thing is, Crane isn't the one trying to deconstruct it, at least at first, because yeah, Juniper realises if he wants Reggie to actually like him in any way, he can't keep winding him up. So they talk. Small talk at first, something rhythmic and almost easy to keep to a script. And over time that turns into actual conversations. Genuine ones in which Reggie rips out the occasional one of his jokes which Juniper is endlessly endeared about. The way he smiles just before he makes them, like he wants to chuckle at what he's about to say before he says it. That's probably when Juniper realised that he does have some vague crush on him, and that it wasn't going away.

This is what kickstarts John I can't-buy-you-things-to-impress-you-so-acts-of-service-it-is Juniper to do little things for him. It mostly starts off as him trying to make Reggie his tea how he likes it. However, the nerve damage in his arm makes that hard, as the weight of the kettle and trying to pour is hard all of a sudden. And he refuses to accept that, so he tries for a very long while. Long enough that Crane would go to investigate what was going on. And when he does see Juniper leaning over a cup with the kettle as he uneasily tries to pour it, and when Crane asks Juniper responds so matter-of-fact that his intention is nothing but genuine. And it catches Reggie off guard because Juniper hadn't done anything like that up to that point, and his very apparent vulnerability is so clearly on show.

It shifts something between them.

From that point on, conversations are longer, more familiar. Both of their attitudes soften, and Reggie makes more jokes. Juniper learns how to better use his left hand while strengthening his right back to a point where it could be used again. Slowly, they're both spending time with one another not because they have to, but just because they can. Little bits at first, not too far outside what they already were doing, but those little bits turned into long bits to a point where the other person's company was genuinely desirable.

As time passes, Juniper probably realises that he doesn't genuinely know much about himself or what hobbies he's into, because he never really had the time when he got big, and his home life in his youth wasn't bad, but it wasn't picturesque. I think Reggie would pick up on it, and absolutely try to introduce him to some things he's into. Some things stick, other things don't (corn husking very much stays Reggie's passion, and John will go with him sometimes because it's him, but it's not something he strongly cares for). Crane introduces him to a lot of music, and it's something that becomes a staple between them, with tracks they listen to more than others (tragically, I know relatively little about 60s music so I couldn't really say what). Occasionally they dance, never anything intense, think slow dancing, but the closeness is nice.

Through all of it, Juniper is battling the worst crush of his life, and he can't stand it, because I think he struggles to read people since he doesn't have anything like a script or a director to refer back to, so he has no idea if Reggie likes him back or if he's just desperate for that to be true. I think because of that any sort of confession between them would be incredibly raw, not only because of the time they live in making it hard for them to be truthful about how they love, but because it's a complete show of Juniper who's worked to be this better person. I don't exactly know how that would go, mainly because I don't have one set version of their dynamic, this post is just a generalisation of main consistent points.

Reggie does like him back, because he's gotten used to Juniper being just this guy, not a figure in the public eye, not a Zoraxis lackey, and not any sort of Agency operative (despite being under their care to some degree). He's someone he genuinely cares for, because they've given one another the time of day to learn one another, and I think because Reggie was a field agent, he was a lot better at reading Juniper than Juniper was at reading him. Eventually Juniper's company becomes something he could see around him for the rest of his life, and I think he accepts that he likes Juniper a lot more gracefully.

I think any affection directed at Juniper would at first be met with him feeling a little muddled. Reggie was a very physically affectionate person when he could be, and sure the initial flirting with one another came with the occasional little touches, but everything now was so deeply intentional. I also don't think Juniper would almost ever get over the novelty of being able to kiss him, or many other gestures, because it made the fact that they were together so very real, and it was great. I do think it comes easier to Reggie, and it's a big way of showing how much he cares, so it's important for Juniper to try and show it back because he knows how much it means to the other.

I like the idea of them eventually living with one another, too. I think Juniper would have always had a quiet little daydream of sorts where he does just live a domestic quiet life, and he can with Reggie (well, as close as they can get between the Agency and Zoraxis always being at odds), and he loves that, and he loves him, and it's immense.

I think they cook for one another a lot, it helps Juniper work on his dexterity in a controlled environment, which means a lot because it's a huge point of insecurity (that and his scars). He does improve, and Crane is proud of that and shows it and it's great. I also think they'd probably cook together too, because they can deal with being in the kitchen together and they work well with one another. It's probably a good way for them to unwind because over time they can do it in relative silence.

As I said before, I also think music is a staple in their household, and that Reggie listens to things on vinyl almost all of the time because he likes the background noise. Sometimes Juniper will catch him chuntering along to the music which he finds endlessly endearing. I wouldn't put it past his dramatic ass to also join in to fluster Reggie, but I also don't think Reggie would mind that terribly because Juniper has listened to the music enough to know the lyrics, and that's huge to him.

I don't think they are without rough patches, no relationship is, but I think the good part about them is that they're willing to talk about it (... eventually). They're used to long conversations, and while they're often less fun conversations, they're needed and they know that, and it works out.

Alright. I think I'm done for now. I haven't mentioned everything, but this definitely got the worst of it out of my system. If you ever want to hear any specific thoughts my ask box is open but other than that, behold my general dynamic for these two which has been festering in my head for years. I think they're great

[st4zia]

Marina, where are you?

[cerbreus]

baking never feels more like science to me than when i'm trying to cobble together an intricate multi step recipe together from several different recipes and tutorials online because the recipe I'm imagining doesn't exist....

[arolesbianism]

I trip and these spill out of my pockets

[tiredassmage]

what type of villain are you?

your honor, i do love a good uquiz diagnosing the diseases and problems of my fictional characters and also i might be slightly procrastinating a final paper. saw this one from @sasslett and simply could not resist :3 quiz link! for those who'd like.

swtor edition first!

tyr deckard - then let me be evil

You never wanted to hurt anyone, but the world never gave you a choice. You did the best you could with what you had, but every innocent mistake you made was held against you when it counted, every crossroads led you down the wrong path no matter which way you went. No matter what you did, the odds were stacked against you. It wasn't fair, and you are sick and tired of being told what a monster you are for things out of your control. Well, fine. They want a monster? YOU'LL GIVE THEM A MONSTER!

alucren ellery - the betrayer

You like to do things up close and personal. As personal as you can get. You are an excellent actor, and you do adore putting on a smile knowing your worst enemy, the one you hate the most, doesn't suspect a thing when they tell you their deepest secrets. Your only motivation is revenge, and revenge you shall get. Perhaps you loved them once, long ago, but any fondness for your target you once felt has long since warped and twisted into perverse obsession, laced with malice and venom and seething hatred. Good or evil does not matter to you. All that matters is they get what they deserve.

leo ashold - the coward

You didn't have another choice, honest! Have these people SEEN what the heroes are up against? It'd end you in an instant, whether that be a lovecraftian abomination with a hold on your soul, a rampaging monster that's destroying more than a hurricane and an earthquake could in one fell swoop, a shadow organization that has tabs on everyone you love and will end them in an instant, or just a particularly grumpy boss that might yell at you if you don't fall in with his excessively tyrannical methods, you can't go risking your neck for the poor saps that think they can stop it. No way, you're staying on the bad guy side, where it's SAFE.

rhyst delavast - for the greater good

Perhaps you do not believe what you are doing can truly be classified as evil. Perhaps some people will be hurt from the immediate consequences of your actions, but what the masses fail to see is the immense good that will come of your plans. Maybe you act in the name of science, or for your people who have fallen on great tragedy. Maybe you see cracks in a failing system and want to uproot it through chaotic, destructive means to avoid greater tragedy down the line. Maybe you're just in with a bad crowd, but you can't leave them, no matter how unsavory their intentions, because they're your only ticket to your ultimate goals. No matter what, your goals are noble, and you take no joy in wreaking havoc or hurting those in your way, but the evils you partake in are necessary. If you need to play the bad guy to ensure a better future, then you are willing to play that part.

savosta - no moral compass

You are cold, analytical, and you strive to be as objective as a person of flesh and blood can be. Either don't understand the concepts of good and evil, or you understand it perfectly and think it's a load of bull. Some may call you selfish, some may call you unfeeling, but you're just doing what you believe will yield the best results, plain and simple. Why bother with petty ideals of right or wrong when you can do what will actively help those you give a fuck about? Your goals may be selfish or noble or anything in between, but you will not let anyone make you feel like garbage for going after them. You couldn't care less about what people brand you as. You just care about getting shit done by any means necessary.

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy’s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

[plutotheplum]

Frosted Brushes

leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: an ill-timed snowstorm leaves you snowed in with a less than enthusiastic federal agent.

cw: nsfw (18+) - mdni!!, smut, bestfriend's older brother!leon, kissing, oral sex, face-sitting, vaginal fingering, p in v, spanking, mild choking

wc: 5.5k

a/n: i know i promised blurred lines pt2 (it's coming) but i just loveee the snowed in trope. also leon's biceps - i love his biceps <3

also on ao3!

Getting snowed in wasn't exactly on your bucket list. 

It’d been a mistake, your best friend had said, her voice anxious and apologetic on the phone as she’d tried to make up for the fact that she’d left you stranded here, in the middle of nowhere in a cabin that she had booked. You were only meant to stay here over the week of Christmas and fly back the next, but she’d conveniently forgotten to book tickets for both you and Leon. It’d been too late by then, a vicious snow storm rolling in and ruining all your chances of trying to leave.

You’d stared out the windows for a concerning amount of time, mourning the loss of your upcoming paychecks and not being able to sleep in your own bed. Outside, the snow was packed in tight and you’d been half-tempted to just grab the snow shovel and clear a path for yourself, but the howling wind coupled with the freezing temperature didn’t seem to agree with your plans. The only thing saving you from this woeful situation was the generator that was still up and running. 

The federal agent currently lounging on the couch wasn’t helping either. You’d known Leon since you were children, mostly seeing him around the house when you’d come over to play with your best friend. He had kept to himself all those years ago, shooting you fleeting glances and berating you when you’d gotten too loud playing.

Boredom makes your temples throb and the thought of reading through another book makes you feel nauseous, so you settle on approaching Leon, flopping down on the other end with a heavy sigh.

“Hey,” you say, your feet nudging his thigh, “can’t you call up one of your buddies and have ‘em pick us up?”

“That’s not how it works,” Leon sighs, his eyes flitting down to stare irritatedly at your fluffy sock covered feet.

“What good is being a federal agent then?” you drawl, head tipping back over the armrest.

Leon rolls his eyes, shoving your feet away. You grumble, tucking your feet back under you before scooting forward to peer at whatever work on his laptop screen.

“Classified,” Leon says shortly, turning the screen away from you.

“Seriously, Leon?” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. “It’s not like I’m going to leak government secrets to a foreign enemy.”

“You might ,” Leon grits out, sending you a glare as you try to twist your body to take another look. 

“Maybe I should be flattered that you think me capable of treason.”

Leon snorts, his eyes glancing over towards you again. “You wouldn’t last a day in the field, dork. Most likely end up getting yourself killed, or maybe even blown up.”

You glare at him, shifting again, making sure to dig your feet into his thigh a little harder as you roll over onto your side on the couch. Leon lets out a low hiss, growing irritated with your petulant behavior. He doesn’t shove your feet away like before so you settle on staying in that position, eyes slipping shut. A tiny sprig of hope unfurls inside of you; maybe if you tried hard enough, you’d be able to sleep the entire snowstorm away.

The weather doesn’t seem to let up, the wind howling outside, a chill beginning to creep into the cabin. You huff out an exasperated breath, eyes peeking open to sneak a glance at Leon. He looks engrossed in whatever he’s doing, fingers tapping against the keyboard, his brows drawn together.

Perhaps you’d struck out, getting stuck here with Leon. Sure, the federal agent stuff was mildly interesting, but he was more like a silent, grumpy lump. It sort of helped that he had a nice face, even if just to stare at. 

“‘m cold,” you mumble, sock-clad toes trying to worm under his thighs, seeking out his warmth.

“Stop complaining,” Leon grouses, nudging your legs away with his hand.

“You’re so mean,” you shoot back, eyes narrowing. “Is it because you got stuck with a desk job?”

Leon glares at you, his touch growing rougher as he grabs your ankle and throws your leg away from him. A yelp escapes you, body bending awkwardly before you straighten yourself up, curling up away from him.

“I’m a field agent,” Leon hisses, snapping his laptop shut.

You shoot him an unimpressed look, eyes flitting over him. “I don’t see a gun.”

“Yeah and it’s a good thing I didn’t bring it, because I would shoot you if I had the chance.”

A sharp scoff leaves you, arms crossing over your chest as you stand up. “You’re such a piece of sh-”

A loud screeching noise cuts you off, your brows furrowing as you glance towards the direction the sound was coming from. It doesn’t take long to figure out what’s happened when the lights in the cabin go out after a moment, the interior lit up by the flickering embers of the hearth. 

“Great,” Leon murmurs, standing up and walking towards the large windows, his eyes landing on the generator, “it’s probably frozen.”

You trail after him, a frown pulling at your lips as you stare out at the snowy tundra surrounding you in every direction.

“Is there no way to fix it?” you ask, fingers pressing up against the window.

“Maybe if we got rid of the snow,” Leon sighs, his hand running through his hair, “but the cold would probably just make it freeze up again.”

“Time to get shovelling,” you murmur, peering up at Leon.

Leon’s gaze flicks towards you, his lips thinning. “I’m not going out there.”

“What?” you ask snappily, irritation prickling across your skin, “why not?”

“Because I’ll freeze to death,” he retorts, “didn’t you watch the weather report?”

You stare at him, eye twitching at his refusal. At this rate, both of you would freeze to death if you weren’t able to get the generator up and running. You didn’t particularly trust the insulation either, although there was enough wood stocked in the spare room to maybe get you through the rest of the nights here.

“So what are you suggesting?” you ask, “that I go out and do it?”

“If you’re desperate enough,” he mutters under his breath.

“You’re the man!” you protest. “Shouldn’t you like protect me or something?”

Leon scoffs, his arms crossing over his chest as he stares down at you derisively. “You’re on your own, pipsqueak. Each man for themselves.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you snarl, stomping over to the door and yanking a jacket off of its hook. You shrug it on angrily, zipping it up tight before wrapping a scarf around your neck. “You’re pathetic, Leon!”

You grab the snow shovel, moving to open the door, only for it to not budge. There’s a moment of silence and you don’t dare look back at Leon. Setting the snow shovel down, you tug at the door handle, yanking hard. 

“Please open,” you whisper, trying to wrench the door open, “please.”

By the time you’re done grumbling and yanking, the door’s only response is a pitiful groan, failing to give way at all, completely and utterly frozen shut.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you mutter, glancing at the hinges of the door.

“Frozen in,” Leon drawls, stepping up behind you, “who would’ve thought? You know, you looked pretty pathetic trying to open it up.”

You turn around to face him, biting the inside of your cheek to prevent yourself from spewing a slew of curses at him. Your best friend would pay dearly for this debacle. Pushing past Leon, you stride purposefully into the room you were staying in, pulling free the sheets before managing to haul the mattress off of the bed frame. 

Leon watches with raised brows as you lug the mattress across the floor. You dump it onto the space just in front of the fireplace, brushing your hair out of your face before disappearing into your room again to gather the sheets and blankets.

“At least you’re resourceful?” Leon offers, following suit as he adds his mattress next to yours soon after.

The absence of heat becomes all the more apparent as the night creeps in, your body shivering and teeth chattering every now and then despite the layers you’re wearing. You and Leon settle on soup for dinner, placing the cans near the fireplace to heat them up.

“Maybe we’ll just freeze to death,” you sigh, tugging the blanket draped around your shoulders a little tighter.

Leon hums, glancing over at you. “Maybe.”

You roll your eyes at his short response, padding through the cabin and into the dark bathroom. No generator meant no lights and you weren’t willing to risk using your phone or the flashlights lest the battery ran out.

“Ouch,” you grumble when your hip hits the side of the sink, your eyes squinting in an attempt to adjust to the dark.

You’re too busy rubbing your hip to notice the dark shadow stepping into the bathroom. There’s an arm landing on your waist and you shriek, hand flying out to smack whoever it is. 

“Careful,” Leon groans when he feels you grab at his face, feeling around blindly.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, pushing at his chest.

“Keeping you company,” he shoots back, “not like there’s anything for me to do other than stare at the fire.”

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” you say, managing to turn the tap on. The water is entirely too cold, but thankfully not yet frozen. You hunch over, splashing some onto your face.

“Funny,” Leon replies drily, his hand slipping lower to hold your hip as you bend over.

Your breath hitches at the action and you hope Leon doesn’t notice, especially with the way you tremble when his hand smooths over your waist absentmindedly. Leon’s touching doesn’t seem to let up and you turn around in his arms, fingers prodding into his chest.

“Stop touching me, you creep.”

Leon lets out a heavy sigh, his hands falling away from you. You manage to bundle out of the bathroom, finding his eyes in the dim lighting. He stares down at you, and you tilt your head in question.

“Nothing,” he huffs out, shoving your face away with his hand.

You grumble, swatting his hand away, padding over to your makeshift bed near the fireplace. Despite the warmth of the fire, you still shiver, and snuggling in under the heap of blankets. 

Leon’s footfalls are quiet as he makes his way over, settling down on his own mattress. Silence passes over you both until a sneeze tickles at your nose, making your eyes water.

“Are you still cold?” Leon asks quietly.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you mumble back, curling up your toes in your socks, trying to bury yourself deeper under the blankets.

You miss the way Leon rolls his eyes, a squeak leaving you when you feel strong arms looping around your waist, tugging you across onto Leon’s mattress. His chest is warm against your back, the layers of blankets growing with the two of you now pressed together.

“Let- let go of me,” you grouse, trying to unlatch his arms from around you.

“No can do, pipsqueak,” he replies, keeping you close, “my sister will kill me if anything happens to you. Besides, I know you gotta little thing for me.” 

“I do not have a thing for you,” you scoff, your denial sharp. You squirm in his arms, managing to roll onto your other side to face him. “That would be gross, Leon.”

“Yeah?” Leon murmurs, his eyes drifting across your face, “you didn’t think it was gross when you told my sister you’d like to sit on my face.”

You sputter, embarrassment making your cheeks go hot. Suddenly, the chill of the snowstorm seems to fade, replaced by a heat that seems unbearable, Leon’s skin warm against yours.

“I- I did not say that!” you protest, trying to squirm out of his arms again but to no avail.

“I overheard you,” he sighs, rolling his eyes when you try to swat at his face.

“Well, fine,” you admit begrudgingly, stopping your struggling. “But you aren’t special . I could name five other guys off the top of my head that I’d enjoy.”

“Ouch,” Leon replies, his eyes boring into yours. “‘m wounded, pipsqueak.” 

You send him a glare before snuggling closer, your face shoving into his chest. Leon lets out a rough laugh, his grip on you loosening. Silence passes over you and the warmth settles down to something more cozy, making your eyes droop shut.

“Could be fun.”

“What?” you mumble sleepily.

“Could be fun if you sat on my face.”

You peek up at him, taken aback. “Have you lost your mind, Leon?”

His lips purse as he considers your words, shrugging his shoulders lazily. “Gotta kill the time somehow,” he yawns.

“‘m not sleeping with you, jerk,” you reply, trying to ignore the fact that Leon, grumpy federal agent Leon , was offering to eat you out.

He sighs, muttering something incoherent that you can barely pick up on. It doesn’t help that Leon’s managed to ruin your sleep, the image of Leon’s head between your thighs popping into your mind. Could be fun .

Leon’s already staring at you when you look back up at him, his brows raising when you play with the strings of his hoodie, twirling and twisting them.

“Do you want to?” you ask.

He considers your words, running his hand through his hair. “I could use the practice. It’s been a while.”

“I’m not a training dummy, Leon,” you retort, but Leon’s already moving, the blankets around you shifting as he pulls them off, grabbing at your sock and pajama pants. “You said it could be fun .”

“Practice can be fun,” he replies drily, pulling your pajama pants off.

You shiver when the cold hits your skin, goosebumps erupting all over immediately. Leon’s hands are warm when he slides them over your legs, his head lowering to take a look at your panties.

“Cute,” Leon murmurs, finger pulling at the band before letting the fabric snap back against your skin. 

“H- hey!” you stop him when he tries to pull them off, eyes narrowing. “You should build up to it, not just go right in.”

Leon rolls his eyes and you huff out an annoyed breath, feet pressing up against his chest. 

“C’mon, Leon,” you say, voice morphing into a taunt, “work for it.”

“You always like this?” he shoots back, glaring down at you.

You give him a snarky smile, nudging your feet against his chest again. Leon shakes his head, grabbing one of your feet. You watch as he dips his head, his lips landing on your ankle. Leon’s lips are surprisingly gentle, his eyes flitting to yours as he trails his lips up your leg, leaving hot kisses in his wake.

A soft sigh escapes you, the tenseness fading as you relax, letting your eyes slide shut as he squeezes your thighs and kisses the side of your knee.

“Good?” he asks, his voice low.

“Mhm,” you nod, hips reacting to his ministrations as he spreads you apart.

Leon’s breath is hot against your skin, his tongue darting out to lick teasingly as he covers your inner thighs with kisses. You peer down at him, reaching out to place your hand in his hair, back arching slightly when he noses into your panties.

You bite your lip when he licks over your panties, feeling wetness beginning to gather between your thighs. His eyes flutter shut when your nails scratch at his scalp lightly, lapping at your clothed pussy until the fabric is wet with his spit and your slick, clinging to your folds.

“That’s cute,” you murmur, “thought this was just practice?”

He huffs out a breath and you smile, letting him lap at your clothed cunt until he’s satisfied. Leon kisses your hip when he rises up, fingers trailing across your thighs before drifting over your panties again, rubbing the drenched material absentmindedly. 

“‘s nice,” he murmurs, reaching up to tug your panties flush against your pussy, his eyes latched onto the way it outlines your puffy folds. Leon’s fingers reach down, rubbing over your cunt, pressing your panties against you harder. He watches the way you bite back the noises that threaten to escape, his lips turning into a frown. “Don’t do that.”

You shake your head stubbornly and he glares at you, tugging your lip out from the confines of your teeth.

“Guess I’ll just have to wear you out, hm?”

Leon’s fingers are greedy as he pulls your panties free, throwing them somewhere over his shoulder.

“Kiss first,” you say quietly when he thumbs apart your sticky folds, “then lick.”

“I know how to do this,” he grunts, gripping your thighs harder to pull you closer to him.

“Well then show me- oh fuck -”

Your breath hitches when he kisses your clit, the bud swollen and aching from before when he’d licked over your panties and prodded his tongue against you. Leon grins against your cunt, his tongue lolling out to lick a stripe over your wet pussy, delving deep between your folds to drink down your slick.

“Taste good, pipsqueak,” he rasps, licking over your cunt, lapping over and over again until your thighs twitch and your hand tightens in his hair, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t- ngh- don’t call me that! ”

“What should I call you then?” Leon asks, pulling back to spit on your cunt, his fingers spreading over your clit and pussy, rubbing it in, his thumb drawing tight circles against your clit. “Hm? Baby, is that what you want? Maybe sweetheart? Darlin’, gorgeous, my good girl? All of ‘em?”

You can only manage out a moan, hips rolling up to meet his mouth as the pet-names ring in your mind, a haze of lust fogging over your mind. Leon lets out a hoarse laugh, prodding a finger against your fluttering hole, easing it in. 

A whimper leaves you, cunt clenching around it as he nips at your thigh, tilting his head to suck your clit into his mouth. You shudder as he suckles, tongue flicking against the throbbing bud, teeth grazing across gently. He presses another finger into your cunt, a deep groan leaving him as you clench around his fingers harder, hips jumping when he sucks at your clit with renewed fervor.

“Such a whiny baby,” Leon muses when he hears the little whimpers and whines that leave you, his hand clamping over your hip to keep you in place as you squirm. “Don’t worry sweetheart, ‘m gonna take care of you.”

You mewl, hips rolling again needily as he buries his face into your cunt, slurping and sucking noisily. It makes your cheeks flush with embarrassment, despite the fact no one can hear you for miles.

“Thought- ah- thought you were gonna let me sit on your face,” you mumble out, body shuddering when Leon curls his fingers, beginning to thrust them in and out of you.

“Is that what you want?” 

You peer down at him before managing out a nod. Leon hums, taking a measured suck of your clit and pressing a kiss to it. He pats your hip, shifting to lay on his back in response. It’s nice of him, you think, when he offers you his hand, pulling you closer as you swing your leg over his face as you peer down at him.

“Sit on my face, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh.

You flush lightly, reaching out to brush the hair that’s fallen across his forehead, running your fingers through the soft strands. Leon’s eyes slip shut and you smile, trailing your fingers over the curve of his cheek before shuffling forward, lowering yourself onto his awaiting mouth.

“Oh,” you breathe out, hands landing on the sheets above his head, gripping them tightly.

Leon groans, hands grasping at your thighs, squeezing the fat of them as he urges you to rock your hips across his mouth. It’s almost too much, the swirl of his tongue, the intensity of his gaze as he looks up at you.

“I like it when you shut up,” you murmur, giving him a smile as you drag your cunt over the length of his tongue. “So much more tolerable this way, Leon.”

Leon lets out an indignant sound and you yelp, jolting when his hand comes down on your ass, your flesh stinging. What an asshole. You glare down at him, gripping his hair harder, pulling at the strands, enough to make it hurt .

He grunts, eyes squeezing shut in pain before he grasps your hips, pulling you down flush against his mouth. Your mouth opens, a strangled moan sounding as you feel his tongue pressing into your cunt.

“N- ngh- no,” you begin to say but Leon ignores you, fucking into your cunt with your tongue.

You can hardly see straight, back arching, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Brat,” Leon snarls, slapping your ass again, “so fucking bratty, sweetheart.”

“‘m not,” you whine, squirming atop his mouth, moaning again when he sucks his clit into your mouth, tongue flicking and swirling until you’re seeing stars. “‘m not , Leon.”

“You are,” he snaps lowly, “bratty and annoying and a fucking pain the ass.” He licks over your cunt again and again. Your thighs twitch, chest heaving as you suck in short, sharp breaths, hunching over when his teeth nip at your folds carefully.

It’s the worst, or perhaps the best because it has the bridge of his nose pressing up against your clit in a way that you’ve never felt before. You rock your hips, gasping, tears pricking at your eyes when he lands another heavy slap to your ass.

“Cum, baby,” Leon hisses, his voice a low rasp, “cum on my fucking mouth. Can you do that, hm? Be a good girl for once and cum .”

You shudder, a sharp cry tearing its way out of your throat as you cum, twitching violently. There’s sweat covering your body, your eyes squeezing shut as you cum. Leon laps at your slick, drinking it down like a man starved. He squeezes your thighs and you tremble, managing to squirm off of him, slumping down over the blankets, panting as your cunt throbs.

Silence passes over the cabin, save for the soothing crackle of the fire. Leon clears his throat, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you closer into the warmth of his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “you- uh, you good?”

“Shut up, Leon,” you grouse, still reeling from the fact that Leon had given you the best orgasm of your life.

“I didn’t mean it,” he offers quietly, calloused palm rubbing up and down your side, over the dip of your waist and curve of your hip. “Well, not all of it.”

You shift, turning to face him. Leon’s hair looks like a mess and you figure you don’t look that much better, given all the squirming and writhing you were doing earlier.

“Yeah?” you murmur, “well, I mean it when I say you’re a dick.”

“Fine,” Leon muses, a smile pulling at his lips, “I’ll let you h-”

His words are cut off when you shuffle closer, grabbing his hoodie. Your nose brushes against his gently, eyes fluttering shut as you press your lips against his tentatively. Leon sighs into your mouth, his hand squeezing at your ass, his lips working against yours.

You wrap your arms around his neck, letting out a soft noise when he licks into your mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue. He can’t help himself as he grabs at you, his hands sliding up under your thick sweater to grasp at your tits. You whimper when he pinches your nipples, rolling them between his fingers before tugging gently.

“Gonna let me fuck you, sweetheart?” Leon whispers against your lips.

You nod, kissing him again, pulling at his hoodie. He sits up, tugging it up over his head before reaching for you, pulling your sweater off of you. Leon swallows when he sees your breasts, his hands reaching for them greedily.

“C’mere, baby,” he murmurs, dipping his head to suck a nipple into his mouth. You bite your lip, hands cupping the back of his head as Leon nuzzles into your breasts, mouthing at the sides of them, landing soft kisses across your sternum and up your throat before finding your lips again.

Your hands are just as greedy as his mouth, reaching down to palm him through his sweats, the bulge looking inviting. Leon moans into your mouth and you smile, pecking his lips as you dip your hand inside, curling your hand around his cock.

It’s thick and heavy when Leon pulls down his sweatpants, his cock bobbing. You lick your hips, straddling his thigh, stroking his cock slowly. Leon’s eyes are squeezed shut, his head tipped back as his hips buck up into your hand.

“‘s big, Leon,” you murmur, watching with rapt attention as thick globs of pre-cum bead at the tip of his cock.

“Y- yeah?” he whimpers, thighs twitching, “‘s all yours, sweetheart.”

You hum happily, meeting his eyes before opening your mouth, letting spit drop down from your tongue onto his cock. Leon groans brokenly, watching as you jerk him off, cum and spit mixing together. 

“Enough,” he grunts when you swipe your thumb over the tip of his cock.

You pout, shuffling back, enough to get your mouth around the head of his cock. Leon’s grumbling when your tongue swirls around his cock, his hand fisting into your hair to pull you off roughly.

“I said enough ,” Leon murmurs, moving you until you're on your hands and knees. 

“Thought you said your cock was mine ,” you drawl, wiggling your hips, ass up in the air for him. “You’re being- oh -”

A dazed sigh leaves you when you feel Leon’s mouth on you again, his thumbs spreading you apart greedily, tongue licking over your cunt. You turn your head, hazy eyes finding Leon’s hand wrapped around his cock, his grip tight as he strokes himself.

“Want your cock in me,” you mumble, drooling into the pillows when he kisses your clit.

“Greedy,” he says, rubbing his cock against your cunt for a few seconds before he presses his cock in.

You gasp, eyes squeezing shut, hips shifting away. Leon clicks his tongue, pulling your hips back, forcing you to take his cock. It’s girthy and thick, a mewl leaving you as you feel his cock stretch you out.

“That’s it,” Leon whispers, hand smoothing over the length of your back, “take my cock, sweetheart.”

You babble incoherently, leaning back into him when he drapes himself over your back, his lips on your shoulder. Leon draws his hips back before thrusting them forward, making you moan. He smiles against your skin, kissing the back of your neck before straightening out.

“Look at that,” Leon murmurs, letting out a low whistle as he spreads your wider, his fingers stroking the edges of your stretched out pussy. “Greedy cunt’s just swallowing up my cock, baby.”

“More,” you whine, starting to rock your hips back to meet his thrusts.

Leon groans, feeling your ass smack back against his hips. He grips you harder, fingers bruising against your hips, pushing down on your back to make you arch. The action has you squeaking when you lose your balance, toppling forward, cheek squishing into the pillows.

The clap of his hips against yours is embarrassing, the cold around you forgotten in the dim cabin, the thickness of his cock replacing any worries you had.

“So fucking good,” Leon snarls, tugging you up again. “Perfect fucking pussy, baby.”

You cry out when he fucks up into you, his chest flush against your back, his arm winding around your neck. Leon squeezes and you slur out a moan, head turning to sink your teeth into his bicep.

He hisses at the flare of pain, squeezing harder. Your body jolts with every thrust, eyes rolling back in delirium at how good the feel of his cock is combined with the squeeze of his arm around your neck.

“Leon!” you whimper, tipping your head back, kissing his jaw sloppily.

“‘m right here, sweetheart,” he groans, mouth slotting over yours messily.

It’s all spit and sloppy kisses, both of your bodies trembling as Leon pounds into you without abandon. The squeeze of his bicep has your vision blurring, nails digging into his thigh. Your cunt clenches and Leon whines, pressing you back down to fuck his cock into you, hand coming down on your ass hard .

“Gonna make me cum,” he rasps, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen bud. 

“Please,” you mewl, hugging the pillow to your chest, “please, Leon- wanna cum, wanna cum please .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he chants breathlessly, kissing your cheek, “wait, where- fuck, baby- where do you want it?”

“In- nghhh- in me,” you beg, hooking your foot awkwardly around his leg, trying to keep him from pulling out. “Cum inside , Leon. Want your cum.”

“Shit,” Leon groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck, his hips humping into your cunt as he loses himself in the tight clench of your pussy. “Sweetheart, you gotta let go.”

“N- nooo,” you whine, shaking your head, wiggling your hips back so his cock presses into you deeper.

He moans, the sound deep and guttural and it has you moaning too, cunt clenching around him like a vice. 

“Pussy’s not letting me go,” Leon snarls, cock driving into you deeper as he slows his thrusts, opting to roll his hips instead. “Fine, ‘m gonna give you my cum, sweetheart. Gonna fill this greedy, little pussy up.” 

You slur out a response, face shoved into the pillow, writhing as Leon rubs your clit a few more times. He curses when you squeeze around him again, slumping over you as his cock twitches, hot cum spilling into you. You bite your lip, dazed and sated as you cum with him, pussy fluttering around his cock.

Leon kisses your neck, panting as he lets his forehead rest against your back. His softening cock slips out of you and Leon turns you on your back, dipping his head to kiss you deeply. You wrap your arm around his neck loosely, sighing contentedly as he massages your hips and thighs.

“I’ll be back,” he whispers against your lips.

You nod, laying there limp. Leon returns with a dry cloth, his lips lingering on your stomach and hip as he cleans you up.

He tugs you into his chest after, kissing your cheek and letting you burrow into his warmth. Your fingers slide through his hair, playing with the soft strands absentmindedly as he smooths his hand over your side, dropping a kiss to your head every now and then.

“So was that good for practice?” you ask, feigning innocence.

Leon huffs out a laugh, his hand squeezing at your waist. “Yeah,” he says, thumb stroking over the curve of your hip, “real good, baby.”

You hum happily, smiling when he tilts his head, kissing you again.

“Does this mean I can see your work?”

“No,” he replies drily, smiling against your cheek. “Still classified, sweetheart.”

“Well, what can I do to un -classify it?”

Leon grins. “I can think of a few things.”

-

“Bring me any souvenirs?” you call out, leaning against the side of your car.

Leon rolls his eyes, dumping his duffle bag onto the ground, his arms wrapping around your waist to pull you closer. You laugh, letting him nuzzle into the crook of your neck, humming in amusement when he grumbles.

“You’re meant to say you missed me.”

You did miss Leon. After the snowstorm had receded, you’d still been unable to keep your hands off one another, even when you’d returned home. He’d been called on some mission some months later, and now here you were, picking him up.

“Just a smidge,” you murmur, biting your lip when he noses into your cheek, pressing soft kisses across your skin.

You turn your head, cupping his cheeks to pull him closer, kissing him deeply. Leon smiles against your lips, holding you tighter, arms squeezing around you. “Maybe a lot,” you whisper, landing another kiss to his lips.

“I missed you too,” he sighs, tucking your hair behind your ear and pressing a kiss to your forehead. Leon’s lips drift, dragging down over the side of your cheek and to your jaw. He presses you against the cool metal of your car, one of his hands drifting under your skirt.

“Know that pretty pussy missed me too,” he murmurs, “‘s why you sent me all those videos, right?”

“Shut up, Leon.”

“Oh c’mon,” Leon drawls, pulling you back into his chest when you try opening the door to your car, “I liked ‘em, sweetheart.”

He kisses your neck heatedly, a soft whine making its way out of your throat when he squeezes the fat of your ass and pats it affectionately.

“We should go home,” you whisper breathily.

“Yeah,” Leon murmurs, his hand forward to cup your pussy, stroking it through your panties. “Car’s right here though.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, muttering a curse when Leon speaks again.

“Could be fun.”

[drchucktingle]

THE TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION TELLS CHUCK TINGLE TO STAY HOME BUT WE PROVE LOVE ANYWAY

just when you buckaroos thought 2024 would be a break from book drama, here comes chuck tingle in the mix. recently i was asked to be a featured speaker at the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION annual conference. a few days ago they rescinded my invitation. here is what happened.

(EDITED TO ADD THIS LINK. if you have a hard time reading this on way of tumblr you can also read for free on chucks patreon)

i would like to start off by saying it is not my intent to start a fight, and all those reading this should know that the actions of a few misguided folks do not speak for the whole TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION. i am sure there are many involved who will be very upset to learn what others at TLA have done in their name. there are many individuals here, so please do not paint them all as villains in your mind. besides, chuck loves the dang library everyone knows that.

the point of writing this is not to vilify. i am writing this is because MOMENTS OF DARKNESS are the best places to SHINE A LIGHT AND PROVE LOVE IS REAL. this is a perfect time for learning and growing and for us talk on some very important things that queer buckaroos and neurodivergent buckaroos face every day. this is an unfortunate moment that WE can turn around and use to prove love is real.

i am also writing this to understand some of my own personal feelings on the matter. for something that seems very simple on the surface, the trot is complex, and i am still working out my emotions on the whole dang thing. i am learning in this way.

PART ONE: BAG OF LOVE

a few months ago chuck was asked to be a featured speaker at the 2024 TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION ANNUAL CONFERENCE. i have been asked to do things like the before and it is ALWAYS a fun time to meet bookseller and librarian buds. trotting around face to face and talking about my story of conquering chronic pain and overcoming my mental hurdles is VERY IMPORTANT to me. i say YES to these things whenever i can. (here i am with authors at CALIFORNIA INDEPENDENT BOOKSELLERS ALLIANCE conference. they are a WONDERFUL group and they proved love with their OWN invitation to chuck. this was such a moving event with so many amazing authors and stories. got very teared up during this photo)

ANYWAY BUCKAROOS i get the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION invite and say 'YES BUD LETS TROT'. we are then confirmed.

months pass. a few weeks ago i get a call from my manager and agent and publisher saying ‘the TLA have rescinded their invitation.’

turns out some things had been going on behind the scenes

at some point the TLA asked chucks INCREDIBLE HEROIC BAD ASS PUBLISHER if chuck would be okay with not wearing the mask, to which tor/nightfire/macmillan said ‘what the heck are you talking about of course chuck is going to wear his mask. this is how chuck presents himself’ (NOT EXACT QUOTE)

as you all know, my pink bag way is a VERY IMPORTANT SPACE. as an autistic buckaroo it is a boundary that allows me to express myself freely and relieve my chronic pain from neurotypically masking all day. i have talked about this for years, and it is why i consider my private identity a SACRED THING. it is literally a health issue.

fortunately THE PINK BAG is never really a problem when making appearances. i have spent years going on television shows, doing interviews, speaking at other conferences and conventions, hosting book events on tour, and even MEETING WITH LAWYERS in my pink face covering. it is always respected and that is very validating to my way.

when arriving anywhere i always take precautions. i always warn buckaroos ahead of time that there is a masked man coming. i always have someone go in ahead of me JUST IN CASE. again, there has never been an issue. at a big conference where i am a special guest there is ESPECIALLY not an issue because my face and bio are printed IN THE DANG PROGRAM

SOME FUN TIMES AT BIG EVENTS BELOW:

CHUCK ON TV SHOW NAME OF 'AT MIDNIGHT' BACK BEFORE I WROTE LOVE IS REAL ON MY HEAD:

well, there has never been an issue.... UNTIL NOW.

PART TWO: RESCINDED

a few days ago TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION suddenly messaged my publishers and said that chuck tingle is no longer invited. my invitation was rescinded. the reason given was that people could possibly be uncomfortable with my mask

right out of the gate i would like to say this: it is absolutely the right of the texas library association to disinvite someone from their conference. it is their event, after all, and they can ban anyone they would like, for any reason.

of course, that doesnt mean other folks HEARING THIS NEWS wont have their own opinions the TLA choices. if the TLA disinvites someone, their reasoning for doing this can be discussed and analyzed. whether or not they follow their own guidelines can be questioned, and certainly their kindness and tact can be considered

there are a few BIG POINTS to make regarding this choice from the TLA

first and foremost, i just gotta say buckaroos, it is incredibly rude to invite someone to be a guest speaker at your event, have them confirm and mark off their calendar and turn down other offers, then rescind their invitation. this is maybe the simplest of the points, but it is an important one.

second, (DEEP BREATH HERE WE GO BUCKAROOS) i personally do not think of my autism as a disability very often, but i also KNOW that despite these feelings it ABSOLUTELY IS. autism is important to be listed as a recognized disability because of the help some autistic buckaroos need regarding government programs and things like that. ALSO just because my neurodivergence has helped me in some ways (hyperfocus and a unique artistic sensibility for example). i personally need to step back and remember my battle with stress and chronic pain from having to neurotypically mask all the time. for as much as i love being autistic it has made some things very difficult.

in other words, i am perfectly capable of speaking and interacting with folks without this pink bag on my head BUT WHEN I AM IN THE CHUCK TINGLE SPACE I REQUIRE IT. i can ONLY use this space while covering my face. is not a want. it is a need. holding this boundary is more important than i can ever say. i will not, and can not, let these spaces cross.

TLA not letting an autistic author wear the face cover theyve set up to express their neurodivergence in a safe, healthy way is--for lack of a better term--NOT A GOOD LOOK.

i cannot fathom them disinviting another author for using a disability aid. i cannot fathom them saying that a buckaroo who hears better with a hearing device cannot use it during their panel because it would make others 'uncomfortable'.

but here we are.

PART THREE: WHAT DOES A BUCKAROO GOTTA DO TO GET BANNED AROUND HERE?

this is the TLAs official stance on disability issues according to their website:

when poking around on the TLA website i noticed a few other things. i noticed a previous guest speaker wearing a niqab, and i was left wondering if the religious significance is what make that okay but chuck tingle banned. that made sense until i looked deeper and saw mascot buckaroos dressed up on the exhibition floor, and saw some kind of spiderbud in a costume contest. nobody around them seemed to be all that scared. their invitations REMAINED INTACT.

it should be mentioned here that AT ONE POINT during the discussions an email was sent from TLA saying chuck is allowed to come and wear his mask in the exhibition halls and smaller panels, just not at any of the big PAID PANELS i was once supposed to participate on. this was a confusing offer, but their explanation was that people who paid for something should have the option to not see chucks 'scary neurodivergence aid'. i tried to wrap my head around WHY they would make a distinction. maybe the exchange of money (rather than time) causes some kind of philosophical adjustment that i just cant grasp?

i wonder, would the author who wears a niqab ALSO be banned from the paid panels? i hope not

my answers trotted up short until i investigated deeper and found this quick moment from one of the TLA help videos. while some events DO require additional buckaroo cash, it actually appears that THE ENTIRE CONFERENCE IS TICKETED AND COSTS MONEY.

at this point i realized there is clearly no actual official policy about not covering your face (other than one from a few years ago saying that you HAVE to cover your face), and the addition of 'money' is a red herring. these excuses make no sense

PART FOUR: CLOSE THOSE GATES

it appears that my neurodivergence is 'scary' enough to get me uninvited, REGARDLESS what their disability and mask policies may say

BUT WHY? why is chucks preferred physical presentation valued SO little by the TLA that a THEORETICAL complaint is worth more? is my neurodivergent expression so awful? is my own safety as a queer activist such an afterthought?

is a pink bag with the words 'love is real' scrawled across the front REALLY going to frighten someone when the posters and pamphlets on the way into in panel would have a photo of my masked face saying THIS IS LITERALLY WHO IS ABOUT TO APPEAR BEFORE YOU.

if THAT accommodation is too much, would it really be so difficult to have someone trot out beforehand and make an announcement? to say 'there is someone on this upcoming panel who needs a mask to express this part of himself, if this makes you uncomfortable then this panel might not be for you'.

and really, i have to heckin ask, is this physical expression of my raw inner truth really so hideous and frightening that fear of making someone uncomfortable is a REAL problem?

(a terrifying display of autism. apparently)

i cannot imagine what kind of precautions they need to take before a stage play featuring costumes and masks.

you MIGHT think chucks queerness and left leaning politics could be the issue with this organization, but they have had drag queens as past speakers (also featuring some GLORIOUS makeup and hair that covers almost all of their faces. VERY CURIOUS). regardless, the TLA do not seem like a conservative bunch.

if you are bisexual or an autistic person who is good at 'passing' you probably already know where this is headed, your dang spiderbuckaroo senses are tingling at FULL ALERT. i will say i do not KNOW the real reason why i was uninvited, and i do not have enough information to make any concrete statement of the real answer. there is only evidence that masks have been fine at TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION events in the past, but not much else to go on.

so the FACTS part of our discussion ends there, but i think it opens us up to talk about some very important feelings that bisexual and autistic buckaroos know well.

THIS is where we take a unfortunate, hurtful moment and turn it into a discussion. this is where we prove love is real.

as someone who is constantly doubted and put through purity tests because of my unique way, we are pushing up against a subject i know well. thats right buckaroos: we are talking GATEKEEPING

AGAIN, i do not know if this is the answer, but someone in my position might be VERY STRONGLY INCLINED TO THINK that a few well-meaning left leaning buckaroos think i am a joke and that this is a character, and that there is something problematic about my work because i am not really a real person.

any upstanding left leaning organization would OF COURSE allow a mask for a neurodivergent buckaroo with an unusual visual presentation, an autistic buckaroo who conquered his chronic pain ONLY by creating this important space... but what about a FAKE autistic buckaroo?

any upstanding left leaning organization would OF COURSE allow a mask for a queer LGBTQ activist standing up for gay and trans rights against a torrent of scoundrels hunting for his legal identity. its a matter of safety... but what about a FAKE queer activist?

let me be very clear for the 100th time: i am a real person. this is not a joke. i am not playing a character. i am really autistic and bisexual. tinglers are sincere and they are not ‘so bad theyre good’. they are just good. camp damascus is not ‘my first serious book’ because my queer erotica is serious. my art is important and real.

when people tell me to unmask they often do not know WHY they want it, and of course one very good reason is innocent curiosity. but there are SOME cases where i start to get THAT feeling--that tingle all of us ‘passing’ buckaroos get when we can sense the real intent behind the poking and prodding. that is the feeling of stumbling into a gatekeepers crosshairs.

if i was to take off my pink bag, what about my face would you analyze to tell if i was REALLY queer. my eye color? my ear shape? if you learned my legal name, would you see if it sounded autistic? is my voice neurodivergent enough?

or is all of that utterly absurd? i am curious what the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION thinks.

PART FIVE: GENDERED

this will be the shortest of parts, but it has to be said. i have a very complex relationship with gender, as written about at length here and here. i understand these things can be difficult to parse for some, but i ask that you trust me when i say that the ONLY reason i have been able to talk about my gender and sexuality and learn these things about myself is because of this pink bag. this outward appearance is a direct expression and reflection of my gender journey.

if the texas library association does not care about my appearance as an expression of my autism, then i cant imagine them giving a dang about it as an expression of my gender and queerness. that being said, it is personally very important to me and i think it should be mentioned

PART SIX: SO YOU WANT TO REMOVE AN AUTISTIC QUEER AUTHOR FROM YOUR EVENT BECAUSE PEOPLE MIGHT FIND THEIR DIFFERENCES SCARY

there is a question to be asked here: how could the TLA have done this correctly?

i have one very big piece of advice i would like to shout from the rooftops. please, for the love of sweet barbara, DO ENOUGH RESEARCH to know if this appearance will be a problem and, IF SO, dont extend an invitation in the first place. unique buckaroos with different presentations are constantly left in this place of limbo because we are bombarded with careless actions like those of the TLA. before you consider extending a branch to an artist who might need more accommodations than usual, think to yourself 'CAN WE MAKE THESE ACCOMMODATIONS?'

putting all of this on the shoulders of a single 'buckaroo with a difference' is exhausting. as the TLA has shown, we currently live on a timeline where a buckaroo like myself never really knows if an invite is SOLID without doing a deep dive history lesson on how often a group discriminates and against who.

i did not want to spend my whole family holiday worrying whether or not i should say something publicly or just lie down and shut my dang mouth. i had to consider HOW i should say it. i had to worry whether or not its worth standing up for myself in the face of the largest state library association in the country. i think buckaroos with differences are with me when i say: WE ARE SICK OF HAVING TO DO THIS WORK TO COVER FOR THE POOR BEHAVIOR OF LARGE ORGANIZATIONS WHO TREAT US BADLY

another option would just be to use kindness and common sense and happily accommodate artists with unique presentations to your conventions

PART SEVEN: LOVE IS STILL REAL

i would like to close by saying THANK YOU to my publisher nightfire and editor kelly for standing up for me. they immediately stood firm and had my back. they are the real dang deal. THANK YOU to my management and agent buds dongwon and gino for trotting along beside me. THANK YOU to the folks at the texas library association who initially invited chuck with goodness in their heart and then likely got bowled over by someone else, and maybe even got knocked to the side by a big closing gate.

i hope there are librarians in texas who are still interested in carrying BURY YOUR GAYS when it comes out (which is ironically about someone who creates a space through art to express their queerness where they cant otherwise). libraries prove love is real and what they do IS SO IMPORTANT. it was SO IMPORTANT TO ME as a young buckaroo and i cannot thank you enough. i am not sure if me writing all of this will hurt my sales in some way, but this opportunity to speak about the reality of disability awareness and queer gatekeeping is too important to stay silent. (if you have not already preordered BURY YOUR GAYS then give it a preorder to make up for some texas library losses i guess.)

which leads me to my final thank you. THANK YOU to the buckaroos reading this. yes YOU. i am in the position to stand up and speak my mind against scoundrel forces ONLY because i have the might of you buckaroos by my side. the buckaroo trot is ALL OF OUR TROT and we are ALL HERE TO PROVE LOVE. i cannot tell you how much i appreciate the way you have created a space for me to express these important parts of myself. you have seen this pink mask over my face and saying YES, I ACCEPT YOU, you have literally saved my life. for that i am so thankful.

if you are UPSET by what youve read here, then turn it into something positive. you can support autistic creators, or make a donation to the AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK

and besides WHO IS REALLY MISSING OUT? this is what it looks like when you invite the worlds greatest author chuck tingle to your event and treat their identity as valid. WE HAVE A DANG GOOD TIME

KEEP TROTTING INTO THE FUTURE. KEEP KICKING DOWN GATES WHEREVER THEY MAY BE. KEEP PROVING LOVE IS REAL AND PROVING IT TOGETHER. lets go buckaroos - chuck

UPDATE AN HOUR AFTER POSTING:

true buckaroo TJ KLUNE was set to be another author on panel chuck was removed from and has informed me he has now chosen to decline his invitation in support and solidarity with chuck. i am so deeply moved by this. thank you from bottom of heart buckaroo

to be very clear TJ has a huge platform and DOES NOT NEED TO DO THIS. these conferences are great for book sales and he is taking a hit out of pure solidarity. this is queer buckaroos standing up for eachother. i am floored by this kindness and love

please consider checking out his books if they are not already covering your dang bookshelf. chuck blurbed IN THE LIVES OF PUPPETS and i was blown away i heckin loved it

MOST RECENT UPDATE:

here is more

[chithereader]

jealousy, jealousy / aaron hotchner

here’s my masterlist! pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader / shy!reader word count: 2.4k genre & cw: fluff, a little jealousy and pining angst if u squint, mentions of made-up case, different use of cm character a/n: thank u so much for all the support i've been getting on my fics!! hope you love this one as much as i do, i really enjoyed writing this one the most!

Today was a bad day. That much was clear. From the moment you woke up to the minute you arrived at the BAU– you’re convinced that the universe has simply gone the extra mile to make your life a little harder. 

You slept through your alarm and a few phone calls from Garcia, making your morning stressful and complete chaos. You didn’t have time to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, and apparently you also didn’t have time to remove the colorful pimple patches that adorned your face. 

Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garcia’s help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through. 

That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought. 

There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? I’m…wearing pants, right? 

Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.

Strauss was in Hotch’s office, along with Rossi and a woman you don’t recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman… is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh. 

You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day. 

But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldn’t figure out why. 

You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derek’s desk as you whisper under your breath, “What’s happening there?” 

Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, “I don’t know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesn’t have a clue either.” Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something. 

Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if they’d only met in passing. 

“Do you know anything, Spence?” But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that he’s thought about it hard but is coming up empty. 

Shaking his head, he soberly replies, “No..I don’t think so. I– I’ve never seen her before. Sorry.” 

Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotch’s office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch. 

-

You’re approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch who’s already looking at you. 

He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely. 

Now, you’ve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all days– you couldn’t help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse. 

You don’t even notice that you’re frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought you’ve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, “You’ll need claws not paws, baby girl.” Winking at you as you separate. 

You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it weren’t for the clenching of his jaw that’s his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something that’s causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file. 

As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. It’s through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!

If it weren’t for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have done– …still absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss. 

And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there… but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and that’s just a universal truth. 

- 

After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.’s, you’re all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsub’s on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short. 

Reid’s been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morgan’s pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, “This is impossible. We just don’t have enough.” He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud. 

To the left of Morgan, you’re also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that he’s right, you guys don’t have enough…bodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile. 

You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. “Reid?” The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites don’t say much about the unsub’s comfort zones or hunting ground. 

You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you haven’t seen any of them, “Where are the others?” 

Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, “Hmm. I think what you’re really asking is: Where’s Hotch and is he with Seaver?” He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious he’s only teasing. 

The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, “Shut up,” hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand. 

While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, “Seaver wanted to turn in early since she’s also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.” 

You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the marker’s cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding “And I’m pretty sure Rossi’s getting us coffee from the diner around the block.” 

You want to blame it on your exhaustion– your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds you’re making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob. 

Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud. 

“It’s not funny!” There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldn’t tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia. 

He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, “Baby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss man’s heart.” Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face. 

Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of “That’s not true!” that came out more as “Daffs noft thwu!” 

When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, you’re surprised to see Reid’s moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you. 

Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, “Kid. Be real with me for a sec… are you blind?” That was not the question you were expecting. 

You must have looked so lost because he continues, “Hotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. You’ve gotta have felt that, kid.” Funny, you are starting to feel like a kid– the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience. 

“That’s just not–” you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stop–

“Did you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the right– the way you need it to be– in case the night janitors move any out of place?”

“Or that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?” 

“Or do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?” 

Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, “I mean I was genuinely dying then.” 

Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow “Did you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.” 

You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off “And I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.” 

The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really? 

As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, “Look, there’s so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.” He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away. 

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, “That just can’t be true.” 

With all three of your backs to the door, you don’t notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, “Coffee, anyone?” 

As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, you’re still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didn’t even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted “Thanks.”  

Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, “So… what can’t be true?” 

Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the table– Morgan spouts, “That she’s Hotch’s girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaver– who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.” 

-

Now– all of your backs are to the door except Rossi’s. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldn’t have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.

Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behind– leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.

Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous? 

In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didn’t hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish. 

-

You gasp loudly at his bluntness– and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, “You little– I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT Hotch’s–” 

Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasn’t been actively paying attention until now. 

The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you. 

You’re all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirt– 

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as you’re about to mentally curse him in your head, you’re broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice, 

“You don’t think you’re my girl?” 

[fazcinatingblog]

Went to my brother's auction today to realise that my dream of buying a 2 bedroom apartment at an auction is probably dead

[bisexualtwinkk]

don’t make it obvious s.r

flirty!reader x early seasons spencer reid

Summary: Morgan just can’t believe you actually flirt with spencer.

a/n: My first fic! I still can take season 1 spencer out of my mind, that’s all. And also, I love to imagine him all flustered and shy. xoxo NEW PART POSTED AND PINNED ON MY PROFILE

“I just think you do all this as an entertainment, pretty” morgan said looking across the bullpen, more specifically to the 6’1 nerdy man with the prettiest honey-like eyes.

“shut up, morgan, I’m tired of explaining the same thing to all of you” a sigh escaped my lips while I arranged all the paperwork we had left after a horrible case of human trafficking in D.C.

“what thing are we talking about? ‘cause if we are talking about the missing cookies, garcia took them” prentiss said sitting on top of the desk besides mine.

“we are talking about the not so secret crush our best dressed agent here” morgan pointed at me, making my laugh a little, “as on our I dress like a grandpa doctor”

“oh my god, dereck, that is so superficial of you to say! and is not a secret crush, I like to say nice things to my friends , you say things way out off line to garcia and no one bats an eye, but if I flirt a little with spence everyone goes crazy ”

“sorry honey, but if you think you can hide something while working around profilers, you are very wrong” prentiss taped my nose and standing from the desk.

“you guys make me sick, you know that? I’ll go to spend time with my favorite friend’ I grabbed my coffee and walked to spencer’s desk, escaping the teasing from my coworkers.

spencer was too busy writing to notice when I sat on the desk beside him. his hair was slicked back, making his face look even more sculpted, and prettier, than usual. he was wearing a simple white shirt and a black tie, a casual and comfortable look.

“hi, spence, sorry I didn’t come earlier to talk, handsome, was kinda busy with the pile of papers on my desk” he blinked rapidly when the word handsome left my mouth.

“H-hey” he coughed a little, “don’t worry, I can help you if you want, did you now that a higher percentage of women report feeling burned out compared to men at their level? I don’t mind helping you, as long as you want, of course” spence spoke quickly, making me smile.

“if you want to spend time with me you can say it, you know? I really love spending time with you, spence” I played with the end of his tie, watching his addam’s apple move and his face turning an adorable shade of pink. “and thank you, I accept your help, you are the best spence” I give him a quick peck on the cheek while walking away and seeing morgan with a smirk on his face.

“try not to make it that obvious next time” he pushed me in a playful way, laughing at my, more than spencer’s, red face.

“shut up, morgan”

I’m totally screwed by that man, I swear.