#but yeah my agent 8 has Issues

[chisatowo]

I find it funny that both my agent 3 and agent 4 are pretty similar to fanon consensus and canon but my agent 8 is just. Not. Fucking cranky ass teenager who wants the squid sisters and Marina and agent 3 dead. And also adores them and wants to be them. Which is why he hates them. He's even transmasc

[fratboykate]

I'm totally in support of the writers in theory but I'm trying to understand more of what you're fighting for because I've seen some people on twitter claim writers make more money a week than most of us make in a month so I'm trying to understand what the issue is. Also if that info is accurate. This is a genuine question. Not trying to have a "gotcha moment". I really want to hear from a writer.

people have always had wild misconceptions about how much a writer earns because of their lack of understanding of how the industry actually works. there's so many posts about how "you guys make 5k a week. what more do you want?!" yeah...let's do some math on that.

5k a week for 14 weeks (and that's a long room. a lot of rooms these days are 8-10 weeks. those are the dreaded mini-rooms we're trying to kill) is $70,000. for roughly three months of work. you'd think we're cooking with gas...BUT HOLD UP. that's gross! let's see everything that has to come out of that check:

10% to our agent

10% to our manager

5% to our entertainment attorney

5% to our business manager (not everyone has one but a lot of us do. i do, so that's literally 30% immediately off the top of every check)

most of these breakdowns ive seen downplay taxes severely. someone made one that says writers pay 5% in taxes and i would like to ask them "in what universe?". that doesn't even cover state taxes. the way taxes work in the industry is really complicated, but the short of it is most of us have companies for tax reasons so we aren't taxed like people on w2s/1099. if we did we'd be even more fucked. basically every production hires a writer's company instead of the writer as an individual. so they engage our companies for our services and then at the end of the year we (the company) pay taxes as corporations or llcs (depending on what the writer chose to go with). my company is registered as a "corporation" so let's go with those rates. california's corporate rate is 9% and the federal corporate tax rate is 21%. there's other expenses with running a business like fees and other shit so my business managers/accountants/bookkeepers have recommended i save between 35-40% of everything i make for when tax season comes.

you see where the math is at already??? 25-30% in commissions and then 35-40% in taxes. on the lower end you're at THE VERY LEAST looking at 60% of that check gone. 70% worst case scenario. suddenly those $70,000 people claim we make are actually down to $28,000 as the take home pay. and that's if you're only losing 60%. it goes down to $21,000 if it's 70%.

lets pretend you worked a long 14 week room (that's the longest room ive ever worked btw) and let's also be generous and say you only have 60% in expenses so the take home is $28,000. average rent in los angeles is around $2,800-$3,000. if you're paying $2,800 in rent that means you need AT LEAST $4,000 a month to have a semi decent life since you need to also cover groceries, gas, medical expenses, toiletries, phone, internet, utilities, rental and car insurances, car payments, student loan payments, etc etc etc. and again, this is los angeles. everything is more expensive so you're living BARE BONES on 4k. and these are numbers as a single person. im not even taking having children into account. so those $28,000 you take home might cover your life for 6-7 months. 3 of which you're in the room working. the reality is that once that room ends, you might not work in a room again for 6-9-12 months (i have friends whose last jobs were over 18 months ago) and you now only have about 3 months left of savings to hold you over. we have to make that money stretch while we do all the endless free development we do for studios and until we get our next paying job. so...3 months left of enough money to cover your expenses -> possible 9 months of not having a job. this is how writers end up on food stamps or applying to work at target.

this is why we're fighting for better rates and better residuals. residuals were a thing writers used to rely on to get them through the unemployment periods. residual checks have gone down from 20k to $0.03 cents. im not joking.

they've decimated our regular pay and then destroyed residuals. we have nothing left. so don't believe it when they tell you writers are being greedy. writers are simply fighting to be able to make a middle class living. we're not asking them to become poor for our sake. we're asking for raises that amount to 2% of their profit. TWO PERCENT. this is a fight for writing even being a career in five years instead of something you do on the side while you work retail to pay your bills. if you think shows are bad now imagine when your writer has to do it as a hobby because they need a real job to pay their bills and support a family. (which none of us can currently afford to have btw)

support writers. stop being bootlickers for billion dollar corporations. stop caring about fictional people more than you care about the real people that write them. if we don't win this fight it truly is game over. the industry as you know it is gone.

[autisticshadowthehedgehog]

Nobody asked me for my opinion on the controversy that dropped today when the Sonic Movie cast pay rate was revealed, which is fair ig since I try to stay positive on this blog. But in case you're wondering, yeah as a certified AFAB™ I'm pissed, but not really specifically at the Sonic crew. Actor pay rates are usually negotiated between agents and the production companies so just like all the other problems with the Sonic movies, this is most likely an issue with Paramount and their patented dumbfuckery. Disclaimer that obviously it could very well be a Sonic crew issue as well, obviously I don't know the inner workings of the entire film production.

Also, if you're mad about this: please be mad about the pay gap that has been going on as long as Hollywood has been alive. This isn't a problem unique to the SCU. I know the phrase "pay gap" is thrown around a whole lot but do you guys actually know how big an issue it is?

Recent percentages are that male and female actors have "a wage difference of about 25 percent," with an estimated difference of $1-2million between star-power men and star-power women.[x][x] Basic Instinct star Sharon Stone said she made $500k to Michael Douglas's $14mil– and when she was asked to be lead in a film being made in ~2022, the lead male, who was "new", was going to be paid $8-9mil, with her salary still at $500k. Last December, Biggest Monopoly In The World Disney was sued by 9,000 women over their pay gap.

This article is from 2019 but brings up some big fucking pay gaps between leads– for instance, Gillian Anderson was offered half of what David Duchovny was for the X-Files reboot as one of the two main fucking characters, Amanda Seyfried has disclosed she made 10% of what her male co-star made on an undisclosed film, Natalie Portman made 1/3 of the salary of Ashton Kutcher in No Strings Attached, and Ellen Pompeo, the titular character of Grey's Anatomy, was paid less than the actor playing her love interest, Patrick Dempsey. In fact, Dempsey was being paid almost double what she was.

However, BIG issue with the 2019 article: it only focuses on what White actors are being paid. Research shows that Black actresses make 57 cents to every dollar white actors make on a good day. Viola Davis, one of the most popular and talented actresses of our generation, has said that black women "get probably a tenth of what a Caucasian woman gets. And I'm number one on the call sheet." Octavia Spencer had to collaborate with Jessica Chastain to make sure they both got paid the same amount of money on a film they both worked on, and revealed that her new salary increased 500% afterwards.

At the end of last year, while promo-ing The Color Purple, Taraji P. Henson broke into tears while talking about how little she's being paid when compared to her white and male contemporaries. And when she talked about the gap, I find it so fucking frustrating that the general audience response was to immediately blame the only Black female producer on the film. I have a million gripes with Oprah Winfrey but TCP cast has said that she herself managed to fix a lot of the problems on set and was nothing but supportive to them. Oh, and there were a lot of problems on set, including a lack of food and dressing space for the main actors. And this is all from celebrity women. Just think about how Hollywood is treating women who don't have the star power to speak up.

Of course this isn't even a problem solo to Hollywood, let alone Paramount, let alone just one movie. And honestly it was probably really sad that when I saw the pay rate for the Sonic 3 cast, I wasn't even surprised, because I've seen worse on bigger projects.

[reidmarieprentiss]

Technicalities

Summary: Based on this request! After a complicated friends-with-benefits relationship with Spencer, you confess your true feelings to him in a moment of vulnerability, only for things to fall apart. Both of you struggle with your feelings, leading to silence and regret. When Spencer realizes he can't let you go, he tries to fix things, but is it too late?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x IT fem!reader

Category: smut (18+), angst, fluff

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, fwb, alcohol consumption, being drunk, hangover mention, (un)requited feelings, kind of fake dating/keeping up appearances, both Spencer and reader are dumb, happy ending i promise !!, i imagined somewhere season 4–8 Spencer

Word count: 29.2k

a/n: i'm so glad someone put in this request because i mostly had this story figured out but they saveddd my ass with this prompt so thank you !!! and yes i have only been focusing on this one lmao getting back to my other stories now my

main masterlist

Additional warnings: oral (f) receiving, unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), breast play

The BAU bullpen was humming with the usual mid-week activity. Spencer Reid sat at his desk, frustration evident as he jabbed the keyboard of his computer, which remained frozen. A flash of error codes danced across the screen, none of which made sense to him—a rare occurrence, and one that only served to heighten his irritation. He let out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair as the team around him exchanged knowing glances. 

"Reid, you okay there?" Rossi’s voice came from a nearby desk, teasing and lighthearted as he looked up from his case files. 

"No," Spencer huffed, shaking his head. "My computer’s completely unresponsive, and I have a report due in—" he checked his watch for the sixth time in as many minutes "—an hour."

"Kevin's supposed to be here soon," JJ assured him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "He’ll fix it, don't worry."

Just as she spoke, the doors to the bullpen swung open, revealing someone none of them had seen before. You walked in, holding a laptop under one arm, the ID badge around your neck swinging slightly as you headed toward them with confident strides. A few of the team members exchanged glances, a mix of curiosity and amusement flickering in their eyes. 

Hotch cleared his throat, greeting you with a nod. "You're here for the computer issue?"

"Yeah, I’m the IT support on call while Penelope Garcia is away," you confirmed, offering a polite smile. "I heard there was a problem with Dr. Reid’s computer?" You looked around, trying to spot the agent who was in need of your help. 

Reid, already on edge, looked up with surprise, blinking as if he hadn't quite processed that it wasn't Kevin Lynch who was standing in front of him. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, clearly unsure how to respond to this unexpected change.

"I, um… expected Kevin," he finally mumbled, his voice betraying his slight unease. "I’ve never seen you before."

"Yeah, I took over his position," you explained, not missing a beat. "Penelope has mentioned you a few times, Dr. Reid." You held back a grin as you said this; she had described the team members in amusingly vivid detail. "She told me you like to keep your computer files meticulously organized."

Reid flushed slightly at the mention of his organization habits, and Derek, leaning back in his chair, raised a brow. “You know, this should be good,” he murmured under his breath, loud enough for the others to hear. Emily, who had taken a break from her own work to watch the scene unfold, leaned against her desk with a sly grin, clearly enjoying every second of it.

Spencer, however, was less amused. “It just stopped working,” he said, gesturing to the screen with a frustrated wave of his hand. “The whole thing’s frozen, and I can’t even get the task manager to open.”

"Sounds like it could be an issue with the registry or a corrupted file," you said, more to yourself than to anyone else, as you moved closer to his desk. "Mind if I take a look?"

Reid hesitated but eventually moved his chair to the side, allowing you access to his computer. As you set your laptop down and began connecting it to his system, the team observed with bated breath. Derek shot JJ a look, one that said he was clearly enjoying watching Spencer’s mild discomfort. 

Within seconds, you were typing furiously, navigating through various system files and directories, your eyes narrowing as you focused. Spencer’s eyes darted between the screen and your hands, trying to follow what you were doing, though he couldn’t quite keep up with your speed. You were faster than Kevin, more direct, and there was no room for small talk—just pure efficiency.

"There," you finally announced, pressing the enter key with a flourish. The screen blinked, flickered, and then—miraculously—sprang back to life, all files intact, and no trace of the error messages that had plagued it before.

Spencer blinked, stunned at how quickly you’d fixed it. He had been prepared for a long, awkward stretch of waiting, and yet you’d solved the problem almost effortlessly. He turned to you, feeling a touch of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck at his earlier impatience. “Wow… that was fast,” he admitted, his voice softer now, clearly humbled by your swift expertise.

“Glad I could help,” you said, your smile warm but professional as you started gathering your things. "It was just a couple of corrupted processes in the background. Shouldn't be an issue anymore, but if it acts up again, let me know."

Hotch nodded approvingly as you packed up, and Rossi gave a little chuckle. “Well, Reid, it looks like you're in good hands.”

Spencer, feeling that flush of gratitude and a bit of self-consciousness, turned back to you. "Thank you, really. I mean—I didn't mean to come off as... Well, thanks."

You nodded, the sincerity of his words clear despite his awkwardness. “No problem, Dr. Reid. I’m always around if you need anything fixed.” You threw a quick wave to the rest of the team before heading out, leaving Spencer sitting there, staring at his now fully functional computer, wondering how you’d made it all look so easy.

Once you were gone, Derek let out a low whistle. “Well, that was something.”

JJ smirked, turning to Spencer. “I’d say she handled you pretty well.”

Spencer huffed, his eyes narrowing playfully as he resumed his work, “I don’t need to be handled.”

—

Over the next few days, it seemed like Spencer was having an unprecedented run of technical issues. And they all, without fail, required your assistance.

It started innocently enough—a “network connectivity problem” that turned out to be nothing more than a loose cable. You had come by quickly, knelt beside his desk to adjust the cord, and, while fixing it, noticed the way his eyes followed your every move. His face had remained composed, but the flush to his cheeks when you stood up and announced the issue had been hard to miss. The team had shared knowing glances behind his back, each one barely concealing their smirks.

Then, just two hours later, his computer's fan started "making an odd noise." Of course, Spencer had once again denied that it could be a false alarm, claiming there was something seriously wrong with it. And you, being the professional you were, had obliged, leaning down to listen to the fan’s soft whirring as your fingers brushed against the side of the machine. He tried to maintain his cool—really, he did—but it was becoming more and more obvious that the fan was just fine. When you turned around, you caught the way his gaze shifted slightly down before flicking back to your face, trying to play it off as if he’d been looking at his notes.

"Spencer," you teased lightly, as you finished the quick check and stood up, "I’m starting to think you're trying to set a record for the number of help tickets submitted in a single week."

His reaction was immediate. "What? No, no, I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly flustered but in a way that made your own stomach do a small flip. "I mean, I... really have been having a lot of issues lately." He tried to sound convincing, but his voice wavered just enough for you to know he didn’t even believe himself.

"Of course you have," you said with a playful smile, your voice just low enough that only he could hear the amusement in your tone. "Well, if anything else comes up... you know where to find me."

It didn’t stop there. Later that same day, when the team was preparing for a briefing, Spencer announced that the projector wasn't working. The rest of the team, sitting around the table, didn't even try to hide their grins this time. Hotch covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to cough. Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and winked at Emily, who was openly chuckling now.

"Projector issues, huh?" you said as you walked in, the teasing lilt in your voice fully on display this time. You gave the machine a once-over, noticing that it was turned off—not broken. You pressed the power button, and, sure enough, the screen flickered to life immediately, the bright display shining against the conference room wall. "Looks like it just... needed to be turned on."

"Rookie mistake," Spencer said quickly, trying to sound like it was a simple oversight. But the way he shifted in his seat, his lips pressing into a thin line, made it clear he knew how obvious his ploy had become. "I... appreciate you coming all the way up here for that."

"Oh, anytime," you replied, flashing him a smile that he swore could melt glass. You took a moment to adjust a cord, bending slightly as you did, and while Spencer’s eyes followed your movement, you couldn’t miss the way his gaze trailed down, lingering for a split second before he caught himself. He quickly straightened in his chair, clearing his throat as he looked back to his teammates, who were all trying their best to act like they weren’t paying attention. 

Once you were done with the projector, you turned back around and leaned against the table, arms folded across your chest, watching him with an amused twinkle in your eyes. You'd expected him to be bumbling and shy—most people warned you of Dr. Reid's reserved nature. But as you looked at him now, there was a new spark in his eyes, a confidence you didn't expect. It was as if he'd picked up on the fact that you didn’t mind his attention. In fact, you welcomed it.

The projector working perfectly now, he got up from his chair, and instead of sitting back down, he stepped closer to where you stood. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice so only you could hear, “I think I’ve run into more technical issues this week than I have all year.”

“Oh really?” you raised an eyebrow, enjoying this new, more self-assured side of him. “Well, if it happens again... you know where to find me.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, his voice just a touch deeper than usual, and his gaze fixed directly on yours. And the way he looked at you, intense yet amused, sent a shiver down your spine. There was nothing shy or bumbling about it—he knew what he was doing.

Just as you felt the tension build between the two of you, Derek’s voice cut through the air, loud and teasing. “Reid, man, I don’t know what’s going on with your computer, but I have a feeling you might need to get a whole new system. You know, one that doesn’t break every day.”

The rest of the team laughed, and you bit your lip, trying not to laugh too openly yourself as you gathered your things and prepared to leave. Spencer, on the other hand, only rolled his eyes, but his lips curved into a small, confident smile as he looked back at you.

“See you around, Dr. Reid,” you said, your voice carrying just enough playfulness to make sure the message was clear.

“Counting on it,” he replied smoothly, that glimmer of confidence shining in his eyes as you turned to leave, feeling his gaze on you the whole way out of the room. And as you walked away, you couldn’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, his computer would stop working again very soon.

—

When Penelope returned from her vacation the following week, it felt like the bullpen lit up with vibrant color. Her laughter and colorful essense filled the space in a way that only she could manage. It was clear that the whole team was happy to have her back—JJ had hugged her so tightly Penelope squealed, Hotch had given her one of his rare, genuine smiles, even Rossi, always a gentleman, had brought her a coffee from her favorite café.

And Spencer, who adored his friend, had a huge smile on his face as she bounced over to his desk to give him a bear hug. However, as he sat back down, his smile faltered ever so slightly. Because, with Penelope back, it meant that all the “technical difficulties” he’d been experiencing for the past week would no longer require your assistance. And, truth be told, he was going to miss those visits—the way you’d walk in with that teasing smile of yours, lean over his desk to fix whatever nonexistent problem he’d concocted, and exchange playful banter that left him feeling... well, giddy.

“Pretty boy,” Derek’s voice called out from across the bullpen, dripping with humor and teasing, “what are you gonna do now? You know Miss Penny’s not going to come running every time you snap your fingers.”

Spencer’s eyes shot daggers at Derek, but that only made Morgan’s grin grow wider, leaning back in his chair with a knowing look. Spencer tried to school his expression into one of mild indifference, but the tips of his ears were already turning red. It was like a beacon—he might as well have hung up a sign that read “Caught.”

“Yeah, Reid,” Emily chimed in, her laughter ringing through the bullpen as she joined in on the teasing. “Is your computer going to start magically working again? Or should we expect another week of ‘emergency’ projector repairs and ‘technical malfunctions’?” 

JJ chuckled, shaking her head as she flipped through case files. “Seriously, Spence, I think your computer had more issues last week than it has since I’ve known you. It's kind of impressive, really.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped just a little as he leaned over his desk, trying to focus on the file in front of him, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed his feigned annoyance. “It’s not like I... meant for anything to happen,” he mumbled, a poor attempt at innocence that only made everyone laugh harder.

“Oh, sure, sure, Dr. Reid,” Derek said, his tone dripping with exaggerated belief. “I’m sure it was all just a big ol’ coincidence that your computer broke down every time she walked by.” He stood up and sauntered over to Spencer’s desk, leaning against the side as he grinned. “Admit it—you liked having her around. And don’t even try to deny it. We all saw you staring.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but he found himself at a loss for words. He couldn’t exactly say that it wasn’t true—because, well, it was. He had liked having you around, more than he cared to admit, even to himself. But he also wasn’t quite ready to face the full brunt of Derek’s teasing, nor the knowing looks that Emily and JJ were exchanging. He settled for glaring at Morgan instead, trying to look as offended as possible, though it only ended up making him look mildly sheepish.

“What can I say?” Penelope chimed in, swirling over to join the conversation, hands on her hips as she gave Spencer a playful wag of her finger. “Apparently, Dr. Reid’s computer has abandonment issues that only manifest when I'm gone. Who knew?”

The team burst into laughter, and Spencer, resigned to the teasing, just shook his head. “Fine, laugh all you want,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress his grin. “I can handle my own computer problems from now on, okay?”

“Yeah, right,” Emily scoffed. “Sure you can.”

JJ, still chuckling, gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, if you do run into any more issues... I’m sure you know exactly who to call.”

Spencer nodded, the grin finally breaking free across his face, because they were right—he did know who to call. He couldn’t help but replay the last week in his mind, all those moments spent with you at his desk, your quick wit, and how easy it was to talk to you. He wasn’t quite ready to let that go just yet.

The thought sparked something bold inside him—something not unlike the confidence he’d felt when you were around. As the team’s laughter finally died down and they went back to their work, Spencer pulled up his email. He went into his contacts and found your name, saved from the last time you’d fixed his “broken” computer. And as he looked at it, that same spark of confidence urged him to do something he normally wouldn’t have done.

With a grin playing on his lips and a slight blush creeping up his neck, he sent you an email.

Hello–

Dr. Reid, here. Just wanted to let you know that my computer's working perfectly now... though I'd still love to see you again. Maybe for a drink this time, instead of a repair?

Hope to hear from you soon.

—Dr. Spencer Reid

And with that, Spencer leaned back in his chair, waiting for your reply with a flutter in his chest, a small smile tugging at his lips, and the whole team none the wiser.

—

Three days felt like an eternity to Spencer. He had replayed every interaction with you in his mind—every word, every smile, every touch as you fixed his "malfunctioning" devices. He was sure—almost sure—that you liked him. But now, as those days stretched on without any word from you, that confidence wavered, then crumbled. 

It started out as just a bit of hopeful waiting—maybe you were busy. Maybe you hadn’t seen the message. Or maybe you were just figuring out the right way to respond. But by Wednesday, the optimism that had carried him through the week turned into something else entirely. Desperation. Every few minutes, he compulsively checked his phone, or his computer, swiping to refresh his email, pulling up his call logs, checking even his office mailbox just in case he’d missed something. Nothing. Always nothing. 

The team had started to notice, the way his attention darted to his screens every few minutes, the little sighs of disappointment that followed when no message awaited him. 

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek’s voice broke through his distracted thoughts that Wednesday afternoon, his tone still light but tinged with concern. “What’s got you all twitchy? You’ve been staring at that phone like it owes you money.”

Spencer quickly dropped his phone, face burning as if he’d been caught in some embarrassing act. “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just... waiting for a message.”

JJ, passing by, raised an eyebrow as she handed out case files. “Anyone important?” she asked softly, the concern evident in her voice as she leaned over his desk.

Spencer shook his head, shrugging off their questions. “No one important. It’s nothing, really.” But as soon as their attention drifted away from him, he found his eyes creeping back to his screen, a dull ache settling in his chest. Each time he saw no new message, that ache tightened just a little more, wrapping around his ribs like a cold hand squeezing the life out of him.

By Thursday, he had almost entirely given up hope. He sat at his desk, staring blankly at his work, the notes and case files a jumble of words that he couldn’t seem to make sense of. All he could think about was that email he’d sent, the one you hadn’t answered. He was sure he’d crossed some kind of line—maybe you hadn’t been interested in the first place, maybe he’d completely misread the signals. And God, wouldn’t that just be the most classic Spencer Reid thing? Missing the social cues, seeing things that weren’t there, building up a fantasy in his mind that didn’t actually exist.

A quiet voice whispered in his head, one that had lived there since he was a kid—the voice that said he wasn’t good enough, that he would never be good enough. That maybe he was destined to always fall for people who could never fall for him. Another woman who slipped away, another chance he’d fumbled. 

Hotch’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, deep and steady. “Reid, are you alright?” he asked, his gaze steady and concerned.

Spencer looked up, startled to find the whole team watching him, worry etched across their faces. He quickly nodded, trying to pull himself together. “Yeah. I’m fine, just... tired.”

“Right,” Emily said, her voice skeptical as she exchanged a look with Derek, the two of them clearly sharing a silent conversation. But they let it go, turning back to their work, and leaving Spencer to his thoughts once more.

He slumped back in his chair, eyes fixed on the empty email screen before him. And that was when he let it sink in—that gnawing feeling of defeat, that familiar loneliness that had shadowed so much of his life. He closed his eyes, willing himself to forget you, to pretend like he didn’t care. But as much as he tried to shove those feelings down, the truth was undeniable: he had liked you. Really liked you. And now, it was just another reminder of what he couldn’t have.

Typical, he thought bitterly, fingers tapping against the desk as he stared blankly at the computer screen. I’m not good enough.

And so, as Thursday drew to a close, he resolved to let it go, to accept that whatever fleeting hope he’d had for something more was just that—a fleeting hope, nothing real. 

If only he knew how wrong he was. 

By the time Friday rolled around, the BAU team had had just about enough of Spencer's sullen mood. For days, he’d been dragging his feet around the office, sighing dramatically, and staring into space as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. He was distracted, more than usual, and his sharp wit had dulled under the cloud of whatever was plaguing him. 

Finally, Derek had had enough. “Reid, man, you need to loosen up,” he declared that afternoon, tossing a ballpoint pen at Spencer, who caught it with a look of mild annoyance. “We’re going to O’Keefe’s tonight. You’re coming with us, and that’s not a suggestion.”

Spencer glanced around the room, seeing the supportive yet firm looks from the others—Emily, JJ, Rossi, and even Hotch, who gave a slight nod of approval. There was no way he was going to get out of it, and frankly, part of him didn’t want to. He had been hoping to spend his weekend taking you out for drinks, but since that clearly wasn’t happening, drinks with his team seemed like the next best thing.

“Alright, fine,” he said, agreeing quickly, much to the surprise of everyone around him. A chorus of cheers and supportive pats on the shoulder met his response, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of something other than that disappointment that had been lodged in his chest all week.

So that evening, they made their way to O’Keefe’s, a no-frills cop bar that had become something of a second home for the team. They settled into a large booth by one of the pool tables, ordering rounds of beers, mixed drinks, and, for Spencer, a hard Arnold Palmer. He sat across from JJ, who nursed her own drink and was trying to keep the conversation light and fun, though she couldn’t quite pull Spencer out of his funk.

“Come on, Spence,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and smiling warmly at him. “It’s Friday and Penelope’s back. Lighten up. You’ll be kicking everyone’s butt at pool soon enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer said, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine, JJ, really. Just... tired.” He played with the straw in his drink, his gaze drifting to the pool table where Derek and Emily were embroiled in a heated game, Rossi leaning against the wall and calling out tips that neither of them listened to.

JJ was about to press him further when her eyes went wide, and a grin spread across her face. She leaned forward suddenly, her expression brightening with mischief as she looked just over Spencer’s shoulder. “What?” he asked, furrowing his brows at her sudden change in demeanor, confused by the excitement lighting up her eyes.

JJ just nodded toward the bar, barely able to contain her grin. “Your girl’s here,” she said, in a sing-song voice that only JJ could pull off without sounding ridiculous.

Spencer’s heart nearly stopped, a wave of hope and disbelief washing over him. He turned around quickly, eyes scanning the crowd of off-duty officers, detectives, and FBI agents mingling around the room. And then he saw you. Standing by the bar, chatting casually with the bartender as you waited for your drink, you looked effortlessly stunning, the dim lights of the bar casting a soft glow on your features.

He whipped back around to face JJ, panic and excitement mingling in his expression. “What—what do I do?” He sounded more flustered than he’d meant to, and JJ couldn’t help but laugh at his wide-eyed bewilderment.

“Well, you could start by getting up and talking to her, genius,” she said with a teasing nudge. “I think that’s a pretty good place to start.”

Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped up from the booth, nearly knocking over his drink in his haste, and made his way over to the bar, trying to gather his composure with each step. His heart pounded in his chest, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind—was this just a coincidence? Had you come here to see him? What if you were here with someone else? He shook his head, trying to push the nervous thoughts away as he closed the gap between you.

You looked up just as he approached, a soft smile spreading across your lips as your eyes met his. “Dr. Reid,” you said in greeting, the warmth in your voice making his nerves settle—just a little.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little breathless as he stood beside you. He struggled for words, trying to find the right thing to say, the right way to act after days of silence. “I, uh... didn’t expect to see you here.”

Spencer’s eyes took in your appearance as you stood before him, and he couldn’t help but let his profiler instincts kick in, analyzing every detail of your outfit. You looked effortlessly polished, your blazer open just enough to be casual yet elegant, paired with a skirt that hit the perfect balance of professional and playful. He couldn’t shake the thought—had you dressed up for someone? The idea made his stomach twist with nerves.

The silence stretched between you, and you shifted slightly on your feet, clearly trying to gauge his reaction. You nodded awkwardly, your voice trailing off, “Yeah…”

Spencer looked at you, trying to make sense of everything. His palms started to sweat, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Are you... meeting someone here?”

Your eyes widened slightly, and you let out an awkward laugh, your hands playing with the strap of your bag as you shrugged. “You? Hopefully?” You gave a half-smile, one that was both hopeful and embarrassed. “I mean, I never heard back from you, so I was kind of... taking a chance here.”

Spencer's brows furrowed, and he felt his head start to spin. What did you mean you never heard back from him? He felt like the ground was moving beneath him as he tried to piece together what could have happened. “What?” he asked, his voice quiet, uncertainty and panic creeping in.

You let out another nervous laugh, clearly unsure of what to make of his reaction. “It’s okay if you changed your mind,” you said quickly, looking down at your drink as if it held all the answers you needed. “Let’s not make this any more awkward, please. I just... didn’t want to let it be this weird thing hanging over us, y’know?”

The words hit him like a freight train. Changed his mind? No—no, that wasn’t right. He never changed his mind. In fact, he had been waiting on pins and needles for a response from you, thinking that you were the one who had changed your mind. But something clearly had gone wrong, and Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to figure out how to salvage the moment, how to explain himself to you without making things worse.

“No, no, no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I didn’t change my mind. I... I sent you a message, I swear. I thought you were the one who... didn’t respond.” He could hear how frantic he sounded, and he hated it, hated that he was coming across as desperate, but it was the truth. “I’ve been checking my phone for days, I swear—”

You raised an eyebrow at him, your expression filled with curiosity and sympathy. Spencer’s clear panic, the earnest way he was nearly tripping over his own words, had you leaning towards trusting his side of things. He didn’t seem like the type to play games, and that flicker of hope in his eyes as he watched you seemed genuine—almost too genuine. 

“Can I see your phone, Dr. Reid?” you asked, holding out your hand. Your tone was light but held a hint of authority, like you were about to solve one of his computer problems again, only this time, with a very different sort of error. 

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he immediately fumbled in his pocket, fishing out the device with shaky hands. “Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, handing it over to you without hesitation. He was clearly desperate for an explanation, any explanation that didn’t involve you losing interest in him. 

You took his phone and your fingers flew across the screen, pulling up his email app, your expression turning more focused as you scanned through the settings. He watched you, nervous but fascinated at how deftly you navigated through his phone, a slight furrow forming on his brow as you did... whatever it was you were doing. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he hoped for a miracle. 

Then, all of a sudden, you let out a small, involuntary snort—a sound so genuine and cute that it caught Spencer off guard. His heart did a flip in his chest at how unguarded and... normal it was. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but a laugh of oh, of course.

“What?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, but unable to hide the edge of panic creeping back in. “What did you find?”

You flipped the phone around to show him the screen, and there, clear as day, was the culprit. “You have your email set to send unknown contacts to spam,” you explained with a bemused smile. Your finger pointed to the tiny, barely noticeable setting, and there, nestled in his spam folder, was your email—unread, unopened, and very much the response he had been waiting for.

Spencer stared at the screen, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment crash over him like a tidal wave. “Oh my God,” he breathed, looking from his phone to you and back again, his face flushing a deep shade of red. “I... I didn’t— I had no idea that setting was on.” He let out a slightly shaky laugh, and then another, the tension melting from his body as he realized how silly this whole situation had been.

“Yeah, looks like you had a 'filter spam' setting for any emails from unknown contacts,” you said, the teasing tone in your voice unmistakable. “So my email went straight to your spam folder. Not exactly where I wanted it to end up.”

He let out another nervous chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head at himself. “I am... so sorry. I spent the last few days thinking... well, thinking you just didn’t want to respond.”

“Trust me,” you said, smiling as you handed his phone back, “I get it. And for what it’s worth, I was kind of doing the same thing.” You bit your lip, giving him a small, conspiratorial grin. “So... do we get to hit the reset button on that? Maybe... pretend like I never ended up in your spam folder in the first place?”

Spencer nodded eagerly, grateful beyond words for your understanding. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, please. Reset button. I’d like that very much.”

“Good,” you said, lifting your glass in his direction again, that warmth in your eyes making his stomach do another flip. “So... let’s start over.” 

“Yeah,” he replied, meeting your gaze with a smile that finally reached his eyes. “Let’s start over.” And as he raised his own drink to yours, Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he felt so relieved—so genuinely happy—as he did right then.

You grabbed a drink and settled in beside Spencer, sliding into the booth with an ease that immediately lightened the mood. The team noticed the shift instantly. Derek raised his eyebrows, nudging Emily with a smirk as they all watched you laugh, Spencer's posture now more relaxed than they'd seen all week. 

“Hey, guys,” you greeted, giving a wave to the rest of the team as they took you in. “Hope you don’t mind if I crash the party.”

“Mind?” Emily grinned, tossing her pool cue over her shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for you to show up all week.”

“Yeah, and give us a chance to figure out what’s got pretty boy here all tied up in knots,” Derek added with a teasing wink. Spencer flushed but didn’t look away from you, a rare boldness shining through as you held his gaze.

“Well, glad I could make the diagnosis clear,” you joked back, leaning into the banter as if you’d known them for years. You turned to Spencer, who looked slightly flustered but undeniably happy. “So, Dr. Reid, do you play pool, or is that not your style?”

Spencer’s eyes twinkled with that familiar spark of confidence you’d seen before. “I do,” he admitted, leaning in just a touch closer. “But I have to warn you, I'm not exactly an amateur.”

“Oh really?” You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms in mock challenge. “I might have to see that for myself. Maybe you could give me a few pointers?”

The playful energy between you was palpable, and JJ’s laugh cut through the noise of the bar. “Oh, this is going to be good,” she murmured to Rossi, who was sipping his drink with a satisfied smile, clearly enjoying the way the night was unfolding. 

Derek hopped up from his seat, grabbing another cue and handing it over to you. “Alright, newcomer, you're up. Let’s see if you can hold your own against Spencer 'Einstein' Reid here.”

You grinned, accepting the cue as you approached the pool table. “So, any rules I should know about?” you asked, pretending to be oblivious as you leaned over the table to line up a shot.

Spencer stood beside you, his own cue resting against his side as he cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, his voice taking on a soft, instructive tone, “it's all about angles and force. You have to judge the best way to break the rack and control the white cue ball.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your expression playful. “Think you could... show me?” You took your stance, leaning down to take the first shot, but purposefully not quite getting it right, leaving plenty of room for Spencer to join you. 

Spencer, catching on to your flirtation, stepped behind you. He placed his hands over yours, gently guiding your grip on the cue stick, his voice low in your ear as he explained. “Like this,” he said, positioning your hands. “And you want to keep your body steady, like this.” His chest brushed lightly against your back, and you couldn’t help but smile at the closeness, the tension thickening between you.

You let him guide the shot, and as the cue ball cracked against the rack, the other balls scattered across the table in a perfect spread. You both stood back, admiring the shot, and he met your eyes with a triumphant grin. “Not bad, huh?”

You let out a laugh, turning to face him fully. “I think you’re a pretty good teacher, Dr. Reid,” you said, holding his gaze. “Though I get the feeling you're holding back on me. I might need a few more... lessons.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and there was a flicker of challenge in his eyes that you found irresistibly charming. “Oh, don't worry,” he said, leaning just close enough for your shoulders to brush. “I can think of a few more things to show you.”

The rest of the team watched with amusement as the two of you circled around the pool table, trading flirty remarks and friendly taunts, the ease between you growing more natural with every passing minute. The night was fresh, fun, and filled with laughter, and as you leaned in closer to Spencer, both of you barely hiding your smiles, it was clear that this wasn’t just a simple bar game anymore. 

It was the start of something much more promising.

The night at O’Keefe’s stretched on, the hours slipping by in the warm haze of laughter, clinking glasses, and the quiet spark between you and Spencer. As the drinks flowed, so did the stories—Rossi sharing old tales from his early days in the FBI, Emily chiming in with outrageous anecdotes about undercover missions gone wrong, and Derek doing impressions of just about everyone on the team, much to everyone’s amusement.

Slowly, the night began to wind down, the team peeling off one by one. Hotch checked his watch, an apologetic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, Jack’s probably still up waiting for me to get home,” he said, downing the rest of his drink in one smooth motion. “I should get going.”

“Yeah,” JJ added with a sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stood up from the booth. “Henry’s going to be bouncing off the walls early tomorrow morning. Can’t wait to find out what he’s gotten into this time.” She gave Spencer a warm hug and then shot you a quick, friendly smile. “It was great meeting you officially, by the way. Take care of our boy, okay?”

“I will,” you said, grinning back as she squeezed your arm. You watched as JJ and Hotch made their way to the door, exchanging goodbyes with the team, leaving the booth feeling a little emptier.

“Alright,” Rossi said a few moments later, patting Emily on the back and standing to stretch. “I suppose it’s my turn to play chauffeur. Ready, Emily?”

Emily, who had already been halfway through another drink, rolled her eyes dramatically. “Guess that’s my cue.” She gave you a friendly nod. “Don’t let these two tease you too much,” she said, motioning toward Derek and Penelope. “They can be relentless.”

Rossi chuckled, giving Spencer a knowing look. “Behave, kid,” he said with a wink, before guiding Emily toward the exit, the two of them laughing as they disappeared into the night.

That left you, Spencer, Derek, and Penelope at the booth. Penelope, however, had clearly been indulging in a few too many drinks and was staring mournfully into her glass, tears welling up in her eyes. “I just... I can’t stop thinking about... the mom in Bambi,” she hiccuped, her voice cracking with an exaggerated sob. “She didn’t deserve to die, Derek! She... she didn’t even see it coming!”

“Oh, come on, mama,” Derek said with a gentle smile, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her to her feet. “Let’s get you home before you start on The Lion King or we’ll be here all night.”

“Simba...” Penelope wailed as Derek guided her toward the door, waving haphazardly to you and Spencer. “Poor Simba...”

“Alright, that’s our cue,” Derek said as he all but carried Penelope away, glancing back over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “You two lovebirds stay out of trouble now.” He waggled his eyebrows, his voice dropping into a teasing, mock-serious tone. “And remember—use protection. I don’t need to be godfather to any surprise Reid juniors.”

Your face flushed at his words, and you let out an awkward laugh, waving him off. “Jeez!”

Spencer, equally flustered but trying to play it cool, cleared his throat and gave Derek a tight-lipped smile. “Goodnight, Morgan.”

“Night, pretty boy!” Derek called back, dragging Penelope out the door as she continued to mumble something about baby deer and heartbreak.

And then it was just you and Spencer, the bar a little quieter now that most of the team had gone, leaving an intimacy to the moment that hadn’t been there before. He looked at you, the smile on his face softer than it had been all night. “Well,” he said, voice low as he leaned a little closer, “looks like it’s just the two of us now.”

“Yeah,” you replied, meeting his eyes, feeling the warm, heady buzz of the night settling around you. “Just us.” 

Spencer's eyes were locked on yours, and for a moment, it seemed like time stood still around you both. The sounds of the bar, the chatter of remaining patrons, and even the buzz of the city outside faded into a background hum, leaving just you, him, and the heavy sense of something left unsaid. He didn't want another week of doubt, didn't want to leave this up to chance again, and it was that thought—that fear of missing out on whatever this was—that spurred him to do something he never would have considered before tonight.

He took a breath, inching closer to you, and you felt the shift immediately, the way his whole demeanor seemed to change—his usual hesitance giving way to a new, quiet confidence. You watched as his eyes flickered down to your lips, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze again. And then, before you could say anything, before you could second-guess or tease him for the boldness, he leaned in.

The warmth of him enveloped you, and you felt the soft tickle of his breath against your ear, making your skin tingle. His voice was low, intimate, and sent a shiver down your spine as he spoke. “I don’t... I don’t want to let you walk out of here and spend another week wondering if you’re thinking about me the way I’m thinking about you.”

You turned your head slightly, your noses almost brushing as you found yourself face-to-face with him, his eyes so close to yours that you could see every fleck of gold and green in their depths. “Spencer...” you whispered, your voice breathy and light, caught somewhere between surprise and excitement. 

“Come home with me?” he asked, his voice soft but filled with an urgency you’d never heard from him before. 

You nodded, the word catching in your throat as you stared at him, the world around you dissolving into just Spencer—the wild curls falling into his face, the way his eyes held yours as if there was no one else in the room. You half-expected him to kiss you then and there, the air thick with anticipation, your breath mingling, but instead, he did something that made your heart race even faster. 

He pulled back just slightly, that gentle smile never leaving his face, and grabbed your hand firmly in his. It was a simple gesture, but the way he intertwined his fingers with yours felt electric, like everything you'd both been holding back had suddenly found its outlet. And then, without another word, he tugged you along, weaving his way through the crowd, barely giving you a chance to react before he was guiding you out of the bar, his fingers tightening around yours as he dragged you toward the door.

You followed without hesitation, caught up in his momentum, and the night air hit you like a splash of cool water as you both stumbled outside. Spencer’s eyes darted around, searching for a cab, and his breath came fast—not from exertion, but from the sheer thrill of the moment, the heady realization that you were with him, that this was happening. 

As soon as he spotted an empty cab, his hand shot up, flagging it down. He opened the door for you, his eyes meeting yours once more, a question lingering in them—a last, silent “Are you sure?” But the look on your face was answer enough, filled with excitement, nerves, and that same intoxicating certainty.

He followed you into the backseat, and as soon as the door shut, his knee brushed yours, and he laced his fingers with yours again, not letting go for even a second. The cab driver’s voice was a distant hum as Spencer gave his address, and then the car pulled away, the city lights blurring by as you sat side by side, hands clasped together, hearts pounding in sync.

This was the beginning of something you couldn’t quite name, but you knew one thing for sure—there was no way either of you would let it slip through your fingers.

The cab ride felt like an eternity, yet all too brief at the same time. Spencer's hand never let go of yours, fingers entwined tightly as if holding on for dear life. He was trying so hard to stay composed, but you could see it—the way his knee bounced nervously, how his thumb traced tiny circles over your knuckles, his breath quickening each time your shoulders brushed. You were both suspended in that heady anticipation, caught between knowing and not knowing what would happen next, and it made every second feel electric.

When the cab finally pulled up in front of his apartment, Spencer fumbled with his wallet, tossing cash to the driver with an almost frantic urgency. You followed him out into the night, and the minute your feet hit the pavement, he was pulling you along with him again, guiding you up the steps to his building, his grip still tight on your hand. 

You hardly noticed the details of his apartment building as you rushed up the stairs. Every step felt like a race, a heartbeat, and you were both half-running, half-laughing, breaths coming fast from excitement more than exertion. And then you were at his door, and Spencer’s fingers were shaking just slightly as he worked the keys, the metal clinking in his hands before the lock finally clicked open. 

The door swung open, and the two of you tumbled into his apartment, breathless and caught up in the whirlwind of it all. For a split second, the room seemed still, the tension thick as you stood in his entryway, just inches apart. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, could see the way his chest rose and fell with every shallow breath, and you waited—waited for that final move, for him to close the space between you.

And then he did.

Spencer's hand cupped your cheek as he leaned in, eyes locking on yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. And when his lips finally met yours, soft yet urgent, it was like fireworks—white-hot and bright behind your eyes, the world exploding into a thousand colors and sensations. The kiss was everything and nothing like you’d expected: gentle yet hungry, trembling yet sure, like he’d been holding back for so long and finally, finally let the dam break.

You melted into him, your hands finding the front of his shirt, balling up the fabric in your fists to pull him closer. His other hand slid around your waist, drawing you in until there was no space left between your bodies, just heat and breath and the taste of him, sweet and real. You could feel him smile against your lips, a quick exhale of a laugh as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening either, but didn’t want to stop long enough to find out if it was a dream.

The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, and he pulled you even closer, backing you up against the door until you were pressed against it, the wood cool against your back while every inch of him pressed into you. One of his hands tangled in your hair, his fingers threading through the strands as if anchoring himself to you, and you tilted your head, letting him kiss you deeper, letting the kiss say all the things the two of you hadn’t yet put into words.

You could feel the thrill, the longing, the nervousness all at once, but there was also something so simple, so right in the way you fit together.

Spencer’s mind was spinning, like he was trying to piece together a thousand thoughts and sensations all at once. Finally having you in his arms—feeling the warmth of your body pressed to his, the taste of your lips—was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Sure, it had only been two weeks since he met you, but the intensity was overwhelming. Every touch, every kiss was like kindling, igniting a fire in him that burned hotter and brighter than he knew was possible.

And you? Being held so close by him, feeling his desperation and his need, made your heart race with its own frantic rhythm. It was an honor to be desired like this, especially by someone like Spencer—someone so brilliant, so genuinely good, and so intensely captivated by you. And to think that you’d had a secret crush on him for the last six months, ever since you first started at the FBI. You had admired him from a distance—the genius profiler, the man who seemed to know so much yet still carried himself with a gentle shyness that only made him more endearing. You’d never thought he’d even notice you, let alone look at you like this, like you were the only thing in the world he wanted.

When he finally started to notice you—those glances, the excuses for “technical help” that grew more and more frequent—you felt your world tilt on its axis. The way he looked at you was different from how he looked at anyone else, and when his eyes locked with yours, you could feel yourself leaning into that gravitational pull, your heart skipping in time with his.

“Y/N...” Spencer’s voice came out as a whisper against your lips, trembling and rough, like he was fighting to keep control, fighting to hold himself back just enough to give you the choice. “I want you so bad... please say I can have you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you let out a soft, almost breathless laugh, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. The need in his eyes, the raw desire that seemed to consume every part of him—it was everything you’d secretly wished for, everything you’d imagined late at night when your mind wandered to the idea of being his.

“You can,” you breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him, to let him see the truth in your eyes. “You can have me, Spencer. I’m yours.” 

And that was all it took for the dam to break. Spencer’s mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time, a deep, desperate need spilling from his lips to yours as he kissed you like he was starved for you. He pressed you harder against the door, and his hands roamed your body—first up your sides, then down to your waist, finally settling on your hips as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you. 

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on, and he groaned softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating through you and making your knees go weak. You wanted all of him—his intensity, his passion, and the vulnerable tenderness that only made you crave him more.

“Tell me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and ragged. “Tell me what you want. I want to know... I need to know.” His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the urgency in every movement, every touch, like he was holding on to the very thing he’d dreamed of but never thought he could have.

You looked at him, the intensity of his gaze holding you captive. “I want you, Spencer,” you said softly, your voice filled with all the longing you’d kept hidden for so long. “I want everything with you. Right now.”

Spencer's grin was wicked and hungry, and the look in his eyes left you feeling like you were the only person in the world. You could see the wheels turning behind them—he was trying to make sense of what you wanted, to understand the boundaries, to feel out how much of himself he could give without overstepping. And when you said you wanted "everything," his mind had latched onto one word, one meaning: sex. That was something tangible, something he knew how to give, even if his experience was limited. 

If that was what you were willing to give, he would take it gladly, wholeheartedly—because how could he not? But deep down, beneath all the desire and adrenaline, Spencer craved so much more than just the physical. He had wanted you in ways he couldn’t articulate—ever since you’d started drifting into his orbit. He wanted late-night conversations, sleepy mornings, whispered confessions. He wanted everything you could give him, but if all you meant by "everything" was this, he would be grateful for that, too.

“I’ll give you everything,” he murmured, and his grin grew as he leaned in to kiss you again, nipping at your bottom lip before pulling away just slightly. “But maybe we move to the bedroom first?”

Your breath hitched, and you could feel that flutter of excitement and nerves in your chest—the reality of the moment crashing over you like a wave. His words were laced with promise, but it wasn’t the promise you’d thought you were making. To you, “everything” meant his mornings, his afternoons, his nights. His laugh, his thoughts, his fears. You’d been hoping that what had been building between you would lead to more than just the physical; that it would be the start of something that might change both of your lives.

But he’d taken your words as permission to have you tonight—just tonight—and it stung, deep and sharp, like a thorn pricking at your heart. Maybe you’d been wrong to hope for more, wrong to believe there was something real between you beyond just lust and impulse. But if this was all Spencer wanted, then maybe that was enough for now. Maybe it could be enough to have him like this, to be close to him, even if just for one night.

“Yeah,” you said, swallowing the emotions rising in your throat as you forced a smile, doing your best to mirror his energy, to make it seem like you wanted the same thing he did. “The bedroom sounds good.”

He took your hand, his fingers lacing with yours once again, and you tried to push away the disappointment that sat like a stone in your chest. He led you down the hall, fumbling as you both stumbled through the doorway to his room, all tangled limbs and laughter. Spencer tugged you close as soon as you stepped inside, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him, his mouth finding yours once more in a feverish, open-mouthed kiss. And for a second, just a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that maybe there was more behind his touch—that maybe this wasn’t just about tonight.

“You’re so gorgeous, darling,” Spencer murmured, his voice thick with desire as his fingers tangled in the fabric of your blazer. His knuckles brushed against your skin, and his eyes were dark, wide, as if taking in every inch of you all at once. He hesitated for a moment, searching your face, and when he found nothing but eagerness in your eyes, he whispered, “Can I take this off?”

You nodded quickly, the movement of your head almost frantic, and Spencer didn’t waste any time. His hands moved to the buttons of your blazer, deft but slightly trembling with anticipation as he worked his way down, one button at a time. And then, as the fabric slipped away, revealing your bare chest, he let out a low, shaky sigh. “Fuck...” he groaned, the word spilling from his lips like he couldn’t help himself, his eyes locked onto you as if he’d never seen anything so perfect in his life.

You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound light and airy as you reveled in the intensity of his gaze, in the way he looked at you like he was worshiping you. But your laughter quickly turned into a sharp gasp as his hands moved to your breasts, gripping them firmly yet tenderly, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. His palms were warm against your skin, and the way he touched you—like he was savoring every second, every inch—made heat pool in your belly.

Spencer didn’t give you much time to adjust before he dove back in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was hungrier, rougher than before. His fingers dug into your skin as he pulled you closer, molding your body to his as his mouth moved against yours in frantic desperation. Every movement, every brush of his lips, every squeeze of his hands sent sparks shooting down your spine, and you clung to him, matching his intensity with your own as you kissed him back.

He pressed you back toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, and you let him guide you, your back arching under his touch as you felt the cool air of his apartment against your skin, mixing with the heat of his mouth and hands. And the way he touched you, held you, kissed you, left you breathless—his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples, making your back arch dramatically. 

"Spencer!" you whined into the darkness, your voice breathy and desperate as you tangled your fingers in his hair, trying to pull him closer and drag him deeper into you. The sound of his name fell from your lips like a plea, and he shuddered at the way it sounded, every syllable dripping with want. 

"Mmm, say my name again," he groaned, loving the way it felt rolling off your tongue—how it made him feel like he was all you needed, all you wanted. 

“Make me,” you challenged, your voice dipping into a teasing taunt as you tugged lightly at his hair, daring him, pushing him to meet you on this knife’s edge between play and need.

Spencer’s eyes flashed, the darkness of the room amplifying the heat in his gaze. His mouth quirked into a dark smile, and he dipped down, kissing a burning path from your collarbone to your chest. He paused there, nipping at the sensitive skin, his teeth scraping against you, catching the bud of your nipple in his mouth. He held your gaze as he did it, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch in your throat. He sucked lightly, just enough to send a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body, your back arching off the bed. But still, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds, not willing to give in to him—yet.

"You want to play it like that?" he asked darkly, pulling back to hover over you, his voice a rough whisper that made your stomach flip. The challenge in his eyes, the way they glittered with a mix of hunger and determination, left you breathless, your body buzzing with anticipation.

You nodded, giving him wide, falsely innocent eyes that only spurred him on. "Yeah," you breathed, voice light and taunting, the hint of a smirk on your lips. "What are you gonna do about it, Dr. Reid?"

A growl escaped his throat, low and rough, and his hands moved to your waist, finding the zipper of your skirt. Slowly, methodically, he dragged it down, the sound of the metal teeth parting filling the silence between your racing breaths. He didn’t break eye contact as he did it, his fingers brushing along your hip, pushing the fabric down inch by inch, teasing you, making you wait—making you squirm.

"Let's see how long you can keep up that attitude," he murmured, his voice dark and dripping with promise. "I'm going to make you say my name, over and over, until it's all you can think about." 

And with that, Spencer dropped to his knees, pulling your skirt and underwear off the rest of the way, baring you to him in the darkness of his bedroom. The cool air kissed your skin, sending shivers down your spine as his hands moved to your thighs, parting them gently, your heart pounding so loudly it echoed in your ears. 

“I want to see how long before you’re begging,” he whispered, leaning down, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he nipped and kissed his way up. And as you felt the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands holding you open for him, all you could do was tremble under his touch, knowing that any control you thought you had was about to be undone.

“You still biting that tongue, sweetheart?” Spencer’s voice was husky, the tease wrapped around a threat, and it sent shivers down your spine. He hovered right over your wet, aching core, his breath fanning over you, warm and taunting. You were trying to hold it together, trying to stay strong in this little game you'd started, but it was getting harder and harder with every second that passed, every teasing word that left his lips. 

You nodded, the attempt at maintaining composure faltering as a high-pitched, needy "mhm" escaped your throat—a sound more squeak than word. 

Spencer’s eyes narrowed with dark satisfaction, and he huffed a breath, his laughter rumbling from his chest as it ghosted across your most sensitive skin. The sensation drove you wild, made your thighs tense as you tried desperately to keep your composure, to hold back the moan threatening to tear out of you. But then he spoke again, his voice a teasing lilt as his eyes stayed locked on yours, and it was almost too much to handle. 

“Oh, I’m going to have fun with this,” he said, and without another word, he dove in. 

His tongue licked a long, deliberate stripe through your folds, flattening out as if he were savoring every inch of you, the wetness of his mouth sending heat crashing through your entire body. And then he did it again, his tongue gliding through you like he was on a mission—hungry, eager, like he was trying to win a pie-eating contest. Every movement was frantic yet precise, a perfect blend of urgency and skill, his tongue moving against you in ways that made you see stars.

The laughter melted into pure focus as he went to work, his tongue circling and flicking, finding all the places that made you gasp and arch and shake. And he never stopped, never let up, his mouth relentless in its pursuit, as if he wanted to draw every single sound out of you, to hear his name fall from your lips again and again. 

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging helplessly as the pleasure built and built, and you couldn’t bite back the moans any longer. His name was still held tight behind your teeth, but the noises were free flowing as he sucked on your clit.

Spencer moaned in response, the vibrations adding a whole new level of sensation that made your hips buck against his mouth. He held you steady with his hands, pinning your thighs down as he dove deeper, the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue on you filling the room. And you could feel it, that coil tightening and tightening, your whole body trembling on the edge, Spencer’s mouth pushing you closer and closer.

Spencer pulled back for a second, just enough for you to see the wet shine on his lips, the way his mouth was parted in a smug, wicked grin. “Not gonna break, darling?” he teased, the words slow and taunting as he traced his fingers lazily along your thigh, his eyes never leaving yours.

You shook your head harshly, your hair spreading messily across the pillow, breath coming in quick pants as you tried to maintain some semblance of composure. But it was getting harder. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of your body craving more of his touch, and all you could do was bite your lip and hope you could hold out a little longer.

Spencer let out a deep, dramatic sigh, as if he were genuinely disappointed. “Guess I’ll have to try something else then,” he murmured, and though the words sounded like he was relenting, you could see the glint in his eyes—the one that said he was far from finished with you.

Before you could even process what he meant, before you could prepare yourself for whatever he had planned, your world spun. He flipped your body over effortlessly, your stomach pressed against the mattress, and then he gripped your hips, pulling you up onto your knees. Your breath hitched in surprise, your face buried in the pillow for a second as you tried to brace yourself, your mind struggling to catch up with the sudden shift.

And then, before you could say a word, before you could even think, Spencer dove back in, his mouth finding you again with that same fevered intensity. But this time, he didn’t hold back. His fingers found your clit immediately, and he began rubbing tight, insistent circles, teasing and flicking the sensitive nub with just the right amount of pressure. 

You couldn’t help it—you moaned loudly, your body jerking back against his face, the sensation too overwhelming to contain. The change in position had made everything more intense, more exposed, and the way he was touching you was driving you to the edge so fast you could barely keep up.

“Spencer—” you gasped, your voice muffled as you pressed your face into the pillow, your hands clawing at the sheets for something—anything—to hold on to. But Spencer was relentless, his fingers moving expertly as he licked and sucked, his mouth working you over with a single-minded focus. 

“Louder,” he commanded against your skin between long, slow licks, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Let me hear you.” And with that, he doubled down, his fingers pressing harder, his mouth driving you absolutely wild, the wetness and heat of him pushing you further and further until there was nothing left to hold back.

Your body trembled, and you felt the pressure building, your resolve crumbling, every breath coming out as a desperate plea, a broken cry. And all the while, Spencer kept at it, refusing to let up, determined to make you fall apart completely, to make you cry out his name like it was all you knew.

"Spencer... oh god, Spencer—" His name spilled from your lips over and over, breathy and desperate, unraveling any control you had left. The more you said it, the more it became a mantra, each syllable breaking apart in the waves of pleasure rolling through your body. Spencer’s eyes flickered up, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, so smug and sure as he watched you crumble.

“That’s right, baby,” he groaned, his voice low and dripping with satisfaction. It was all the encouragement you needed and all the power he needed to dive back in, his mouth working you with renewed determination. He gripped your thigh tighter, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, his fingers never relenting as they pressed circles against your clit in perfect rhythm with his tongue.

Every lick, every flick of his tongue sent jolts of pleasure crashing through you, and you felt your body tense and tremble, the pressure inside you building to an unbearable peak. It felt like he was everywhere at once—touching, tasting, teasing—and all you could do was give in to the relentless onslaught, your hands clawing at the sheets as your hips bucked involuntarily against his face.

Spencer moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core and pulling you closer and closer to the edge. He wanted to make sure you felt every second of this, every ripple of pleasure, his only focus on bringing you to completion—bringing you to the brink and pushing you over, completely undone by him.

“Spencer, please—” You barely recognized your own voice, high and ragged, pleading as that coil of pleasure twisted tighter and tighter in your belly. And he heard you—oh, he heard you loud and clear. His mouth moved with a purpose now, tongue swirling and flicking over your clit with his fingers as they quickened their pace, leaving you nowhere to go but over the edge, no choice but to fall.

And then, all at once, you shattered, your body arching as your orgasm crashed over you, hard and overwhelming. You cried out his name, a desperate, breathless sob of pleasure as waves of ecstasy washed through you, leaving you trembling and gasping under his touch. And through it all, Spencer never let up, his mouth and fingers guiding you through every second, every pulse, every blissful aftershock.

“Too much,” you whimpered, your voice coming out in a broken cry as Spencer’s tongue continued its work, lapping up everything you’d given him like he was savoring the taste of you. “Spencer!” The overstimulation was making your thighs quiver, your whole body twitching under his relentless touch, and you reached down to push at his head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to pull away.

Spencer let out a satisfied hum, and then he gave one last slow, deep suck against you, drawing out every ounce of your pleasure until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. He finally pulled back, placing a gentle kiss to your thigh before giving your ass a playful slap, just hard enough to make you flinch and then giggle softly, your breath coming out in a tired, happy sigh.

“Are you still with me, sweetheart?” he asked softly, his voice gentle and full of concern as he moved up the bed, helping you flip back over so you were lying face-up, sprawled across his mattress. He settled in next to you, his body warm and solid against your side, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, his fingers tracing soft, soothing circles against your stomach. 

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath, your body buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out small and breathless. “I’m... I’m here.” You turned your head to look at him, meeting his eyes, which were full of adoration, his expression soft and open in a way that made your heart swell. 

Spencer smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, his fingers never stopping their gentle stroking against your skin. “Good,” he whispered, his voice low and tender. “You were amazing.” He brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his gaze lingering on you like he was memorizing every detail, every moment. “I hope... I didn’t push too far.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head and giving him a tired but contented smile. “You were perfect.” You reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his jawline as you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. 

He kissed you back, slow and sweet, holding you close as the two of you lay there, tangled up in each other, the room still buzzing with the energy of what had just happened. And as he held you, his touch gentle and soothing, you felt safe, wanted, and completely, utterly his.

But then your brain finally caught up with your body, reality rushing in to fill the spaces left by pleasure. You couldn't ignore the truth any longer—this wasn’t a relationship, it was a hookup. You'd wanted everything from him, but right now, it seemed like "everything" only meant the physical. And as much as you wanted to lose yourself in the warmth of his touch, the closeness, the tenderness, you reminded yourself that this was just tonight. That he probably didn’t want to cuddle, or hold you, or whisper sweet words to you in the dark.

So you gently pushed his hand away, your touch soft but firm as you sat up, putting just enough distance between the two of you. You felt his eyes on your back, confusion, maybe even concern, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. It was easier to keep moving, to give yourself a new focus rather than dwell on the ache in your chest.

“Is something wrong?” Spencer asked, his voice gentle but tinged with a hint of worry, like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. He scooted up beside you, trying to catch your eye, the warmth of his body still lingering against your side. 

You shook your head quickly, biting your lip as you steeled yourself, pasting on a smile that you hoped looked genuine. “No, not at all,” you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too eager. “I’m... just returning the favor.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes darkening with arousal at the thought, but there was something else there too—something quieter, sadder. He couldn’t hide the way his expression flickered, the way the tension in his face softened into something more resigned. “Oh,” he breathed out, trying to cover the disappointment in his voice as his stomach twisted. For a moment, he'd thought this could be more than just sex—that maybe you’d want to stay wrapped in his arms, share whispers and touches until the morning. But as he looked at you now, as he saw the way you sat up and turned away, it became clear that wasn’t the case. 

And yet, the feel of your skin, the taste of your lips, and the way you were looking at him now with that determined glint in your eye—he couldn’t deny how much he wanted you. Even if just like this. 

“Right,” he said, shifting slightly to lie back, his voice lower, more hesitant than it had been all night. “Of course. I... I’d love that.” But even as his words hung in the air, he could feel the growing disconnect between what he wanted and what was happening. His erection tightened under the arousal of what was to come but flagged slightly at the realization of what it meant—that this was just sex to you. 

His hand found it’s way to your thigh as he tried to steady himself, to focus on the pleasure and not the ache of being so close to something he couldn’t quite touch. You were right here with him, offering him everything in the only way you thought he wanted it, and for now, he would take it—however he could.

You grinned at Spencer, trying to mask the turmoil swirling inside you, hoping that the sly smile you wore could hide the aching confusion beneath. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, and you let your eyes flick over his face, memorizing every feature, every little detail—the way his eyes were half-lidded with arousal, the blush dusting his cheeks, the anticipation tightening his body beneath yours. It was easier to focus on that, easier to lose yourself in the thrill of the moment than face the other thoughts circling in your mind.

You leaned down, pressing kisses along the column of his neck, feeling his breath catch as your lips brushed over his pulse, warm and quick beneath your touch. He tasted like salt and skin, and you let yourself revel in it as your hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, fingers working quickly as you popped each one open. You could feel his muscles tensing beneath your touch, his body responding to every kiss, every brush of your fingers.

Spencer’s hands found your hips, and he gripped you tightly as you straddled his lap, the warmth of you pressing down against his erection. His eyes fluttered closed as you kissed a path down his neck, teeth grazing lightly, and a low groan rumbled through his chest. He loved the way you felt on top of him, the way you moved, and the way your hands roamed across his skin.

You felt the way his fingers gripped tighter as if trying to ground himself in the moment, as you focused on how he looked beneath you. How beautiful he was in this light, with his shirt half-open and his chest rising and falling with each breath. You peeled back the fabric slowly, exposing his chest inch by inch, the cool air of the room meeting the warmth of his skin. 

"God, Spencer," you murmured against his collarbone, letting your voice drip with as much seduction as you could muster, your fingers splaying across his chest. “You look so good like this.” You hoped the words would cover the cracks in your voice, that he wouldn’t hear the faint tremor of uncertainty underneath.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hands moving up your sides, and he tilted his head back, giving you full access to him as he tried to focus only on you—on the feel of your body against his, on the way you were making him feel. “Yeah?” he whispered, his voice low and rough with want as he tried to keep himself steady. “You have no idea how much I want you.”

Your lips met his again, desperate and heated, trying to drown out any lingering questions with the taste of him and the feeling of his body pressing against yours, every inch of him wanting you, needing you. You could feel the hard length of him straining against his pants, and it only spurred you on more, hands moving quickly to strip him bare. You worked the button open, dragging his pants and boxers down his hips in one swift motion, eager to feel him, to be as close as possible.

When he was finally exposed, you couldn’t help but pause, taking him in for a moment. The sight of him—hard and ready, the flush of arousal painting him beautifully—left you breathless, and a gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Jesus...” you whispered, and it was all you could manage. 

Spencer’s chuckle was soft but nervous, his eyes searching yours, a hint of vulnerability in them despite the heat of the moment. He was waiting, holding back, and you knew he needed to hear something from you, anything that would reassure him, that would let him know you wanted this as much as he did. But the words got caught in your throat, overwhelmed by how badly you needed him, how badly you needed to feel him right then and there.

You didn't say anything else, letting your actions speak for you. With a confident ease, you climbed back up his body, pressing a line of kisses up his torso, then his chest, and finally back to his lips, never letting your eyes leave his as you aligned yourself over him. You reached between your bodies, guiding him to you, and in one smooth movement, you sank down on him, taking him inside, the stretch of him making your head fall back as you moaned low and long.

Spencer’s mouth fell open, a sharp breath escaping as he filled you, his hands gripping your hips with bruising strength, his eyes rolling shut as he fought to steady himself. "Oh my god," he groaned, his voice trembling with pleasure as he felt the warmth of you wrap around him, the way you held him tight, every inch of you fitting perfectly against him. 

You took a second to adjust, feeling the fullness of him, the way he stretched and pressed against every part of you, and then you started to move, slow and teasing at first, rolling your hips against him. The drag of him inside you, the way he fit, had you gasping and shaking, every movement sending sparks through your body.

Spencer looked up at you, his eyes dark and full of reverence, and his fingers dug into your hips, trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. “Y/N... oh god, you feel so—” But the words dissolved into another groan as you started to pick up your pace, the heat between you both building to a wild, frantic rhythm that neither of you could hold back from.

All the tension, all the desire from the past weeks melted into each thrust, each roll of your hips, until there was nothing left but you and him, lost together in the purest, most overwhelming pleasure.

Spencer’s hands gripped you tightly, guiding you down hard and deep with every roll of your hips, each thrust driving him further inside until he hit that perfect spot within you. The pleasure was all-consuming, and you couldn't stop the cries that poured from your lips, his name tumbling out of you over and over again, desperate and broken, as if you’d forgotten how to say anything else. 

“Spencer—oh god, Spencer—” You could feel the pressure building, your body tightening around him, and you rode him harder, faster, chasing that feeling, the peak that you were so close to reaching. Each thrust, each grind of your hips against his, brought you closer, the pleasure crackling through you like electricity, and all you could do was hold on and let it take you.

Spencer’s voice was a rough groan beneath you, his own control slipping as he watched you come undone. “God, sweetheart,” he moaned, his eyes locking on yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he took in the way you moved over him, the way you used him. “You’re just... using me to get off?”

You whined in response, unable to form any coherent words, your head nodding almost frantically as you chased that sweet release, riding him like it was the only thing that mattered. You dug your fingers into his chest, nails scraping lightly against his skin as you arched your back, letting every inch of him fill you, stretch you.

“That’s so goddamn hot,” Spencer groaned, his voice breaking as he thrust up to meet you, matching your rhythm. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, from the way your body rocked against his, the way you came apart with every movement. “God, you’re so... beautiful like this.”

He thrust up into you with even more force, spurred on by the desperate way you moaned his name, the way your body responded to him so perfectly. The feeling of you gripping around him, taking him so completely, had him on the edge, barely holding back, but he wanted to see you come undone first—to make you fall apart while you used him for your own pleasure.

And as you moved above him, both of you lost in the heat of it all, you knew you were close, so close, the pressure building and tightening until it was almost unbearable, every cry of his name pushing you closer to that edge, to the release that was just within your reach.

Spencer watched you intently, his gaze locked on your face as you rode him, taking in every little shift in your expression—the way your eyes squeezed shut, the furrow in your brow, the way your mouth fell open as you chased that high, so close to coming undone. He knew you were getting there, teetering right on the edge, and he wanted to be the one to push you over, to watch you fall apart completely.

He brought his fingers down to where your bodies met, finding your clit again. The touch was gentle at first, a teasing brush of his fingertips, and then he pressed down, rubbing firm, tight circles that matched the rhythm of your movements. The sensation sent shockwaves through you, the sudden stimulation pushing you closer, every nerve lighting up as his fingers worked in tandem with his cock inside you.

“Spencer!” you cried out, your voice cracking with pleasure as you jerked against him, your hips stuttering as you tried to keep up the pace, tried to keep that feeling going. But the way he touched you, the way he filled you, it was all too much, too perfect. You clenched tightly around him, your body trembling as the pressure inside you built to an almost unbearable peak.

“That's it, sweetheart,” Spencer groaned, his voice low and rough with desire as he felt you tightening around him, your walls pulsing, squeezing. “Come on, I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

And that was all you needed—all it took was that extra pressure of his fingers, the way his voice coaxed you, deep and sweet, and you couldn’t hold back any longer. The wave of pleasure crashed over you, and you cried out loudly, your entire body shaking as your orgasm washed through you, overwhelming and all-encompassing. You dug your nails into Spencer’s chest, your head falling back as your hips bucked against his, clenching around him tightly, rhythmically, drawing him even deeper as the pleasure rolled over you in wave after wave.

Spencer watched you come undone, his eyes drinking in every second of your release, feeling every pulse and tremor as you came around him. And God, the way you fell apart in his hands, the sound of your cries, your moans—it drove him wild, pushed him right to the brink of losing control.

Spencer’s own release was close, too close to hold back any longer as he felt you pulsing around him, your cries of pleasure echoing in his ears. He couldn’t last, not with the way you were trembling, the way you were milking him with every pulse of your orgasm. 

With a shaky groan, he quickly pushed your body off of his, the movement almost frantic, and you landed on your back beside him. He wrapped his hand around himself, working his length fast and hard, chasing his own high with ragged breaths. He leaned over you, his eyes never leaving yours as he pumped himself, his strokes quick and desperate as he watched you, your face still flushed and blissed-out from your release.

“Fuck—” he choked out, and then, with a few more rough strokes, he finished, spilling hot across both your stomachs, his eyes squeezing shut as he came undone. His groans were deep and guttural, his hips jerking as he rode out his climax, and he kept pumping himself, milking every last drop as it painted your skin, hot and slick.

He stilled above you, panting heavily as he slowly came back down, his body trembling as he tried to catch his breath. The sticky heat of his release covered both of you, mingling between your skin, and for a moment, all you could hear were the soft gasps of breath between you, the air thick with the heady scent of sweat and sex.

You wanted nothing more than to cuddle up beside Spencer and melt into his warmth, to trace the lines of his face with your fingertips and let yourself fall completely into this moment. But you knew better. You knew that if you stayed, if you let yourself indulge in the comfort of his arms and the soft, gentle post-coital haze that hung between you, you’d only fall for him harder. And you couldn’t do that—couldn’t let yourself want more than what this was supposed to be.

So you forced a laugh, light and casual, as you started to pull yourself up, peeling away from the tangled sheets and the heat of his body. You felt Spencer’s eyes on you, heard the confusion in his voice when he spoke. “Where—where are you going?” he asked, his voice still heavy with exhaustion and bliss, soft and a little vulnerable as he propped himself up on his elbow to look at you.

You turned to him, trying to keep your tone easy, like this wasn’t a big deal, like the moment you just shared didn’t make your heart want to explode with everything you felt for him. “Um, pee,” you said quickly, avoiding his eyes as you reached for your scattered clothes, finding tissues for your stomach before pulling your clothes on. “And then... home.”

“Home?” The word came out small and tired, and he pushed himself up a little further, watching you with a furrowed brow. “But—”

“Where’s your bathroom?” You interrupted, flashing him a quick, forced smile. You could see the slight hurt flash across his face, but you kept going, not letting yourself dwell on it. You couldn’t let him see the hesitation, the way your hands were trembling slightly as you tried to gather yourself.

“Down the hall, to the left,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of that sleepy warmth, a touch of disappointment leaking in.

“Great, thanks,” you replied, already making your way out of the room before he could ask any more questions or before the guilt could creep up and make you stay. Because if you stayed, even for a second longer, you were afraid you’d never leave.

After taking a moment in the bathroom to compose yourself, you splashed some water on your face, staring at your reflection. You tried to convince yourself that this was the right thing to do—that leaving now, before things got any more complicated, was what you both needed. But as you stepped out, walking back down the hall and catching a glimpse of Spencer waiting for you near the front door, the resolve you’d tried to build up wavered. 

He looked... different. Still tousled from your time together, his hair a wild mess, and his shirt half-open, but his expression was carefully neutral, masking whatever he might be feeling behind a tired, gentle smile. You could see the hint of some almost sad in his eyes, the way he was trying to be a gentleman about it all.

“Let me... let me walk you out,” Spencer said softly, moving to open the door for you. He was trying to keep his tone casual, but you could hear the strain in it, the unspoken question in his voice—did this mean anything to you? Were you going to leave and forget what happened?

You nodded, swallowing down the knot in your throat as you stepped closer to him. “Thank you,” you said quietly, not really knowing what else to say. Your words felt small and empty against the weight of everything that had just happened, of everything you were leaving unsaid.

He held the door open for you, the cool air from the hallway washing over both of you. And as you stepped out into that space, Spencer followed you, walking just a little bit behind as if making sure you wouldn't change your mind at the last second and turn back around. The silence between you was heavy, filled with everything you wished you could say, but couldn’t find the words for. 

When you reached the doorway to the building, Spencer hesitated, his hand resting on the doorframe as he turned to you one last time, his eyes searching your face, looking for something—anything—that might give him a reason to ask you to stay. But all he could do was give you that same tired, bittersweet smile, the one that tried to be reassuring, like this was just another night, even though both of you knew it wasn’t.

“So... um, thanks,” you said awkwardly, glancing down at your feet, not wanting to meet his eyes. You could feel the warmth of his gaze on you, the way he was trying so hard to keep his composure, to act like this was okay when it was anything but. “For tonight. It was...”

“Yeah,” Spencer said quickly, nodding as if to cut you off, to spare you from having to finish the thought. “Yeah, of course. Thank you for... everything.”

He was trying to act like it didn’t hurt, like he wasn’t struggling to let you go. He reached out to open the door fully, stepping aside to let you through, and you could see the way he forced himself to smile, to be the gentleman that he always was, no matter how much it stung.

“Goodnight,” he said softly, his voice gentle but edged with something fragile.

You nodded, giving him one last smile before stepping out into the hallway, letting the door close behind you. And as you walked away, hearing the faint click of the lock as Spencer closed the door to his apartment, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were making a mistake by leaving, or if you were saving yourself from the hurt and rejection that you didn’t want to face.

—

Monday morning came with a bustle of energy through the bullpen—the start of a new week and, for the team, the renewed curiosity about what had gone down between Spencer and his "girl." It didn't take long for the teasing to start, either. From the moment Spencer walked in, sipping his coffee and trying his best to shake off the weekend’s melancholy, he could see the glances, the grins that were being traded across the room like secrets.

Derek was the first to pounce, of course. “Well, well, well,” he called out as Spencer passed by his desk. “There he is—the man of the hour. So, pretty boy, how was your weekend? Got any fun stories you want to share?” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and a smirk plastered across his face as if he knew exactly what kind of weekend Spencer had.

JJ joined in, setting her file down and giving Spencer a warm, knowing smile. “Yeah, Spence, you seemed... pretty cozy on Friday night.” She wagged her eyebrows playfully, nudging Emily, who tried to cover a laugh with a sip of her coffee.

Spencer felt his face flush, his mind immediately going back to every detail of the weekend—the feel of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way your voice had wrapped around his name. But that was quickly overshadowed by the stark reality of how it had ended, the way you’d quietly slipped away from his apartment, leaving him standing alone at his door with that empty feeling gnawing at his chest. He tried to push those thoughts away, forcing a smile that he hoped looked genuine.

“It was... good,” he said, his voice strained but steady as he tried to keep things light, to play along. He didn't want to reveal how much it hurt, how much he missed you already, and how little he understood what had gone wrong. “I’m hoping to see her again soon.”

“Good?” Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “That's all you got for us? Come on, Reid, you two were practically eye-fucking all night. Don’t tell me nothing happened after we left.”

Spencer's stomach twisted painfully at the mention, but he kept his smile plastered on, his eyes darting between Derek, JJ, and Emily, who were all watching him like hawks. It stung—the teasing, the jokes, all the assumptions that this was some carefree fling. But he nodded along, chuckling softly, trying to play the part they wanted to see. “Yeah, well... we, uh, definitely had fun,” he said, voice dipping into a joking tone to cover up how much it hurt to talk about. “I mean, we’ll see what happens. But yeah, I’d like to see her again.”

“Yeah, you better,” JJ added with a teasing smile. “Don’t let her get away, Spence. She seemed really into you.”

Spencer could only nod, his jaw clenching as he forced another smile, wishing he could know what was going on in your mind—whether you felt the same tug he did, the same yearning to make this more than just a fleeting encounter. But he didn’t know, and it left him trying to walk the tightrope between hope and disappointment, pretending like he was confident it would all work out when he had no idea if he’d ever see you again. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, more to himself than to anyone else. “I hope so too.” 

And with that, he settled down at his desk, burying himself in case files and paperwork, doing his best to ignore the ache that had settled in his chest—an ache that wouldn’t go away until he knew for sure whether that night was a beginning or just a beautiful, painful end.

—

It was a slow, uneventful morning until Hotch's computer decided to crash—a rare occurrence, almost as if it was a twist of fate. Penelope Garcia had called in sick, leaving the team without their usual tech support, and within minutes, someone had dialed down to IT, asking for assistance. And that someone, by sheer luck or cruel coincidence, was you. 

You hadn't seen Spencer since that night two weeks ago, since you’d slipped out of his apartment with all the confused, conflicting emotions weighing you down. And now, you were walking into the lion’s den again, nervous energy buzzing in your veins as you stepped off the elevator and into the BAU's office. 

You did a quick sweep, your eyes flickering around the bullpen, half hoping to catch sight of him, half praying you wouldn't. But Spencer wasn’t there. Relief flooded you, though it didn't completely ease the tension that coiled in your chest as you made your way to Hotch’s office, trying to keep your head down and your nerves at bay.

Inside the office, Hotch greeted you with his usual calm, professional manner, moving aside to let you work on his computer. You kept your focus on the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard as you tried to fix whatever issue had brought you there. In the background, you could hear the faint chatter of the team, the sounds blending into an indistinct hum as you concentrated on the task at hand.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer had just returned from the breakroom, a cup of coffee in his hand, his eyes wandering across the bullpen as he made his way to his desk. Emily couldn’t resist the opportunity to stir the pot. “Hey, Reid,” she said with a teasing glint in her eye, leaning over to speak low enough for only him to hear. “Your girl’s here.”

Spencer froze, his heart skipping a beat at her words. “What?” he asked, his voice hitching slightly as he glanced around, searching for you. He’d all but given up hope on seeing you again, the past two weeks of silence gnawing at him more than he cared to admit. And now, suddenly, there you were. His mind raced, torn between the rush of excitement and the cold twinge of nerves that settled in his stomach. What was he supposed to say? Would you even want to see him after how things had ended?

Before he could think too much about it, you emerged from Hotch’s office, closing the door softly behind you. You kept your eyes trained downward, trying to make yourself small, invisible. If you could just get back to the elevators without making a scene, maybe you could get out of there with your dignity intact. But, of course, luck wasn’t on your side today.

“Hey! IT’s finest!” Derek’s booming voice called out from across the bullpen, drawing all eyes to you instantly. You stopped in your tracks, cringing internally as a dozen pairs of eyes turned in your direction. Spencer’s included.

You forced a smile, though you could feel the tension behind it, as you made your way over to Derek, who was wearing a wide, friendly grin. “Hey, uh... how's it going?” you said, trying to sound casual even though your voice wavered slightly. You could feel Spencer’s eyes on you, and it took all your willpower not to look in his direction. Not yet.

“Pretty good, pretty good,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair. “You know, just solving crimes, catching bad guys. The usual.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “So... what's a pretty thing like you doing back here? Finally caved and came to see our boy Reid?”

Your face heated instantly, and you let out an awkward laugh, shaking your head. “No, no, just... just fixing Hotch’s computer,” you said, holding up your hands in mock surrender. “Nothing more exciting than that, I promise.”

“Sure, sure,” Derek said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But come on, don’t tell me you’re just here for tech support.” 

You could feel the tension in your shoulders tighten, and you stole a quick, hesitant glance at Spencer. He was standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on you, and there was something soft, almost hopeful in the way he looked at you. It made your heart clench, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“Uh...” You cleared your throat, trying to pull yourself together, to keep things professional. “Yeah, just here for the tech support today. Don’t want to distract you guys from your very important crime-solving.” You flashed another smile, this one a little tighter, hoping that Derek would let it go, that he wouldn’t push any further. 

But it was clear from the look on his face that he wasn’t going to make it that easy. “Right,” he said, leaning back in his chair, dragging out the word and giving Spencer a sidelong glance. “But maybe you could let Reid walk you out. Y’know, since you’re here and all.”

The suggestion hung in the air, and you felt the eyes of the team flicker between you and Spencer, waiting for one of you to say something, to acknowledge the elephant in the room. And there it was—your chance, your opening. But all you could do was stand there, your mouth dry, your heart pounding as you tried to figure out what to do next.

“Sure,” Spencer said quickly, nodding before his nerves could make him hesitate, walking up to you and motioning for you to follow him. The entire bullpen was alive with curiosity, but he just needed to get you out of there, to talk to you without the eyes and teasing of the team on him. You let your feet carry you forward, not thinking too much about what was happening, just moving, as if the mere act of walking with him would help you find the right words.

When the two of you reached the elevators, safely out of earshot of the others, Spencer hit the button, and the metallic doors loomed before you both, a quiet hum in the background as you stood there in a tense, uncertain silence. “How are you?” he asked after a beat, his voice gentle, like he was feeling his way through the dark.

“Good, yeah,” you said with a small smile, nodding, trying to seem relaxed, like seeing him again wasn’t sending your heart into overdrive. “You?”

“Alright,” he said, but the word felt tight on his tongue, and the forced smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifted on his feet, nervous but determined to get the words out. “Listen... uh, I would love to see you again.” His eyes searched yours, hopeful but guarded, waiting to see how you would respond, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread.

Your heart hammered in your chest at the unexpected proposal, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral. See you again? What did he mean—see you like a date? See you like the last time? The possibility twisted your insides, and you tried to tamp down your excitement, afraid of reading into something that wasn’t there. “Like, um, like a friends with benefits kind of thing?” you asked, your voice dropping to a hush, your eyes darting away from his as you felt your cheeks flush.

Spencer’s eyes widened at the suggestion, and for a moment, he felt his heart crack painfully in his chest. Friends with benefits. The words echoed in his mind, a harsh reminder that maybe that was still all you saw him as—someone to fulfill a physical need, no strings attached. But he cleared his throat quickly, trying to hide the disappointment and keep his voice steady. If that was what you wanted, then he would take it, even if it wasn’t the everything he had hoped for. “If that’s what you want, yeah,” he said, nodding, his tone measured, trying to keep the hurt from creeping in.

You nodded slowly, mulling over the suggestion in your mind, and Spencer could see the wheels turning, the way you bit your lip as you processed. “Here,” you said suddenly, your voice sharper as you reached for your bag. “Let me give you my number. That way, um, we don’t have any more... mix-ups.”

Spencer fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his phone, and as he handed it to you, your fingers brushed for just a second, and he felt that familiar warmth between you, the spark that had drawn you together in the first place. He watched as you entered your number into his contacts, typing quickly, and he couldn’t help the tightness in his throat, that small flare of hope that maybe—just maybe—this could still turn into something more.

—

It didn’t turn into more. Whatever fragile hope Spencer had harbored that morning at the elevators was soon buried beneath a pattern—one that quickly set the boundaries of what you and he were to each other. It became late nights where desire spoke louder than words, where you tangled together in sheets, sweaty limbs intertwining as your bodies moved in frenzied desperation, searching for relief in each other’s touch.

There were stolen moments in showers, hurried, steam-filled exchanges that left the water cold by the end. The couches became your playground, backs arching and cries muffled into cushions. Once, in a fit of passion, you even found yourselves in his car, fogging up the windows until the world outside was nothing but a blurred haze of headlights and stars. And then there was that one reckless, electrifying night when you found yourselves in an empty office at the bureau, your hands gripping the edge of a desk as Spencer pressed into you from behind, your lips swollen from rough, unrestrained kisses.

It was hot, it was desperate, it was everything you could’ve ever asked for physically—but it was also never enough. And that was the problem. 

Each time you met, you felt yourself slipping further, falling harder, wanting more than just his body. It was becoming impossible to ignore the way you longed for the tenderness in his eyes, the way you craved his words, his thoughts, the parts of him he only showed in stolen, fleeting glimpses when you let your guard down for just a moment. And that longing terrified you. So you built up walls, retreating into the comfort of what was familiar and safe, convincing yourself that if you just kept things purely physical, if you kept your heart locked away, you wouldn’t have to feel the ache of wanting more than he was willing to give.

You started avoiding his gaze during your meetings, your eyes focused on the patterns of the ceiling, on the textures of the sheets, anywhere but on the way he looked at you with those wide, searching eyes, like he was begging you for something you knew he didn’t actually want. You chose to face away more often, burying your face in pillows, letting your hair cover the expressions you couldn’t bear to let him see. You kissed him less, keeping the physicality to hurried touches, heated grinding, and the frantic moments just before release. It was easier that way, you told yourself. Easier to pretend this was only sex, that you could handle it, that this was all you needed.

And you focused on the penetration, not intimacy—because that was the safe part, the part you could control. You held back from the slow, lingering touches, from the tender kisses that came after, from the whispered words of comfort and vulnerability that would only make you fall further. 

But Spencer noticed. He noticed every time you turned your face away, every time you shied from his kisses, every time you hurried to get dressed afterward as if you couldn’t stand to linger in his embrace for a second longer. He wanted to hold you, to pull you close, to ask you to stay. But every time he tried, every time he leaned in for more, he felt you pull away, felt you retreat back into that familiar distance, and each time his heart cracked a little bit more.

He tried to tell himself it was fine—that this was what you wanted, that this was all he deserved. He tried to lose himself in the pleasure, to focus on the way you felt around him, the sounds you made, the desperate way you held onto him as you came. But it was getting harder to ignore the ache that settled deep in his chest, the realization that no matter how often you came to him, no matter how many nights you spent tangled together, you would never feel more for him. Not the way he felt for you.

And so every meeting felt bittersweet—a desperate, beautiful lie that neither of you was willing to confront, even as it tore both of you apart piece by piece. You gave Spencer your body, but he wanted your heart. And every time you left his bed, leaving him alone in the darkness, he felt himself break a little more, knowing that, to you, he would never be more than just a hookup.

Even when you hung out with his team, those nights at O’Keefe’s where you and Spencer would laugh, joke, and play along with whatever assumptions the team had about you—those were the nights when everything felt right, even if it was all a pretense. There was an unspoken understanding between you both: in front of the team, you were allowed to touch each other casually, to drape an arm over his shoulder, to tease him playfully. You could let your walls down just enough to give the illusion of a couple, and it made things easier, simpler. And perhaps that was the irony of it all—pretending to be in love felt more real than any of the other moments you shared in the dark, tangled up in each other but hiding everything you really felt.

Those nights were both of your favorites, even if neither of you ever admitted it. You could spend hours at the booth, letting your fingers brush his under the table, leaning into him when he said something that made you laugh, seeing the way his eyes would soften when he looked at you. It felt natural, like you could actually be yourselves without the pressure of whatever complicated mess lay beneath the surface. You could talk—really talk. About books, movies, things you loved, things you hated. You’d tell each other stories, recounting things from your childhoods or sharing jokes that left you breathless with laughter, and you’d feel so comfortable, so close, that it almost felt like everything was normal, like everything was real.

And for Spencer, those were the nights when he could feel you—really feel you—in a way he never could when you were both alone. Because as much as he cherished the physical closeness you shared behind closed doors, the passion and the desperate intimacy of your bodies entwined, it was in these fleeting, stolen moments at O’Keefe’s that he felt closest to your heart. When you would reach for his hand under the table and smile softly at him, or when you would brush a lock of hair behind his ear, your fingers lingering on his skin, he could almost convince himself that you felt the same way he did—that this wasn’t just some elaborate charade.

But those nights would always end the same way: you and Spencer leaving together, waving goodbye to the team as if you were a couple heading home for the night, leaving them with knowing smiles and half-teasing jokes. But the minute you were alone, away from prying eyes, the reality would settle back in. You’d let go of his hand. You’d pull away, your laughter softening into something more guarded, more careful. And eventually, no matter how close the two of you got, no matter how much you both secretly wanted to stay together, you would leave. 

You would leave him alone at the end of the night—because you had to. Because letting things be more, letting things get real, meant giving up the safety of your carefully constructed distance. So you’d walk away, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the moments you cherished most were always fleeting, always just a little too far out of reach.

And Spencer would stand there, alone in the cold night, watching you go, holding on to the ghost of your touch and the bittersweet ache of wanting more. Because he knew, deep down, that these nights were all you would ever have, and he’d take them—even if they were only pretend, even if they left him lonelier than before.

One particular night, after a long day of cases and a gnawing loneliness that seemed to cling to him like a shadow, Spencer found himself needing more than just the physical—he needed to feel loved, to hear the affection you kept locked away in those moments when you were the most vulnerable. He needed something real, something that reminded him that this wasn’t just sex, even if only for a moment. He needed to feel like you were both giving something to each other.

You were on top of him, your bodies pressed tightly together, but Spencer’s mind was far from just the feeling of your skin on his. He craved that intimacy from your first night together—the way you’d whispered his name like a prayer, like it was the only thing you could think of, the only word that existed in that moment. His hands moved to your hips, guiding you in a slow, needy rhythm, his voice catching in his throat as he whispered, “Say my name... please, sweetheart. Just... please.”

But you shook your head, your movements hitching slightly as you tried to keep the steady pace between you, the friction that grounded you in the moment. “No,” you said simply, and it came out firm, leaving no room for ambiguity. It wasn’t a game this time, not a playful challenge like it had been before. It was the truth, and the truth was, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Saying his name made things too real—it cracked open the walls you’d built around your heart, made it harder to keep your feelings for him hidden.

Spencer’s face fell, but he masked it quickly, trying not to let his disappointment show. He gave a small, tight nod, and didn’t push for more, didn’t beg you the way he wanted to. He kept his hands on your hips, holding you close as you rocked against him, but something in him broke fully that night. A bitter realization set in—one that twisted the love he felt for you into something darker, something sharp and painful. 

He began to resent you. He resented you for how much he loved you, how he’d let himself fall so deeply for someone who couldn’t, wouldn’t, give him anything more than her body. He resented the way he craved your touch, the way you had become the person he wanted to see after every case, the person he wanted to come home to. And most of all, he resented how much of himself he was willing to give, only to be met with the cold reminder that this was all it would ever be to you—a hookup, a distraction, never more.

The resentment didn’t come all at once. It crept in like a slow poison, staining every moment you shared, every kiss you almost pressed to his skin, every time you left his bed without a backward glance. He started to pull away, his touches less gentle, his eyes more distant, and it became harder to ignore the walls you’d built between you both. But still, he couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t stop wanting you, couldn’t stop hoping that one day, maybe, you would say his name the way he so desperately wanted you to—like he was more than just a body beneath yours, like he meant something.

And so the nights went on, tangled in bedsheets and longing, both of you pretending not to notice the widening chasm between desire and what lay underneath it. But for Spencer, it became clear—painfully, heartbreakingly clear—that loving you was something he’d have to endure quietly, silently, as you continued to offer him your body but never your heart.

—

The night at O’Keefe’s was supposed to be like any other—one of the rare occasions you still went out with the team, where the drinks flowed freely, and everyone could let loose. You sat at the booth as you tried to laugh at Derek’s jokes, nod at JJ’s stories, pretend that everything was fine. But then you saw it—the way Spencer’s eyes lingered on the bartender as he got another drink, the slight lean-in of his body when they laughed at something he said. The way he flashed them that special smile you thought he reserved for you—the way they winked at him when they passed him his drink.

It broke you. Completely shattered the fragile facade you’d held on to for weeks. Your stomach churned at the sight, your heart feeling like it was being squeezed in a vice. He cares so little about me, you thought bitterly, that he could flirt right in front of me? And then what? Take me home afterward, like nothing had happened? Like I'm just a convenient body? 

As Spencer made his way back to the table, a satisfied, secret smile on his face—one that once would have made your heart flutter but now only made you feel sick—you couldn’t hold it together anymore. You shot up from your seat, brushing past him, barely able to mutter an excuse. He reached out for you, but you shook off his touch, your only focus on getting outside, on breathing, on escaping the sudden wave of tears that threatened to choke you.

“What was that about?” Emily asked, a frown forming as she watched you hurry away.

Spencer shrugged, his smile faltering as he looked back at the table, feeling a pang of anxiety. “I... I don’t know,” he said honestly, staring after you, his brow furrowing.

The team exchanged glances, and JJ leaned over, her voice gentle as she said, “Maybe you should go check on her, Spence. She’s your girlfriend; she probably needs you right now.”

Spencer’s mouth went dry at the word “girlfriend.” They all assumed—had assumed for months—that you were together, that you were a real couple. But in this moment, it didn’t matter what label they had put on it; it only mattered that something was wrong. He didn’t know why, but he needed to find out.

When he got outside, he saw you standing against the wall, your back to him, hands covering your face as you took deep, shaking breaths. The cold air turned every exhale into tiny clouds, and your shoulders trembled slightly as you tried to hold yourself together.

“Y/N?” he asked softly, his voice barely carrying above the nighttime sounds of the city. He didn’t want to startle you, but you whipped your head to look at him instantly, your eyes wide and pained, before you quickly turned away again, swiping at your face like you could erase all evidence of the tears.

“Are you okay?” Spencer tried again, taking a tentative step closer, his voice laced with concern.

“Yup,” you replied, voice wobbling against your hardest attempts to sound steady, your eyes darting upward, desperate to stop the tears from falling again. 

“Why are you out here?” Spencer's tone was gentle, and you hated how much care was in it. You hated how much you still wanted to hear it, even now.

“Just needed some air,” you said with a sniffle, your voice barely above a whisper. But it trembled, and you knew he could hear it. 

Spencer moved closer, finally getting a clear look at your face, at the tear-stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. “You’re crying,” he said softly, like he couldn't quite believe it.

You nodded slowly, and finally, you faced him fully, unable to hold back the swell of emotions any longer. “Um. I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, wiping the fresh tears away with the back of your hand.

Spencer’s brow furrowed deeper in confusion, and he took a step closer, wanting to reach for you but stopping short. “Why? Did something happen?”

You let out a bitter laugh, one that was more sob than amusement. “Yeah. I—uh, I fell in love with you.” The words tumbled out in a rush, harsh and ragged, and the moment they were out, you regretted it, wished you could take them back, swallow them down. But it was too late.

Spencer stood there, completely stunned, his face paling as he tried to process your words. “What?” he whispered, voice cracking on the word. He felt like the ground had just shifted beneath him, and he was scrambling to understand, to catch up to everything you were saying.

“It’s fine,” you said hurriedly, holding up a hand as if to stop him from saying anything more. “You don’t have to say it back or anything. I know you don’t feel the same. I didn’t mean to... I’m sorry.” Your lip wobbled, and you bit down on it hard, willing the tears to stay at bay. “Just—seeing you flirt with that bartender...”

Spencer’s face tightened, and he shook his head quickly. “I wasn’t,” he said, clearing his throat, trying to find the words. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“It’s okay, Spencer.” You felt another sob rise in your throat, and you pressed your hand over your mouth to stifle it. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’m not your girlfriend.”

Spencer bit his tongue, the words he wanted to say lodged painfully in his throat. He didn’t know how to tell you everything he felt, how to bridge the chasm that had grown between you over these past months. But as he stood there, looking at you with tears streaming down your face, the frustration and hurt bubbled up inside of him, and a bitter anger began to mix with the sadness. You were the one who pushed me away, he thought, the one who kept pretending not to care, and now you wanted to be angry at me?

“Do you...” Spencer started, swallowing thickly, the words like sandpaper on his tongue. “Do you still want to see each other?” He knew it was the wrong thing to ask, that it cut too close to the surface, but he needed to know. Needed to know if you wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was.

“For sex?” you scoffed, your voice cracking as you looked at him, the accusation plain on your face.

He nodded noncommittally, his face tight, unable to mask the frustration that twisted inside him. 

And that was it. You let out a sob, turning your face away from him, your shoulders shaking as you pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle the sounds. Without another word, you walked away quickly, your steps hurried and uneven as if you needed to get as far away from him as possible. 

Spencer stayed rooted to the spot, his feet unwilling to move, his mind racing with everything he should’ve said but didn’t. He wanted to chase after you, to tell you how much he loved you, how he’d been holding back because he was afraid you didn’t feel the same. But he didn’t. He just watched you go, the cold air biting at his cheeks, his breath puffing out in desperate clouds as he let you walk away. 

And he felt that sick, familiar emptiness settle in again—worse than before, knowing he’d just let you slip through his fingers.

Eventually Spencer walked back into O’Keefe’s like he was on autopilot, like someone else was moving his body for him while he watched from a distance. The noise of the bar—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation—washed over him like static, muted and hollow. All he could feel was the cold emptiness in his chest, the lingering sting of your words echoing in his mind. I fell in love with you... It's fine, you don't have to say it back. 

He sat down at the booth mechanically, his movements jerky and disconnected, and immediately felt the eyes of his team on him. The questions came quickly, concern laced in every voice, but Spencer could hardly focus on any of them, his mind spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“Hey, kid, what happened?” Derek’s voice cut through the fog, his tone gentle but firm, and Spencer felt the weight of his gaze, the protective instinct of a friend who could sense something was very wrong.

Spencer didn’t look up as he answered, staring blankly at the beer bottle in front of him. “She wasn’t feeling good,” he mumbled, hoping his voice didn’t waver. “She... left.”

“What?” JJ’s voice was soft but urgent, leaning in to catch his eyes. “Did something happen between you two?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer replied quickly, almost too quickly, forcing a tight-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. He took a sip of his drink, the bitter taste filling his mouth, but it did nothing to dull the ache in his chest. “She just... wasn’t feeling well. Needed to go home.”

The team fell into a tense silence, and he could feel their eyes on him, searching, probing for the real reason behind your sudden departure. Everyone had seen you two together, had seen the way you’d looked at each other. It was an unspoken truth, and now, they could all tell something had changed, something was deeply wrong.

“Spence...” JJ began again, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulled away slightly, trying to maintain what little composure he still had.

“Really, I’m fine,” he said, the words sharp in a way that was unlike him. He didn't want to talk about it, didn’t want to let the floodgates open and risk breaking down right here, in front of everyone. The team exchanged uneasy glances, but they didn’t push, sensing that this wasn’t just a lovers’ spat, that whatever had happened between you and Spencer was something bigger than they could grasp.

And so they let him be, filling the silence with half-hearted jokes and forced smiles as they tried to keep the night light, but the tension sat heavy between them. All the while, Spencer just sat there, staring into his drink, feeling like he was watching someone else go through the motions of this moment. Like the real him was still outside, staring after you as you walked away, trying to figure out when everything had gone so wrong.

—

You love him?

The words played on a loop in Spencer’s head, each syllable echoing through the empty spaces you’d left behind. You told him that night, outside O’Keefe’s, voice thick with hurt and vulnerability. You, the woman who occupied his thoughts, who made him feel things he’d never felt for anyone else—you loved him. And he’d just let you walk away.

He'd stood there stunned that night, unable to speak, unable to process the revelation that the woman he’d reluctantly, desperately fallen for felt the same way. In the days that followed, he convinced himself that it was for the best, that maybe this was the closure he needed. You’d go back to your separate lives, and he'd be free of the endless cycle of wanting more than you could give. Maybe he'd be able to finally move on.

But that conviction was short-lived. It only took a few days of silence, a few nights spent staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, to realize how hollow that freedom was. And the weeks that passed after that night only twisted the knife deeper. 

When there was an issue with the team’s tech and Penelope wasn’t around, it wasn’t you who showed up to fix it. It was some other IT person—someone with none of your charm, none of your wit. No one who would tease him, brush your fingers lightly against his arm as you leaned over his keyboard. And when they walked in, clipboard in hand, an unfamiliar face staring back at him, the ache in Spencer’s chest grew. He’d check his phone constantly, almost obsessively, hoping for a text, an email, anything. But his inbox remained empty, the silence between you growing deeper and more suffocating each day.

He started noticing the way his team watched him—the way they traded glances when he walked into the bullpen with his usual cup of coffee, the way their conversations dipped into softer tones when he came near. It was pity. Pity for the man who let his girlfriend walk away, who didn’t know how to make it right. They didn't know the truth—that you were never really his girlfriend. That you were never really his at all.

He missed you. He missed you so much that it became unbearable, the absence of you like a phantom limb—something he could still feel, but couldn’t hold, couldn’t touch. He missed the way you’d laugh with the team at O’Keefe’s, the way your eyes would meet his across the table, a secret smile shared between the two of you. He missed the way your hair would brush against his cheek when you leaned in to whisper something in his ear, the way your lips felt on his when the world melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled together.

And suddenly, O’Keefe’s wasn’t fun anymore. It was just another reminder of what he’d lost. Every time he walked in, he’d expect to see you there—half-hoping, half-dreading the sight of you. But you never came. You never showed, and it left an emptiness in the seat beside him that no one else could fill. 

The nights became the worst part. The silence in his apartment was deafening. He would lie in bed, replaying every moment you’d shared, every touch, every laugh, every whispered word. He could still see the way you’d looked at him when you told him you were in love with him—how your voice wavered with fear, how you tried to cover it up with a laugh as if you could take the words back as soon as they left your lips. He’d let you say them, he’d heard the truth in them, and still, he let you walk away. What kind of fool lets the person they love walk away?

And so it hit him, with a force that left him breathless: Even if you kept him at an arm’s length forever, even if you could never give him everything he wanted, he would still want you. He didn’t need you to be perfect, didn’t need you to promise him the world—he just needed you. The way you made him laugh, the way you challenged him, the way you made his life feel full and bright and real. Even if it meant spending more nights pretending and holding back, Spencer would take it all just to have you close.

Because a life without you—without your smile, your laugh, your presence—is a life he no longer wanted to live. He missed you. He loved you. And he was willing to fight for you, even if it meant picking up the broken pieces of what you both had shattered, putting them back together in any way that would keep you from slipping through his fingers again.

Once Spencer made up his mind, there was a fire inside him—a determination to make things right, to get you back, to show you that he was willing to do whatever it took. He’d spent too many weeks stuck in silence, stuck in regret, and if there was even the smallest chance you’d have him back, he was ready to fight for it. He was already forming a plan in his mind, trying to figure out the words to say, the way to make you see that he’d give you everything he had, no matter how messy or complicated it got.

But before he could put that plan into action, it all came crashing down around him.

It was Penelope who stopped him in his tracks. He’d been pacing the bullpen, trying to work up the nerve to figure out how to reach out to you—how to make that first move—when he saw the look on her face. She was standing near her desk, files forgotten in her hands, her eyes fixed on him with that soft, all-too-knowing expression. And it was enough to make his stomach twist uncomfortably, anxiety clawing at his chest.

“What’s up, Garcia?” he asked, hesitantly, trying to keep his voice steady as he approached her.

She gave him a sympathetic smile, the kind of smile that said she knew far more than she was letting on, and it made Spencer's heart sink. He hated that look, the pity, the way it made him feel like he was already defeated. “Did you hear?” she asked, her voice gentle, as if she was trying to break bad news without shattering him completely.

“...hear what?” he replied, suddenly on edge, the nerves tightening in his chest like a vice. He felt like the floor was slipping out from under him, and he braced himself for whatever she was about to say.

“Oh, honey.” Penelope sighed deeply, placing a hand over her heart as if the words hurt her as much as they were about to hurt him. “Tony in IT asked Y/N out.”

And just like that, Spencer felt his entire world tilt, his heart dropping straight to his stomach. It felt like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of him, leaving him stunned and spinning. He was too late. 

“Tony?” he whispered, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “They... they asked her out?” 

Penelope nodded, looking at him with that same expression—so much pity, so much sympathy that it made him want to scream. “Yeah,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “I heard it from them this morning. They said she seemed like she could use a night out, so they asked her.” 

Spencer’s mind raced, every thought muddling together, tangled up in the image of you and Tony, smiling, laughing, kissing. He could barely think straight. Tony—some other person—getting the chance to be close to you, to make you happy. Someone else doing what he’d been too afraid to do. And he knew Tony; they were charming, easygoing, exactly the type of person who could sweep you off your feet, and that thought twisted the knife deeper.

“Did she... did she say yes?” Spencer asked, barely recognizing his own voice, which came out quiet and small, barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Penelope said, her hand gently touching his arm. “But... Spencer, I just thought you should know. In case...” She trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence, because Spencer understood exactly what she meant. In case it was too late. In case Tony had already taken the place he’d left open.

He stood there, numb, the walls of the bullpen closing in on him as reality settled in like a heavy weight on his chest. He was too late, and the plan he’d spent days building up in his mind shattered into pieces at his feet, leaving him standing in the wreckage of what could’ve been.

—

You stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, not knowing exactly how to respond to Tony’s hopeful smile. Their offer to take you out caught you off guard, and for a moment you just stared at them, trying to form a polite letdown that wouldn’t hurt their feelings. After all, you thought to yourself, Tony was one of the nicest people in the building. 

“Oh, Tony,” you sighed eventually, feeling a wave of guilt for having to reject their offer. “That is so sweet, I’m just... not looking for anything right now.”

Tony’s smile didn’t falter for a second. They nodded their head, understanding written all over their face as if they’d half expected your answer. “That’s alright!” They said quickly, raising their hands in a surrendering gesture. “We could still go out as friends. You seem like you could use one.”

The kindness in their voice, the way they looked at you like they genuinely wanted to help, made your heart warm. You hadn’t expected them to pivot so easily, to offer friendship instead of romance, and it felt... nice. Like maybe you weren’t as alone as you felt. “Thank you,” you said softly, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down. “I—I do need a friend. That would be great.”

It had been a miserable few weeks, a spiral of regret and heartbreak after you’d confessed your love to Spencer. The words had slipped out before you could stop them, unguarded and vulnerable, and you had no idea what you were thinking when you said it. All you knew was that watching him flirt with someone else made something in you snap, and suddenly all those bottled-up emotions had spilled out, uncontrolled. But the second the words were in the air, you’d known it was a mistake. You were perfectly content to hold it back forever, to let your love for him simmer quietly in the background if it meant keeping Spencer in your life. But now? Now you’d ruined everything. Your feelings had scared him away, pushed him to his limits, and left you standing in the wake of it all, heartbroken and alone.

Tony’s kind offer was the first real light you’d had in weeks, and as you met their warm, friendly eyes, you felt a small sense of relief. You could use a friend—someone who didn’t come with all the baggage of unrequited love, someone who just wanted to spend time with you without expectations.

“Do you want to go to O’Keefe’s?” Tony suggested, their smile widening.

You shook your head quickly, feeling a lump form in your throat at the thought of that place. Too many memories, you thought, and the idea of walking in there without Spencer, without pretending you were a couple in front of the team, or, God, running into him, felt like too much. “No, uh, I go there too much,” you said with a forced laugh, trying to keep your tone light. “Let’s try something new, yeah?”

Tony nodded, the same easy smile still on their face, and you felt a flicker of hope—maybe this would be good for you. Maybe spending time with someone who wanted nothing more than friendship would help you heal, help you forget all the mess and confusion that Spencer left behind. Maybe you could start to feel like yourself again. Or at least pretend.

—

You hadn’t gotten dressed up in weeks—not since that night. Ever since then, you hadn’t felt the need to look nice for anyone. After all, who was there to impress when you weren't leaving the house? Your days blurred together in a cycle of work, staying in, and trying to forget the ache that came with remembering. So you fell into a pattern of sweatpants, oversized shirts, and fuzzy socks. 

But tonight was different. You wanted to make an effort, to show Tony that you appreciated their kindness, their willingness to be there for you without expecting anything in return. So you stood in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection as you did your hair, fixed your face and slipped into an outfit that made you feel like yourself again—put together, confident, maybe even a little happy.

When you met Tony at the place they suggested, a new bar called Brandy’s, you couldn’t help but laugh at how different it was from O’Keefe’s. It was sailor-themed, with ropes hanging from the ceiling, ship wheels mounted on the walls, and bartenders dressed in sailor uniforms, stripes and all. The vibe was lighter, more playful, and you were grateful for that. You didn’t need to be weighed down by memories tonight—you just wanted to relax and forget about everything for a little while.

“Hey!” Tony called out when they saw you walking in, waving from the bar. You made your way over, a genuine smile breaking across your face for the first time in what felt like ages.

“Hey,” you greeted back, sliding onto the barstool beside them. “This place is... something.”

Tony grinned, sliding a drink menu your way. “Yeah, thought it’d be a fun change of pace. And, uh, if you’re in the mood for anything fruity or with a silly name, this is definitely the place.”

You chuckled, scanning the menu. “Well, in that case, I might just have to try whatever sounds the most ridiculous.” 

The two of you laughed, and for a brief moment, the pain of the last few weeks faded into the background. You weren’t just the girl who told Spencer Reid she loved him and was left with the silence afterward. Tonight, you were just you—someone who could enjoy a night out with a new friend, a fruity cocktail, and maybe even the chance to find a little bit of joy again.

You sipped your Seas the Day, topped with a tiny paper anchor and an unnecessary but charming amount of fruit garnish—and let the flavors wash over your tongue. It was sweet, tangy, and almost too much, but it was exactly what you needed to cut through the weight that had been pressing down on your chest for weeks. And as Tony launched into another joke, punctuating each punchline with an easy laugh, you could feel that weight start to melt away, just a little bit.

“And then, get this,” Tony continued, eyes bright as they leaned closer, “the guy looks at the bartender and says, ‘You call that a shipwreck? Looks more like a dinghy disaster to me!’” 

You couldn't help but burst out laughing, the ridiculousness of the joke amplified by Tony’s delivery. It was silly, light, and the kind of humor that didn’t require you to overthink or analyze or worry—just laugh. And it felt good. The kind of good that had been missing for so long, you almost forgot what it felt like.

The stress that had been holding your shoulders tight seemed to leave with each sip of your drink, each joke that Tony threw your way. They were a natural storyteller, bringing every moment to life with wild hand gestures and exaggerated voices that made you forget where you were, who you were supposed to be missing. The bar around you blurred into background noise, a sea of laughter and warmth, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you were floating—untethered from the thoughts of regret, from the sadness of everything that happened with Spencer. 

It was nice, being around someone who didn’t ask for more, who didn’t know the messy, tangled history you were trying to leave behind. Tony’s company was easy, free from expectation. And as you laughed over their jokes and sipped your drink, you let yourself relax into it, letting the night carry you away to a place where your heart didn't feel so heavy. Even if it was just for tonight, it was enough.

You and Tony stumbled out of Brandy’s hours later, practically hanging off each other in a giggling mess. The night had been a perfect distraction, and you were grateful to Tony for every dumb joke, every ridiculous story. The cool night air hit your face, making you laugh even harder as you both swayed down the sidewalk, your head light from the drinks and the company. 

But your laughter stopped cold when you heard your name called out from behind you. You froze, your smile faltering as you turned your head to see Spencer and his team, clustered together on the sidewalk just a short way down. For a second, you just stared, feeling like the world had paused around you. It seemed you weren’t the only one searching for a new spot to drown out reality tonight. You could see the surprise etched on their faces—JJ, Emily, Derek, Penelope—and Spencer, whose eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart jump in your chest. You could practically feel the tension crackling between you, hanging heavy in the air like fog, and it made your stomach twist.

But Tony was blissfully unaware, their good mood carrying them right through the awkwardness as they spotted Penelope. “Penny!” Tony cheered, bounding over to give her a hug, their voice warm and full of excitement. “What are you doing here? Fancy running into you like this!”

Penelope’s expression softened at Tony’s hug, but you could see the uncertainty in her eyes as they flickered between you, Tony, and Spencer. You followed Tony like a shadow, your smile fading into something tight and uncomfortable as you kept your eyes downcast, trailing behind and watching your feet move over the pavement. You couldn't look at Spencer, couldn’t face the way his expression would cut through you. So you just kept your focus on Tony’s shoes, willing the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“Uh... hey, Tony,” Penelope greeted, a little off-kilter as she glanced over at Spencer, who hadn’t said a word, his face pale and unreadable. You could see her mind racing, torn between wanting to ask Tony about your supposed "date" and trying to protect Spencer from whatever mess was about to unfold. But sweet, tipsy Tony wasn’t picking up on any of it. They were still riding high on the night, blissfully unaware of the tense energy radiating around you all like a storm cloud about to burst.

“Have you guys met Y/N?” Tony asked excitedly, their arm waving in your direction, as if presenting you to a crowd for the first time. “She’s the best—totally fun to go out with. You all should come out with us next time!”

You wanted to sink into the pavement. Your eyes darted up just long enough to see the team's reactions—their hesitant smiles, the uncertainty, the surprise. And Spencer... Spencer just stared, his jaw tight, his eyes dark as they flickered between you and Tony, like he was trying to make sense of the scene in front of him, to piece together how you’d gone from loving him to laughing with someone else. 

Your breath caught in your throat, and all you could do was force a smile and nod along, pretending like this wasn’t the most awkward moment of your life, like you weren’t standing here, your whole heart laid bare and torn apart in front of the very people you’d tried so hard to avoid.

“Yeah, we know Y/N,” JJ said with a smile, trying to keep things light despite the thick tension in the air. She gave a small wave, her eyes soft and encouraging. “Hi.”

“Hey, guys,” you replied, your voice tight and strained, but you managed to look up for just a second, flashing a quick smile at the group. You could see the mix of emotions on their faces—Emily with her raised brow, JJ’s gentle attempt at normalcy, and Derek, his expression far harder to read.

Derek’s face was set in a hardened line as he studied you and Tony, clearly trying to piece together what was going on. “This a date, or something?” he asked bluntly, his tone skeptical as his eyes flicked from you to Spencer, who was standing stiffly to the side, now staring down at the ground.

Tony burst into laughter at that, the sound light and airy, cutting through the tension. “No! I asked Y/N on a date, but she said nooo,” they said, dragging out the word with a playful giggle. “We’re just friends. Really good friends, right?” They turned back to look at you, and their smile was so earnest, so kind, that you felt a small weight lift from your chest.

“Yeah,” you agreed, returning Tony's smile as best you could. “Really good friends.” You were grateful for their lightheartedness, the way they so easily cleared up the misunderstanding without any pressure, any drama. You could almost breathe again.

“Are you ready?” you asked, hoping to get away before the tension could bubble up again, before you had to look at Spencer and face whatever emotions were swirling in his eyes.

Tony nodded enthusiastically, linking their arm through yours as they tugged you gently away, back into the night, in search of a cab. You didn’t look back, even as you could feel the team's eyes burning into your back, the weight of their stares heavy on your shoulders.

As you disappeared around the corner, the team shared glances, murmurs of confusion and disbelief mixing in the cool air. “What the hell was that?” Emily finally said under her breath, crossing her arms and looking at Spencer, who hadn’t moved an inch since you walked away.

“Does anyone know what's going on with them?” JJ asked softly, her concern written plainly on her face as she glanced at each of her teammates.

But Spencer just shook his head, his jaw clenched tight as he stared after you, watching the space you’d disappeared into, as if willing you to come back, to explain, to make everything make sense again. But you were gone, leaving him standing there, alone and uncertain, with the words he wished he’d said still lodged in his throat.

Penelope spoke up, breaking the uneasy silence with a hesitant, thoughtful tone. “Tony told me he asked her out, so I guess it turned out to be a friend date,” she explained, trying to piece together what had happened with as much optimism as she could muster. But her eyes flickered to Spencer, full of concern and an almost desperate need to make things better. “But that’s good, right?” she asked, her voice a little higher than usual, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

Every pair of eyes turned to Spencer then, and he felt like he was shrinking under their intense stares. He could sense their silent questions, their confusion, and their concern, all boring into him like a spotlight. He didn’t know what to say, how to make it right—he just knew that something felt very wrong. 

Derek’s sigh broke the tension, and his hand landed heavily on Spencer’s shoulder, grounding him. “Listen, kid,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We’ve been giving you your space about the breakup, but I think it’s time you talk about it.”

Spencer nodded slowly, knowing deep down that Derek was right. He had kept this locked up for too long, and he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, suffocating him. So, without another word, the five of them made their way into Brandy’s. They found a booth tucked into a quiet corner and ordered a pitcher of beer, the clinking of glasses and hum of the bar settling into the background as Spencer prepared to speak.

It all came spilling out—the truth, the messy, complicated story of what had really happened between you and him. How you’d started as casual hookups, how that grew into something more, how it was all tangled up in silences and unspoken feelings, until finally, you told him you loved him. And how he let you walk away. He felt the vulnerability of it, laying everything bare, every mistake, every regret, and the team’s reactions were a mix of shock, confusion, and sympathy.

“Why didn’t you tell her how you felt?” Penelope asked softly, her eyes wide and filled with empathy, trying to wrap her head around it all.

Spencer shrugged, staring down into his glass. He wished he could explain it better, wished he could pinpoint the exact moment he decided to let you go, but it was all so muddled now. “I guess I was mad at her,” he said, his voice small, and it hurt to say it out loud, to admit it.

“What for?” Emily asked, leaning in closer, her brows knitting together in concern and bewilderment.

Spencer looked up, meeting each of their eyes before letting his gaze drop back down to his hands, which JJ was now holding tightly, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles on his knuckles. “She... she liked me—loved me—the whole time, or at least some of it, and didn’t tell me,” he admitted, the bitterness of those words tasting sour in his mouth. “I... I thought she just wanted sex, that she didn't care about me the way I cared about her. And then, she told me, and it felt like a lie, like... like she’d been hiding something from me all along.”

Penelope’s face softened in understanding, and JJ squeezed his hands tighter. “But, Spencer,” she said gently, “you were doing the same thing, weren’t you? Hiding how you felt?”

Spencer nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping as the weight of it all settled on him. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess I was. And by the time she told me... I was too angry to see it for what it was. I let her walk away because... because I thought I had to protect myself. But I think I just... made everything worse.”

The team sat there in silence, absorbing Spencer’s words, trying to make sense of everything that had happened, of everything that had gone unspoken between you and him. It was Derek who finally broke the silence, his voice carrying a note of gentle insistence. “Well, you gotta tell her now,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

The others nodded in agreement, small hums of assent as they turned their eyes back to Spencer, a mixture of encouragement and urgency on their faces. Emily leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and tried to lift the mood, offering a teasing suggestion. “Maybe take her coffee tomorrow,” she said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “She looked like a precursor to a hangover tonight.” 

The attempt at lightening the mood worked; the table filled with quiet giggles, the tension lifting just enough to let out a shared breath. Even Spencer cracked a smile, the knot in his chest loosening just a little as he let himself imagine it—showing up to see you, holding your favorite coffee in his hands like a peace offering, and finally saying all the things he’d held back for so long.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, the word coming out like a sigh of relief. “I was going to tell her, but then Tony asked her out, and I thought I lost my chance.” His smile faltered as he said it, that same feeling of panic creeping back in, that sinking sensation that he’d already missed his window and that any attempt to reach you would be too late, too little. 

“But Tony’s not a threat,” JJ chimed in gently, squeezing his hand again. “You heard them tonight—they’re just friends.”

“Besides, it doesn’t matter who else asks her out,” Derek said, his voice firm as he looked Spencer straight in the eyes. “What matters is how you feel. You love her, man. You gotta tell her that. Don’t let some hang-up stop you from getting what you really want.”

“Yeah, Reid,” Penelope added softly, her voice carrying that loving, encouraging tone that always managed to make him feel safe. “You two... you need to talk. Really talk.”

Spencer nodded, feeling a swell of determination rising within him, the first real sense of hope he’d felt in months. He knew they were right—he had to try. Even if it meant risking rejection, even if it meant being vulnerable in a way he’d never been before, he needed to tell you how he felt.  

So as he sat there, surrounded by his friends, Spencer began to plan how he would show you that he wanted more than just fleeting nights and tangled sheets—he wanted you. All of you. Everything.

—

You woke up to the unpleasant stickiness of dried drool on your face. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, parched from a night of laughter, late hours, and whatever concoction of sugary alcohol you’d downed at Brandy’s. But, thankfully, your half-drunk self had taken care of the essentials the night before, leaving a full water bottle by your bedside. You reached over, popped it open, and chugged gratefully, the water flooding your senses with relief as you rehydrated.

The hangover was mild, nothing too aggressive—it wasn’t like you’d drunk all that much. You knew deep down you’d mostly been drunk on the fun of the night, on Tony’s kindness, on the fleeting joy of having someone distract you from your thoughts, your heartache. It made waking up easier, even if your head throbbed a little when you sat up.

With a groan, you pulled yourself out of bed, the coolness of the floor grounding you as you stretched, taking your time to shake off the morning fog. You went through the familiar motions: washing your face, brushing your hair, and scrubbing your teeth.

You didn’t have any real plans for the day, just the usual routine of catching up on chores, maybe grabbing coffee later if you felt up for it. But today felt a little lighter, a little easier. And as you made your way into the kitchen, the morning sun spilling through the window and warming the floor beneath your feet, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this day wouldn’t be so hard after all.

But then a knock sounded from the front door of your apartment, startling you. You paused, trying to figure out who it could be. I don’t remember ordering any packages, you thought, and my neighbors barely know I exist. You waited a moment, hoping maybe whoever it was would just leave, but the knock came again—this time more persistent, the sound echoing through your quiet apartment.

You hated answering the door. Not because you were afraid of who might be there, but because you hated the possibility of small talk, the awkwardness of forced pleasantries, the interruptions to your peaceful solitude. It's one of the reasons you went into IT, the comfort of working with machines and problems that could be solved with logic, not conversation. So you stood there for another beat, hoping to hear the telltale sound of retreating footsteps. But there was nothing. Just silence, and then, annoyingly, another knock. 

“God,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes as you stomped toward the door. Whoever it was, they were persistent, and clearly weren’t getting the hint that you just wanted to be left alone.

You swung open the door, your frustration ready to spill over as you began to speak, “Hello—”

But the words caught in your throat the moment you saw who was standing there.

“Spencer?” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper, the shock hitting you like a splash of cold water. There he was, standing right in front of you, looking just as surprised to see you as you were to see him, his face a mixture of hope, nerves, and something unreadable that made your stomach flip. He was holding two cups of coffee, and it felt surreal, like a scene pulled straight from a dream you hadn’t quite woken up from.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small, hesitant smile, and suddenly the world around you seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of you standing there, the morning hanging heavy with words unspoken. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice laced with confusion and something close to disbelief. You were still trying to process the fact that Spencer was standing in front of you, holding coffee like this was something normal—something that happened often.

Spencer shifted his weight nervously, glancing down at the two cups in his hands before looking back up at you, searching your face. “I—uh, I thought I’d bring you coffee,” he stammered, the words sounding more like a question than a statement. “To help with... the hangover?” He trailed off, looking at you with those wide, earnest eyes that made it impossible to be mad, even if you wanted to be.

You raised a brow, not quite sure what to make of this sudden gesture. But after a moment, you stepped aside, holding the door open wider. “Okay,” you said, your voice softer now, and gestured for him to come in.

Spencer hesitated just for a second before walking in, and you watched as his eyes moved across the space, taking it all in. The apartment felt different now, seeing it in the daylight. The wide, almost floor-to-ceiling windows were uncovered, letting the morning light stream in and cast warm shadows on the walls. You’d always liked the way the plants scattered around the room bathed in the sunlight, their leaves turning vibrant shades of green, and the way the fabric of the couch gleamed just a bit in the soft light. But Spencer had never seen it like this. He’d only ever been here at night, when the only illumination was the dim glow of lamps and the city lights outside.

“Those are... nice windows,” he said suddenly, as if noticing them for the first time, his eyes lingering on the bright view of the landscape beyond. He sounded almost surprised, like he hadn’t expected your space to be like this—bright, open, comforting and calm.

“Thank you…” you replied, a little awkwardly, still trying to wrap your head around why Spencer was here, in your apartment, holding coffee and making small talk about windows. You took the cup from his hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and felt that familiar warmth spread up your arm, making your chest feel tight. You wanted to say something—anything—to cut through the tension hanging between you. But you didn’t know where to start. 

You both stood there for a moment, as you searched each other's faces for answers. 

“How are you?” Spencer asked softly, and the simplicity of the question caught you off guard. It was the same question he’d asked months ago, the one that had started everything between you, the beginning of the friends-with-benefits arrangement that had rapidly spiraled. And now, hearing those words again felt like a punch to the gut, bringing all those memories rushing back to the surface.

You froze, trying to decide how to answer. There were a million things you wanted to say, a thousand ways to tell him how hard it had been, how much you missed him, how your heart ached every time you thought about him, and how you’d felt so stupid for letting yourself fall. But the words tangled in your throat, and you didn’t know which to pick.

“I’ve been... better,” you finally said, opting for honesty. What was the point in pretending, anyway? You’d already given up any sense of dignity around this man. You weren’t going to lie to him now, not after everything that had happened, not when he’d come all the way here.

Spencer's eyes softened, his expression turning pained at your words. He took a small step closer, like he wanted to reach out, but his hand hovered just inches from yours before he pulled it back, uncertainty clouding his face. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve been... pretty awful, too.”

You looked down, the coffee cup warm in your hands, and nodded. “Yeah, well... that's what happens, I guess,” you mumbled. “When you... you know, ruin everything.” Your laugh came out bitter and hollow as you gestured at yourself, and you hated how raw and vulnerable you felt, like every emotion was sitting on the surface, ready to spill over.

“I don't think you ruined anything,” he said softly, his voice so gentle it made you want to cry. “Or at least... not beyond fixing.” Spencer's gaze was steady, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like he was really seeing you—like the walls you’d both built around yourselves were crumbling, leaving nothing but truth between you. 

You shook your head slightly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears from falling. “Then why are you here, Spencer?” You forced the words out, your voice trembling with every question you’d held back for so long. “Why now? What do you want from me?” 

You hadn’t meant to sound so broken, so defeated, but the way Spencer looked at you made it feel like maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be strong anymore. Not with him. And it terrified you, how much you wanted to hear whatever he was going to say next.

“I just want you,” Spencer said, his voice plain and sure, like it was the simplest truth in the world. The words hung between you, raw and unadorned, and for a moment, you could barely breathe, barely process what he'd just said. 

Your eyes met his, searching for any hesitation, any sign that he might take it back—that this was just another moment you’d misread. But there was none. His eyes were steady, intent, and every part of him seemed to lean toward you as if he was ready to close the distance that had kept you apart for so long. 

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pound painfully in your chest. “Spencer...” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words caught somewhere between disbelief and hope. “But... you said you didn’t... I thought—” The excuses tumbled over themselves in your mind, but none of them could erase the way he was looking at you now, with all the longing and tenderness you’d ever wanted to let yourself see.

Spencer shook his head, taking that last step closer, his body just inches from yours, and this time, there was no hesitation, no fear in his touch. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, and you felt the familiar warmth of his fingers against your skin. It was like everything else in the world faded away, leaving just the two of you, in this tiny pocket of time where all that mattered was what you both felt.

“I never got to say anything,” he said softly, his voice low and rough with emotion. “You left before I could.” His thumb stroked your cheek in a tender, slow rhythm, and the touch was so gentle, so careful, it made your heart ache.

“You asked if I wanted to keep having sex,” you mumbled, your voice cracking as you forced yourself to look at him, to see the truth in his eyes. 

Spencer let out a breath, one that seemed to carry all the frustration and pain of the past few weeks. “You inferred that that’s what I was asking,” he corrected gently. “And maybe it was, in some way... I don’t know what I was going to say then. I was so conflicted, so... scared. Scared of wanting you, scared of losing you, scared of loving you. But... I’m not anymore,” he continued, and there was a steadiness to his voice now, a certainty that wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. “I know what I want. I love you, Y/N.”

The words fell softly between you, but they felt like fireworks going off in your chest, like every broken piece inside you was being stitched back together by the way he said them. And as you stood there, his hand on your cheek, your lips parted in shock and your eyes filled with tears, you could see it—all the love, all the vulnerability, all the things he’d been too afraid to show you before.

Your breath hitched, and you placed your hand over his, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek as you let the truth of his words sink in. “You... you love me?” you asked, as if saying it aloud would make it more real, as if you needed to hear it again to believe that it was really happening. 

Spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he smiled, a small, fragile thing that grew more certain with every second. “I love you,” he repeated, each word clear and steady. “I have for a long time. And I want to be with you, not just... physically, not just as friends with benefits. I want all of it. I want you. Everything.”

You felt a sob building in your throat, but it wasn’t a sad sound—it was relief, joy, everything you’d been holding back crashing over you all at once. And as you leaned in, your lips finding his in a kiss that was soft, tender, and full of all the love that had gone unspoken between you for so long, you felt something fall into place, something that had been missing finally becoming whole.

The kiss deepened, becoming heated and urgent, both of you rediscovering the taste and feel of each other like it was the first time all over again. You could feel the way Spencer’s body leaned into yours, could feel how badly you both wanted to close every inch of space between you. And for a moment, you let yourself melt into him, your hands tangling in his hair, his arm winding around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

But then you pulled back, breaking the kiss with a shaky breath, pressing your forehead against his as you tried to steady yourself. “Wait, wait,” you managed to say between breaths, “I don’t—don’t want to have sex. Not for a while.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, the confusion clear on his face, but he didn’t pull away. He stayed close, his eyes searching yours, and you could see the genuine concern there, the way he was listening to every word. “Okay,” he nodded slowly, voice gentle. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Can I... can I ask why?”

You let out a sigh, trying to find the right words. It was hard to say aloud, especially when the temptation to be with him physically was so strong, when every part of your body ached to feel close to him again. But this was important—this was different. “I just... I want to be with you,” you explained softly, meeting his eyes, wanting him to see how much you meant it. “And get to know you in every other way first. No rushing into things. I want... everything to feel right.”

And there it was—the truth that you’d been holding back for so long. That what you wanted with him wasn’t just fleeting, wasn’t just something that could be captured in a night. You wanted the full, messy, beautiful truth of being with Spencer—without the fear that it was only about the physical.

Spencer’s face softened, his confusion melting away into a wide, affectionate grin, one that filled his whole face with light and made your heart do that little flip it always did whenever he smiled like that. “I am completely on board with that,” he said, his voice full of warmth, no hesitation in his tone. “I’ll take all the time you need. And I’ll be here for all of it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a surge of joy and relief bubble up in your chest as you wrapped your arms around him again. “Aye aye, captain,” you teased, and the two of you laughed together, the sound filling the quiet morning and making everything feel hopeful and new.

And as you held each other close, and stood together, just soaking in the moment, you knew that for the first time, you were going to do this right—take your time, learn every little thing about each other, and make it real. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance 

[sequinsmile-x]

Better

Ordinary.

The way her mother says it makes it sound like poison, like something that was infiltrating her life and tearing it apart from the inside out. An awful, ugly thing instead of the beautiful thing that tied her life together like the finest gold thread.

-x-

Hi friends,

If you haven't seen it, I've been getting more anon hate than usual recently, almost entirely around the fact pregnancy/Emily having a family with Aaron is a common them in my fics and how they hate that I write about it. Instead of just...seeing the tags and moving on they've been sending me anons criticising me for it. This culminated in me getting a message yesterday that sent me into orbit saying I was making Emily 'mediocre' by making her a mother like other 'mediocre' women.

(you can read the anon here if you haven't and want to it is WILD)

Now, whatever your feelings are about fanfic or characterisation of Emily, calling someone mediocre for their choices, implying that wanting whatever they want is bad, is ridiculous behaviour.

I've had a lot of feelings about it all day, and ending up writing this to get it out because that is how I process things.

As always, let me know what you think.

-x-

Warnings: Lots and lots of mommy issues

Words: 3k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

From the moment her mother had suggested it, Emily had wanted to get out of going to lunch. Elizabeth insisted that she came over to the event she was hosting with some of her old friends, claiming the other women hadn’t seen Emily in years and that they wanted to catch up. She’d struggled to come up with a good reason to get out of it, even praying for a case that meant she’d be out of stage, something Aaron had raised an eyebrow at.

“You’re praying someone has killed enough people that the team needs to get involved?” 

She’d rolled her eyes at him and huffed, all too aware that he was right, and she’d kissed his cheek as she left the house just before midday, her gaze lingering on him and the kids as they settled down to play their favourite game. 

Lunch was, overall, boring. It was a reminder of a life she’d left behind, the one she’d been born into where every word was carefully chosen yet most the time people said absolutely nothing at all. Their words meaningless, full of fluff and inflexions that she hated. False interest in each other's lives as they desperately waited for someone to ask about them. 

She barely says anything, slowly eating her salad and humming intermittently so it seems like she’s listening, until one of her mother’s friends, Carol, gets her attention. 

“So, what are you up to these days, Emily? Your Mother says you’re still working for the FBI?” 

Emily nods, “Yeah, I work for the Behavioural Analysis Unit, the BAU. My husband used to as well but he retired when our daughter was born three years ago.” 

It had been Aaron’s decision, a solution he’d come up with when they found out she was pregnant with Hazel. He’d been keen to do it, unmoveable in his insistence, his eyes bright and almost overflowing with desperation, as if this was his second chance to make the right decision for his family. She’d agreed, after some back and forth, a voice in the back of her head telling her she’d be a bad mom if she went back to work when she didn’t strictly need to, something Aaron and her friends had slowly talked her out of over the long nine months of her pregnancy. 

Leaving the FBI herself was something she considered again when she had Oliver only 8 months ago, but once again she’d stayed. Happy with the balance she’d created, the life she’d built around herself that let her be Agent Prentiss, a member of one of the most well respected teams in the FBI, and Emily, a wife and mother. 

“Oh yes,” Carol says, picking up her cup of tea, “You have children.”

“Three,” Emily says, her back straightening at something she picks up in the other woman’s tone, a little too close to judgment for her liking, “Jack, Hazel and Oliver.” 

“Lovely names,” Carol says, “Although I must say I was surprised when Elizabeth told us you’d settled down and had children, it wasn’t that long ago it looked like you’d be following in her footsteps and trailblazing yourself a career.” 

Emily frowns, her teeth clenched as she takes a second to calm herself down, “I do still have a career, I just happen to have children too.” 

“Yes well,” Carol says, waving her hand, “You know what they say - a jack of all trades, a master of none.” 

She scoffs, looking to her mother for support, immediately wondering why she thought she’d find it when Elizabeth avoids eye contact with her, a fake smile painted across her face as she stands up from the dining table, “I’ll go check on dessert.” 

Emily stays behind after the others leave, barely even attempting to be polite as she exchanges goodbyes with them. As soon as it’s just her and her mother she can’t help herself, the question escaping before she can ask herself if she would even get an answer she’d want. 

“Why didn’t you stand up for me when she was saying all those things?” She asks, her arms crossed over her chest as Elizabeth freezes and sighs. 

“I wasn’t going to cause a scene,” she says, standing up to walk over to the small bar cart in the living room, pouring herself a scotch, “And besides, she didn’t say anything rude.” 

Emily laughs, “She didn’t say anything rude? She basically said because I’m working and I’m a mom I’m not doing well at either of those things,” she scoffs and shakes her head, “She may as well have called me mediocre and be done with it.” There’s a pause, a flash of something across her mother’s face that she’s sure she wouldn’t have seen if she wasn’t so good at her job. For a moment, she wishes she wasn’t, that she didn’t feel the drop of her heart into her stomach as her arms fall to her sides, “Wait….do you agree with her?” 

Elizabeth stares at her for a second, as if weighing up her options, and she takes a sip of her drink, “Well, you did love to travel when you were younger, Emily. I always assumed you’d do a job that took you all over the world. It wasn’t until you started dating Aaron I ever thought you’d settle down and have an ordinary life.” 

Ordinary.

The way her mother says it makes it sound like poison, like something that was infiltrating her life and tearing it apart from the inside out. An awful, ugly thing instead of the beautiful thing that tied her life together like the finest gold thread. It was something she never thought she’d have. The house and the husband and the children. The cat that never used the cat flap they had installed, happy to curl up at the end of one of the kid's beds instead of ever venturing outside. The school drop-offs and the PTA meetings and the last-minute rush to the grocery store for ingredients for cooking class when Jack told them about it at the last possible second. It was normal, and ordinary and hers. And it was everything she had fought for. 

It was everything she had died for. 

Emily had let a lot slide over the last few years, let countless comments go about herself and sometimes even Aaron because Elizabeth loved her grandchildren. What she’d lacked in being a mother she made up for as a grandmother. She bought them gifts that they actually liked, she listened to them. On Hazel’s first birthday, she’d crawled into the playhouse they’d bought the little girl, acting so unlike herself that Emily had thought she was seeing things. She was grateful her children had someone else in their lives who loved them, so she put up with the fact her mother had never loved her like that. 

All of that disappears as Elizabeth’s words wash over her. A quiet, almost dull, confession that hangs in the air around them a bitter pill that erases any good nature Emily had for her mother. 

She chuckles humourlessly and shakes her head, turning away to wipe angry tears from her cheeks, “I’ve got to ask, Mother,” she says, turning back to look at her, her hands thrown up in defeat, “Why did you even have me? If you think me having children is so…ordinary, why did you have a kid?” 

Elizabeth sighs, her hands on her hips, “Emily-”

“Was it because it was what was expected? You and Dad weren’t as careful as you should have been? What was it?” She demands, not sure she even wants the answer, the sadness and fury rolling in her gut in a way that makes nausea burn up her throat. The silence they fall into is suffocating. Thick and cloying as it settles in Emily’s lungs, making it hard to breathe. She looks down at the floor, her arms tight over her chest as she presses her lips together, desperately trying to hold herself together, “I have a good life.” 

“I never said you didn’t,” Elizabeth says, “I only said I’d thought you’d make different choices.”

“Do you mean better?” Emily asks, her glare unrelenting, and Elizabeth simply looks away, her silence the only answer Emily needs. 

It seems ridiculous. Absurd in a way that makes her laugh, because she can’t imagine how life could be better. She knows that if she’d made different choices, if she’d taken Clyde up on his offer of a job and a new life she would have enjoyed it. She would have been fulfilled and happy but it would have been different to what she had now. Another life she’d now never know, something she couldn’t compare to the life she did have because it didn’t exist and never had. She had no regrets, could never regret even for a second choosing this over anything else. It was her life. Her beautiful, ordinary, life. 

Anger and sadness and everything in between swell in her gut again, making her stomach roll as she clenches her fists at her sides. The burn of her short nails into her palm is familiar, and for a moment she’s 12 years old standing opposite her mother in her office, her nails digging into her palms as she’s told off for not acting as she should have, for getting grass stains on a skirt that cost more than most people made in a month. She shakes it off, an unsteady breath caught in her chest as she’s brought back to the present, to standing in a room just down the hall from her mother’s office over 30 years older and somehow just as silently crushed as she had been when she was a kid. 

It was a feeling she’d promised herself she’d never inflict on her own children. A mantra that had started years before she had them, when she was just a kid herself with her hand pressed into her lower belly as the medication she’d been given by the doctor started to work. She’d be better. She told herself again and again that one day, when it was right, she’d be a mother and she’d be better. It’s a promise she made Declan when he slept up against her on the nights when Ian wasn’t there, his fear of his father pressed against her neck as he asked her if he was in trouble again. She makes the same promise to Jack when she realises she’s stepped into a maternal role in his life, her relationship with him so tied up in her relationship with Aaron that it feels like it happens overnight. She’d be better. She says it again to Hazel just a few hours after she’s born, and again with Oliver when she holds him for the first time. She’d be better.

She was better. She knew that. Her children ran towards her, not away, when they were sad or hurt or sick. They sought her out, snuck into her embrace at any given moment, slipping under her arm as she sat on the couch and they should already have been in bed. Aaron often joked he could disappear and no one would notice, something she’d always quickly refute, the idea of him not being right by her side enough to make her shudder. 

“Better than what? A man who loves me the way Aaron does? Than my children?” Her voice cracks and she clenches her teeth to try to steady her lower lip, “For the first time my life is normal, Mom. I go to work, I come home. I spend my evenings helping my kids with homework and driving them to recitals. And then I share a glass of wine with my husband because I’m still breastfeeding Ollie and don’t want to risk a whole glass. Then we get into bed and do it all over again the next day. It’s so ordinary it makes me ache sometimes because it’s all I ever wanted when I was growing up,” she growls in frustration when tears slip onto her cheeks and she wipes them away immediately, “My life might be small to you, but to me it’s perfect and I am the happiest I have ever been,” she swallows thickly, pushing down the emotions she refuses to set free until she’s home. Until she’s with her husband - the only person she’d ever truly feel comfortable falling apart in front of. “I’m going home.”

“Emily, there’s no need to be so upset,” Elizabeth says as Emily turns away, an edge of panic in her voice she had only heard a handful of times, “We can talk about this.” 

“No,” she refuses, already turning and walking away, “We can’t. I’m going home.” 

She’s proud of herself for making it to the car before the tears come in earnest, burning hot with fury as they leave what feels like permanent tracks on her skin.

___ 

She can’t bring herself to get out of the car. 

She sits on the driveway, still buckled long after she’s switched off the engine, her hands still tightly gripping the steering wheel. Even though she’s staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the porch that she loves, she doesn’t see the front door open and her husband wander outside. It’s only when he lightly raps on the window, making her jump and pulling her out of her trance, that she realises he’s there. She unlocks the door but makes no other effort to move. He pulls it open and crouches down, his face level with hers. 

“Where are the kids?” She asks, her voice tight even to her own ears, any chance she has of insisting she is fine dead and gone before she can even try. 

“Ollie is napping,” he says, waving the baby monitor he has held in his hand, “Good thing we get reception out here. And Jack is showing Hazel how to play MarioKart.” 

She nods, her tongue pressed against the back of her teeth as she tries to hold herself together, her eyes already burning with tears because of his proximity, “Good.” 

They lapse into silence and he watches her carefully, the tightness to her expression extreme even for an afternoon spent with her mother. He places his hand on her knee and squeezes, “I’m guessing because of your general demeanour, and the fact you’ve been sat out here for almost 20 minutes, that lunch went off without a hitch.”

She laughs. It’s wet and painful as it catches on her ribs, the force of it making tears splash down onto her cheeks and she nods, wiping them away, “Something like that.” 

“Want to talk about it?” He asks, always sure to give her the option, and she nods, “Okay, well let's go sit on the porch,” he says, reaching over her to unbuckle her belt, “I don’t think my knees could take crouching like this much longer.” 

She nods and lets him lead her out of the car, passing him the keys so he can lock it. They sit on the top step leading up to the porch, both of them looking out at the neighbourhood they loved, and he waits her out. Let her figure out what he was going to say, his shoulder pressed against hers as she tries to navigate the emotions swirling through her body, making her dizzy even though she was sitting down.

“She called me ordinary.” 

It’s so left of field, so out of nowhere, it takes him a second to react. His eyebrows furrowing as he turns to look at her, his gaze fixed on her side profile as she continues to look straight ahead, “What?” 

“Mother she…” she clears her throat, “Well one of her friends did first. Said she was surprised I’d settled down and had kids. After she left I made the stupid decision to ask Mom why she didn’t defend me,” she laughs mirthlessly at herself, “I don’t know what I was expecting,” she finally turns to look at him, her eyes briefly meeting his before she hugs her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them, “Anyway, turns out she agreed. She thought I’d do more with my life than get married and have kids I guess.”

Angry doesn’t even come close to explaining how he feels. Fury that had once burned the walls of his childhood home, leaving the wallpaper singed and smoke damaged, burning in his lungs. He closes his eyes for a moment, takes in a deep breath, and pushes the anger away for now, knowing it’s not what she needs. 

“She’s wrong.” 

She looks up at him and smiles, shifting so her head is on his shoulder, “I know she’s wrong,” she says, curling her arms around one of his, “I love our life. I love that it’s as normal as it can be with everything we’ve been through. It’s almost extraordinary in how ordinary it is” she sniffs, turning her head to kiss him through his shirt, “If anything, I think I feel bad for her.” 

He frowns, resting his cheek on top of her head, letting her melt into his side, “Oh yeah?”

She hums, “I’m sad she can’t see the beauty in it,” she says, tilting her head to look up at him, “And that she probably never will.” 

He cups her cheek and leans in to kiss her, his forehead against hers as he pulls back, “That’s her loss,” he says, kissing her again, “I’m sorry, baby. It can’t be nice having your own mother say that.” 

She chuckles and shakes her head, swallowing thickly, “No. It isn’t,” she says, blowing out a shaky breath, “But I’ll do better than her. I’ll always think our kids are amazing no matter what they do with their lives,” her lips shake and her eyes close, fresh tears spilling onto her cheeks that he wipes away immediately, “I’ll do better.” 

He’s heard her say it before. A whisper against Jack’s forehead after she’d read him a story until he fell asleep. A promise to a newborn Hazel and then Oliver a few years later. He wraps his arms around her, gathers her against his chest as she sinks into him, his lips against her hairline as he replies. 

“You already are, sweetheart,” he says, “You already are.” 

-x-

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[nexlikestoyap101]

Happy Pride Month 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️...check out Splatoon!!🦑🐙

Splatoon is so diverse when it comes to sexuality and gender. Don't believe me? Here's a list:

Pearl and Marina, also known as Off the Hook - the most unsubtle non-confirmed lesbian couple (but it's pretty much canon by now). Check out this post full of evidence!

Acht - the series' first major confirmed nonbinary character, using they/them pronouns, correcting mistranslations from both official sources and fan translations. (Also commonly headcanoned as aroace or other variations, based on their reactions to romantic scenes between Off the Hook)

Orion (the green one) - nonbinary character from the supporting cast, confirmed by this dialogue from their friend. (Only video I could find of the dialogue in quesiton)

The band Diss-Pair - commonly headcanoned as a gay couple based on the fact that they appear in the Valentine's Day artwork for 2019 (by extension, the giant group in the front can be a polycule, if you really want them to be)

Cipher...

And

6. Smollusk - ^ both characters who use it/its pronouns. Listed on their individual wiki pages.

7. Finn - a presumed transgender female fish if we think about real life betta fish biology.

8. Shiver - initially speculated to be nonbinary, based on their pronouns in the Japanese version. Later confirmed to be female in English.

Some of these are more canon than others, but let's just have fun regardless, yeah? And celebrate what we do have!

Some more things I can think of:

Craig Cuttlefish and DJ Octavio - popularly headcanoned as the 'textbook definition of old men yaoi lovers to enemies 🎵'

Agent 24 - popular ship between Agent 3 and Agent 8 (3x8=24, math puns!), due to promotional art + 2020's Valentines Day Artwork. (The characters often change in gender in appearence in promotional artwork)

Multiple ships between the games large cast of female characters

Removal of gendered hair/clothing options in Splatoon 3.

Various same-sex ships from the spin-off manga, Coroika.

Multiple of the above pairings listed are Inkling/Octoling ships (Squid/Octopus) - a reoccuring theme in the game is the opression of Octolings, mirroring real world issues of discrimination and 'forbidden love.'

Jumping off from that middle point, the game is female-centric (with lots of female characters + the default for the playable character being female-presenting), as the developers discuss in a 2015 Famitsu interview:

Splatoon has always been a franchise where hopefully people can see themselves represented in game, particularly young girls. As the franchise develops, more and more diverse characters are added for this exact purpose.

This is an amazing series where hopefully all sorts of people can feel represented in one way or another!

Sorry if I got any details about any of the characters/events wrong - I'm going off of my memory and observations about the fandom, mostly. I just really wanted to share these facts with everyone! You're welcome to share your own intrepratations and facts in the reblogs too! :) Let me know if I missed anything!

Happy pride! 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️🦑🐙

[levans44]

Apartment #3 - Chapter 3

pairing: steve rogers x undercover!reader

warnings: 18+ SMUT*, Neighbors to Friends to Lovers, lots of angst, heavy mutual pining, hurt/comfort, eventual smut/romance/fluff

summary: as an undercover agent at SHIELD, her newest assignment involves moving in across the hall from her target. she's strictly ordered to keep her distance—no personal contact besides the absolutely necessary. the only issue? her new target neighbor turns out to be Captain America.

excerpt:

Jessica Grace Parker December 4th, 1989 569 Leaman Place Apt. #3, Brooklyn, NY 11201 Registered Nurse NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital

It’s the undercover alias she’s been assigned as a member of SHIELD’s Special Operations unit. The mission objective was rather simple—monitor the target and report updates as necessary.

She’s gone undercover more than a dozen times, so it’s not the details of the assignment or the temporary relocation she’s concerned about.

It’s just that her target was well… more unusual than most.

author's note: an idea that's been living in my head ever since steve asked sharon for that cup of coffee in their apartment hallway. as a SHIELD agent, the reader's real name has been [REDACTED] to preserve anonymity.

masterlist

“So. You all moved in?”

She lets out a drawn-out sigh, leaning back in her office chair. 

“Yep. And the new apartment’s somehow smaller than the one I have now.”

“Smaller than a studio in Manhattan?” Thomas crinkles his nose, gaze fixed on his screen as he types off the rest of his latest mission report—a 0-8-4 mission to investigate some unregistered Asgardian technology that was detected on the Portuguese coast.

“Yeah, the whole building looks like it’s been there for at least a century. Wouldn’t be surprised if the plumbing’s gone to shit.”

“Damn.” Thomas tsks, muttering absentmindedly as he gathers the files on his desk, closing up the folder.  “…well, if it’s good enough for Cap…” He sighs, before his head raises slowly with a newfound interest.  

“speaking of whom…” 

Folding his fingers over the desk, he wiggles in his seat in anticipation, like a lion ready to strike its prey.

“Did you see him? How was he? Everything you dreamed of and more?”

She rolls her eyes, snorting.

“First of all, I barely met him.” 

Thomas gasps, practically jumping up in his chair.

“So you did see him!”

She shoots him a wide-eyed glare, giving the office a hurried scan.

“Barely, Tom. I just said hi.”

She tries to brush off her coworker’s overt interest, pretending to shift her attention to her monitor as she hits ‘refresh’ on her inbox. 

Thomas, of course, doesn’t let up.

He groans, practically climbing on top of his spinning chair in excitement as he leans in closer. 

“C’mon, girl, spill! I know there’s more than that.”

She purses her lips, glaring at the unread mail piled up in her spam box before swirling around in her seat, sighing in defeat.

“Fine, he just… he helped me with a couple boxes, and he uhm… hesawmykeychain.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest as she huffs out another breath.  

“That stupid keychain you got me, Thomas? He saw it.”

It takes what feels like a full hour for the realization to sink into Thomas’s face, and when it does, he’s a laughing mess over her desk, clutching onto his keyboard for support.

“H-holy shit, you’re kidding!” 

He gasps for air, banging on the table as she playfully shoves his hands away.

“Oh my god, girl, I’d say I’m sorry, but… I’m not.”

At the deadpanned expression on her face, he breaks into another bout of giggles. Just as she starts to seriously contemplate strangling her coworker, her phone buzzes on her desk:

Messages Grant Ward 1 Message ‘here.’

“Wait, so how did he rea… ugh, please don’t tell me that’s him again.” Thomas remarks with undisguised disgust, his mood making a remarkably quick 180.

“Yeah, we’re meeting for lunch today.” She mutters, slipping her phone and purse into her bag.

“What? What about our sushi date Friday?”

“Next week?” She stands up, shooting him an apologetic smile as she grabs her jacket from behind her chair.  

“Ugh, I hope he chokes on his food.” Thomas sings under his breath, swiveling back around in his chair as he rolls his eyes.

“Wait, so what are your thoughts on Grant again?” She smirks amusedly, hand on her hip, purse hanging from one arm.

“Oh, he’s just a sweetheart! So glad you guys are back together.” Thomas claps, blinking up at her with fake enthusiasm. 

She only rolls her eyes in response, no longer bothered about her friend’s open disapproval for her on-again off-again relationship with Grant. 

2 years she’s known Grant Ward, ever since they collaborated on a week-long asset extraction case in Marrakech. He was the confident, charming type from the get-go—a perfect foil to her more withdrawn attitude around new people—and for the first few months, it felt like a match made in heaven. Things started to get a little rocky around month 5, and though she understands the concerns her friends have voiced about the instability of their relationship, a part of her is determined to prove them wrong.

When she arrives at the first floor of their building, he’s waiting for her at the lobby cafe.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.” She huffs out a breath, sliding into the seat opposite of his.

“Hey, one sec” he mutters without glancing up, slumped backward in his seat. His gaze remains fixed on his phone, thumbs moving quickly across the screen as he types out a long message. 

She lets out a quiet breath, glancing around at the crowded space as agents and other SHIELD employees walked in for coffee and some quick grab-and-go options: turkey sandwiches, salads, fruit cups. 

“I didn’t know this place served lunch.” 

“Hmm?” Grant hums after a long pause, eyes flit rapidly across the screen, head nodding though she doubts he’s heard her. “… yeah, just—“ Another ding sounds from his device and his brows perk up, eyes quickly scanning whatever message is lighting up his phone. 

She frowns, sitting up in her chair as she leans forward.

“Is that about work? Everything ok?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.” Grant licks his lips, sucking in a breath, and the divot between her brows deepens. 

“Listen, [REDACTED]….”

He slips his phone into his pocket, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward.

“…I need to talk to you about something.”

An invisible rope goes taut in the pit of her stomach.

“Okay.” She murmurs slowly, eyes flitting between the hard set line of his jaw and the serious lines under his eyes. 

“I’ve been thinking about us lately, and…”

The rope in her stomach stretches farther and farther, the pressure building up in her lungs.

“I think it’s best if we call this off.”

The rope snaps loose, and the blade of the guillotine swings down. 

She opens her mouth, but all the air’s been sucked out of her lungs and she’s left gaping like a fish out of water. 

“I… what?” She manages to choke out. 

From across the table, Grant heaves out a sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, I mean, it’s just with this relocation gig you’ve got going, I never see you anymore, and I just…. I think we drifted apart, that’s all.”

Her entire body immediately goes rigid at the mention of her new assignment—it was something that Grant had been opposed from the very start:

‘Brooklyn? Really? What the hell does Fury want you to do in that shithole?’ 

He had complained.

She had tried to convince herself that he was being protective, simply worried because she wasn’t allowed to let him in on any of the assignment details. But deep down, she always knew it was the green-eyed monster—at the onset of recruitment, he was disappointed to learn he wasn’t included in the short list of agents whom Fury considered for the assignment. 

She should have known better. About him. About all of it.

“Sorry, are you… are you dumping me right now?”

“No, listen, baby, I think you’re great—“

And the condescension in his voice as he croons ‘baby’ is the last straw that blows the whole fuse.

“—okay, you know what? First off, I am not your fucking baby.”

“…and second, don’t pretend like you haven’t been texting someone else these past few weeks.”

From the small glimpses of ‘miss you <3’ and ‘when are you getting back?’ on his phone, to the way he’d regularly blame overtime for last-minute date cancellations—everything was so obvious in retrospect.

He scoffs at her accusatory glare, as if the idea was unimaginable.

“I haven’t been texting anyon—”

She lets out a sharp laugh, head tilting back as her nose pricks, tears clouding the corner of her vision. 

Why had she given him the benefit of the doubt? Deep down, she had known all along. 

“—you know what, Grant? That’s great.” She stands up abruptly, chair dragging loudly against the floor as she snatches up her belongings off the table. “…but if you’re gonna cheat on me, at least have the fucking balls to admit that you’re the reason we’re not together. Not me or my fucking job.”

The rest of her work day is fueled with nothing but rage—she nearly breaks her keyboard trying to draft a simple email, accidentally stomping over an office plant on her way to the fax machine. Matters are only made worse when she’s called in to deal with a tense hostage situation that drags on for hours on end. 

By the time she gets back to her place in Brooklyn, it’s 8:21pm.

It’s 8:21 pm on a Friday night and her feet are aching, back tense from an afternoon of slumping over the mission control monitor.

It’s 8:21 pm on a Friday night and she’s just managed to climb up the last few stairs to her floor when her phone’s suddenly blowing up with text notifications from Thomas, Kristen from statistics, and a few other close friends from work:

‘OPEN THIS RIGHT NOW.'

‘What in the actual fuck? Did you know about this??’

‘Hey, I thought you should see this.’

Attached is a link to an Instagram story, uploaded by an account she recognizes as one of Grant’s buddies from work.

“What the fuck?” She mutters to herself, brows furrowing as she clicks on the video, squinting at the dimly lit but unmistakeable scene inside of a nightclub—Grant with another woman on his lap, drunk off his ass and laughing as if he hasn’t got a care in the world. The brunette in his lap reaches around, landing a deep kiss on Grant’s lips as his hands slide down her waist. The timestamp reads 10 minutes ago, confirming her biggest fear—not even 8 hours after they had broken up, and he’s parading around with a girl he’s probably been sleeping with for god knows how long.

It’s the third time the video’s playing back on loop when she realizes that angry, hot tears are dripping from her eyes, slowly making its way down to her jaw. She leans against the nearest wall, just outside her door, fingertips turning white at how harshly she was gripping her phone.

How could he do this, after two years of endless work and dedication?

Her knees can barely hold up her weight, stomach bubbling over with betrayal. Her eyes dart desperately across the screen, following their movements over and over and over—she doesn’t even hear the echo of the footsteps coming up the stairs behind her.

“Hey, you alright?” Her eyes snap up from her phone, but she doesn’t have to turn around to know who it is.

Great. Just fucking peachy.

She hastily turns off her phone and swipes at her cheeks, batting at the wet corners of her eyes before facing Steve. It doesn’t take a genius to notice she’d been crying, and his eyes immediately flit across her damp cheeks, the blurred mascara staining her lower lash line.

She fidgets with the rumpled edges of her blouse, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hey.” She mutters, glancing back down at her phone though the screen is blank.

“Hi.” He tries to give her a friendly smile, though the corners of his mouth are noticeably stiff, a small divot forming between his brows.

“Are you… locked out of your place?” He frowns worriedly, eyes darting between her and the door behind her as he steps forward, raising his arm to gesture toward her apartment door. The keys in his hand jingle with his movements, while the other hand is balancing a flat cardboard box, patterned with red and black checkerboards on top. As he shuffles forward, she gets a sudden whiff of… oh, jesus. 

Yeasty, cheesy, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh tomato sauce—all of which can only mean one thing. 

She licks her lips, eyes flickering to the box in his hand before she clears her throat. She glances back toward her door, shaking her head.

“Oh, no, I just…”

Nope, just crying in the hallway cause I got dumped on by a guy who’s been cheating on me for weeks. How’s your night, Cap?

“… no, I’m not locked out.” She ends up muttering, though her feet stay rooted to her spot on the carpet, barely a few feet away from her door.

“Oh.” Steve nods slowly, pursing his lips. 

“…right. Well, I’ll, I’ll see you around.”

Hesitantly, he continues forward, moving down the hallway. Now with her back turned to him, she only hears the soft jingle of his keys and his door creak open. And, yet, she doesn’t hear him step inside. 

“Hey, Jess?” 

Wincing, she turns around reluctantly, annoyance creeping up at Steve’s friendly gaze. He’s standing at his doorway, keys perched on top of the pizza box, his other hand resting on the doorframe. 

Raising his brows, he quirks his head to one side and poses a question that throws her off guard. 

“Have you had dinner yet?”

She blinks, and manages to shake her head.

He purses his lips, stepping forward, away from his dim apartment and back under the hallway lights. 

“Well, if you…” He huffs out a breath, eyes flitting downwards then back up.

“… if you haven’t eaten yet, would you want to share this with me? Don’t think I can finish it on my own.”

He smiles, brows raised invitingly. Her eyes dart between the pizza box and the unassuming expression on his face, and she sucks in a quiet breath.

“I…” She’s dumbfounded, the second time she’s at a loss for words that night, feeling the whiplash of being dumped a minute ago and now being offered pizza by Captain America.

“…are you inviting me inside your apartment?”

It takes a moment for the implication behind her question to sink in, and when it does, Steve’s face is as red as the squares on the box he’s holding.

He perks up, noticeably stiffening. The tips of his ears are the first to turn scarlet, and soon he’s blushing a deep crimson all the way from his cheeks down to his neck. 

He sighs, ducking his head, brows pinched together in distress.

“No, that’s… I’m sorry, that’s not what I me—”

And, despite everything that’s happened, she finds herself trying to bite back a smile.

“—hey, I’m kidding.”

His eyes snap up, eyes scanning her expression before he lets out a breath, letting out a sheepish smile. 

“I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean for that to come off as creepy.”

And after a while of trying to refrain from smiling, her mouth finally breaks open, and she lets out a quiet laugh.

“It didn’t. You’re okay.”

He seems a little reassured by her laugh, and remains standing in his doorway, door opened only a fraction of the way, and starts to bounce on the balls of his feet.

“Right, so…”

Despite the temporary escape she found in making Steve’s blush, she’s never seriously considered taking Steve’s suggestion. It would be insane, to break Fury’s direct order to maintain ‘no more contact than absolutely necessary’ in the first week she’d been assigned to the mission.

It was still a nice gesture, though. Nice to see that there’s more to Captain America than a friendly smile and a firm handshake. 

“Uhm, t-that’s a really nice offer, but… I’m not really hung—”

And what she had planned on saying was: I’m not really hungry, enjoy your pizza. 

What comes out, though, is a loud rumbling much further down south, just above her belly button.

She turns rigid, head snapping down to the traitor in her belly. And now, it’s her own face that’s as red as a slice of pepperoni. 

It’s only then she realizes that she hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, on account of what happened at lunch with Grant.

From the way Steve’s brows perk up in newfound interest, she’s sure he’s heard the noise, and braces herself for whatever embarrassment would follow getting caught in the world’s most pathetic lie by Captain America.

Instead, America’s hero wordlessly steps back out into the hallway, letting his door close behind him with a soft ‘click.’ Finding a spot in the hallway, opposite her door, he plops straight down, laying the pizza down in his lap and stretching his legs across the expanse of the hallway. 

She watches, wide-eyed and dumbfounded—it’s almost comical, how he has to cram his long legs into the narrow space between his side of the wall and hers. Bent at the knees, yet the soles of his feet still press against the other side. 

She glances down at his sneakers, perched up against the wall—a pair of old-fashioned trainers, navy blue and white, with soles tattered and grey from what seems like years of use.

Her eyes trail up a pair of worn 501 Levis, and a navy blue henley that displays an ungodly amount of muscle even under the dull lighting of the hallway. 

“You’re welcome to join me.” Steve grins nonchalantly as he pops open the top of the box, peering up at her under a set of friendly brows, almost as if challenging her to resist. 

A tentative whiff as the smell of pizza drifts right up under her nose, and she lets out a loud sigh, dropping her shoulders.

The next moment, she’s turning on her heels. She heads straight for her apartment door and walks through, the door slamming shut behind her.

Not even a minute later, she’s back outside, holding up two ice cold beers by the neck. Hair thrown up in a loosely tied knot above her head, the top two button of her blouse undone.

Steve’s worried head snaps up at the sound of her door, the lines between his brows dissipating in relief. He smirks, sinking back into his seat on the carpet.

She plops down against the wall facing him, handing him a bottle before taking a swig from her own.

“Thanks.”

With a curious gaze, he slowly takes the bottle from her fingers, eyes following her as she tips her head back for a large swig. From across the hall, Steve rotates the box in his lap, offering her the first slice. 

As her eyes flit over his order, she can’t help the smile that immediately tugs on her lips  

“Good choice.” She murmurs amusedly, reaching for a slice to find it still warm. 

“Yeah, figured it’s a classic.” He picks up a slice himself, the one next to the one she’s chosen, and sets the box down on the scraggly carpet. 

She nods in agreement, practically drooling at the slice of heaven in her hand.

“Clean. No bullshit.” 

A large cheese pizza, classic NY style.

Thin crust, decent char on the bottom though not too burnt. A generous layer of melty cheese and tangy red sauce. 

“… wish life was more like that. No bullshit.” She mutters nonchalantly, more to herself than anything. He chuckles in response, the sound echoing down the hallway as he lifts his slice in the air.

“I’ll cheers to that.”

She laughs alongside him, surprised by how much easier it feels to smile all of a sudden. 

“Cheers.”

One bite of the crispy, chewy, cheesy goodness, and all her troubles start to melt away. 

“Mmm.” She lets out a low moan, eyes fluttering shut as her head bumps against the wall with a soft ‘thunk.’ 

“…fuck, that’s good.”

“Glad you like it.” Steve responds amusedly, smirking at her from over the rim of his beer. He’s got one arm resting over his knee, leg propped up against his chest while the other remains on the floor. The muscles in his forearms flex as he raises his bottle up to his lips, tipping the drink back. 

Before her eyes can wander further, she clears her throat, glancing back down to the pizza in her hand. A second bite shoved hastily into her mouth before she can even swallow the first and good lord, did pizza always taste this good?

“Where’s this from?” She chews, lifting the top of the box off of the carpet to peer at the logo.

Before she can get the top more than an inch off the floor, however, Steve stops her with a quick hand, the width of his palm almost covering half of the box. Her eyes snap up to meet his smirk, brows raised and uncharacteristically mischievous. 

“I’m afraid that’s top secret.” He tsks, and she gasps in response, feigning shock with a hand over her chest.

“Wow. Gatekeeping your pizza place? After I offered you my beer? That’s cold, neighbor.”

As soon as the last word escapes her lips, she perks up with a start, biting her tongue at the realization that she’d just used a goddamn nickname to refer to Captain America.

Her gaze snaps up at Steve, fear brewing in her chest to find that he was… laughing.

A good, hearty chuckle, head tipped back and all. Leaning back against the wall, holding his pizza in one hand, clutching his stomach with the other.

From this close a distance, she can spot every detail—like the tiny scar that hides between the small wrinkles on his forehead when he raises his brows. Or the small crows feet tugging at the corners of his eyes. The ridiculously long eyelashes that flutter every time he blinks, casting shadows over the tops of his cheeks. The small ridge in the bridge of his nose that’s slightly off-center. His plump bottom lip, stretching around a set of pearly-whites as he smiles, proposing a question:

“So how long have you been living in the city?”

“Hm?”

She freezes, eyes snapping up to meet his curious smile.

“You mentioned you moved here from Manhattan. How long have you been living there?”

And the sudden segue into this new inquiry intrigues her, more than anything. Because whatever the variation of the question—‘how long have you been coming here?’ or ‘how long have you known so-and-so?’ or, of course, the age-old ‘you come here often?’—they all usually come across as unwarranted and creepy, a half-assed attempt at a pick-up line at best. 

Yet, from Steve, it only reads as part of a friendly, neighborly conversation. Open and honest, no ulterior motives. No bullshit. 

It’s refreshing, to say the least. 

“Not… not too long. Moved here for work.”

She mutters quickly, taking another swig of her beer, and licks her lips as a raw memory edges into her mind at the thought of work, more bitter than the beer that hits her tongue. 

“…what about you?” She murmurs, watching a moment of conflict cross his face. 

He recovers quickly, smoothing over it with a smile:

“Moved around a couple times, but… Brooklyn’s always been home.”

The bitter bite in her mouth softens a little at the nostalgic note in Steve’s gaze, her eyes tracing the soft creases in his shirt as she recalls his backstory:

Born and raised in Brooklyn, with a WW1 veteran dad who passed early and a mom who worked as a nurse. Not enough money to pursue art school, got caught a handful times getting into alleyway fights. Then tried to enlist on five different occasions, got rejected the first four times. Aside from the basics, though, there was little official documentation on Steve Rogers’ earlier days in Brooklyn. 

Her thoughts are suddenly broken by her phone buzzing loudly in her pocket—just by the ringtone, she knows whose calling her.

She freezes, momentarily paralyzed as her phone continues to go off loudly. Steve’s eyes flit over to the source of the sound but remains quiet. After a few more rings, the phone goes silent, before starting up again with another call.

At that, she lets out an exasperated sigh, digging into her pocket before aggressively sliding the mute button on her phone. She tosses the phone on the carpet with a harsh ‘thud,’ hand reaching up to rub at her temple.

“Those are some persistent spam calls.”

Steve murmurs quietly.

She snorts, her rage temporarily dissolving into a dumfounded laugh that leaves her chest aching.

“That would be an insult to scammers everywhere.”

“You avoiding someone?” It’s obvious from his careful gaze that he doesn’t want to pry.

“You could say that.” She murmurs, eyes still lowered to the ground. Then, after a small pause:

“…it’s my boyfriend. Ex, actually.” She quickly corrects herself, scrunching her nose as the word leaves a sour note on her tongue.   

Out of the corner of her eye, Steve opens then closes his mouth, giving her a small nod in understanding.

“I’m sorry.” 

And, all of a sudden, she feels tears cloud her vision at the first words of consolation, his deep and warm timbre unlocking something fastened inside her.

Fuck, fuck.

“No, don’t be.” She chokes out a laugh as she blinks rapidly, feeling her nose prick with tears. Before she can stop herself, the next words are already tumbling out of her mouth:

“He broke up with me at lunch today. Turns out he’d been fucking this other girl for over a month.”

And it had to be the fatigue, the beer, or some combination of both that was loosening up her lips right now, because there was no way her lucid self could be consulting Captain America about her goddamnlove life.  

“…and he had the audacity to break up with me. Can you believe that?”

Steve stays silent for a while, and she doesn’t have the courage to look up. Then, out of the blue:

“He sounds like a real asshole.”

Her eyes snap up as she lets out an incredulous breath, smiling.

“You’re damn right.”

Two more slices of pizza and a couple beers later, the weight on her chest feels noticeably lighter. 

“Thanks for the pizza, my treat next time.”

An empty promise, she knows. 

There can’t be a next time.

Steve nods, smiling.

“Anytime.”

He takes a small pause, pursing his lips as he casts a quick glance down at the carpet near her feet.

“…shame you got rid of it.” He murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Your keychain.”

He points at the the set of keys resting on the floor between them, which had fallen out of her pocket sometime during the night. Upon realizing that he was referring to the absence of the red, white, and blue shield—she had made sure to remove it after the embarrassing encounter earlier that week—her confusion quickly turns into red hot embarrassment.

So he had noticed.

“Uhm, yeah, it was uh…” She clears her throat, bending down to snatch it off the floor.

“…getting a little bulky.”

“Bulky, huh?” He quirks his head, raising his brows, and the tip of his nose catches the lighting in the hallway. 

“….so you’re not a fan?”

Eyebrows raised incredulously, she turns to him, eyes carefully surveying the unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry?”

“Of Captain America? I noticed your keychain was his shield.”

She knew this man was good, but surely he couldn’t be that good? 

It had been less than a week since the start of her mission. If he had already caught onto her identity, she would surely be saying goodbye to her steady 7-year-career at SHIELD. Upon a second glance, however, she realizes that the teasing glint in his eyes is a little less strategic and a little more… demure.

Could Steve Rogers poking fun at her keychain because of some other reason?

Her cheeks grow pink at the thought, but she pushes the thought elsewhere. 

And because he thinks that she’s the clueless one in this conversation, she decides to play along, lips curling up in a coy smile.

“I don’t know… I always thought he was kinda overrated.” She pouts, fighting to suppress a smile.“

“…Captain America. Even the name sounds kinda douchey, don’t ya think?”

Contrary to her expectation, he lets out a loud laugh, head almost knocking against the drywall behind him. He glances down at her, hands on his hips, giving her a curious smile. 

In this light, she thinks, he almost looks like the Captain America from the WW2 recruitment posters in the 30s—the fresh-faced, doe-eyed version of him untouched by decades of war. 

“You know, I’ve always wondered who came up with that name.”

That night, as she waves goodbye to Steve and retreats into apartment #3, Fury’s voice bounces around in her head: ‘…primary directive is to maintain minimal contact with him. Nothing over what’s absolutely necessary.’ 

Yet, in the solitude of her bed, all she can think about is Steve—the soft peaks of his hair under the dim lighting of the hallway, the concerned divot between his brows when she had teased him. How he had leaned into their conversation so that he could hear her better, as if Captain American didn’t have better things to do than to listen to her tragic little love tales. That boyishly charming smile he had on his face when he offered her pizza, and again when he asked coyly about her keychain—so much of that innocent warmth she thought he’d lost.

Reminiscing the nostalgic light in Steve's eyes when he'd told her that Brookyln’s always been home, she begins to wonder just how deep the blue runs.

Apartment #3 Masterlist

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

My friends, I am pleased to announce after thorough review and analysis I have put together a totally unbiased and completely academic ranking of Boyd Holbrook’s characters’ sexual prowesses, ranked from best to worst.

For your viewing pleasure and fandom rage. Behold.

Ty Shaw - Fucking amazing in the sack. He’s enthusiastic. He’s game. Wanna bring in another boy or girl?? Hell yeah, partner, he’s down! This man is the best combination of eager to please and self-confident without being cocky – and he’d absolutely take it in stride if you asked for him to change positions or switch things up. Life is a rodeo and he’s ready to ride! Or be ridden! 10/10

Klaber - As much as it hurts me to say it, he’d be pretty damn good. He’s got that big puppy energy and working dog excitability, and he’d definitely be bringing that into the bedroom. He seems like the sort that would let his partner take the reigns - but he can service top and service dom just as gamely as anything else. And tbh, unlike a bunch of Holbrook characters, he seems too dumb to really be able to get too in his own head about sex. 8/10

Quinn McKenna - He’d be perfectly competent. He knows what he’s doing. He’s down to do it. He’s got stamina and knows how to effectively utilize his strength and his body. He doesn’t seem particularly self-conscious, and he also seems like he’d be pretty tuned-in to his partner’s pleasure. THAT BEING SAID. He would absolutely be distracted. He’d be thinking about that meeting he has tomorrow morning as he fingers you. His endurance would be insane, but he might fall asleep on top of you before he finishes. He might kink shame you. …But he might still do those kinks anyway. This is unfortunately the last Holbrook character that is unequivocally good in bed. 6.5/10

The Corinthian - I am frankly a little amazed that the Corinthian has gotten such a fandom reputation for being a sex god! Look. This boy screams “pillow princess” so goddamn loud. He strikes me as someone that’s not afraid to get what he wants, but also doesn’t give a single shit if that’s also what his partner wants. He is a hedonist, and he is here for *his* pleasure, and unless you’re his master, you’re just the thing giving him that pleasure. That being said, he’s definitely picked up a couple tricks over the years he might bust out if you’re lucky, and watching him enjoy himself would certainly be a show! But good chance he also kills you and eats your eyes after. 5.5/10

Steve Murphy - The one thing I can say about our favorite DEA agent is that he’s *trainable*. Look. This is somebody that will do what he’s told and commit to his tasks with a laser-like intensity. He will work hard! But I doubt he thinks to communicate much about sex on his own, and if his partner doesn’t force the issue, he’s just gonna do the Standard Sexual Routine and assume you probably came sometime during the missionary. 5/10

Donald Pierce - This boy is kinky as all hell, and don’t get me wrong, there are absolutely circumstances where he could probably be a fantastic sexual partner. HOWEVER. He is just oozing insecurity and self-image issues - good luck getting him out of his own head long enough to even coax a full erection out of him. Pierce is constantly fronting and putting on a show - no way he’s gonna stop doing that when the clothes come off. In fact, it might just get worse! All that being said… he probably is pretty good at oral, and your orgasm is more important than his. 4/10

Clement Mansell - Similar to his singing, sex is a skill Clement thinks he’s amazing at, and is not. His arrogance and certainty that his dick will take his partner straight to nirvana only serves to make the mediocre foreplay and jackhammering that much worse. He will sprawl out on the bed afterwards with a self-satisfied smirk and drawl something like, “Told you I was good!” or “Bet you need breather after that, baby.”. He buys Magnum condoms he doesn’t need. The one upside is he’s got that energizer bunny gusto – if you *are* just into vigorous penetration, he’s the guy for you! 3.5/10

Cap Hatfield - Does not have sex. Does not want to have sex. 0/10

I sincerely hope I have done some psychic damage to my followers!! I welcome any additions or dissenting opinions!!

[waxsuyaaa]

omg side order was so good

my annoying rant about everything down below⬇️ also if you dont have the dlc dont press the keep reading button

OKAY so for starters it was actually kinda disappointing to see that most of the gameplay has been shown already in the trailer, i would’ve liked to have been surprised..

and there is no feeling of progressing forward like any other storymode since you go to the start every single time you lose and all your achievements disappear unless you get into the boss fight, and only if you win you get one singular key

and all the powerups that you’re used to having just gone. poof. disappear.

i would’ve liked to see npcs that you can actually talk to because somehow there is no button to talk to pearl? like maybe they should have made a feature when you’re right underneath pearl to press A and talk to her for a bit, even if its something simple like “yo! let’s get back on track!”

you can’t even talk to marina and all she asks is if you need something to be hacked, which makes her seem as she’s just there for that mechanic and nothing else— as someone who never played splatoon 2 and doesnt know her personality im not sure what the hype is about for her

we should have been able to go into the elevator and actually walk around and talk to the characters and like salmon run, when it says ‘time to go to work!’ for side order it would say ‘arrived at floor’ or smth like that.. i would give anything to be able to walk around and interact with everyone in the elevator, like if the characters pearl, marina and dedf1sh weren’t there it would function the same

why arent we able to talk to them like. dedf1sh is such a cool character where is the lore? they just stand in a corner and is just there…

it would be so amazing if you could slowly befriend dedf1sh and get exclusive gear/random stuff from the metro or smth from them as the friendship points rack up and they become more open to you

and all the bosses are easy to tell apart from the silhouette and you can easily guess how you’re going to fight them, i want that little moment of mystery as well as not knowing how hard it’s going to be

coloured fingertips dont even seem like a thing anymore, it was just for agent 8 and her blue palette things

it looks as if you have to fight many of the same boss to get the locker key and after it just becomes repetitive and there is no story whatsoever, the villain is a glitchy entity called ‘order’??? like if that same glitchy entity thing switched to agent 4 for like half a frame the entire fandom would go WHOAH WHAT WAS THAT and we’d be talking about it for ten thousand days

the only motive is that you have to save everyone from being grayscaled blablabla but you dont even have any evidence of the character even being there, the character palettes are just a cheap way to implement more weapons, like what do you mean we don’t get the actual characters standing around the outside of the spire.. i want to talk to paul and warabi and ikkan (cough cough i mean quinn and mashup???)

we cant even get these extra characters because 3d modelling is SUCH a LOT of EFFORT for such a huge company like nintendo we should feel so sorry for all the work that they had to do, they put in their best effort (sarcasm)

all the enemies/foes are just remodelled salmon run enemies like battering largo or whatever (they could remodel the enemies but not the bands?? what)

also wheres cypher? i thought the shrimpy character would be a main character that wanders around and sells you stuff but theyre not even in sight

so uhh you can say ‘skill issue’ or smth because OHHH I HAVENT FINISHED THE GAME YEAH THIS PERSON IS JUST COMPLAINING BECAUSE THEYRE BAD AT IT or whatever im just disappointed that it was kinda overhyped and i drew art for a character that didnt even exist (skeleton agent 4)

[anoctoberpepper]

So a quick update: Over these next two months I’m going to be putting effort into original fiction so my AO3 posting will likely be slowing down. Disappearing off the face of the planet is pretty normal for me (I’m a chronic Discord ghoster 😭), but I will do my best to stay active here.

Please continue to hit me up with any of your favorite DnDads headcanons and ideas! I still definitely want to talk and write in this fandom! 

Sappy love under the cut. TL;DR I’m insane and you all have made me feel seen. 

So I’ve had a weird five years, the middle of which involved being hospitalized for the first (and god willing only) time, for mental health issues. I had a major depressive disorder that turned into a late in life diagnosis of “Schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type with mixed features” (I was actively delusional for 8 months, fun times). I have frilly diagnoses around that including generalized anxiety disorder, and an unspecified personality disorder. I say this because I don’t get to say it all that often. In my day-to-day life I have to keep that part of me tucked away so deep down that bringing it out to see the light of day hurts. Even though it’s a big part of how I relate to the world and it genuinely affects every day of my life. 

My closest friends barely understand my diagnosis. It’s hard to talk about. I either feel embarrassed or I’m worried that giving details will make people uncomfortable. Or maybe they’ll pity me, or worse they might not trust me anymore. Schizophrenia and Bipolar have hefty stigmas. So I don’t talk about it in any detail. 

But I need to talk about it. 

I was reading an original fiction piece I wrote before my diagnosis and realized that the main character, who was under the thrall of some violent magic at the time, was feeling exactly like how I would describe mixed mania now. It told me two things, 1) I was feeling horrible for a lot longer than I thought, and 2) I’ve been trying to describe it through my writing for just as long. 

I’ve written a lot over the last ten-ish years, and as all writers do I’ve tossed some of that writing into the void of agents' inboxes hoping for a bite. (I have received half a bite, one time). I write because I want to understand myself and because I love stories, but there’s something unique about having someone validate what you put on the page. Like “yeah. I get it, I feel that too.” 

I want to be able to yell my words to the world so someone will yell back. 

You all have yelled back. 

Genuinely and truly with all of my heart I could not have asked for a better gift this last year than having people feel seen by my writing.

I’m finally pulling my way back up from a really deep pile of crap and part of that journey was being able to write about Lark and Grant and Terry. Them learning to ask for what they need, and taking care of themselves and letting themselves be taken care of has taught me how to do it. 

I’ve found words to describe the mumbling voices I hear when I forget to take my meds, and the crawling-skin feeling of mania. I learned how to ask for things even if it’s as stupid as “can you walk to the kitchen with me so I don’t have to go through the process of making a bagel by myself.” Having characters take care of themselves has trained me to take care of myself. Utterly ridiculous, but absolutely profound. 

Another part of that journey I must mention is having people say, “yeah, that’s what it’s like for me too. I hear you. I see you. We’re in this together.” 

It is a gift I didn’t know I needed. People don’t usually talk about their mental health issues and when they do it’s generally not in a way I can relate to. I’m not really textbook anything, but I am some of everything. Being able to describe the pain of random mental health things and having other people say they’ve felt that way too has made me feel less alone. 

I don’t know how to end this rant, only that I would be remiss if I didn’t say I sincerely appreciated every comment and interaction I’ve had over the last year with you all. I feel comforted in a way I never thought I would. I feel joy in participating in this community, and a deep feeling of hope that things will keep getting better (and then worse and then better again). 

I love you all. Thank you for everything, and I hope to be back up posting as soon as I get some original fictioning done. 

(Or maybe I’ll get sick of trying to write my own stuff and I’ll be back here in a week. Who knows.) 

P.S. I’m still planning to work on Picking up the Pieces, it just might be slower than my usual pace

[fablesrose]

Ch 8 - The Three Days of the Hunter Job

Series Rewrite Masterlist 

Pairing: Eliot Spencer x Ford!Reader

Description: The team is vying to steal a man's reputation back after a so called reporter ruins it. Plus you and Eliot team up a bit this time around ;)

Words: 4132

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Now we’ve stolen a lot of odd things before, but how do we steal back a man’s reputation?” Hardison asked after the situation was explained to us. A man in a tragic school bus crash that killed two children had a slanderous story written about him and showed on air. It ruined this man’s reputation unfairly, and the news anchor is to blame for making it all up.

“We get the network to issue a complete apology and utterly disavow Monica Hunter’s story,” Sophie answered. 

We all glanced at Nate to see if he was going to add anything, to direct us in some way, but he didn’t. He just said, “Uh, Sophie’s gonna be doing this one.”

“What?” Eliot asked.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sophie echoed, “I’m gonna be Nate on this one, only, you know, nicer.” 

“But, if you’re gonna be Nate, then who’s gonna be you?” Parker asked.

“You.”

“Me?”

“I don’t mean to obsess about the last time Sophie ran a con, but…” Eliot cut in, “I’m sorry, where we had to blow up the offices.”

“I don’t think you guys told me about that one…” I commented.

“Really? Because I don’t remember that,” Sophie defended.

“I do,” Hardison replied before turning to me, “It’s a sore spot… for all of us.”

I nodded, raising my hands with understanding.

“Um, Hardison, just run it,” Sophie tried to move on.

“Look, if you don’t mind,” Nate leaned over and whispered to Sophie, “I thought I would still do the ‘Hardison, run it’ thing so… Hardison, run it.”

We all looked at each other and at Nate with a look that said, ‘seriously?’ It took a moment before Hardison started the slides. He started explaining Monica Hunter’s show Hunt for the Truth and her little formula behind it, turning innocent people into the boogeyman. Any attempts at suing get buried in lawyers. I added in a few details from my own research on her as well. 

“Yeah, she demonizes perfectly innocent people for ratings, and then stands behind the network thinking they’re gonna protect her,” Sophie summarizes, “We’re gonna sever that relationship.”

“How?” I asked.

“We’re gonna get her to go on air with a fake story that just destroys her reputation,” Sophie explained. 

“Like when you find a crooked cop,” Eliot adds, “you know, all his cases go right out the window.”

“Exactly,” Sophie stands at the front of the room, “And then to protect themselves, they issue an apology to Mr. Pennington, and then they throw Monica Hunter into the jaws of the very media machine that she bent to her own malicious will.”

“Wow,” Parker comments, “I gotta say, Sophie’s briefings are much more dramatic.”

“And poetic,” Eliot adds.

“You see, what we need to do though,” Nate said, finding it hard to leave things alone, “what we need is, we gotta sell her a fake news story that she can’t refuse.” He walked to the front of the room, overtaking Sophie, “That’s what we gotta do, because what does she have? She has fame, she has money, what does she need?”

Sophie cleared her throat, setting him back on track to apologize and sit on the couch.

Sophie continued, “what does she have? She has fame, she has money, what does she need?”

I rolled my eyes with a huff before actually contemplating the question. Once I did, I quickly came to a conclusion, “Respect. Anyone with two eyes and a working brain thinks she’s a joke, an absolute dumpster fire. Let alone serious journalists.”

Hardison pointed at me in agreement, “Right. Look, these are emails from her agent and internal memos from the network.” He pulled them up on the screen, “See, everytime her contract’s up, she tries to go and get a job on a serious news show, but she gets laughed out of the room every time.”

“We can’t sell her respect,” Nate said.

“But we can sell her a story that commands respect,” Sophie remedied. “A story that she’s gonna chase to get the respect she craves. Pack your bags everyone. We’re going to D.C. to make news.”

We all watched her, inspired, but not sure what to do next.

“That’s when you wanna…” Nate gestured to walk away dramatically like he always does. 

“Let me do that bit again,” Sophie said, “Pack your bags everyone. We’re going to D.C. to make news.” She then walked out of the living room.

“She’s walking into the closet,” Nate pointed out.

We shrugged, but figured that was our cue to get a move on. 

After we arrived in D.C. Parker was sent in to make the first contact with the mark.

“I got the pass. Easy.”

“Parker, we went over this,” Sophie told her over comms, “You’re not supposed to take it. You’re supposed to get caught with it.”

“I don’t know how to get caught.”

“Yeah, I know it’s difficult to steal badly, just… just try.”

“Why isn’t y/n doing this part?”

“Because,” I answered, “I have about the same amount of confidence in acting and conning as you do Parker, if not less, and I don’t know how to steal at all. It’s easier to teach one skill at a time.”

“Fine.”

After some rustling and loud noises, Parker was finally ‘caught.’ After being confronted by Monica, Parker fled out of the building, of which she followed. Parker strung her along for a minute before disclosing what story she had, and why she needed Monica’s press credentials. 

“I have a story that will bring down… the president of the United States.”

I was waiting with Eliot for our cue to intimidate Monica and lead her to believe that something serious was going on. We stood in suits around the corner from our apartment that Hardison was waiting in with his conspiracy theory. I kept fidgeting with my suit as we waited for Parker to arrive with Monica. 

“Quit messing with it,” Eliot told me after I pulled at my sleeve again.

I looked over at him to see him messing with his tie, “Hypocrite.” I swatted his hands away and straightened it myself, avoiding his eyes that I could feel on me. 

“Are you nervous? We have a five second part, you don’t even have to say anything,” He said after I pulled away.

“Well the goal is to be intimidating, and I don’t think I am very intimidating,” I paused and deliberately straightened my coat, “and I’ve never been much of a blazer person.”

He chuckled, “okay, give me your intimidating look, let me judge it.”

I groaned, “It’s gonna be so bad, especially compared to yours.”

He nodded, urging me to do it.

“Fine,” I gave him my best glare, trying to be intimidating.

“That’s good,” he said, “but looks very intentional and almost forced, you want it to look effortless.”

I sighed, “how do I do that?”

“Give me a deadpan, annoyed look.”

My face relaxed as I obeyed him. 

He gently straightened my head as it had tilted to the side and directed my sight directly at him and his eyes. “Okay, now clench your jaw a bit and give me a tiny squint,” he looked at me for a moment while I adjusted my expression, “well, you look pretty intimidating right now, but I don’t know if it’d work on anyone with taste…”

I furrowed my brow at him before he finished.

“I think you look too good.”

That left me speechless and blushing. 

He smirked at me a bit before we heard Nate through the comms, “Eliot are you-”

“I have to warn you about my source,” Parker cut in, talking to Monica, “He doesn’t like strangers.”

That cued us to get closer so we could reveal ourselves when Monica was about to leave. We heard her dismiss Hardison and Parker, so we started our walk down the hallway. I positioned myself on the corner facing Monica directly when she opened the door leaving Eliot to walk past me, make eye contact with her and slowly turn around. She looked between the both of us before all three of us retreated to where we came from. 

We listened as Hardison and Parker sold Monica the story and then she left, talking to her coworker about stealing the story right from under Parker’s nose. Eliot and I smiled at each other as we walked into the apartment.

“Hunter’s hooked,” Eliot said as we walked in, joining the others.

“Our mark has a story and a source. We halfway home,” Hardison said. 

“Now for the hard part,” Sophie said, “We need to steal a general.”

“No,” Nate corrected, “it's ‘let’s go steal a general.’ You know, it's a rallying cry.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“‘We need to steal a general,’ it’s a little naggy. It’s kinda like ‘we need eggs,’ you know? ‘We need eggs.’” He repeated, emphasizing how low energy it was, “‘We need eggs!’ You know?”

Sophie just rolled her eyes and walked away.

“No, I’m just trying to give you a little…”

“You see what you did,” Hardison told Nate, following Sophie. 

“Eliot, these conspiracies aren’t real right?” Parker asked. 

“What do you mean?” He asked back. 

“Like the one over there that says all the major wars of the past fifty years were ordered by members of The Council.”

I looked over at the wall and back at them, suddenly intrigued by his answer.

“Parker, I’m not at liberty to discuss that with you,” he answered before walking away and following the other two.

“You’re not a member of The Council are you?” Parker asked humorously before becoming more serious, “Eliot?” She turned towards me and Nate, “Is he?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered, following the others. 

I quickly followed, before Parker could pry even more.  

Nate quickly turned towards me when I caught up, “By the way, was Eliot flirting with you before?” He didn’t let me answer before walking after him, “Eliot!”

Parker was still chasing after us, “Wait, is he?”

Later, I watched from a distance as Eliot distracted a general and lifted his badge, allowing Nate to take his place for a little while. 

“Alright, you guys have got to teach me some of this thievery thing,” I whined quietly, “How’d you lift that so smoothly Eliot?”

I could hear the smirk in his voice, “It’s all about practice sweetheart.”

“Eliot, don’t call my niece that,” Nate remarked through the comms. 

“He can call me what he likes, Nate. We’re all friendly here,” I replied, sending a playful eye roll at Eliot as he approached me.

“I don’t care, get ready for the walk by you two. Parker, what’s your 20?”

“Seconds away.”

Parker was asking Monica questions as they walked up the steps towards Nate’s newly acquired office. As they reached the top, Eliot and I walked somewhat near them, deliberately making eye contact with Monica. We walked a little ways apart and at a slightly different trajectory to suggest we weren’t there together, but close enough for Monica to get the picture that we were both there for her. I walked almost directly towards her and gently bumped her shoulder as I walked by, to send a bit of a message. 

“I knew it,” Monica said to Parker once I had passed out of earshot, “We’ve got a shadow.”

I smiled as the pass was successful, then left to prepare for the next phase, listening as Monica half interviewed Nate as a general and found incriminating evidence in his office. 

What we didn’t expect was Monica blowing off the story due to her ratings. She said that she sold fear to her viewers, to give them “a reason to lock their doors.” And this story didn’t do that. 

This prompted Sophie to up her game, “Alright, she wants fear…” Sophie concludes, “that’s what we’ll give her.”

This made me nervously look at Nate and Eliot who sat in the apartment with us. 

“This is how it starts,” Nate commented, which didn’t make me feel better. 

The next ploy was to hit Parker with a car. This task was given to me.

“Is there any trick to this where I don’t actually kill Parker?” I asked Eliot who was in the passenger seat.

“Just drive straight at her, she’ll do the rest,” he answered simply.

“Alright, if you say so,” I proceeded to drive at her and cringed as she jumped and rolled over the hood to make it look like I hit her. I threw the car in park and stepped out of the car, watching our surroundings, making sure my expression was stoic. 

Eliot got out and checked Parker making it look like he was looking for something. He eventually found a red folder, grabbed it, and returned to the car. We both got back in and I drove off quickly.

“Was she okay?” I asked him.

He nodded, “Yeah, she seemed fine. Parker, check in once you’re clear.”

I listened as Hardison spoke to Monica, and led her away from Parker’s “dead” body. He hooked her on this even bigger development, and led her to meet with Nate. 

After that she responded, “I’m good, let’s go.” 

I drove around the block and picked her up on a corner away from the crowd, Hardison, and Monica. 

She got in the back seat and grabbed Eliot and I’s shoulders, “that was great! We should do that more often.”

Eliot looked over at me as I smiled a bit in relief, “See? Told ya, she’s fine.”

We rendezvoused at the apartment and listened as Nate spun Monica a story about nerve agents in the water, and how what used to be secret prisons, were actually safehouses for the rich and powerful. Nate gave her a call to action and let her loose. 

We observed as she tried to contact her sources, all of which Hardison artfully manipulated technologically to seem like they confirmed Monica’s fears about the story, even if not directly. It got to the point that we were watching her on the station’s security cameras and she was running around, clearly paranoid out of her mind. 

“Now that’s what I call control,” Sophie said.

“Yeah, we might’ve, uh, pushed too hard,” Nate commented. 

Sophie scoffed, “please.”

Then there was a knock at the door. And that knock belonged to Monica Hunter. We all dashed into the other room before Hardison answered the door. We listened as Monica insisted on getting video footage of the bunkers and took Hardison with her to help get it.

Once they were gone we exited the side room.

“Too much,” Parker commented.

“A little bit,” Eliot added sarcastically, taking a large swig of his beer. 

Nate raced after them to meet them at something that could look like a bunker at the army reserve base. The rest of us monitored from the apartment. Where things took a turn for the worst was when Monica went as far as climbing over the fence into a restricted area and Hardison followed her. This led to both of them being captured.

“Glass half full,” Sophie said once we looked at her, “she really buys the bunker story…”

We listened as Monica and Hardison were separated into interrogation rooms. Hardison tried to talk himself out of it by saying that Monica was taking him back to her place and he was just along for the ride. We heard the officer say hold on before Hardison started speaking to us. 

“Get me out of here,” Hardison demanded.

“Yeah, I’m working on it,” Sophie replied.

“I’m on it,” Parker said, walking out of the side room.

Sophie jumped up to stop her, “No, no, no, you cannot go. You’re dead,” she reminded, “Monica Hunter sees you and the whole con is blown.”

“Right,” she conceded. 

“Damn the con,” Hardison said, “I am a black man caught on an army base with a video camera. I am going to jail forever,” he finished with a squeak. 

“Yeah, look, Nate’s the only one close enough to get you,” Sophie explained. 

“But Nate’s five minutes away and still trying to figure out how he’s gonna walk two prisoners off an army base using an ID that’s already been reported stolen. No, you guys, we’re gonna have to stall,” Nate added. 

“Stall?” Hardison asks in disbelief, before asking, “Y/n, Eliot, get me everything you can on a Lieutenant Abbot. Just do what I taught you.”

I pulled the computer close to me to start typing while Eliot reminded me what to do. Eliot also started to aggravate Hardison in the process.

“Now the http thing comes before the w-w-w dot, right?”

“Eliot!” Hardison whisper-yelled.

“And which one’s the forward slash?” I asked helpfully, typing away easily. 

“It ain’t the time, you two, it ain’t the time.”

“See?” Eliot replied, “It’s not fun when you’re hanging out there in the wind and there’s a dude behind a laptop cracking jokes, is there?”

“I like it when we switch jobs,” Parker comments, happily playing with a gas mask, “It’s exciting.”

We all looked over at her skeptically before I turned back to the laptop to continue my research, with the help of some of Hardison’s software. Eliot and I relayed what we found to Hardison and let him loose to do what he saw fit with the info.

“Sir, I need to know why you’re on this base,” we heard the officer say. 

“Yes.” Hardison replied, “Why am I on this base?”

“I’m asking you.”

“No, I’m asking you,” Hardison insisted, “Why am I on this base? Why am I in this room?”

“So I can ask you questions.”

“Or maybe, it's so I can ask you questions, Lieutenant Kyle Abbot, Social Security 823-24-6270?”

“I don’t know what you’re up to.”

“Maybe you’re not cleared to know. Two disciplinary actions? That one in Germany?” Hardison tsked, “Maybe you’re just too much of a security risk.” There was a moment before Hardison slammed the table, making me jump in my seat, “Did I say you could leave?”

It seemed he had it under some control. Now onto getting Nate in there. 

“Not gonna work,” Nate said. 

“It’s all in the salute, man,” Eliot replied. 

“Just work the stars and bars,” Sophie added, “Nobody wants to look a general in the eye.”

Nate must have come to the checkpoint as he said in his gruff general voice, “Uh, good form soldier, as you were.”

We heard a distant, “clear,” which had me sigh in relief. He was in. There was a minute or two of silence as he made his way to the base before we heard someone speak. 

“Mine appears to be insane.”

“No, not insane,” Nate cut in, “just a reporter. Well congratulations, gentlemen. This base has passed with, uh, flying colors. Well done.”

“Uh, passed what, sir?”

“Have you not been briefed? You were supposed to be briefed. The Department of Defense has decided to, uh, reassure the American people about, uh, the safety of their military bases. So we’ve agreed to cooperate with the network and make a television special, you know, to show off just how effective our security is.”

“They were pretty easy to catch, sir.”

“Well, for you. But in Camp Monroe in Idaho, those two were signing their names on nukes with shiny silver pens.” He chuckled, “turn ‘em loose now and I’ll get ‘em out of your hair.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Alright, let’s go. Sorry to waste your time gentlemen. Very well done there.”

I held my breath, they were so close to getting out. I heard a shake of a pill bottle. 

“Oh, trimethylxanthine, thank you,” we heard Monica say.

“That just slows down the effect of the toxin. Hopefully long enough for you to get the truth out.”

“How did you find us?”

“Are you kidding me? Famous reporter shows up at one of the bunkers, sets off alarms all over the city. We’re gonna be lucky if we get out in one piece, I’ll tell you that.”

“We’ll split up,” Hardison suggests. 

“No,” Monica insisted, but Nate overruled her.

“Yes, your car’s still parked over by the fence. You pick it up and we’ll meet back at the apartment.”

“We’ll gather the evidence and we’ll meet at the studio,” Monica added. 

We listened as they sped off, but it sounded like they got free. 

“Whoo!” I cheered, slapping Eliot’s shoulder who still sat next to me in front of the computer. “Nate I know you can’t talk right now with her there, but I don’t know how you just lied out of your ass so well. In an Army base no less!”

“Ah, he was fine,” Eliot said.

“Well, if it’s a family trait, I don’t think I inherited it.”

“Like I said, it’s just practice.”

“You’ll learn y/n,” Sophie told me, “We’ll teach you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Don’t have to, you’ve already improved over the last few jobs we’ve done. You’ll be out there grifting in no time,” she insisted. 

I smiled at her thankfully. There wasn’t much time to celebrate though as they were making their way back to the apartment. We packed up everything, our supplies, the photo wall, everything. It left an astonishingly bare apartment, just in time for Monica’s arrival.

“Where did it go? The photos. The maps,” we heard Monica say through Nate’s comm, “Where’s Wade Perkins?” She asked, referring to Hardison. “Thank God, the red file,” she found the only thing left in the room.

That was Eliot and I’s cue to walk in from the side room, dressed in heavy aprons and heavy duty gloves.

“Pardon me,” Eliot said to Monica softly, but it had an edge to it. 

“We were just cleaning up,” I explained, trying to match his tone. 

“We hunt for the truth,” Nate said, bringing the attention to him, “through many dark places. I am a patriot, Ms. Hunter. I’m sorry.” He turned to Eliot, “Earl.”

Monica then sprayed Nate with pepper spray and ran off. I followed her for a few steps before turning back to Nate as he yelled in pain. 

Eliot laughed a bit as he patted his back, “good thing Parker switched that with water.”

“Didn’t. Didn’t switch,” Nate choked out.

“Oh, oh no,” I cringed, starting to smell the spray. “Let’s get that washed out, it's gonna hurt for a bit…”

Once we got Nate as cleaned up as possible, we turned on the TV to watch as Monica humiliated herself on live television. Hardison was there at the station making sure it all went through. She looked psychotic as she told her story and it was a welcome surprise when the police arrived and arrested her. The anchor immediately broke the story of Monica Hunter’s psychotic break as she was being dragged off the set behind her. 

It wasn’t too long after the story aired that we were back in my apartment. We had a laptop propped on the counter showing an interview of our client, happy to have his good name back after Monica Hunter’s fall from grace. I was helping Eliot prep dinner, the whole team there to celebrate. 

“See, Ray was the beginning,” Nate said after the interview ended, “I’m telling you, every person that Hunter slandered is going to get a second chance.”

“Loch Ness Monster,” Parker held up the infamous photo, grilling Eliot on other conspiracy theories. 

“Loch Ness submarine,” Hardison replied.

“No!”

“Scottish waters are cold and deep. It’s the perfect place to test,” Eliot replied, barely looking up from his cutting board. 

“Area 51.”

Hardison and Eliot contradicted each other on that one with Hardison saying no and Eliot, yes. 

“She said Area 51, 51,” Hardison insisted.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot corrected, “False. Area 52.”

“Been there,” Hardison commented. 

“Yup.”

I laughed softly to myself from my own cutting board. 

Eliot heard me, “What, you got an opinion over there, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call her that,” Nate said before sitting next to Sophie. 

I ignored him, replying to Eliot, “No, you would know better than me. Now tell me if these veggies are okay.”

He turned from his cutting board to peer over my shoulder, “cut them just a little bit smaller, then they’ll be perfect.” 

And just like that he was gone, but I could still feel his breath brush my cheek. I blushed and my mind went blank, trying to decipher what he said for a moment before it caught up to the instructions. I shook my head, trying not to think about how it would feel to have him closer. 

I took a deep breath before doing as he asked, because that was something I could do, something I could focus on. 

A/n: Reblogs and comments are welcome and encouraged! Thank you for reading!

Tags: @isoldeahlstrom @kniselle @technikerin23

[16woodsequ]

20 Questions for Writers

I was tagged by @eriquin. Thank you!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

58! I can't believe how many it is!

2. What's your total AO3 word count?

1,154,427

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Mainly Marvel, but I've also written for Transformers and Sherlock

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Alternatively

Sins of the Father

Uncovered Issues

The Alternative Handler

All Too Familiar

5. Do you respond to comments?

Yeah! I respond to all my comments!

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Either Ice and Empty Spaces, or Nothing Left

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Probably Sorrow is Not My Name.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Yes, on some of my more politically themed fics.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

No smut for me!

10. Do you write crossovers?

No really, I wrote Zuko's Weird Dream as a challenge, but that's it.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Once I believe. Someone posted my fic and some others on this site I'd never heard off, and we got their account shut down.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Not yet! I've had someone offer, but didn't hear back after that. I do think about translating my fics myself into French, since I know the language, but that's a future project.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Yes! I wrote The One Where Clint is Steve's Weakness with @jinxquickfoot and wrote sympathy won't you come around? with @turtle-steverogers

14. What's your all-time favorite ship?

I don't really ship people the same way a lot of people do? I think it's something to do with being aspec for me. I enjoy SteveBucky because their friendship is so strong, but I don't think I ship them. I dunno.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you will?

Hmm, I've kind of learned to never say never after I came back to the first multi-chapter Marvel fic I ever wrote and finished it. But maybe the fic "It's not my/your fault" (named that because I haven't decided which of the two words to use). It's kind of a trauma vent fic, and I don't know if I need to finish it right now.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Emotional impact and exploring trauma and mental health.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

I feel like I sometimes use the same sayings and words a lot to describe things and feelings. So I'm try to be conscious of that.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

When I do it, I like to put the translation or indicate the translation somehow within the text. I think it breaks the flow if readers need to know what's being said, but have to scroll down to the notes for translations. If the character doesn't need to know, or isn't supposed to know what's being said, then I will leave the reader in the dark, but if the character is supposed to know what's being said, then I will indicate it in the text in one way or another.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Transformers! Still has a special place in my heart.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

That's so hard! I feel like I often feel very excited for recent fics that I've written. But I am really loving my fic Therapy Works (if your therapist isn't a Hydra agent) that I'm posting right now. It is such an amalgamation of all the themes I love writing about Steve, and it's a perfect spotlight on what he's gone through, as well being a continuation of different fics I've written that people have loved. It's great :D

Low pressure tag: @jinxquickfoot @meidui

[woodstoneb-b]

Hello and welcome to Woodstone Manor - I have been here since the beginning, this house growing up in my shadow. A majestic mighty tree that has stood the test of

Nah this is weird...I'm Jay Arondekar and this is all just a simulation. Because video games are awesome and so is this ability my wife, Sam has. She can see ghosts!

She inherited this house from her Great Aunt and after falling down the stairs and kind of dying for a bit - she got better! - she can see actually see and hear ghosts.

There's 8 of them haunting here (well...not exactly, but more on that later)

This is them! Well, almost all of them... From left to right - Trevor aka "No Pants" (fortunately this game doesn't let Sims go pantsless, but he absolutely insisted on me putting him in tiny underpants after this...weirdo.) He's a finance bro from 2000 - he worked at Lehman Brothers (yeah those guys), despite this he's not as shitty as you'd think.

Then there's Sasappis, he goes by Sass (a well deserved nickname my wife tells me), he's a Lanape who's tribe used to live on the land here and he died back in the 1500s. Despite that he really loves TV.

Next to him is Flower - and you can totally guess where she's from right? The 1960s. She died on the property after trying to hug a bear, drugs were involved. She's cool though, if a bit spacey.

The guy next to her is an honest to God Viking from like the year 1000. Did you know there were Vikings in New York?! I did not so this was pretty epic to find out. According to my wife the good news about Thorfinn aka Thor - he's learnt to speak English, the bad news - he talks a lot about murdering and pillaging, also cod, salmon...any fish really.

And your eyes do not deceive you, next to Thor is a soldier from the Revolutionary War - Captain Isaac Higgintoot, who you can learn all about by reading my wife's recently released book on him The Forgotten Founding Father: The Isaac Higgintoot Story - available from all good bookstores! He died from dysentery, but we don't talk about that

The guy in front who looks like boy scout, is not a boy scout, he's Pete, Pine Cone Troop Leader and awesome travel agent (kids ask your parents about that), he's from the 80s, loves D&D, basketball.

And in the back wearing the eyecatching red, is Alberta who you may have heard about from the monthly Murder at the Manor?! podcast hosted by my wife and Todd Pearlman complete and a total loon who has one of Alberta's toenails and wants to clone her she was a raising star in the Jazz Age and her loss is utter tragedy for the music world.

And this is Henrietta "Hetty" Woodstone aka the owner of Woodstone Manor - well, that would actually be my wife, since Hetty is a ghost, but yeah. She wanted a screengrab of just her because as the owner of Woodstone she deserves it. She and her asshole (we're not striking that out? No? OK) husband/cousin, Elias - Mill Owners and Robber Barons built Woodstone in the 1850s. Apparently, there was a house on it when they started, but they made it the place it is today.

Here's the ground floor layout, there's a Ballroom, a Library, a Music Room and a Games Room. So yeah, the Woodstone's were rolling in it!

The first floor, where the bedrooms are, there's actually 9 of them - well 8 if you don't include the Owner's Suite, or 6 if you take out the ghosts' bedrooms (why do ghosts need their own bedrooms? Because getting walked through hurts. They bunk up, Thor and Trevor share the Private Living Room so that means only 3 bedrooms are out of commission. Although the one marked "Spruce" isn't actually available yet because of a terrible mould issue so there's actually 5 guest rooms at the B&B in real life. But for the purposes of the game here, each Ghost gets their own room, again! They're pretty jealous of their simselves to be honest.

We have a basement with an actual secret Vault in it! Sadly, the visions I had a piles of gold ala Scrooge McDuck did not come to be. But you can drink wine down there now, it's accessed by a secret room and passageway. Where exactly is the secret door? You'll have to visit us to find out!

There's also a whole group of ghosts in the hot water heater room that died of Cholera, my wife says be glad you can't see them.

And finally the attic, you don't wanna go up there, it's full of old stuff including metal things that are probably a tetanus hazard. Also there's a ghost of a teenage girl up there, she got murdered on her way to prom in the late 80s and she's pretty pissed about it. Which is totally understandable, although she's also a huge mean girl and that sucks.

So now you have a bit of background! Tune in next time to see how the Ghosts settle in and their excitement at actually being able to leave the Manor grounds! (Did you know Ghosts are bound to the places they haunt? Turns out they are...which is why my wife and I have to put up with them)

[my-supernatural-rewatch]

Episode 8: Bugs

Dean Winchester in the Supernatural episode Bugs

There are not enough words to describe how much I hate watching this episode.

It's actually a lot better an ep than I remembered, but I hate all the...you guessed it...bugs. (Even knowing they're fake. I lost count of how many times I closed my eyes while watching this episode.)

Dean and Sam investigate a new housing development where people are seemingly being killed by...ugh...bugs.

So this episode starts with something I wish we got to actually see more of on the show...Dean walks out of a barroom after making money hustling pool. I would love to have seen more of that. I know we got a few glimpses but I think it's such a good example of Dean honing a craft, becoming expert at it, and using it to survive.

And since Dean did this, of course Sam has to take issue with how he made his money. He complains about Dean making money hustling pool and with credit cars scams and suggests they get 'day jobs.'

Dean weighs the honest ways of money versus the easy and fun ways to make money and his happy with his life choices. "It's no contest."

"Besides, we're good at it. It's what we were raised to do."

Because God forbid John took a day job once in a while.

Sam admittedly has a great reponse, "Yeah, well how we were raised was jacked."

For once, Sammy, you aren't wrong. Dean, of course, disagrees.

"Says you."

Now as time goes on we'll find out Dean pretty much agrees with Sam but right now John looms heavy over Dean and he wouldn't dare say that to his younger brother.

As an aside, the beginning of this episode has Def Leppard's Rock of Ages playing (presumably in the bar?) and it is as of now the second time we hear this song just this season. We know it comes up again in season five and I'm wondering if we hear it again between now and then (I'm not spoiling it for myself by Googling it).

Oh and another aside that's been nagging at me since I am keeping track of when Dean wears John's jacket...where do they keep all their clothes? Granted, there probably aren't a lot of them but we know they aren't in the trunk because of all the weapons and shit they keep there...and we never see anything in the back seat...so where are the clothes? Where does Dean keep all his different jackets?

On the fly, Dean comes up with the idea to stop at an open house and talk to the people in the development to see what they can find out. (This is after they flipped a coin to see who went in the dirt hole the first dead guy was found in and Sam goes in even though Dean said he would. There are bugs. It is gross.)

As they approach the house, we get another glimpse into how the show wants us to think Dean feels about family-type communities such as the one they're currently in.

"Growing up in a place like this would freak me out." "The manicured lawns. 'How was your day, honey?' I'd blow my brains out."

Of course we find out Dean truly wanted some version of this both when he gets captured by the Djinn and when he's with Lisa....

But. I. Digress.

Sam protests by saying there's nothing wrong with normal and Dean responds with "I'd take our family over normal any day."

And I believe him to a certain extent. Dean has to believe that the way they were raised was the right way because if he doesn't what does that say about him...about his father? Dean isn't yet in a place to be thinking about this stuff too deeply.

We then get our first, but not last, instance of someone mistaking Sam and Dean for a couple instead of brothers when the real estate agent and guy who created the development assumes they are together and looking for a home.

Dean is the one who explains that they're brothers while Sam stands around with a goofy smile on his face.

Once they're in the backyard, where people are there mingling for this fancy schmancy open house, another realtor mistakes them fro a gay couple and Dean plays into it but calling Sam "honey" and slapping his ass.

This episode introduced me to steam showers and to this day I so fucking want one. Just like Dean.

Sam ends up bonding with the real estate agent's teenage son and doesn't even use his fake sympathy voice. Good for you, Sam!

Sam witnesses the kid's father being an overbearing jerk to his son and comments to Dean that he reminds him of John...to which Dean takes offense.

"Dad never treated us like that."

Sam points out that John never treated DEAN like that (which we find out to not be true but in fairness to Sam we also found out that for the most part Sam didn't know how badly Dean was treated by John).

"You were perfect. He was all over my case," Sam tells Dean.

"Maybe sometimes he had to raise his voice, but sometimes you were out of line." I don't believe for a minute that Dean really believs this but I do think that Dean has made himself believe this.

Sam gives the teen a bit of advice about his dad by telling him things will get better when he leaves home for college and is out of the house and away from his father and Dean is not impressed.

"What kind of advice is that? Kid should stick with his family."

This breaks my heart. It really does. Because Dean at this point truly thinks that sacrificing your own needs and your own dreams because of loyalty to your family is the right and only path.

The things Dean could have done had John not kept him under his thumb.

Random weirdness in the episode. About halfway through it, with no explanation, no discussion about it at all, Sam is driving the Impala.

Why, Dean, why?

The brothers get a lot of time in this episode to talk.

Here's the entire dialogue between them because it's too good to summarize:

Dean: Yeah, so with that kid back there...why'd you tell him to just ditch his family like that?

Sam: I know what the kid's going through.

Dean: How about telling him to respect his old man, how's that for advice?

Sam: Dean, come on. This isn't about his old man. You think I didn't respect Dad. That's what this is about.

Dean: Just forget it, all right? Sorry I brought it up.

Sam: I respected him. But no matter what I did, it was never good enough.

Dean: So what are you saying'? That Dad was disappointed in you?

Sam: Was? Is. Always has been.

Dean: Why would you think that?

Sam: Because I didn't want to bow hunt or hustle pool - because I wanted to go to school and live my life, which, to our whacked-out family, made me the freak.

Dean: Yeah, you were kind of like the blonde chick in The Munsters.

Sam: Dean, you know what most dads are when their kids score a full ride? Proud. Most dads don't toss their kids out of the house.

Dean: I remember that fight. In fact, I seem to recall a few choice phrases comin' out of your mouth.

Sam: You know, truth is, when we finally do find Dad...I don't know if he's even gonna wanna see me.

Dean: Sam, Dad was never disappointed in you. Never. He was scared.

Sam: What are you talkin' about?

Dean: He was afraid of what could've happened to you if he wasn't around. But even when you two weren't talking...he used to swing by Stanford whenever he could. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you were safe.

Sam: What?

Dean: Yeah.

Sam: Why didn't you tell me any of that?

Dean: Well, it's a two-way street, dude. You could've picked up the phone.

Not to defend John Winchester because fuck him, but I do think there's a lot to what Dean says here. It makes perfect sense that John would be scared about Sam going off on his own when John had basically spent the first 18 years of Sam's life killing and pissing off monsters. Plus with the demon that killed Mary still kicking about, John had no way of knowing how safe Sam would be on his own.

And, John being John, instead of admitting any of that, he turned it into "if you leave don't come back" because...well, because John is a dick.

I also think Sam, who can be a dick in his own right, probably said some things to John that cut too deeply. John is much more to blame for this, always will be, but I have a feeling Dean is not exaggerating when he says Sam had a decent hand in that rift.

Both brothers look more sad than anything else during this exchange and, yes, that's John Winchester's fucking legacy.

Dean and Sam talk to a Native American man about the bugs and find out about the development being built where the American cavalry raped and then massacred an entire village Native Americans (hello Poltergiest) but he won't talk to Dean because he clocks Dean as a liar and Sam as NOT a liar.

Which, sorry dude, but your radar is a little off there. (I mean not completely but still...)

So weird shit continues to happen and the kid calls Sam for help. Sam tells him to basically convince his father about what is happening and Dean takes the phone from him and tells the kid to LIE because "He'll just think you're nuts." if he tells his dad the truth.

Spoiler: Dean is right; Sam is wrong; the kid stupidly listens to Sam.

Dean's admonishment to Sam made me laugh, "Make him listen. What are you thinking?"

Sam really IS out of practice.

Also, I feel like Dean is projecting a little bit. John wouldn't have listened to either of his sons when they were teenagers. (Hell, he doesn't listen to them as adults.)

So there is a lot more gross bug stuff and somehow they get through and now we get our final brother moment after Sam sees the real estate agent and his son in a better place after their shared trauma.

He tells Dean he wants to find John and apologize "For all the things I said to him."

When Dean asks what he's going to apologize for, Sam admits, "He was just doing the best he could."

Which is an excuse I hear from a lot of fans who defend John Winchester as a father. And, I'm sorry, but just doing the best you could is sometimes NOT ENOUGH.

Dean assures Sam they'll find him and Sam can apologize. Then he hits him with a truth bomb:

"And then within five minutes, you guys will be at each other's throats."

Some notes for posterity:

The significant music from this episode comes from Def Leppard: Rock of Ages (second appearance on the show) and Scorpion: No One Like You

The brothers pose as anthropology students when they talk to John Whitetree but he knows immediately Dean is lying. They tell the coworker of the first guy who dies that they are the nephews of the dead guy, and they tell the real estate agent that they're brothers looking for a place for their dad. (And Dean pretends they're a couple in front of the second real estate agent.)

Movie References: Sam and Dean both mention the film Willard, Dean makes two TV references with The Munsters and Timmy from Lassie...there is also the obvious nod to Poltergeist with the entire premise of the episode.

This hunt takes place in Oasis Plains, Oklahoma.

Dean wears John’s jacket in this episode.

Sam drives the Impala briefly and without explanation.

This is the only episode we see Sam and Dean with umbrellas.

Because Eric Kripke is a bit of a weirdo:

"I called [Manners], said 'the boys aren't scared of demons, but they're scared of rain?' From that point forward, a hard rule: no umbrellas. Not easy for Vancouver."

[maxwell-grant]

🔥 The Shadow in the pulps

Myra Reldon was really, really cool on her debut, and pretty much never again sadly. Like, she was okay on the following ones, but her spark was lost once she became entirely reliant on her gimmick and could not longer show up or match The Shadow to the same extent. She was the greatest beneficiary of Gibson's "introduce this new agent as a potential villain and then reveal later they were a good guy" method but unfortunately she turned out to be a one-trick pony with a very limited trick. I blame this more on Gibson being generally unwilling to/lackluster at writing women than anything, Myra has potential but she's in a rough spot (and not at all because of Margo, but that's a spiel for another time).

I don't think the early years were the absolute definitive best ones. Gibson was still finding his footing big time and the character was still operating on undercooked surroundings and cast. Like yeah, if you think these novels are worthless whenever The Shadow is not on screen, you're probably gonna gravitate more to the ones where he's at his most distant and invincible, but I think that's extremely reductive and also plainly wrong, he's not even at his absolute coolest in those either.

I've thought a lot on how to make the best of it and I have some ideas but frankly, and I could change my mind in the future but for now, if I could excise the Xincas from Kent Allard's character/backstory, I would. It's just, I don't think you can escape the mighty whitey bullshit baked into the concept guys, I like The Shadow having globetrotted extensively and done something important in South America and the ring having all that lore into it and etc but the Xincas are just, they get cut out of adaptations for good reason.

I agree that Shiwan Khan is overused as hell and usually a bad omen but, thing is, I actually do like him, I do think he had some really good things going for him, and I actually do think he had a lot of legit reasons for being The Shadow's arch-nemesis. That said, I do get that the character is toxic and, even if I argue the particulars of it, I do understand there is a degree of inescapable Yellow Peril there that might not really be worth salvaging. Really the biggest reason I even want Khan to work is less about him and more because, well,

The Shadow's villains kinda suck, and he's not particularly conductive towards having a good rogues gallery in the first place, which really wouldn't be an issue (most characters don't have one) if they didn't keep making a comic book superhero out of him. It's partially because, well he's already the villain to end all the villains for a start, hence why the best-regarded pulp villains generally had surface similarities to him. But The Shadow doesn't really invite that kind of deeper Spider-Man/Batman parallelism, he can't have an over-the-top collection of outsized personalities to fight ala Nick Carter/G-8 because he already is the central outsized over-the-top personality here, and he kinda has the Punisher problem (he can't have a bunch of villains running around because he's supposed to actually handle them for good even if he doesn't kill them) but worse, because his supporting cast actually matters, and fixing this villain problem would come at the expense of risking his supporting cast of agents and honestly, that wouldnt be remotely worth doing.

[samwpmarleau]

fic: around the shadows creep

whumptober day 8: sleep deprivation masterlist: tumblr, ao3 Daisy is captured by the Watchdogs after her quake in the storage facility isn’t as effective as she’d hoped.

All my power and training, and I still get kidnapped by these scumbags. Can I ever catch a goddamn break?

Is what goes through Daisy’s mind in various iterations as she slowly, groggily wakes. It’s little more than a blur how she got from investigating with Simmons to this. James’s betrayal, she remembers that, she remembers her arms breaking with the force of sending the Watchdogs to their knees, and she remembers the Watchdogs knocking out Simmons and discussing whether to leave her behind. Simmons isn’t Inhuman so her value is minimal, but she also is Daisy’s friend so perhaps she could be used as leverage, or so they argue amongst themselves.

But the in-betweens, what their decision was on Simmons, and what happens after she’s tased into unconsciousness, that she doesn’t know. None of it really matters, though. What matters is that she’s being dragged across gravel coarse enough to dig into her skin and wedge in her suit, then across a threshold onto frigid concrete. A warehouse, she guesses. She’s kind of offended at the predictability. Bigotry really has rotted their brains.

Then she’s abruptly yanked upwards into a cold metal chair and chained. Their shortsightedness is almost impressive. She can easily break out of the restraints with minimal power usage.

That is, if it weren’t for some sort of bracelets they slap on her wrists. As soon as the ends snap together, she discovers that her powers have been neutralized. Not so much as a tremor, let alone enough of a quake to get herself free.

Which sets her heart to racing. She’s a more than competent agent, but she’s not a super soldier, or even a gym nut like Mack. She can’t break through chains. Worst of all, no one knows she’s here. Even if the Watchdogs had fallen on the side of leaving Simmons behind, who knows how long it’d be before she woke up? And after that, how long it’d be until the team could figure out where Daisy is? Daisy doesn’t even know where she is. Her only solace is that she knows they will come for her. Regardless of how far she’s pushed them away, how much damage she’s done, they will come for her.

It’s just a matter of how quickly they can zero in on her location, and if she’ll be alive by the time they do.

“What do you want?” Daisy slurs. Her head feels like it’s filled with lead.

“What do we want? The extermination of your kind,” answers the man she decides to call One. His voice is slightly muffled. He’s probably hid behind one of the group’s ridiculous masks. Coward.

“Yeah, I get that part, dipshit. You guys are one-issue terrorists. What’s with the kidnapping? Why not ‘exterminate’ me?”

“Because we need information about where the rest of you are.”

“And because we want to have some fun,” chimes in another voice, Two.

“That, too,” says One. “We need to find the most effective means of making you talk.”

Great. Just great.

“Torture?” Daisy clarifies. “You want to torture me.”

“Or you can come clean right now. Tell us where you rats like to hide.”

“You guys hacked S.H.I.E.L.D.’s servers. Don’t you already have that information?”

“They changed the encryption. We can’t get in.”

Daisy lets out a laugh that echoes through the warehouse. “So you really were dumb enough to let Simmons go? Wow, you’re bigger idiots than I thought.”

One backhands her across the face. “We got you, didn’t we?”

“Yeah, unlucky for you,” says Daisy. She spits out a mouthful of blood. “I won’t tell you a damn thing.”

One sighs. “Don’t say we didn’t give you a chance to do this the easy way.”

———

Daisy’s made to wait so long that her legs begin to cramp from being forced into the same position. Her wrists chafe from trying to wriggle free. Her arms send constant shockwaves of pain through her body that it takes all the willpower she possesses not to cry. It’s part of their plan, of that she’s certain. They believe if she’s in enough pain and discomfort, she’ll give in. No doubt they’ll next offer some analgesics to dull it.

Well, joke’s on them. The last six months have been hell. There’s nothing they can do that’s worse than that.

———

They do their best, though. She gets both the carrot and the stick, questions and interrogation, bonds loosened for the session then tightened again once it concludes.

Still, she gives them nothing. Her silence is all that keeps the Watchdogs from siccing themselves on her fellow Inhumans, and she’s not about to allow that to happen.

———

She’s not sure how long they keep her in the chair. Another tactic, she assumes, depriving her of the time. They’re not entirely off on that; it’s unnerving to be in a room lit only by the lights overhead, neither windows nor clocks, not even a five o’clock shadow on her interrogators that could give her a clue.

Her silence is incredibly frustrating for them, she’s delighted to note; after several sessions, they remove her bonds entirely and frog-march her into a cell. It has a cot with the thinnest mattress she’s ever seen, a toilet, a conspicuously mounted camera, and nothing else. No clock, no distractions, no utensil with which she could try to Shawshank her way out. No painkiller, either, or even a roll of gauze to wrap her arms in. She wonders if she’ll be in this place for so long that once she’s rescued her bones will have to be re-broken in order to put them back together again. If they can be put back together again. She has no idea what kind of damage was done by her quake, nor what further damage was done by being tied to the chair.

No use dwelling on it. She’ll learn the extent eventually.

———

She does learn something in the interim — the Watchdogs’ next tactic. As she’s lying on her bed attempting to ignore the slight, irregular flickering of the bulb overhead in order to get some rest, music is suddenly piped into her cell. Not just music, loud music. Some sort of screamo, although she can’t place the artist. Maybe there isn’t an artist at all and they simply threw a bunch of sounds together. Either way, it’s deafening.

Her efforts to tune it out fail, as do her efforts to find some sort of pattern she can count. Best she can tell, it’s the same few bars repeated over and over and over again. She ponders the efficacy of this plan. How long until her hearing gets affected and she can’t even hear their questions? Or would hearing loss be a feature, not a bug?

Sleep, needless to say, is hard to come by.

———

They give up on the music after a few more sessions, for now. She’s tired enough to think that they might give her a short break.

They do not.

She celebrates the quiet up until she feels the temperature in her cell drop, and drop some more. Her suit helps at first, but it’s short-lived. While her sleeves and pants provide full coverage, they’re not insulated, built for movement and durability rather than warmth.

The cold does have one unintended benefit: Her arms go numb, which serves to finally lessen the pain.

She curls up onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest and ducking into her jacket to futilely utilize her body heat. A flaming head would be pretty useful right about now.

———

“Not getting enough sleep?” laughs Two.

She’s come to actually enjoy the sessions, for the interrogation room they bring her into is heated. Thawing out is uncomfortable, but is nonetheless a welcome relief. She has yet to develop any frostbite, which is nice. The temperature isn’t quite cold enough. Barely.

“You know I’m not,” Daisy replies. She tries her best to keep her voice even, clenching her jaw to prevent her teeth from chattering.

“You’ve lasted longer than some expected, but we’ve got time. You’ll beg for mercy eventually.”

Daisy leans back in her chair to get some more blood flow going. “You don’t know me very well. I don’t care how cold or loud you make my cell, I’m not going to talk.”

“We’ll see.”

“Okay, say I do break. Then what, you’ll kill me? What’s your endgame here?”

“We might kill you, yeah. We might not. That all depends on if you have any other uses.”

“Uses like what?”

“Whatever we want.” Two gives her a vacant smile. “Or whoever.”

———

Tactic Number Three is light.

She doesn’t think much of it at first. She’d gotten used to the flickering a while ago, and has learned to mostly dissociate from the cold and the music, which the Watchdogs decide to return to. But at least with their previous tactics they’d turn the light off for hours at a time.

No longer is that the case. The light remains on, bright and flickering and faintly buzzing. What she wouldn’t give to have her powers again. She could explode the bulb and finally get some darkness. But she doesn’t have them, the bracelets as tight as ever around her wrists.

———

When Daisy hears the banging and the screaming, she ignores it. Her brain has been sluggish for a while now, for one, and for two, she assumes it’s more of the same. Music, screams, what’s the difference? She hasn’t told the Watchdogs a thing, so they must be graduating to a new method.

When the door slams open, she prepares herself for another round of questioning. It’s hard to tell exactly how many interrogators she has, for they all wear masks and come in cycles, but from their voices, she’s pretty sure there are four. She wonders who it’ll be today.

Whatever. It’s irrelevant, because she will not break. She will not break. She will not break. She will not —

“Robbie?” Even as she says his name, she doesn’t entirely trust that he’s not a hallucination. They hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms, and his face swims in front of her, unclear.

Well, not his face. Ghost Rider, more specifically, is what swims in front of her, fire spitting and raging from the cracks in his skull. When had her life gotten so weird that seeing a flaming skeleton would make her feel happy?

“Are you actually here?” she asks.

Ghost Rider merely tilts his head.

“Let me talk to Robbie. Now.”

She knows full well she sounds pathetic rather than commanding, but Ghost Rider obliges anyway. She watches as the fire extinguishes and skin and muscle grow in its place to reassemble Robbie Reyes.

“I’m here,” he confirms.

She feels tears well in her eyes. At long last, someone is here to save her. “Please tell me you took all of those guys out.”

“Yeah. Coulson’s probably cuffing them as we speak.”

“Coulson? Why the hell are you with Coulson?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice. Can you walk?”

Daisy nods and gets to her feet. At which point she promptly stumbles as the room spins, her lack of peace and sleep messing with her equilibrium. She manages to catch herself on the wall with a hiss as the concrete sends a shot of pain through her arms.

“Guess that’s a no. Come on.”

Robbie loops an arm around her waist to take most of her weight. Normally, she’d tell him to stuff it, that she’ll manage on her own. But her body is beat up more than it ever has been, her brain is fuzzy, she’s tired, and the only thing more mortifying than leaning on Robbie would be for him to have to carry her out, so she allows the help. Just this once.

“How did you find me?” she asks.

“Team effort.” He sounds irritated at that, not that she’s surprised. If there’s anyone listed in the dictionary under “loner,” it’s him. “Simmons mainly. She knew where you guys were separated and had some guesses on where they might take you from there. Fitz did some algorithm thing, Coulson came up with the gameplan. Mack’s cleaning up any Watchdogs I missed.”

Sounds about right. “They’re a well-oiled machine.”

“More than can be said for you. You look like a train wreck.”

“Gee, thanks. You win Biggest Flirt in high school?”

“Didn’t graduate. So no.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Oh, like you have room to judge?”

She doesn’t, really. She didn’t graduate either. Still, “At least I don’t murder people.”

“That again?”

“Yeah, that again. Murder isn’t — it —” Words fail her as she devolves into a coughing fit. Apparently the cold and dirty cell hadn’t done her lungs any favors.

Robbie stops walking, and once the fit finally subsides, he asks quietly, “What’d they do to you?”

“The usual,” she grimaces. “Torture, threats. Creativity isn’t the Watchdogs’ strong suit.”

“Torture?”

“Some restraints here, deprivation there. Some unspecified ‘whatever we want.’ Never got around to that part, though.” She looks up at him and bats her eyelashes. “My knight in shining armor showed up.”

Robbie is not amused. “Is you making this all into a joke supposed to be for my benefit or yours?”

“It’s not for anyone’s benefit.”

“Still set on that death wish, then?”

“If you’re looking for a thank-you, don’t. I didn’t ask you to rescue me.”

“Holding on pretty tight for someone who doesn’t want help.”

Daisy looks down to see her hands clenched in his jacket. She hadn’t noticed. Immediately, she lets go and attempts to walk on her own, but gets only so far as to straighten before getting lightheaded as the ground sways beneath her feet. Robbie’s continued grip on her waist is all that keeps her from toppling over.

“I don’t want your help,” she says, frustrated that her body won’t comply.

“Well, tough shit.”

“Okay, so get me out of this building, but you don’t need to bring me back to S.H.I.E.L.D. You don’t need to go back to them either. Just disappear.”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“There’s this book. It’s dangerous and it needs to be destroyed. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s going to help me do that.”

“A book? You can’t find that yourself?”

“I could. It’d just take longer.”

“And rescuing me, how’s that part of a search for a book?”

“It’s not. You’re a detour. The sooner I get you to them, the sooner I can get what I came for.”

Daisy grits her teeth, knowing there’s no convincing him now. He’s singleminded, and even if Robbie were inclined to agree to her proposition, she doubts Ghost Rider would. Forcefully escaping is not an option. The power-dampening bracelets remain affixed to her wrists, and if she can’t even stand by herself, she’d be beaten in a fight against him quicker than she was the first time.

“These people care about you, Daisy. You should let them help.”

“Don’t preach at me,” she snaps. “You of all people.”

“Fine. I’ll deliver you then we’re done.”

“Great.”

As promised, as soon as they make it onto the Zephyr and she’s remanded into Simmons’s custody, Robbie strides off in a huff. Or maybe not in a huff, she can’t really tell. He’s just like that. She decides Most Moody would be his senior superlative, if he had one. She’s not sure the man even knows how to smile.

He used to, though. The handful of photos she’d seen in the Reyes home from before Robbie made his deal with the devil proved as much. It’s a shame he doesn’t smile anymore, she thinks. He had a nice one.