#at least for the fic not the art itself

[yendeena]

Welcome to the Velvet Room

Got the opportunity to design and illustrate Akechi’s Velvet Room in @tomiokajen ‘s Post-Canon Shuake fic!! Be sure to go check it out!

[anishenanigans]

aand done!! This took forever, but it's the first time I've successfully finished one of these templates and it was a lot of fun :]

[demaparbat-hp]

When I saw you making For the Spirits art I was so excited, wow, one of my favourite artists is reading this too, how nice!! Then I realised you’re actually the author and I just want to ask, how?? Are you so talented???? I love this fic and I love your art so so much, thank you for sharing it all with us. Can’t wait for the next update!!

Ah, thank you! This is literally so sweet! For the Spirits (adding a link for the curious folks out there!) is my love child. This project owns my heart and soul, and it's truly so rewarding that you like it! I want to sketch so many different scenes, really, but I'm doing my best to give you some quality artwork of my favorite moments in the story. It's a slow process.

As for next chapter—soon! I'm working on some sketches for this particular scene, and I am so excited to share it with everyone! Things start to pick up from here... But, for now, have a (very little) sneak peek ��️

Zuko stood at the end of the world, surrounded by miles of snow and the resounding echo of his own shallow breaths. He took everything in, closed his eyes to receive Agni’s light, and howled.

Something howled back, and he smiled.

[juustozzi]

you might've seen this in an ask already, but decided to post here too; a collection of Tenmas from Yara's fics, since I love the differences that thrown into different timelines and happenings give him!

[astrodances]

As the cabin came into view again, Goldie couldn’t stop thinking about how this had to be the coldest night they’d had in weeks and her feathers were turning into little icicles. With the small amount of sunlight left, she could see her breath on every exhale. It was so cold she was getting exhausted much faster than she should’ve and Goldie knew she’d be sick in the morning...if she made it there at all.

May I present...the Ice Queen of Dawson. ❄️

This has been a long time coming, but I finally finished this set of three drawings last week that I've been wanting to draw for the longest time for @lettheladylead's running in circles (the above drawing specifically comes from chapter 4 - it's the exact moment that Goldie sees the cabin again on the way back from trying to get back to Dawson). (Will also say that these are a very happy belated birthday gift to you! :D)

There were a few moments from the Klondike chapters that weren't necessarily major story moments, but the descriptions of them (and especially of the environments/lighting) caught my eye and my heart, and made me want to highlight the beauty of the Klondike, and so here we are.

For this scene in particular, her walk back to the cabin, I got a very vivid image of it while reading it, a sort of tragic twist on a "winter wonderland" and on Goldie looking all icy-pretty, and the angst of the Ice Queen naturally came in to play.

Will post the other two drawings over the next two days - up next: a king in the morning light.

[meltdownchromium]

I can't believe it's been over a year since I've last drawn these two fuckheads??? Anyway I made the sketch for this in the very beginning of 2023 and somehow only now got that final burst of motivation to finish it, safe to say the brainrot is far from over, it's only been on a slight hiatus..

ALSO I could swear this is somehow based on a quote but my original draft for it was lost to the death of my last phone (along with so many other things rip)

[sanchoyo]

whys ygo the only fandom I’m in that’s really populated with crackships/rarepairs out the wazoo. Like there’s ofc A Lot of popular ships but no one looks twice at ‘weirder’ ones like ones where the charas never spoke. More fandoms could learn from this 😔

[thingsidrawgohere]

Alright. I'm calling it done before it kills me. This is Second Head. It's an Art Book containing instances of the phrase "second head" in fanfics found on AO3. I'll explain much, MUCH more in the cut.

So when I say 'art book', I mean this is an intrinsic piece. I have no motivations aside from personal amusement and interest in outcome. A lot of money was lost/transmuted into free frustration in this project and I have no claims, obviously. I will prolly be the only person alive to read this.

THAT SAID. I have noticed in my years reading fanfic, there's a few linguistic shibboleths that arise in authors who also have experience in the mines. I think there's not a soul alive who hadn't wandered across a 'ministrations' when reading Narutos oral sexing. There's- Hold on. Here's some pix.

There's an impulse, I think, to in-group even when performing a creative act. A feeling that there are certain ways one Should go about the act, by virtue of seeing it performed that way. Especially so when 'training' at the act is often just Doing. Double Dog Especially when the act is exclusively for oneself with very little oversight. Which is to say, we make what we see and we make what we think we should make. At least, at first.

Now, I've been noticing 'grew a second head' (to insinuate surprise) in fanfic for some time. I've never seen it used Outside of fanfic. (Edit to add: I am not making the argument the phrase is from fanfic. Nor do I Believe it is from fanfic. Jesus Hopping Christ, people. That's not what this project is about.) That may speak to my own bad habits but it got me curious. So a friend and myself downloaded a mirror of AO3 from July of 2024. He did some code- Stuff to scan the mirror for "second head" and of the ~13 million works, ~70k (English) results were returned. That's a rounding error, honestly, but Far FAR more than I expected.

This book is 401 such examples that I personally selected for a variety of reasons. The number itself was arbitrarily chosen. Each page is separate fic, the roughly 300 words around our key phrase.

I don't think repetition or mirroring is a negative thing. I think it's quite charming. Nor do I think it's a sign of a 'bad' artist or 'bad' art. I think it's a signifier of personhood, of belonging, of enthusiasm. Of culture shared and wishing to share. I think it's real sweet. I always smile when I catch a 'grown a second head' in a work.

And it's really fucking funny when it's John Sherlock getting a sloppy toppy. Bless.

Edit: Fixed a very VERY funny error.

Edit: I am not making the argument that the phrase is exclusive to fanfic or, fucking forbid, FROM fanfic. I'm stating this Again because we skim here. Also- If you would like slamdunk my ass by stating the phrase predates the Internet or your GenX parents use it, please use 'sailboat' in your comment so I know you're specifically trying to kill me.

Edit Edit: You know what? Fine. I DO think this phrase came from fandom. I think ENGLISH came from fandom. I think YOU came from fandom. I think EVERYTHING came from fandom. The Sun, the Moon, the Seas- Fandom. Specifically Sonic Mpreg. The second head was Shadow the Hedgehog crowning. Congrats!

[transformativeworks]

Are you getting that annoying "Buy Art from Me" spam on your AO3? Here is what to do

First - if you are a real non-spam person asking folks to commission art by commenting on their fics on AO3.. please do not do that. That is a violation of the TOS.

Second - We are working on filtering it out, and you can help! Below the cut is info on identifying the spam comments, and then how to report them in the most effective way!

So we can stop this flood of spam.

<3 Mod Remi

(Details from PAC are below the Read More)

How to identify it - 1. Comments are left by registered accounts 2. Usually, the comments are on works that have just been posted or updated 3. The comment may provide very specific compliments about the work, and if challenged, the commenter will firmly deny being a bot or scammer 4. The key identifier is that in the comment itself, or in a follow-up to any reply to the comment, the spammer will always do at least one of these two things: - Offer to create art for the work, or say that they are an artist interested in working with you - Ask if they can speak with you on another platform (they may provide their own contact details for other platforms, such as Discord, Artstation, or Instagram)

THE BEST WAY TO REPORT IT 1. Select the 'Thread' button on the comment so that you're viewing the comment's direct page 2. Scroll to the bottom and select the "Policy Questions & Abuse Reports" link 3. In the "Brief summary" field, put "spam comment" 4. In the "Description" field, put "This is a spambot" and then "The account name is [whatever account name]" – this will ensure it gets sorted correctly - Please only include 1 account in your report – if you see another, then please file a new report - Please don't re-report accounts you've already reported

What AO3 is doing about this - 1. We're implementing several measures to try and stop these spammers from making new accounts, but unfortunately, some are going to slip through our fingers 2. Fortunately, it is very easy for us to get rid of this type of spam and prevent the account from posting more – so long as it is reported to us in the correct fashion. If our auto-sorter detects the keywords in your report that will file it into our "suspected spam" folder, then it's easy for our volunteers to quickly check and handle it

[hellonearthtoday]

canon is dead I rule the world. dsmp you are MINE

dsmpblrs ocs shared between the 5 (five) singular people that inhabit this fandom

I'm taking the chance to just talk about my personal dsmp au that is basically canon if you don't think about it

I don't think we as a community wrote enough about demon ctommy. he was always my favorite it just gives him this evil vibe that I think is sooo funny and I always see it in ctommy art but never in literally any fic. and that's fine but imp or whatever-he-is-Tommy will always be real in my heart. in my head he used to be a bird hybrid, but when he died for what was supposed to be the final time they took his fucking wings and gave him cunty demon horns and tail. Death made him emo. for the sake of this narrative his wings used to be white too. Pair this with religious ctommy and you get peak

ctubbo. I think about him a lot. I think personally he wears armor under his coat. You'd think it start to get hot under there, and it does. his solution is to just Never leave the Arctic.

At some point he started developing resting bitch face, because it used to just be resting (autistic face of neutrality) but now he kind of just looks tired all the time. Not like Tommy's rbf where he looks like he's kinda pissed and has a headache 24/7. but at least they're semi matching now. bff's!!! (?) I can't write too much about ctubbo because my cutbbo is like 20 billion contradictions stacked on itself. he's not as simple as my ctommy.

He doesn't wear the red bandana anymore but he can't tell you why and he's not insecure about the scar on his face but he's not proud of it either. I FORGOT TO DRAW CRANBOO AND HIS WEDDING RINGS IM AN ANTI WHAT THE HELLL okay ignoring that blunder, their wedding rings are meant to be on their horns 💔 you can't fucking see cranboos singular (1) horn because it's out of frame, they're too tall.

SPEAKONG OF CRANBOO!!!! snakes in his hair because Hahhaa hattte eye contact????? Medusa???? get it guys get it do you guys get jut

The snakes talk to him. Take that as you will. He's a chronic suit wearer and will literally not wear anything else unless it's under or over the suit. he would like to never try anything new ever he needs this constant in his life or everything will fall apart and the world will end. He knows how to kit up and wear armor but just as a joke he wears random bits of armor in places he literally needs it least. as a fashion statement. Tommy doesn't wear any armor usually bcz who gaf he's not doing that shit

in my perfect world the egg plot in dsmp actually got used better and becsme more than a background plot. it could've been everything. anyway my dsmp au is egg war las Nevadas craziness and I'm right goodnight

[yourlocalbadgerscales]

So

~

90 notes: I’ll post some random shit I’ve been planning to post forever

160 notes: I’ll post a chapter of a fic I have drafted on Ao3 (y’all if I don’t post it before Oct 2 it’ll automatically delete itself so please save my fic before it’s too late oml)

250 notes: I’ll start going on walks at least once a week (I really need motivation)

370 notes: I’ll tell my best friend some big news about my identity (why am I so scared? Idk)

530 notes: I’ll post an audio of me singing something (you can wish for any song in the comments if you like!)

1660 notes: I’ll post a lot of shit I have in my Tumblr drafts + I’ll gather the courage ask my friends for a little money so I can buy myself my own phone (I need a second one in case anything bad happens to me and I have to run away from home. No, I won’t elaborate.)

1850 notes: I’ll take more time to do the things I love this winter.

2000 notes: I’ll wear my lesbian pin in front of my mum and hope she sees it.

2300 notes: I’ll tell my therapist a lot of things… things she probably needs to know but I’m scared to tell her.

2800 notes: I’ll try to talk to my crush in school. Small talk, okay? Nothing more. I’m so scared don’t make me do it-

3100 notes: I’ll finish reading Art Heist, Baby! (No. Please.)

~

I won’t be tagging anyone because y’all are insane and I’ll be forced to keep my promises… sigh

ONLY TWO NOTES PER PERSON!!! Edit: Yup only 2 notes. Can y’all tell I really don’t wanna do all this lol

DOBT MAKE MUNOIST GET TO 2800 BECAISE I DONT WANT TO DO WHAT MY FROEMD WANST ME TO DO AJSHSJSJSJ

[miedei]

so many hills to die on

a case has you re-evaluating your tenuous relationship with spencer, coming to a head when the unsub triggers a confrontation.

cw: fem!reader, soulmate!au, angst/fluff, lighttt miscommunication trope, canon level violence and gore, descriptions of being bound and kidnapped, descriptions of stalking behaviour

a/n: this is probably my most ambitious fic ever, has been in my drafts for sooo long but I rallied and wrote it finally! merged these two requests about a soulmate au from this prompt list, and I definitely went overboard with the concept. title is from $20 by boygenius (lol), unsub name and picture of spencer from loml @siriuslylantsov

prompt: b...ody art (doodles that a person draws on themselves appear on their soulmate’s skin).

wc: 11.3k (holy shit)

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

Spencer Reid could say a lot about the phenomenon of transcorpal connections. The incidence of a level of mental connection between two individuals that manifests itself in the melanocytes in a person’s epidermal layer to reflect the markings that another person has exacted upon themselves. 

Or, if Prentiss forced him to speak ���like you’re a human 27-year-old, please’, it was the instance of two supposed ‘soulmates’ where drawings or tattoos on one person’s skin are reflected on the others. 

Soulmates weren’t something Spencer took much stock in, to be honest. 

A fated partner that some amorphous being has assigned him is not something he really believes in, not just as Dr. Reid, man of science, but also as Spencer, the guy who’s had to watch every loving relationship he’d ever seen end. 

He’d seen his parents fall out of love, the little messages his father would write for his mother always there, until one day he’d seen his father write a to-do list on his forearm, the words never arising on his mother’s skin. He’d had whatever that was with Ethan, where he’d desperately hoped that his incoherent scribbles would eventually pop up on his friend-not-boyfriend’s arm, but never did. He’d seen Hotch, the last ‘Jack misses you’ message that Haley had written him still on his upper arm, no matter how long it had been. 

The connections between people’s skin wasn’t anything he aspired to, not anymore. He could rattle off facts and musings about the instances of ‘soulmate connections’ in history for hours, but it held no more significance for him than it did as a profiling tool.

Hence, Spencer never really held out for anything to show up on his skin, not until it did. 

You had spent years with your body, the parts of it you saw on the daily, and the parts you preferred to avoid in the mirror. The expanses of skin, littered with marks and scars from years of living, are familiar to you. Too familiar. 

You’d spent years watching your friends, acquaintances, and even strangers' skin change. Like the first time, in secondary school, whenever you saw lines begin to form on a friend's hand, it always filled you with a strange sense of melancholy. 

Of course, people lived whole, fulfilling lives without ever having a soulmate connection, and you’re sure your life wouldn’t be any different, but there was always that little thought in the back of your mind, every sighting of a couple on the street adding feathers to its wings. 

What if. What if all that skin finally changes? What if you’ll finally experience the life-shattering love that soulmates are supposed to be?

You had always been holding out for something to show up on your skin, but it wasn’t until you’d least expected it. 

Being the newest profiler in the famed BAU was more than daunting. It was terrifying, like hyper-aware-of-every-bone-in-your-body terrifying. Your transfer from Domestic Trafficking had been a long time coming, your experience in psychology and previous work under David Rossi making you the ideal candidate for the spot. You knew all of that, but somehow it didn’t dampen the nerves that coursed through your body every time you walked into the bullpen. 

It’s your third case as an official agent on the team, and your fear of messing up the biggest leap in your career hasn’t waned. In a lull in the briefing that Hotch gives on the jet, you refer to the case file, questioning the tiny Garcia shown on the screen set on the surface in front of you.

“And this witness who wasn’t present? What’s that about?” You point to a name noted on the case file, which has very little information listed next to it. 

“Yes, my love, that is a little strange.” Garcia’s slightly tinny voice floats through the interior of the cabin.

“She is a Mrs Amaya Walker, not technically a witness, seeing as, you know, she lives and works two hours away from the crimes, but there is a pickle.” As she speaks, Spencer slides into the seat across from you, and you flash him a quick smile as he slides a mug of coffee over the table to you.

“Our lovely Mrs Walker here saw a list pop up on her forearm, right when the last murder happened. Initially she didn’t think it was anything, but later she saw the press conference that the local P.D. did after the second murder-”

“Against my advice, by the way!” JJ pipes up from her spot on the sofa.

“Yes, against JJ’s advice, but once she saw it, she thought her little list might come as useful to the investigation.” Your tablets chime, a picture of a forearm you assume belongs to Amaya Walker popping up on the screen. The fax machine set up under the table whirs, and you pull out the printed version and pass it wordlessly to Spencer. The brown skin of her forearm is marred by scratchy handwriting, a list of household points of interest:

“Bedframe

Edge of coffee table

Light fixture

Oven door

Nightlight

Garage door

Silver spoon”

Your eyes widen, picking up your case file to compare.

“These are all…”

“Where the unsub left smears of the victim’s blood.” Spencer finishes your sentence, his eyes meeting yours with lines of confusion between them. The seemingly random smears of blood had been a point of confusion for you all when you did the initial walkthrough of the two murders back at the office. Each very far from the site of the murder, the team had concluded it had to be part of the unsub’s signature, although they were different for each murder. 

This was part of why JJ didn’t want it released to the public, on the off chance that the publicity causes the unsub to escalate or double down.

“Yes, wonderful profilers, you’re correct. The list correlates with all the different spills of blood and…” Garcia shudders, “gore left at every crime scene. Her husband has refused to speak to the police, and she insists he has nothing to do with it, but the police are working on a warrant, they should be getting them both to the station tomorrow.”

“Yes, that is strange. Reid, L/N, you two go to the ME’s office, figure out if there’s anything we can get out of the method of killing. Dave, you go with Morgan and JJ to the most recent crime scene. Maybe we can get something more out of it. Prentiss, you and I will head to the first crime scene, see what we can see. Hopefully we can correlate that with whatever we get from Walker tomorrow.” Hotch’s stern, no-nonsense voice cuts through the confusion, and you all straighten up, ready to get to work.

The medical examiner’s office is chilly, and you regret forgoing a blazer as you step into the bright building from the warm evening air. Spencer laughs softly next to you, and he nudges your shoulder. 

“Cold?”

“No.”

You speak resolutely, but the sparkle in his eye indicates he knows your lie. Grabbing the distinctive purple scarf from around his neck, he wraps it around yours, smiling when he meets your eye. The moment is only broken by the clip-clop of shoes coming down the hallway, and you both turn away hastily.

The ME walks up to you, his voice clipped and curt.

“You’re from the FBI? Come with me, please.”

You follow him into a room that smells overwhelmingly of formaldehyde. Two examining tables stand in the middle of the room, white sheets covering the bodies.

“The methods of killing were very different for each case, so much so that we didn’t put together that they were related until the police did.”

Spencer nods from beside you, accepting a clipboard from the doctor. Not bothering to read it, when he can do it in a fraction of the time, you converse with the doctor.

“Yes, we saw that one of the victims was stabbed, and the other strangled? That doesn’t track with any evolution we’ve seen before. Stabbing’s generally much easier than strangling, we usually see them go the other way around.”

He nods, pulling back the sheet on the second victim. You can see mottled bruises around his neck.

“Yes, the most recent victim, John Coulhain, was strangled. By the angle of the bruising, it’s clear he was attacked from behind, and by something that has both leather and metal in it. You see here, there’s a larger imprint from the metal segment.”

Spencer raises his head.

“It says here that he had just gotten out of the shower after work?”

“That’s right. He was found in only a towel. His clothes weren’t found.”

You frown, turning to Spencer.

“Leather and metal… that sounds like a belt to me. Coulhain was a lawyer. He wore suits to work.”

He picks up on your train of thought, continuing where you leave off.

“His clothes weren’t found. The unsub might have used his belt as a murder weapon, so he took the rest too.”

You turn to the medical examiner

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson, what sort of knife do you believe was used?”

He walks you over to the second table, drawing back the sheet so you can see the seemingly random pattern of wounds.

“They’re varying degrees of shallowness, but the shape of the wounds makes me think it was something medium-sized, probably stainless steel.”

Spencer leans forward, inspecting the wounds closely as he muses.

“Stainless steel isn’t the sort of knife you buy with the intention of violence. 54% of stainless steel knives are purchased for everyday purposes, like cooking.”

The ME walks you through the rest of the details of the murders, but the randomness of the methods of killing and the missing clothing stick with you.

An hour later, when you and Spencer walk out of the building into the dusk, it’s still on your mind.

“Reid, why would an unsub use a perfectly good knife for his first murder, but forgo bringing it to the next scene, and use his victim’s belt instead? That reads like a devolution, and this guy is still ramping up.”

“Maybe he’s relishing the deaths? Strangling takes longer, so maybe he realised that stabbing wasn’t going to give him the time with the body that he wanted.” He offers, but you can tell he’s not convinced.

“The scenes don’t show any sign of him lingering. And even if that’s the case, why not bring your own strangling equipment? A belt doesn’t give him the precision he needs in order to control the rate of death, especially one he just snatched off the floor.”

Spencer nods slowly as you approach the car.

“He doesn’t hesitate at all in killing them, but he doesn’t come prepared. It’s like he’s obscenely confident in himself, and doesn't think he needs to plan in order to pull it off.”

You slide into the car as your phone begins to buzz in your pocket. Fishing it out, you pick up the call.

“Hey Emily, you’re on speaker.”

She speaks immediately, forgoing any greeting.

“The first victim, Cohen Gibson. Was the weapon a stainless steel knife?”

You exchange a look with Spencer, replying quickly.

“Yeah, it was. Why do you ask?”

“Gibson’s wife just confirmed that their knife block is gone, along with six stainless steel knives.”

Spencer leans forward to speak into your phone.

“That makes sense. We think the unsub is showing up with no preparation because he believes he doesn’t need it. He’s a narcissist.”

She makes a distracted sound of affirmation.

“That sounds right. Okay, Hotch wants you to meet us at the hotel, we’re going to compare notes there.”

You go to hang up, before she speaks once more.

“Oh, one more thing, the local police department got the warrant to bring in Amaya Walker for an interview tomorrow. You guys should do that, she’ll be more relaxed with younger people there. If her husband has something to do with it, you have to get it out of her.”

Stepping out of the SUV the next morning, you and Spencer walk through the sliding doors of the Decorah P.D.'s office, greeted by the captain of the precinct. 

“Hi, I’m SSA L/N, this is Doctor Reid.” You shake his hand, chuckling under your breath as you watch Spencer awkwardly avoid doing the same. 

Once you’ve set up your things in the conference room they’ve allocated to you, Spencer turns to Captain Peretti. 

“So, is Mrs Walker here? We’d like to ask her a few questions.”

Spencer is sitting in the chair across from Mrs Walker in the interrogation room, while you are leaned against the desk next to him. 

“We really appreciate you coming in like this, I understand that this is a stressful time for you. Mrs Walker, what can you tell us about your husband’s whereabouts when the list showed up on your skin?” She’s being cagey, not answering your questions and clamming up whenever you mention her husband.

“Eric had nothing to do with it. I’m telling you, it was a mistake for me to come in, I’m sure it’s unrelated.”

She motions to the words on her arm, and you sigh. It looks like straight questioning isn’t going to get you anywhere. Spencer leans his elbows on the desk, looking at Mrs Walker, his brown eyes seeming larger in the dim light. His shirt sleeves ride up his arm a little, and a flash of dark lines shows before it’s covered again.

“Let me ask you this, have messages like this come up on your skin before? Whether they’re lists or not, have you ever seen anything show up on your left forearm?” She shakes her head mutely, eyes trained on the steel surface in front of her. You sigh, motioning discreetly at Spencer, and you both rise, walking out to the viewing area where Hotch and Emily are standing. 

“She won’t say anything?”

“Only that her husband has nothing to do with it. But…” Spencer trails off, and you take the opportunity to finish his thought.

“But, she clearly has some hangup about the messages. When Spencer asked whether they’d showed up before, she said no, but it’s clear there’s more there.” Hotch nods thoughtfully. Lost in thought, you spin a pen in your hand, tapping the uncovered tip against the inside of your wrist, accustomed to the ink blotches that appear on the skin there. 

Your eyes wander aimlessly as you do so, and land on Spencer, who is scratching at his forearm. It causes his shirt sleeve to ride up a little again. That’s when you see it. 

Small marks are on his skin, more muted than you usually see them, but you’d recognise them anywhere. Your eyes widen, looking down at your own wrist. A constellation of ink dots and lines are scattered across the delicate skin, identical to the ones on Spencer’s wrist. 

Is this really happening? Reid? Of course, you’d never been able to convince yourself you weren’t attracted to him, but he’s your coworker. He’s a large part of why you’re so nervous at the BAU. He’s not your soulmate… is he? 

Hotch’s unflapped voice breaks through your racing thoughts. “Okay. Head back in, press about their relationship, not the list. Let’s see if we can find a weak spot.”

Well. Looks like you’ll have to contain this revelation until you’re done for the day. Your head reels with the discovery, but you have to put it aside in favour of the case.

Your mind made up, you snatch the pen off the table before following Spencer back into the interrogation room, steeling yourself with a deep breath.

“We’d like to get to know you a little more, Mrs Walker, if that’s alright with you. How long have you been married?”

She shifts in her seat, uncomfortable, but answers readily. “Fifteen years. And no, there’s never been any red flags that make me think he would ever be capable of something like this.” 

From his spot next to you, Spencer nods once.

“Okay, we understand. In your relationship, do you guys have any rituals to do with your connection? Like writing to each other throughout the day, or a code system or something with your skin?” 

Her cheeks flush, eyes trained on her lap. You press further.

“What is it Mrs Walker? Whatever it is, we really need you to tell us.” No answer. Spencer leans forward.

“Mrs Walker, two men are dead. We’re doing our best to find whoever did it, but we need all the information you can give us in order to do that. You can help us prevent any more deaths.” She wraps her arms around her middle, but still doesn’t say a word. Following his lead, you slam a hand down on the metal table.

“Mrs Walker! I understand that, whatever this is, it’s personal, but this is not the time to be hiding information from us. Men are dead, and it's starting to look like the perpetrator had some connection to you. The local police have a warrant for your husband’s arrest. I want to help you get your family out of this mess, but you need to tell us everything you can. Now.” Her shoulders slump, and finally, you feel like she’s telling you the truth.

“I… I started getting the messages in September. They’re not- not from Eric.” A wordless conversation passes between you and Spencer. That was 4 months before the first murder. You turn back to her, nodding encouragingly as the words seem to spill past her parted lips.

“I never expected to have a soulmate. Or at least… to be able to speak with them. My husband and I, we’re happy! I didn’t care that we weren’t soulmates until…”

Spencer prompts her, leaning forward. “Until?”

“Until the first drawing showed up. It was just a doodle of something, I barely remember now, but we started writing to each other. In places that no one would see, the underside of my arm, or my ribcage. I didn’t- I never did anything! I love my husband, I do, and I would never-” She cuts herself off, holding up a hand to ask for a little time. A few minutes later, she pipes up again.

“I don’t know his name or anything. We talked about surface level stuff, you know? Favourite books, shows, things like that. I was never going to do anything about it, so I didn’t tell anyone.” You can’t help but raise your head, flashing a look at the one-way mirror, hoping Hotch will read the urgency on your face. 

“This is good, Mrs Walker. Thank you for telling us. It’s going to take us some time to deduce whether this is related to the murders or not, but I hope you won’t object to helping us further.” Wordlessly, Spencer slides your notepad and pen over to her.

“I’m going to need you to write down everything you can remember from your messages. If there are any still on you, I really need you to write them down as clearly as you can. In a few minutes, one of our teammates will be in, and they’ll walk you through a cognitive interview, try and see how much we can recover.” The two of you rise, nodding to the officer stationed inside the door, but you pause when she calls out to you.

“Do you- do you think that it’s wrong of me? To stay in this relationship, when I know there’s a soulmate out there for me?” You go to speak, but Spencer beats you to it.

“Mrs Walker, the phenomenon of connections like these doesn’t necessarily mean that the relationship would be perfect. You love your husband, and you have loved him for years. A ‘soulmate connection’ doesn’t mean you should even be in a relationship. Many people don’t even believe it has anything to do with compatibility, those relationships are just as flawed as any other. Honestly, I sometimes think the expectations could hinder a relationship.” 

It startles you a little, the emotion behind Spencer’s eyes when he speaks. Does he really not believe that a connection means anything? Your eyes can’t help but flick down to the faint marks on your wrist.

By the time you look up, Spencer is already in the doorway, looking back at you with concern in his eyes. 

“You okay?” His voice is hushed, intimate, but it’s all you can do to brush it off. Walking back into the conference room, the team is already hard at work. 

Spencer’s confused. Something clearly rattled you in the interrogation room, but despite his attempts to meet your eyes, it’s like you’re purposely avoiding his gaze. 

He hasn’t taken the time to think about it, but whether that’s because he’s busy or because he’s worried, who knows? 

What he does know is that you have quickly become one of his favourite people to work with. Hours spent hunching over maps together, inspecting crime scenes and interviewing witnesses have endeared you to him faster than he thought was possible. It’s this unexplainable fondness that leaves him reeling when the comforting smiles and shared looks are lost all of a sudden. 

He attempts to push it to the back of his mind as the team runs through the case once more, Garcia’s tinny voice streaming through the room. However, he’s not fully in it, and the team notices. By the time they’ve concluded that a reinspection of the crime scenes and interviewing Eric Walker was necessary, Emily is eyeing him weirdly, and Morgan all but frog-marches him out to the precinct’s kitchenette. 

“Kid. What’s going on?” The elder man braces his hands on Spencer’s shoulders, eyes blazing into his. 

“You’ve been acting weird ever since the second interview with Amaya Walker, and so has L/N.” A sense of relief floods through Spencer, and he speaks earnestly.

“I don’t know! We interviewed Mrs Walker again, and it was all fine, but the moment we left the room it’s like she can’t look at me anymore. It’s making me feel all awkward.” 

Morgan sighs, his fingers unintentionally digging into Spencer’s shirt. 

“What did you say when you left?” Spencer bristles a little at the implied accusation, but can’t help but run through the last few parts of the interview.

“It was all normal, but then she- Mrs Walker, asked if she was wrong to stay in her relationship when she has a ‘soulmate’ out there.” He nods, prompting Spencer to continue. 

“I told her what I think she’d agree with, that I don’t know if a connection would make a relationship stronger. I thought that was right, it felt like it soothed the witness.” A troubled look passes over Spencer’s face. He’s always struggled with social cues, but he thought he’d improved. Mrs Walker looked much calmer after he said that to her, and that was protocol. 

Calm the witness, make sure they think you are in their corner. Gideon’s voice rings through his head.

“And that was it! We left the room, and then she started acting all…”

Morgan’s features are unreadable, but his hands relax on Spencer’s shoulders. 

“Sounds like you need to figure out why she’s bothered. But, kid… Don’t let this affect the case.”

With that, he pats Spencer’s shoulder and walks off, leaving him pondering his words. Figure it out. 

Spencer Reid is good at figuring things out. Maybe he can’t tackle this like Spencer, your bumbling coworker, but as Spencer, the profiler.

You’ve been at the first crime scene for only a few minutes, but the awkwardness is thick in the air between you. 

Spencer has that infuriating look on his face, all furrowed brows and piercing gazes and so attractive it makes you want to pull your hair out. It’s making it so hard to try and detach yourself from him.

In an attempt to distract yourself, you sidle over to the evidence markers that tag the blood smears in this crime scene. 

“So we’ve got… A side table in the master bedroom, a heart pillow that was in the living room and an elephant painting on the wall in the landing. All far away from the site of the murder in the kitchen.”

Spencer steps up next to you, still gazing at you unreadably, but opens his mouth to follow your train of thought. 

“The blood spatters indicate that the attack began in the hallway, and the final blows in the kitchen. No blood anywhere else, nowhere near the smears.”

You nod, trying to run through the details of the case in your mind.

“The attack is rushed, hasty. All the stab wounds indicate a blitz attack and a lot of overkill, but the smears are calculated.” 

He smiles, and it’s all you can to not turn and reflect that back to him.

“Right, no blood dripping anywhere outside of the murder, not even when he takes some to the different areas of the house to smear. The murder itself is charged with anger, but this is something more. It’s deliberate, it’s…”

You meet his eyes, finally, and voice what you know you’ve both concluded.

“It’s a message. But to whom?”

He holds your gaze, going to reply to you, but is cut off by the shrill sound of his phone ringing. With a sigh, he fishes it out of his breastpocket, holding the brick-like device to his ear. 

Whatever he hears has him tensing, and you feel like a coiled spring, bracing yourself for whatever grim news is awaiting you.

“Okay Hotch, we’re leaving now, get Garcia to send all the photos to us.” He sets down the phone, looking at you.

“There’s been another murder.”

You stand at the clear whiteboard, surveying the images tacked on to it. The blood smears of the newest crime scene are pinned up next to those of the two previous ones, and it’s driving the two of you crazy trying to decipher what the patterns are. Spencer fiddles with his fingers, the marks on his wrist flashing as his sleeve shifts, sending your mind spiralling every time you notice them.

“A painting of a tree, and an orange. Let me ask you this, do you think the things themselves are significant or the locations of them?”

You shake your head slowly, trying to clear the fog from your mind. The both of you are silent, standing in front of the board with puzzled looks, when Morgan bursts in, waving around some papers.

“Got the pictures of Mrs Walker’s newest message.” He grabs a magnet and pins a picture of Mrs Walker’s calf to the centre of the board, two things listed there.

“Tree painting

Orange”

“Ok kids, we really need you to work your magic this time,” Morgan taps your shoulder.

“The cooling down period has gotten shorter and shorter. We can’t expect to get to tomorrow evening without another murder.” 

You sigh, rubbing your wrist absentmindedly. The marks and your newfound realisation about Spencer haven’t left your mind, but have been pushed to the background for the time being. However, the frustration brings it back up. The connection. Does it mean nothing to him? Does he not think that it would do something for a relationship? You’ve always thought it would indicate that you belong together, wouldn’t you…

Your body moves without your go-ahead.

Eyes widen.

Shoulders tense.

Your arms reach forward, haphazardly grabbing and moving the lists until three pictures sit side-by-side on the board in front of you.

One is printed, a crude attempt by the CSU team to catalogue the items marred by blood. Two are images, words on skin. Words, the first letters of which spell out…

You grip Spencer’s arm, pointing at the first image of Amaya Walker’s skin, the second murder.

“Belongs. Spencer, the second crime scene.” 

He doesn’t even acknowledge your use of his first name, leaning forward like you are. He zeroes in on the newest image.

“To. The third one. It’s an acrostic. The first letter of each item spell out his message.”

You move forward, writing the words ‘__ BELONGS TO’ on the board. You are feeding off of each other, thinking aloud in a way that has Morgan sighing to himself.

“She didn’t get a list for the first one.”

Spencer nods. “She didn’t notice. He had to show her.”

You grab the printed list of the items smeared in the first crime scene. “Side table, pillow, painting”

He leans over your shoulder. “He’s more specific than the crime scene techs were. Heart pillow, elephant painting.”

You turn to him, stomach dropping. “She. She belongs to…”

He writes in ‘SHE’ next to the two other words. “He’s possessive, something happened to make him think he doesn’t have her.”

“Narcissistic. Driven by ownership.”

“Eric Walker was here when the third murder happened. Who else would want to lay claim to her?”

You straighten up, meeting Spencer’s eyes, not looking away even as you address Morgan.

“Derek, where’s Eric Walker?”

“They released him from questioning an hour ago, he went home.”

You and Spencer spring into action, scooping up your abandoned holsters. 

“We need to get to the Walkers’ house, now. Our unsub is taking out what he sees as competition, and Mr Walker’s all he needs to get rid of.”

In the SUV, you are jittery. Morgan sits in the driver’s seat next to you, and Spencer in the back. As you fiddle with your vest straps, you can’t help but think of Mrs Walker, the woman who never wanted a soulmate. And now her soulmate is trying to kill the love of her life.

Maybe Spencer was right?

Hotch is barking orders at the gathered agents when you step out of the vehicle. Nodding along, you fall to the back of the group, your designated role until you’re called to enter the house. 

Your vest is uncomfortable. The straps are always too long or too short, and you have to get it right before you storm the house, but your thoughts are so loud, and Rossi on the phone with the unsub is so piercing, and it feels like you will never get comfortable.

Finally, you feel like giving up, until warm hands find purchase on your shoulders. Looking up, you see Spencer, standing before you with a slight, nervous smile. His hands gently move yours away from the straps, and he looks at you questioningly.

“Can I?” You nod dumbly, unable to tear your eyes away from him.

The touch is soft, tentative. He pulls at the straps dangling over your shoulders firmly, tightening the vest until it sits snugly over your chest. As if acting on instinct, he slips a finger under the kevlar, brushing the thin fabric of your shirt over your collarbone delicately. It makes you shiver.

“Is that good? Too tight?” His eyes are devastatingly soft, head tilted down to face you fully. 

“No, it’s good. Thanks, Reid.” You have to get yourself away from the magnetic pull of him, stepping back and letting out a sigh of relief. 

You walk away, heading Emily’s way, completely missing the look of confusion he aims at you as you brush past him.

Joining the circle of agents and officers, you tune into Morgan’s run down of the plan. 

“Hotch and JJ will take 5 officers and break down the front door. Now, we know there are two other doors that the unsub will probably make a break for once we enter. Prentiss and I will be at the northfacing one, Reid and Rossi at the westfacing one. L/N, you and Captain Peretti should be stationed in the land behind the house, secure the outbuildings before the unsub can think to rush to them and destroy evidence.”

You nod, exchanging a glance with the police captain. 

“Remember, this unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. He won’t stop at anything to get what he wants, including opening fire on us. Do not engage him in a confrontation. Challenging his goals and views will push him further, and we don’t want any more casualties at the hands of this man.” 

With a decisive nod, Morgan breaks away from the group, the people beginning to station themselves at their posts. With the captain at your side, you walk around the house to the field behind it, directing officers to each of the small barns and outhouses dotting the land. 

With the captain, you stand ready at the large wooden door of what you think is a stable, when the crackling of your earpiece alerts you to JJ’s voice.

“We’re heading in on 5, 4…” You can hear a crash and a shout, and JJ’s voice turns hurried. “We head in now!”

A few minutes have you tapping your index against the side of your firearm, worried. 

“He’s not here. We have Mr Walker here, multiple stab wounds but a relatively steady pulse. House is clear.”

Emily starts speaking. “He hasn’t gone through our door. Rossi?”

Rossi crackles out a negative response. Bringing your wrist to your mouth, you speak into the mic embedded there. 

“If Walker’s still bleeding out, the unsub has to have just been there. Are there any other possible exit points?”

There’s silence for a second until Reid’s voice comes over the comms, frantic. 

“There’s a northwest facing window that’s unlocked! Footsteps leading away from it, into the field.”

Immediately you spring into action, autopilot taking over as you direct multiple officers to search the surrounding woods, and the rest to clear out the outbuildings. 

Counting down, the police captain kicks in the stable door, and you flick on your flashlight, advancing.

The large room is drafty, the old wood planks creaking with every gust of wind. At first glance, the dark room seems quiet and empty, and each movement of your flashlight seems to confirm this. 

The only thing of note you see is the row of stalls along the left wall, the angle of the opening making sure that you can’t see into all of them. 

Silently, you begin to walk towards them, signalling for the captain to follow. Despite the first few being completely empty save for some hay, a chill runs down your spine, bracing yourself for a confrontation that hasn’t happened. 

As you begin to inch your way to the second-to-last stall, you hear a shout from outside the building. 

“There’s someone in the woods!”

One of the officers rushes past the open door to the stable, and the captain raises her head immediately, dropping her defensive stance. 

“That must be him. Let’s go!” Without waiting for a response, she turns, running out of the stable, as if she can’t hear your hushed whispers. 

“Captain! This building hasn’t been cleared—” She’s gone. You can hear the rush of officers running past the building, towards the wooded area to the back of the property. Despite the high probability of the unsub being the person spotted there, you know you can’t leave this building without clearing it. 

You really should wait for someone to do this with you. Never enter a potential crime scene without backup. Rossi’s voice rings in your ears. 

But there’s only two stalls left. The rest of your team are still securing the house and the victim. The officers are gone. 

You can clear two stalls on your own. They’re probably empty anyway. 

Having made up your mind, you straighten up, tightening your grip on your gun and flashlight, and advance. 

Slowly walking to the first stall, you turn the corner, quickly flashing your light in the small space. Empty. 

One more.

The floorboards bend slightly as you walk across them. The wind rushing past the walls ruffles your hair. The metal of your gun is warm under your palm. 

The wall of the final stall comes closer, closer, until you’re stood behind it. One step forward and a turn to the left, and you’ll be at the doorway. 

It’ll be empty. They’ve all been empty.

You take the step, right foot planting in front of you, and turn on the balls of your feet, flashlight and gun extended in front of your chest.

“Hello, agent.”

Not empty.

The house is finally cleared, and Mr Walker loaded into an ambulance. As he watches the vehicle retreat down the road, Spencer hears the chatter over the comms. 

“Is it him?”

“The woods are thick, how did he get here without us seeing—”

“—in pursuit of the person we saw—”

“He’s a white man, late 60s—”

“It’s not him! You hear me, officer? That’s not him, do not arrest that man!” Morgan’s voice cuts through the jabbering, voice stern. 

They haven’t gotten the unsub? Spencer turns on his heels, striding back into the house, where Hotch, JJ and Rossi stand around the blood spatter on the floor. 

“Spence. Doesn’t look like the unsub could’ve gotten to the woods in time, not before we were stationed in the field he’d have to cut through anyway.” JJ stands with her hands on her hips, irritation clear on her face. 

“The other buildings on the property?” He comes to stand next to Hotch.

“I saw Captain Peretti. She said they were all cleared. CSU’s sending more units to secure all of them, but we’re not considering any of them crime scenes as she says it’s clear he hasn’t been in them. It’ll take a while for them to get here and secure them all.” Hotch replies, brows furrowed. 

The door opens, and Morgan and Prentiss walk in. 

“Everything okay?”

Emily huffs. “The locals almost arrested the elderly neighbour, but other than that, the woods are seemingly clear.”

Morgan adds, “There’s some trampled plants in the cornfield to the west of the property, so we’ve got officers searching that now, but that field backs up onto a major road. If he made it through that, he could be anywhere by now.”

Rossi sighs, shoulders slumping. 

“I’m getting sick of this son of a bitch slipping out of our hands.”

“I agree. Rossi, go with Prentiss and Morgan to the road by the cornfield. Canvass anyone you find, ask neighbouring homes if they saw anyone emerge from the crops onto the road or lone cars idling. If he took that way out, he'd have had a car waiting for him there.” They nod, shuffling out. 

JJ pipes up, her brow furrowed in thought.

“The smears were on a milk carton in the fridge and an envelope. Me. His message is finished, isn’t it? ‘She belongs to me’. What’s he going to do now?”

Spencer’s not sure. Hotch shakes his head exasperatedly.

“JJ, let’s go find Captain Peretti. We’ll head back to the PD and see what we can make with the old clues now that we think he had an intricate exit plan. Reid, stay here, get updating the geographical profile with the information from this crime scene. We’ll send L/N here to work on it with you.”

Spencer nods, heading to the SUV to grab his map, and settling at the Walkers’ dining table to get working. 

It’s hot, sweltering. A throbbing pain thuds in your skull, the feeling of dry hay against your face making your cheek itch. Instinctively, you attempt to bring your hand up to brush it away. It won't move.

You jerk your wrists, but find them bound, and a dull pain pangs in your thigh. It’s clear you’ve been out for a little while, your eyes feeling crusted shut. 

With a little effort, you prise your eyes open, feeling your pupils adjust to the darkness of the room. You’re still in the final stall, sprawled against the far wall. Another experimental tug on your wrist and you realise that they’re bound together, the coarse rope wound around your right thigh, forcing you to stay hunched over. 

It all comes rushing back. Losing the unsub. Peretti leaving. The empty- no, not empty stall. The raspy voice that met your ears before the resounding blow to your head.

Twisting your hands awkwardly, you begin to pick at the rough rope, trying to map out the knot that keeps you in your uncomfortable position. Sweat drips in rivulets down the back of your neck as you crane your neck.

Your position ensures that you can’t survey the entire stall, but he’s got to be close. The property’s crawling with officers. 

“I’m still here, sweetheart.” 

The voice rings out from somewhere behind you, dark and smug. Your hand automatically makes for your holster, but the rope digs into your skin, leaving you unable to reach it. 

“Don’t bother. You think I’d let you keep your gun?”

You can hear the bastard smirk, anger and fear running hot through your veins. Your gun is your lifeline in situations like this, as not only a means of attack, but a grounding feeling. Without it you feel unmoored. 

The only thing you have in your arsenal is your knowledge of the case. Of him.

“Why don’t you come stand here? Don’t tell me you’re afraid of showing me your face.” Your voice is low, cracking with dryness. 

Prodding him just enough should… there it is. You hear his footsteps, walking past your bent head until you can see his feet and legs, standing in front of you.

“That enough for you? You can see me now?” He crouches, squatting by your calves to show you his face. 

He’s surprisingly handsome, flushed from the heat, dark eyes boring into yours. Dressed in a suit that’s slightly too large for him, he looks out of place in the grimy stable. He’s playing the role of a businessman, save for the gun dangling from his left hand, and the telltale bulge of another— yours— in his pants pocket.

This unsub is severely narcissistic and delusional. Morgan’s words come back to you now. 

“You- you outsmarted us all. We were sure we’d catch you.”

A smile spreads over his face, his ego clearly swelling. You can see his shoulders relax slightly. 

“You thought so, huh? I guess even the FBI has hubris.” His lips form the word hubris with some effort, pronouncing it as huh-brus. It’s clear he’s putting on airs. 

You need to get the others here. You could wait it out, until the crime scene techs eventually make their way to this building towards the back of the Walkers’ land. 

But he has two guns, and he wants Amaya Walker, not you. Who knows how long he’ll be content to lord over you, until he inevitably gets tired of playing with you. He has two guns.

How do you get a message to them? There’s no way he’ll let you have your phone, and this guy has no reason to contact anyone but Mrs Walker. He doesn’t need a phone for that, just a pen, probably in his jacket.

A pen. Spencer. That’s it.

“So, you and Mrs— um, Amaya. Are you guys going to meet in person soon?” 

That does the trick. His eyes glaze over with an expression that would look love-drunk, if you didn’t know about the blood on his hands. 

“Soon. There’s nothing keeping us apart now. I’ll go to see her as soon as I’m done here.”

“That’s why you’re dressed up? I think she’ll like that suit.”

His voice is deceptively soft, almost tricking you into forgetting how dangerous he is.

“I think so too. I borrowed it from a friend, John. She’ll like it.”

John Coulhain. The second murder victim, the lawyer. You resist the urge to gag.

“Yeah. It’s- it’s hot in here, isn’t it? Maybe you should take off the jacket and save it for when you see her. You don’t want to sweat through it.”

His metaphorical hackles raise, and you can tell he’s getting ready to stand and walk away from you. 

“No, I don’t mean it in an insulting way, not at all. It’s just really- really warm in here. I’m sweating. Maybe Amaya would like to hug you when you meet her. She won’t want sweat on her.”

Your voice is wavering, eyes unable to move from the gun still in front of you. 

It takes a long minute before he speaks again.

“Maybe I should take off the jacket. Just for a little.” He’s clearly loathed to admit his perceived fault, muttering to himself rather than speaking to you. Straightening up, you hear rustling above you, until the jacket falls in a heap in front of your bound wrists, part of the fabric falling on the tips of your fingers. You grasp it in your hand, wincing as the rope rubs the sensitive skin on your wrists raw.

As smoothly as possible, you hunch over further, settling in the foetal position, pulling the jacket to cover your hands a little more. 

Seemingly not noticing your movement, you see his legs walk out of your eyesight, padding around you until he comes to a stop somewhere behind your body. 

“Now, we’re going to wait here until your police friends are all done at the house. Then I’m going to take you with me, and we’ll go see Amaya. You’re going to be our witness, and then I’ll get rid of you, got it?” 

His voice is unnervingly slow and deliberate, as if he’s fully convinced this plan will work. You wish you had that same conviction, but you’re sure you know how this is going to end. The stress of hiding out will surely break him, sending him into a spiral where he will either kill you and then himself, or kill you and let the police kill him. 

You have to get them here before that happens. Heart pounding, you slowly inch the jacket closer to you, until your hands are fully buried in the folds of fabric. Feeling around blindly, you trace the inner lining of the expensive fabric until you feel a lip of material. The inner pocket is welcoming to your aching fingers, and you sigh, nearly delirious with relief when your index brushes against a pen. You were right.

Thanking whatever deity there is, you grip the pen, shoving it between your bound wrists, out of sight. 

Tugging once more, you’re resigned to the fact that you don’t have the range of motion to write legibly on your forearm, hands laying uselessly against your clothed thighs. The nearest exposed skin is on your ankle, and you have no hope of contorting to reach that without him noticing.

Chancing a look behind you, you can see him hunched over his knees, muttering to himself. You don’t have much time left. 

Deciding to make a rash decision, you grip the pen once more. Shifting so your left leg is hiked up, your wrists shoved between your legs, you take the pen, jabbing harshly at the fabric of your pants. Without being able to see, your aim is sloppy, but after a few minutes of brute force, you’ve ripped a jagged hole in your pants, near where your left calf meets your knee. 

Tension runs through your body, shifting the pen in your hand so that you can write. 

‘Spencer’

Spencer is stumped. Standing over the large map spread over the dining table, he can’t think of a reason why the unsub would ever leave the scene. This was his endgame, his final target until he could have Amaya Walker to himself. Why would a narcissistic sociopath flee after that?

Garcia’s voice comes crackling over the comms.

“My good doctor, it’s a little ridiculous that I had to use the PD’s satellite phone to get in touch with you. Do any of you pick up the phone anymore?”

He huffs out a laugh.

“We’re in the middle of farm country, Garcia. None of us have signal. Have you got anything?”

“You know I do. I took a look-see into Mr Walker’s history to see if he’d been stalked, and in multiple stretches of CCTV footage he’s being tailed by a white SUV. Including two hours ago, when he was on his way home. The car followed him on the main road, and pulled into their private road after Walker.”

“The car probably belongs to our unsub then. Do you have a name?”

“Do you even need to ask? Name’s Randall Slater, seems to tick most of the boxes of the profile. I’ll call back when I have more, Garcia out!”

Spencer slumps back in his chair. Sure, they have a name, but until he gets anything else from Garcia, it does nothing to help him with the geographical profile.

Wracking his brain for any possible lead, he doesn’t hear Hotch and JJ walk back in, not until they stand at the table with him, the police captain in tow. 

“Reid. Where’s L/N?” Hotch speaks in a low and measured tone, but Spencer can tell that he’s worried. 

“She’s not here yet. I thought you guys were going to send her here?” He raises his head, meeting JJ’s concerned eyes. 

“She wasn’t with Captain Peretti.”

“When we were pursuing the neighbour in the woods, I lost her. I figured she’d come back to find you guys.” Peretti’s voice is tight with worry, and a tinge of something else that Spencer doesn’t have the time to decipher right now. 

“Morgan and the rest haven’t heard from her?” 

Hotch shakes his head no. 

“Her comms have gone silent.” JJ brings a hand up to rub her temples.

 “Captain, inform your officers that we are looking for Agent L/N as well. Hopefully there’s nothing wrong, but we can’t rule out the possibility that the unsub found a way to get close.” 

Peretti nods stiffly, striding out of the room hurriedly. 

He can barely wrap his head around it. You’re not checking in? If there was a word stronger than worried, he’d find it, but his brain seems to be wading through sludge at the moment. He hadn’t realised how untethered he feels when you’re not there, until now, where it feels like the only thing he can think of. 

He can’t just sit around. Spencer straightens up, snatching his FBI windbreaker off of a chair and beginning to put it on.

“Okay, I’ll head out into the crop fields. If he took her as he fled, there’s got to be evidence of it.”

He’s already halfway across the room when Hotch calls out after him. 

“Reid, no. You need to stay here. Work on the geoprofile.”

Spencer can feel the irritation bubbling up inside him, his voice straining with the effort of not yelling. 

“Hotch, I’m not going to sit around here and do nothing when the unsub could have Y/N with him. If I can find—” Hotch cuts him off. 

“We. Reid, I know you’re emotional, we all are, but you cannot forget that this is a team. We’re all prioritising this. You know that you are best used here. If the unsub took her, we need to locate that secondary location immediately, that’s what you need to be doing.”

Incensed, Spencer can’t help but raise his voice. 

“Do we even know that he left? We profiled him to be a delusional narcissist, why would he ever leave? Hotch, I’m telling you, something is wrong here!”

Hotch’s eyes flash with emotion, and he opens his mouth, presumably explaining why Spencer shouldn’t leave. It’s all a moot point, however, because in that moment, he feels a burning on his left calf. 

The one-sided conversation goes over his head as Spencer can’t help but tug up his pant leg, itching at his skin as he runs through possibilities in his head. The unsub could’ve done what they’d now theorised, taken you and dragged you through the cornfield, into a car that was waiting by the main road. But why? 

He huffs, sitting down in a dining chair as he continues scratching at his leg. Hotch falls silent, but he doesn’t notice, lost in his thoughts. 

“Spencer. Spence!”

 JJ’s voice snaps him out of his haze. 

“What, JJ?” He snaps, irked that he’s been pulled out of his thoughts.

“Spencer, your leg.” He follows her pointed finger to the exposed skin of his calf, red from his scratching. It looks normal, smattering of hair covering the dark moles and lines covering his skin. 

Wait. Lines? 

He shifts, hooking his ankle over his right knee so he can see his calf more clearly. Shaky lines are forming on the skin in jerky motions, spelling out words in a familiar script. 

‘Spencer 

unsub in stable 

west edge

2 guns

wants amaya’

The handwriting is slanted, letters running into each other and words misspelled. And he knows it’s yours. 

“Y/N. It’s her handwriting. She’s writing to me.” 

He feels like he’s in an out-of-body experience. He can hear JJ’s gasp, but it feels as though it’s coming from miles away. Hotch is saying something, but the words don’t register as anything more than misshapen sounds. 

Graphology is one of Spencer’s specialties, but now he wishes he’d never learned about it. He wishes he didn’t know that the harsh angles of your writing indicate that you have adrenaline pumping through your veins. He wishes he didn’t see the way your letters jumble together, a physical manifestation of your fear. 

He slowly comes back to his body, finally understanding what Hotch is saying into his comm. 

“—a stable on the west edge of the property. We need the three of you back immediately, JJ, Reid and I will coordinate with the locals to have the building surrounded. Reid, can you hear me? Reid!”

Spencer nods, looking up at Hotch. 

“We need to know what’s happening in there. Is she hurt? Can she overpower him?”

He agrees, snatching up a pen and wracking his brain on what to write.

‘Are you hurt?

Are you armed?

Can you talk him down?’

He writes carefully, focusing on the drag of the ballpoint pen on his skin rather than the pure fear riddling his body. Once finished, he doesn’t set down the pen, fiddling with it in an attempt to stop himself from running to the building immediately. 

JJ sets a hand on his shoulder, and although he’s grateful for her support, he can’t bring himself to look at her. He can’t look away from his leg. He has a soulmate.

You’re laying at an awkward angle, neck craned and back hunched over so that you can read what Spencer’s written. 

Are you hurt? Your head hurts like hell, and the rope has irritated your skin to no end, but nothing that impairs you. You write a shaky ‘N’ next to the question.

Are you armed? You chance another look behind you, looking longingly at your gun in his pocket. Another ‘N’.

Can you talk him down? Can you? You remember the many times Rossi tutored you on interacting with narcissistic unsubs. Learn what they want, promise they will have it, and don’t challenge them. What does he want?

You decide you can, writing a small ‘Y’. Next to that, you scrawl hurriedly, hearing him shift around. 

‘bring amaya’

With that, you stuff the pen in your sock, relaxing your body and hoping you don’t look like you’ve been up to something.

The unsub is unsettled, and you can hear him oscillate between standing and sitting repeatedly. 

If you want to take control of the situation, you need to act quickly. He’s losing patience with you and the officers outside. If you wait too long, he’ll snap, and then you’re done for. 

A final peek at your calf finds the words ‘5 minutes’ etched there. 

Five minutes to talk him down. You can do it for five minutes. 

You croak out lowly, vocal chords rasping against each other. 

“I— I spoke to Amaya. When we were investigating. She told me about you. About the two of you.”

You can hear him stop moving abruptly, and then the patter of his feet as he walks quickly to you. He comes to a stop right in front of your face, your eyeline taken up by his feet and ankles. He speaks in a hushed tone, as if tasting the words carefully before speaking.

“She did? What did she tell you?”

“She said you’d been talking for a while. That it started when you drew a flower on your upper arm? She drew it for us.”

His voice has regained some of its smugness as he replies. His feet are tapping softly, as if he has all the time in the world.

“Of course she did. She loves me.”

You nod jerkily, continuing with your waffle.

“It's clear she does. I'm— in the FBI, I'm a profiler. I'm an expert on human behaviour, and I could see it, despite…”

You trail off, hopeful that he'll take the bait. He does, voice gaining a dangerous edge.

“Despite? Don't let me stop you from speaking your mind, agent.”

“Well, she was scared when we spoke. You know, suddenly there were all these dead bodies that were linked to her. She was pretty shaken.”

His tapping stills.

“Because of the bodies? I did that for her. For us!”

“Yes, I know. It's romantic, really. But, it scared Amaya a bit. It's all so sudden, you see. She was a little freaked out, especially because you hadn't told her about it.”

He's silent for nearly a minute, breathing heavily.

“She's angry about what I did for her?”

“No, not angry. I know she'll understand. You did it for her, she'll love it. She just… wanted to know from you, instead of the police.”

There. You've set your trap, and hopefully he'll fall right in it. Rossi's good-natured lectures play out in your head. 

Never challenge a narcissist directly. Make them worried, but never tell them outright that the object of their desire isn't going to be theirs.

He feigns nonchalance, but you can hear in his voice that his narcissistic possessiveness  is warring with the uncertainty you've introduced.

“Your friends had better be leaving. I've got to get Amaya, and if that takes too long, it's on you.”

You fall silent, hearing him mutter to himself as he begins to pace. If you push further you might be toeing the line too far.

The five minutes are almost up, you've got to believe that you've done enough to help them talk him down. 

As if on cue, you hear the familiar crackle of a megaphone. Rossi's voice, albeit muffled, comes booming towards you, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Randall, we have the building surrounded! Let the agent go and we can end this peacefully!”

The unsub, Randall, you suppose, straightens up, and you see him walk cautiously away from you. He walks to the far wall of the wooded building, and you catch a glimpse of him peering through the wood planks. He swears, shoves his gun into his waistband and paces hurriedly back to you.

“You bitch. Did you tell them? Huh? Did you?” He grabs a hold of the rope binding your wrists to your thigh, tugging you up to face him. The rope cuts harshly into your skin, forcing your right leg up at an unnatural angle to follow your wrists.

“I didn’t! I didn’t tell them, I don’t have my phone!”

Wrong thing to say. His eyes darken, and you see his hand twitch toward his gun.

You’re so close, you just need to show him what he’s here for. You hope Spencer got Amaya here.

“I can get you to Amaya! I swear it, if you let me talk to them, I can get them to give you Amaya.”

It works. He doesn’t let you go, and you whimper at the feeling of the rope cutting you, but he pauses, and you can see him thinking it over in his head. It takes one long minute, but he seems to make up his mind.

“No funny business. I’m going to be right there, so don’t even try sending them any messages, got it?” 

You nod, and he whips out a pocket knife, using it to slice through the rope. You let out a deep sigh of relief, your right foot meeting the floor so you can finally stand alone. Blood seeps from the cuts on your wrists and thigh.

He grabs you by the throat, pressing himself to your back, and you register the cold barrel of a gun pressing against your side, where your vest doesn’t cover.

As he half marches, half drags you to the large door, he hisses in your ear.

“I don’t want to hear anything other than Amaya, got it? You say anything that doesn’t have to do with getting her here, I shoot you.”

You nod wordlessly, stumbling towards the door. He comes to a stop right behind it, and maneuvers around you to shove it open, thrusting you out into the fading light of the evening.

Blinking rapidly, you slowly focus on the cavalry in front of you. Multiple SUVs are parked at a three meter’s distance from the stable, doors flung side open so the officers and agents can huddle behind them. A few steps away from them stands Rossi, the sight of him sending a rush of comfort through you.

Rossi clutches the megaphone tighter, and you notice he’s speaking to someone by the SUV in front of him— Oh. Spencer is crouched at the car right in front of you, silver revolver glinting in his hand, and his eyes trained on you as he speaks to Rossi.

It feels rather stupid, but you can’t help but note how pretty he looks, hair tousled and jaw clenched.

You’re pulled out of your reverie when Randall jabs you in the side with his gun, making you yelp.

“Now.” He warns. You straighten your neck, making eye contact with Rossi.

“He’s demanding to see—” Another jab. “—to have Amaya Walker. Please bring her out.”

As you speak, you take your right hand, which was dangling at your side, and bring it up to your pants pocket. Making a gesture that resembles a gun, you slip it into your pocket softly. There’s no significant signal that they’ve understood, but you see the skin around Rossi’s eyes pinch, and you hope you’ve gotten the point across. 

If they can get him to move just a little, you can retrieve your gun from his pocket and incapacitate him. And the only thing that will get him to move now is Amaya.

Rossi brings the megaphone back up to his mouth.

“We can get her here, but we need a guarantee that you won’t harm this agent. Randall, can you do that? Give us Agent L/N, and we can get you Amaya.”

Incensed, Randall hits your side harder with the barrel of his gun. You see Spencer and Morgan twitch forward slightly.

“No! I want Amaya here, now, and I’m not letting your girl go until I see her!”

Rossi nods quickly, signalling to someone behind him. At that motion, JJ emerges from who-knows-where, Amaya Walker in tow. The older woman is wearing a bulletproof vest, her face ashen at the sight in front of her. 

They walk forward until they’re standing by the cars.

At the sight of her, Randall relaxes slightly, but not enough to where you can easily maneuver to your gun. Shaking your head slightly, you see JJ prompt Mrs Walker.

Her voice is shaky and quiet, but you know Randall is hanging on to every word.

“Randall. That’s your name? I’m—” She chokes back a sound. “I’m so glad to meet you.”

Randall makes a pitiful noise from behind you.

“They said you were scared of me.”

JJ prompts her again. 

“I- I could never be afraid of you.” 

At that, Randall lets his hand fall from your throat, and you move. Whipping around, you shove his gun away, diving into his pocket and retrieving yours. You straighten, pointing your gun at him as steadily as you can, with the wobble in your right leg.

He attempts to run to Amaya, but JJ’s already swept her away. 

“Randall, surrender now! You’re surrounded!” Rossi’s voice booms, but it only serves to madden him further.

With a roar of anger he begins to charge to you, and you squeeze, before collapsing. The bullet hits his thigh, the last thing you see before you pass out.

It feels like hours later when you come to, but it's clearly only been a few minutes. You’re sitting on something hard, cold metal, but your back is being supported by something warm.

Only a few beats pass until the sounds come rushing back. You hear the chatter of multiple people around you, but three voices come the clearest. One is deep, interjecting intermittently to the conversation.

The other is calm and melodic, speaking in a steady rhythm that doesn’t falter at all. 

The last is hurried, speaking so quickly that it feels as though it all runs into a pleasant hum. They’re clearly asking questions to the second voice, but you can’t fully understand what they’re saying. 

You want to know who it is. With an immense amount of effort, you prise your eyes open, blinking blearily at the lights. 

“Hey, there she is.” There’s that deep voice. Turning to it, you see a familiar face. Derek smiles at you softly, his hand coming up to rub your shoulder.

“You had us worried there, sunshine.”

Looking around dazedly, you can finally take in your surroundings. You’re sitting in the open doors of an ambulance, the evening having given away to the darkness of night. Headlights from multiple cars light up the area, leaving you spaced out.

There’s a medic standing next to Derek, tending to the cuts on your thigh. Who’s the last voice? 

You twist around, much to the chagrin of the medic, but their protests fall away when you see him. 

Spencer sits next to you, your back leaning against his side. His eyes are worried, pinched together, but still lovely. 

“Hey.” 

It’s simple, but the word seems to mean something more, when it’s coming out of his mouth, and when he’s looking at you like that.

You’re frozen, unable to speak. The medic pats your knee, saying that the rest of your patching up should be done at the hospital. Derek walks away after kissing your forehead. You can barely say goodbye to him. 

It’s only once you’re relatively alone that Spencer speaks again. You turn to face him, immediately missing the heat of his torso against your back.

“Was… this why you were acting differently?” He raises his leg, pulling up his pant leg to show you the words on his skin.

You nod.

“You said you didn’t think it was real. I didn’t know how to tell you yet, and then— it was the only way to contact you.”

You see his hands raise slightly, but refrain from touching you. You want him to touch you.

“I don’t know if I believe in it. But… Even without it, I wanted this.” His words are achingly sincere, and his hand comes to rest over yours. 

“Wanted it since we met.”

Your breath hitches slightly, and you turn your hand to hold his, your wrist with pen marks meeting his.

The words don’t come to your tongue, but you’re sure he knows. He figured it out.

[heliosunny]

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THE MEAL 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 i hope yew write more yan!phainon x reader fics in the future

Yandere! Elf Phainon x Reader

Art credit: CH203r on X Do not use this art without permission!

You are a bounty hunter in need of money, so you take on various requests. Somehow you accidentally kidnap the wrong target, but instead of being angry, he seems intrigued by you.

The job was supposed to be simple. A quick bounty, a bag of gold, and maybe a hot meal at the end of the day. But as you stared at the man bound before you, his calm expression unsettling against the flickering campfire, you had the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong.

"What do you mean you are not Kevin? Look at this description, you're definitely him." You shoved the crumpled wanted poster in his face, pointing at the sketch of a white-haired man with sharp features.

He tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his blue eyes. "Miss…"

"Y/n L/n."

"Y/n."

"Don’t address me so casually! Answer me!"

"You see…" He gestured toward his pointed ears. "This man right here is a human being. While I’m…an elf"

Your eye twitched. Dammit. This was bad. You had wasted days tracking down this guy, only to end up with the wrong target. And now, with barely any coin left, you were in serious trouble.

As if to make matters worse, your stomach chose that moment to let out a humiliating growl.

Phainon chuckled softly. "I have an idea. How about I take you to a place full of treasure?"

Your eyes narrowed. "Why would you help me?"

His smile deepened. "Because, dear hunter, you intrigue me."

You should have known better.

Despite being an experienced bounty hunter, you found yourself struggling to keep up with Phainon as you ventured deeper into the dungeon. The elf moved effortlessly through the ruins, his magic lighting the way, effortlessly dispatching the creatures that lurked in the shadows. Meanwhile, your stamina drained at an alarming rate, your sword heavy in your grip.

"Try to keep up." he said over his shoulder, his smirk teasing.

You scowled. "You could at least pretend to struggle."

"If I did, would you feel better?"

Before you could retort, the air shifted. A dark presence loomed from within the cavern, the final challenge of the dungeon making itself known. A monstrous creature, wreathed in shadows, launched itself toward Phainon. Instinct kicked in before you could think. You threw yourself in front of him, taking the brunt of the attack.

Pain lanced through your body as you collapsed to one knee, struggling to stay upright.

"Cover your eyes" Phainon ordered, his voice uncharacteristically firm.

You barely had the strength to obey before a deafening boom erupted around you. A rush of magic swirled, and suddenly, you were no longer in the dungeon.

Instead, you found yourself in a quiet clearing, bathed in moonlight.

You blinked in confusion, your legs unsteady as Phainon steadied you with a firm grip.

"Where are all the gold you promised?" you demanded, gripping his sleeve.

"Oh, that?" He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "I forgot."

Your eye twitched. "You-"

"But instead…" He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear. "I’ll treat you to a meal."

There was something unnerving about the way he said it, something ..possessive in the way he held onto you. Your instincts screamed at you to pull away, but you couldn’t. You were exhausted, and despite everything, the warmth of his touch was oddly comforting.

Maybe… just for tonight, you’d let your guard down.

You woke up earlier than him, the fire reduced to embers. The peaceful rise and fall of his chest was a stark contrast to the brutal elf you had seen in battle. He looked... human, in a way that made your heart twist. Without thinking, you brushed your fingers through his short white hair, a soothing gesture you weren’t sure was meant for him or yourself.

With quiet steps, you packed up your things and slipped away for another bounty hunt.

Phainon woke up moments after you left, feeling strangely refreshed, an unfamiliar clarity settling in his mind. He had never slept so well before. Something about you soothed him, and he needed to know why.

Later that day, he stood at an information booth, gathering any details he could about you. The thought of your absence sent an unshakable emptiness through him. He needed to find you.

Meanwhile, your bounty hunt led you to a hidden dungeon, one far more treacherous than you expected. Your body ached, your movements sluggish as you struggled against relentless monsters. Just when you thought your strength had run dry, a monstrous foe loomed over you, ready to strike the final blow.

A single, devastating strike obliterated the creature before it could touch you.

Phainon stood before you, bathed in a strange aura, his presence suffocating. His normally cool blue eyes glowed with something dark and unreadable.

"Even godlike creatures can bleed huh..." he murmured, voice like a whisper of death.

You stared, shaken by the raw brutality in his movements. This was no ordinary elf.

"What… are you?" you rasped, your wounds stinging.

He smiled, sharp and knowing. "You bring me peace. I wanted to test that."

Your heart pounded as realization dawned. You were an experiment to him.

Despite your fear, you reached into your pouch, pulling out a small vial of temporary medicine. "Drink this" you ordered, tossing it to him. "We’ll talk after you stop looking like a vengeful god."

To your relief, he complied, downing the liquid in one swift motion. As his aura dimmed, you grabbed his wrist, dragging him along despite your own injuries.

"Come on" you muttered. "You saved me. Now let’s get out of here before you go berserk again."

Later that night, after patching up your wounds and sharing a proper meal, you finally had a real conversation. Phainon was still his usual smug self, but for once, he wasn’t avoiding direct questions. Despite that, when you firmly refused to let him follow you as a partner, his expression darkened.

"You’re better off without me tagging along" you said. "Go find your own adventure."

Phainon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "If that’s what you want."

You should have known better.

Even as you continued your travels, it was obvious someone was tailing you. As a hunter, you were attuned to being watched. Coins mysteriously appeared in your belongings. Pathways that should have been riddled with monsters were eerily clear. Every time you set up camp, you had the sense that someone had passed through before you. You ignored it, pretending not to notice.

Then one evening, you found him curled up near your campsite, face pale, breath labored.

You cursed under your breath. "You’re faking it."

Phainon groaned weakly. "Am I?" His eyes fluttered shut dramatically.

You sighed, dragging him closer to the fire. "Fine. Just for tonight."

As you tended to him, you finally asked "What’s your deal, really?"

Phainon smirked faintly, his voice softer than usual. "That depends. What do you want to know?"

He spoke in riddles, half-answering, half-evading. The past he revealed was fragmented, a puzzle missing its most vital pieces. He let slip details about powerful magic, about a home long abandoned, but when pressed for more, he simply smiled and changed the subject.

You should have been frustrated. But somehow, against your better judgment, you found yourself listening intently, watching the way the firelight reflected in his blue eyes.

For just one night, you allowed yourself to be curious.

Days passed, and despite your efforts to shake him off, Phainon continued his silent pursuit. You should have been annoyed, but a small part of you had grown used to his presence.

Then came the dragon.

An SSS-ranked beast, towering and relentless. Despite your skill, you were outmatched, forced to retreat as it bore down upon you. A sharp pain burned against your wrist, and in the chaos, you heard Phainon's voice.

"Now, call upon it!"

You didn’t understand, until your body moved on its own. A sigil, glowing and intricate, flared to life on your skin. Magic you had never wielded before surged through you, your blade carving through the dragon with inhuman precision. In mere moments, the once-impossible battle was over.

Panting, you turned to Phainon, who looked far too satisfied. "What… what did you do?!"

He approached, smirking. "Oh, nothing much. Just a little contract magic. You’re my partner now."

Horror settled in your chest. "You tricked me."

He tilted his head playfully. "You activated it yourself. That makes it binding."

You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to strangle him. Whatever this was, you needed to figure out how to break it.

Later that night, as Phainon slept soundly, you saw your chance. Quietly, you slipped away from the camp, making your way to the nearest information booth. Your heart pounded as you inquired about the strange sigil now marking your skin and about Phainon himself.

The answers you received chilled you to the core.

Whispers of ancient magic, forbidden contracts, and a bloodstained past surrounded his name. The sigil you bore was no ordinary mark, it was a binding far more dangerous than you had realized.

Before you could process it fully, a shadow loomed over you.

"I was hoping you'd trust me more than this" Phainon's voice was deceptively soft, yet his presence was suffocating. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Desperation clawed at your throat. Your fingers twitched toward your weapon, but you knew it was useless. Instead, you took a slow breath and did the only thing that came to mind.

You pulled out your dagger and pressed the tip against your own skin. "Don't come any closer. I'll-"

Phainon's expression changed instantly. His amusement vanished, replaced by something raw, something you didn’t expect.

"DON'T" he said, his voice unusually strained. "You can hurt me, but don’t do that to yourself."

You hesitated. The way he said it like he had seen this before, like he had lived through it, unsettled you more than his usual antics. There was something haunted in his eyes, something broken beneath his smirk.

Still, he didn’t remove the sigil. Instead, he took a slow step forward, hands raised as if approaching a wounded animal. "Listen to me, Y/n. I can't undo it. Not yet. But I can make you accept it."

His voice was gentle, persuasive. He didn't plead, didn't force, but something in his tone wormed its way under your skin. Because despite everything, despite the lies and the trickery, you realized something terrifying.

You did feel calmer around him. Your presence soothed his mind, but was it possible that his presence had started to soothe yours, too?

You swallowed hard, lowering the dagger just slightly. "How?"

He smiled, not victorious, but relieved. "Let me show you."

He reached out slowly, his touch feather light as his fingers brushed against your wrist, just above the glowing sigil. Warmth seeped through your skin, not just from his magic, but from the steady reassurance in his gaze. "You're not alone in this, Y/n. I understand your fear. But this bond.. it's not a prison. It's protection."

You wanted to argue, to pull away, but something about the way he spoke made your resolve waver. The exhaustion from fighting, from running, from resisting, it all weighed heavily on your shoulders. Would it be so bad to surrender, just a little?

He stepped closer, his presence wrapping around you like an unseen force. "You’ve been alone for so long, haven’t you? Always fighting, always struggling. You don’t have to do that anymore. With me, you’ll never have to be alone again."

He was right. You had spent your life surviving, but never truly living. The warmth in his voice, the certainty in his promise, it was tempting.

Phainon tilted his head, watching you with a knowing smile. "Say it. Accept it. You already feel it, don’t you? The connection between us."

The words came unbidden, barely a whisper. "I... accept it."

The sigil flared brightly for a brief moment before settling, the magic no longer a foreign force but something familiar, something… comforting. A sense of belonging, of purpose, filled the void you had ignored for so long.

Phainon exhaled softly, his smile deepening as he cupped your cheek. "Good. Now, let’s go home."

[r3starttt]

STOCKINGS

PAIRING: Abby x Reader

SUMMARY: You made her a stocking

CW: tlou universe. sfw. fluff. lev included!! cs Abby is such a boy mom and ughh cute.

NOTE: For this fic Abby did not try to go and look for the fireflies again so the last fight with Ellie did not happen.

*Can you tell I love acts of service... can you tell I wrote this while listening to music for indigo...

TAGLIST: @twopeoplee @greysontheidiot @sapphic-ovaries @bilsvlt @tlouloser @marsworlddd @1-800-fantasy @prwttiestbunny @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @abbys-muscles @lott6i @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @fakevalentine

The cold floor hit your bare feet as you tiptoed your way toward a small chair near the bed, reaching for an old hoodie to shield yourself from the chill. Abby was still asleep, her steady breathing and quiet snoring letting you know she was deeply wrapped in the comfort of her cocoon. You didn’t have much time, though—she would wake the second the bed grew too cold and her arm could no longer find you, desperately pulling you closer to warm herself.

She lay on her stomach, one arm draped across the mattress, reaching into the warmth you’d left behind. The white sheet beneath her, its soft folds matching the pine-green ones above, held her gently. Loose strands of hair from her thick braid fell against the sides of her face, barely brushing her skin with each soft exhale. Her eyebrows, usually so bold, were peacefully soft, and her lips—plump and rosy—mirrored the flush of her cheeks. You couldn’t resist leaving a soft kiss near her ear, a gentle touch before you left the room.

Each step toward the door made you regret not putting on socks last night—maybe Abby’s old slippers would do. With your steps now messy and hesitant, you made your way downstairs. The worn wood creaked slightly beneath you, the house itself groaning in the quiet of the morning.

You had eventually made yourselves comfortable in this small house nestled in the heart of the woods, large enough for the three of you—Abby, Lev, and yourself. Together, you had worked tirelessly to make it a safe and secure place, not just from the infected, but from other, more dangerous people. You had made it a home.

You ensured that everyone felt welcome, particularly Lev. You took every opportunity to talk with him, to teach him what he hadn’t yet learned, and to share the things you loved—books, music, art—while helping him discover his own interests. And with Abby, your love deepened with every day she returned from her small patrols, always bringing back something for Lev—a plushie or a trinket—and for you, perhaps a new vinyl to play. She would ask you to show her the record, and later, you would listen together, the soothing classical music filling the house while you shared a quiet dinner.

As the months passed and your future materialized in the present, you found yourself gathering small gifts. It would be Lev’s first holiday, and Abby’s too, at least with you. The first time you would all celebrate Christmas together. You wanted it to be special, a way of thanking them for everything they had done for you. All the words Lev had shared when he realized you were just as broken as he was, and how, despite it all, he allowed you into his life. And Abby—your way of giving her the love she had always shown you, in the form of the most precious gift.

You knew Abby would appreciate it—celebrating the season was something she had learned from her father. She had told you once that receiving a gift was the way she could feel loved, a reminder that she was not a monster. And you wanted to show her that—wanted to remind her that she was seen, that she was loved, and that you all had each other.

Since the weather had turned colder, you’d offered to join in the patrols, even begging Abby to let you go outside. She always insisted it was too dangerous, but you knew you could take care of yourself, and somehow, you managed to sneak out on occasion. You gathered small things—some fabric, trinkets, and a few essentials. And when Abby took Lev to care for the animals you’d gathered, or when she napped after lunch, you’d use your quiet time to craft their gifts.

It wasn’t too difficult, given that they were often busy—Abby tending to the animals or decorating the little pine tree you’d dragged home from the nearby woods, with Abby’s approval, of course. You had to be careful, though, not to trust too easily that they would be distracted. But it worked.

The sight before you made your stomach flutter, like a child eager with excitement. Three stockings hung from the mantle, each chosen with care—yours in the middle. Beneath the homemade tree, a few gifts waited for everyone—unwrapped, because there wasn’t enough paper, but neatly arranged, placed with care just as the stockings were.

The next task was to light the fire, to warm the house and prepare breakfast, just as you had for months. It was small, but it had become part of your routine—after all, lunch and dinner were a family affair, something you all shared.

Once the food was ready, you made your way upstairs. The light from the cloudy sun streamed through the windows, warming the house with its yellow hues. You returned to the bed, noting that Abby was still asleep—though not for long, it seemed, as her lips were slightly parted and her breathing had shifted into quiet mumbling. You sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand and brushing the stray hairs from her face before pressing a kiss to her cheek.

"Abby... Abs—baby?" you murmured, tracing soft circles on her back, the rhythm calming her as her mumbling slowed.

"Abby..."

Her eyes opened slowly, clearly disoriented by the nightmare and the sudden waking, but you were quick to soothe her. "Shh, I’m here... It’s alright. You were dreaming."

She grasped your hand, groaning quietly before turning to face you, her face flushed with the softness of sleep, her lips plump and cheeks full. The sight made you smile, warmth blooming in your chest.

"Merry Christmas," she murmured, trying to pull you back into bed.

You chuckled softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. "Not yet..."

She rolled her eyes, laughing softly. "Is Lev awake yet?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep as she rubbed her eyes.

"I haven’t checked, but... probably not," you hummed in response, pausing to study her, to savor this moment of quiet contentment with the woman you loved. A slow, peaceful morning like this was a dream come true for many—and here you were, living it.

"Breakfast’s ready," you added, patting her stomach lightly.

You leaned in for a kiss, despite her typical aversion to those unshowered, still-groggy moments. But you couldn’t care less—she was the woman you loved, in all her unrefined beauty, even in these fleeting moments.

"See you downstairs, alright?" you murmured, pressing another kiss to her forehead.

She nodded, but you knew her well.

"Abigail... I’m serious."

She laughed quietly, rolling over and letting her arms fall to her sides as she stretched out. You left the door open as you moved to the curtains, letting the light in while ensuring Abby wouldn’t fall asleep again. You then made your way to Lev’s room, the blue walls of his space greeting you.

He was tangled in blankets, his back to you, but you gently brushed his shoulder, calling out in a soft whisper.

"Lev... morning."

"Morning," he murmured, his eyes still closed.

You smiled, the privilege of caring for this young boy—who still had so much ahead of him—filling your heart.

"Breakfast is ready, alright? Take your time." You caressed his shoulder before stepping out of his room, hearing Abby’s groan as she dramatically climbed from the bed.

"Did you take my shoes?" she called out loudly, too much for the quiet of the morning.

"Yep! I took your slippers," you teased, and Abby laughed quietly in response. She was falling in love with you all over again.

You went downstairs, retracing your steps from earlier, and settled on the couch, waiting for them to come down. Neither of them knew about the stockings or the gifts—it was supposed to be a small, intimate gesture, a simple way of celebrating the season. Just making food together, exchanging small self-made gifts—maybe a letter.

But as much as you were excited, there was a hint of anxiety too. What if it was too much? What if they didn’t like what you had chosen?

"What is that?" Abby’s voice broke you from your thoughts, and you turned to find her standing at the foot of the stairs, still in her pajamas, holding the railing for support.

Her eyes, illuminated in the soft morning light, met yours—she looked so precious.

"Did you seriously make us a stocking?" she whispered, so amused she barely seemed to believe it. Maybe she thought she was still dreaming.

"I did," you said, standing and moving toward her.

"You told me once that you wished someone loved you enough to make you one. I do... I love you."

The words hit her, and you watched as she fought back tears, her jaw clenching, her teeth biting at her bottom lip before she looked back at you.

"I didn’t... Come here." She opened her arms, and you stepped into them, feeling the weight of the moment settle in.

She buried her face in your neck, wrapping her arms around you as all her emotions—fear, love, anxiety—washed over her.

You were real, and so was this. She had someone who listened, who remembered her words, who cared enough to create something special—something that said, "I love you."

And as much as she feared that this day might bring painful memories of her father, the love that surrounded her now was taking up more space. This was hers—this love was real, and it was for her.

You felt Lev coming downstairs, his confused expression slowly softening as understanding spread across his face. You had told him about the stockings, explained what they meant one evening when you and Abby had talked about Christmas traditions.

Lev hesitated, cradling the fabric of the stocking in his hands. He peeked inside, then looked up at you for reassurance. With a nod from you, he carefully pulled out each gift, his eyes brightening with quiet joy.

There was nothing extravagant or meaningful in the traditional sense—but the gifts held things they liked, things they could use, things they wanted. They weren’t

about purpose, but about love. They were a reminder that you saw them, that you loved them, and that they were always safe in your arms.

[sanguinesmi1e]

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 (you're here)

Full fic on Ao3

Art of LBM

Pt. 4: An Unexp-ectoed Party (not on Ao3 yet)

Constantine was quietly freaking out. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected that the ghost who had turned itself into a cute little tatzelwurm to avoid answering questions might be something far beyond his capabilities to deal with. Everything it said and did suggested it was way outside his scope of experience. While Tim used a shoelace to play with it like a rambunctious kitten, John mentally catalogued the things that threatened to give him a panic attack:

Before the ghost even arrived, the blinding power flowing through his spell array nearly knocked him flat. It had felt like being swatted in the eyeballs by an eldritch god.

The ghost appeared in human form, fully alive, before being transformed by the summoning magic. John had only ever heard whispers of legends about a being who could do such a thing. The legends were vague and grandiose, but some epithets included The One Who Walks Between, He Who Straddles Life and Death, Twilight Walker, Shroud Danger Child, and The Halver. 

The ghost could not only see his soul at a glance, it could perceive all the damage he had done making deals with demons.

The ghost implied it was on casual, friendly terms with the Ancient of Time aka Chronos, Kala, Father Time, etc. And that it had altered the timeline at least once already.

It could age. Despite what the ghost said, only Neverborn should be able to age. The dead were static, and given the death that he could feel sustaining the portal, this ghost had definitely died.

It was brilliant enough to pinpoint a weakness and successfully distract Tim by transforming into a shape that could manipulate his protective instincts. John did not want to admit that he also felt protective of the cute little blighter.

It had hopped out of the summoning circle as if it were just chalk scribbles, despite John working in some of his most powerful containment spells as a matter of what he had thought was excessive precaution.

Shite, the list had already reached seven items. The tatzelwurm (had Drake really just named the thing Little Baby Man?) glared at him and called him “Gross!” 

“Seriously!? This cloaking spell should be more than sufficient.” John grumbled. “Did it really have no effect?” If so, that was gonna be item number eight.

Little Baby Man tilted his head. “It worked.” Then he huffed with amusement. 

Thank fuck for small blessings. 

A quickly muttered spell turned his burning cigarette into a makeshift sort of laser pointer, and Constantine distracted Little Baby Man while he tried to think of what to do next.

“Hey kid, this is a problem.” He kept his voice low, and watched to see if the tatzelwurm appeared to pay any attention to him. It dedicated all its attention to the glowing dot, and ignored the two men.

“I assume this isn’t the normal direction your interrogations go.” Drake wound his shoelace around his hand and pocketed it. “It’s certainly a first for me.”

“Ditto, in so many ways.”

“Any idea what to do now?”

“We should probably return him where he came from, and wait for Zatanna to get back from wherever she’s disappeared to now.” John would really like a second opinion. He would also like to dump this mess in someone else’s lap and be on his way. 

Although to be fair, watching the tatzelwurm careen around after his lazer dot was actually pretty fun. Not that he’d ever admit it. Still, the creature was done answering questions and John wasn’t prepared to bind the thing because he didn’t think he’d need to pack the tools to bind an eldritch god when Batman called him to do a “quick consult.”

Danny couldn’t remember the last time he had this much fun. The CEO person played with him! He did feel a bit bad for hurting his foot, but it was difficult to dwell on regrets or worries when he could attack the string instead. And now there was a red dot to chase! It was very fast and sneaky, but he was faster and sneakier.

Is this what Paulina felt like when she wished herself to be a giant chibi version of herself to be loved and worshipped by everyone? Because he felt adorable. And fierce. He was going to kill that red dot so hard when he finally sunk his claws in it!

Frustratingly, it seemed to also have intangibility powers. Well, Danny knew what to do about that! He concentrated ectoplasm into his paw and bapped it down hard on the dot. This scorched the floor a bit, but when he lifted his paw, the red dot was skewered on one of his claws. It tried to tug away, but he clung tight. Apparently its size belied its strength, because it started to drag him across the floor. 

Danny tried to release the dot, but his claw was firmly snagged, so he resigned himself to being dragged back into the chalk circle. He tingled a bit as he crossed the perimeter, but it wasn’t a bad sensation, just a little odd. Then a portal opened up and pulled him through the water filled tube snake toy sensation in reverse and ugh! Just as bad the second time, if not worse.

The spell spat him out in human form under the Specter Speeder. Or rather, it ejected him at speed so he smacked into the bottom of the Speeder before falling back to the ground with a heavy thud. Thankfully he didn’t crack his head against the concrete, but he still couldn’t stifle a pained groan.

A firm hand wrapped around Danny’s ankle and dragged him out, and he found himself staring up at Drake and Constantine for the third time that day.

“Uh, hi,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I suppose I have some explaining to do.”

Being able to create ghost portals would come in real handy right about now. Maybe he should just commit some arson and let these two deal with escaping the basement on their own.

[avelera]

I actually really love Mel/Jayce/Viktor as well as Jayce//Viktor and I actually think the show has a couple scenes that lend to a poly interpretation of the three of them (Mel and Jayce both literally handling Viktor’s crutch between them while talking about how much they care for him, hello?? The subtext writes itself) but I found myself staying focused on just Jayce/Viktor at first because it’s a bit simpler to write and because as much as I LOVE the implied moments of their intellectual, ambiguously romantic threesome, I’d need more of Mel and Viktor interacting to really close the loop for shipping it in my mind. As it is, it feels a bit more “This is Mel’s boyfriend, Jayce, and Jayce’s boyfriend Viktor” that Mel still cares about and respects mostly from afar.

I also think that Viktor and Jayce kind of left their relationship at “we’re partners in every sense of the word, why define it further?” And that definition maybe included romantic and sexual moments (at least for fic writer purposes lol) but the fear of losing the amazing working relationship they had, which is so rare in the academic world, kept them from seriously “defining” it as anything official on the person front, which allowed Jayce to take up with Mel without it being “cheating”.

Throw into that the rapid advancement of Viktor’s illness and I can easily see a scenario where Viktor didn’t force the issue and indeed, was happy to see that Jayce had someone else who loved him in his life, knowing he didn’t have much time left and it would take a miracle to save his own life. Basically, I don’t see Viktor as jealous of Mel as a person, even if he was wary / resigned towards Jayce’s political career and would have rather have had him in the lab more often.

There was a happy medium there, I think, where Jayce was happily balanced between the two of them without jealousy from either that the accelerating events of S1 basically prohibited as the crises began to unfold, forcing Jayce into the conflict with Zaun, and Zaun had always been a point of miscommunication and later tension between Viktor and Jayce. An inevitable one I think, since Jayce couldn’t possibly know what it was like to grow up there, and in the course of their work it probably only rarely came up and so wasn’t daily addressed until the crisis made it an ugly conflict between them.

Anyway, I’m mostly just rambling as I think my way through how I write Jayce and Viktor in the fic I’m finishing up. But mostly I wanted to make the point that I see Jayce’s relationship with Mel as real and important and not “getting in the way” of his relationship with Viktor indeed, Viktor and Mel at least seem mature enough to navigate a poly relationship and Jayce has a lot of love to give (he loves SO MUCH guys I’m emotional about it, he’s just a good kid who ended up in a shitty complex situation that went way over his head. Bro didn’t even know if his school OFFERED military history, he was such an easy target and this is why STEM kids need an introduction to liberal arts I swear).

I don’t think S2 is headed towards any sort of unambiguous happy ending for the three of them but there’s definitely a happy AU in my heart where the three of them make it work and are better together than just two out of the pair.