#cannon violence

[sincerelybubbles]

The Being (Un)Known \\ S. Reid x fem!reader

You never meant to orbit Spencer Reid, but somehow, you always do. The space between you is filled with quiet observations, lingering glances, and a tension that hums beneath every near miss. A brush of hands, a breath caught mid-sentence—small moments that build into something undeniable. It takes a near-disaster to bring you closer, but it’s the nights spent tangled in conversation, stolen glances over case files, and the weight of his name in your mouth that seal your fate.

12.1k, fem!reader. Slow-burn, lingering tension, quiet devotion, and Spencer being insufferably charming without realizing it.

CW: mutual pining, near-miss injury, brief emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, excessive overthinking, cannon-typical violence, references to religion.

Spencer Reid is an enigma you never mean to chase, a sun you don’t realize you’ve been orbiting until the pull of his gravity is undeniable. He’s not someone you’re supposed to know, not really—he works in profiling, a world built on instinct and razor-sharp deduction, while you’re still buried in textbooks, an academy student trying to shape yourself into something worthy.

He’s only a few years older, but the distance between you feels vast, like a canyon carved by time and experience. And yet, no matter how often you tell yourself that he’s just another name, just another agent, you keep finding him. Or maybe—just maybe—he lets himself be found.

You don’t think much of it at first, the way your paths cross in quiet places—hallways humming with fluorescent light, libraries steeped in dust and silence, moments that seem incidental but never quite are. And then, without warning, that quiet fascination tilts your entire world:

It’s Spencer who speaks your name when SSA Hotchner asks for a student to shadow the team.

“It’s only a few cases,” he tells you, voice warm with something like certainty. There’s a rare kind of confidence in the way he smiles—small, knowing. “But Rossi and I agree—you’ve got too much potential to stay in a classroom much longer.”

“You’re sharp,” Rossi agrees, stepping in with the weight of experience, his approval easy but meaningful. “Play this right, kid, and you’ll be glad you did.”

Rossi’s words settle over you, weighty with promise, but reality is heavier.

Your first case comes fast—too fast. One moment, you’re standing in the bullpen with a crisp folder in your hands, the next, you’re on a jet with seasoned agents, listening as crime scene photos flick past on the monitor. It’s a triple homicide, the kind of case you’ve only studied in theory, where the victimology is murky and the suspect is still a shadow. The words feel clinical in the briefing, just patterns and deductions, but then you’re standing in a house that doesn’t feel like a crime scene yet, where someone left dishes in the sink and a jacket draped over the back of a chair, never to be touched again.

You swallow hard.

“Deep breath,” Spencer murmurs beside you, so quiet you almost miss it.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. You don’t want him to notice—don’t want anyone to notice—but Spencer’s eyes are too sharp, always catching things before they surface. You inhale, steadying yourself.

“This is different than the academy,” you admit, voice just above a whisper.

“It should be.” Spencer doesn’t sound condescending, doesn’t sound like he’s telling you anything you don’t already know. Just a simple, grounding fact. “But you’re still here.”

You are. And for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, you become accustomed to it. The days fly by while the hours drag on. \\

“Okay,” you tell the team, throwing your folders on the table to begin organizing them in the order you’ll present them. “JJ gave me four cases flagged as urgent,” you say, clicking the remote in your hand. The screen behind you flickers to life, displaying a title screen verging on too childish, nearly girly. You built the theme last night, sipping dregs of coffee, clinging to something that makes you feel human. A colorful border is enough to make you feel better about plastering victims' faces on a PowerPoint slide. “Each presents a significant threat, and each has something that warrants immediate intervention.”

CASE ONE: THE RITUALIST

You’re following the curriculum exactly, formatting how your professor told you to, but coming up with titles for the cases felt exaggerated, almost picturesque. You hesitated to do so last night, fingers flinching above your keyboard.

Your favorite professor, kindly answering your 3 am email, assured you it was natural. Par for the course. Identify the cases, give them a name to be referred to. It feels childish, she conceded in her response, but it’s what they want students to do.

“In Savannah, Georgia, three women have been found buried in shallow graves near the riverfront, all posed identically and dressed in wedding gowns.”

Emily crosses her arms, frowning. “That’s theatrical.”

“It is,” you agree, clicking to the next slide—a zoomed-in shot of the delicate lace on one victim’s gown, carefully arranged over stiff, lifeless hands. “The unsub is mimicking a local legend—one about a grieving bride who drowned herself in the river in the 1800s.”

“An emerging pattern?” JJ asks.

You nod. “The first body was found two weeks ago. The second, one week ago. The third, two days ago.”

“Which means he’s escalating,” Hotch observes.

“Yes. If the unsub continues following this timeline, we could see another victim within days.”

Morgan exhales, shaking his head. “A guy like this? He’s loving the attention. He’s not gonna stop on his own.”

“No,” you agree. “And if his rituals are as important to him as they seem, he won’t just pick random victims. He’s looking for something—someone—to fit his narrative.”

Spencer leans forward, fingers tapping absently on the table. “That level of organization suggests a highly controlled personality. He’s not just killing—he’s curating.”

“He’s hand-stitching the dresses, too. Each is perfectly tailored to fit the victims.” The thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You switch the slide.

CASE TWO: THE FAMILY ANNIHILATOR

“In Tulsa, Oklahoma, three families have been murdered in their homes over the course of the past two days.” You keep your voice steady, clicking through the crime scene images—too much blood, overturned furniture, a dinner table frozen mid-meal. “In all of the cases, the father was restrained and forced to watch before he was killed last.”

A grim silence settles over the room.

Rossi rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s not just taking them out—he’s making them suffer.”

Morgan exhales sharply. “Which means this is personal.”

“Possibly,” you say. “There was no forced entry in either case, which suggests the unsub is either someone the victims trusted or someone who knew how to manipulate his way inside.”

“A service worker, maybe?” Emily muses. “Someone posing as law enforcement?”

“That’s a strong possibility,” you admit. “And if the pattern holds, we’re looking at another family being targeted in a few hours.”

JJ’s expression hardens. “We can’t let that happen.”

The weight in her voice lingers as you switch to the next slide.

CASE THREE: THE PHANTOM ABDUCTOR

“Denver, Colorado,” you say, clicking to a map marked with four red pins. “Four people have vanished over the last five months—one woman, two men, and a child. No bodies, no forensic evidence, no trace of them after the moment they disappeared.”

Spencer tilts his head. “No pattern in victim selection?”

“None that we can see,” you agree. “Different ages, different backgrounds. The only common thread is that they all vanished from public places.”

JJ frowns. “Security footage?”

You shake your head. “In each case, cameras malfunctioned or lost power at the exact moment the victim disappeared.”

“That’s not a coincidence,” Hotch says.

“No,” you agree. “Which means we’re looking at an unsub—or possibly multiple—who is incredibly meticulous, well-prepared, and willing to wait for the perfect conditions.”

Morgan exhales. “Damn. If he’s this careful, we might not even know how many victims we’re missing.”

You nod, the reality of it settling into your gut like lead. You click to the final slide.

CASE FOUR: THE JANE DOE MURDERS

“Phoenix, Arizona,” you begin. “Five women have been found dead in the last six months. None have been identified.”

Emily shifts in her seat. “That’s a long time for that many women to go without names.”

“Exactly,” you say, flipping through the slides—malnourished bodies, identical scars along their spines. “We suspect the victims were held for an extended period before being killed. Medical reports indicate malnutrition and signs of prolonged restraint.”

Rossi exhales slowly. “Torture?”

“Maybe. But what stands out are these.” You zoom in on the marks along the victims’ backs—precise, deliberate incisions. “The wounds suggest medical knowledge. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

JJ’s face tightens. “He’s experimenting.”

“That’s the concern.” You glance at the team, your stomach twisting. “The unsub could still have others in captivity.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Hotch clears his throat. “Alright. You’ve presented four cases, all high priority. Now comes the hard part.” The part where you choose.

You inhale. Exhale. The weight of the decision presses against your ribs, but you don’t let it show.

“Take a moment,” Hotch says, voice even. “Decide which one we handle first.”

The room is quiet as you grip the remote a little tighter, eyes flicking between the slides, between the horrors laid out before you. Whichever case you choose, the others will wait. But not forever. You swallow hard and decide. The weight of it sits heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You shift your gaze between the slides still illuminated on the monitor—each one a tragedy waiting to unfold, each one a door closing on lives you’ll never be able to save if you don’t act now.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. How awful that the fate of lives rests on a test for a student. You know it’s important – they have to test you. You’re here because Rossi and Spencer see potential, kept around because, according to Hotch’s last report, you’re proving to be irreplaceable. Still, the decision feels too big to be handed off to you.

You have to make a case, despite. You bite your lip, wrinkle your nose. Tells everyone around you can see, signals they’re noting and remembering. “The Tulsa case,” you say, finally, voice firm, but not as even as you want it to be. “That’s where we go first.”

Across the room, the team absorbs your choice in silence.

Hotch nods once, expression unreadable. “Walk us through your reasoning.”

You click back to the slide, the images of two shattered families staring back at you. You resist the urge to look away. “The unsub’s pattern is clear. Three families, mere hours apart. If he keeps to his timeline, another family is in danger—possibly right now”

JJ’s jaw tightens, her fingers tapping lightly against the table. “And this isn’t just about killing them,” she adds. “The way he makes the fathers watch—it’s personal.”

“Exactly.” You glance at Spencer, who’s already nodding in agreement. “The level of control, the methodical nature—it suggests military or law enforcement training. Someone used to hierarchy, dominance.”

Morgan folds his arms. “Which means he’s not picking his victims at random.”

“No,” you agree. “If we can find the connection between the families, we can narrow down potential targets before he chooses his next one.” You click to the next slide, where the family structures are laid out side by side. “Right now, we have limited victimology, but the fathers were in leadership positions. One was a high-ranking bank manager, the other an attorney, the most recent one a sheriff.”

Emily tilts her head, considering. “A grudge? Financial ruin, a court case, something that connects them?”

“Possibly,” you say. “But we won’t know for sure until we dig deeper. And we don’t have time to wait for another murder to give us more evidence.”

Hotch doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.” He turns to the team. “If we leave within the hour, we’ll be in Tulsa by tonight. JJ, contact the local PD and get us access to the crime scenes. Morgan, start looking into the victims’ professional histories—see if there’s overlap. Prentiss, work with Garcia to pull any major financial or legal disputes in the last six months. Rossi, coordinate with victim services—we need to talk to the families.”

Everyone moves into action around you, gathering files, pushing back chairs, murmuring in low voices.

Then, Spencer speaks, “You made the right call.” You glance up to find him watching you, head tilted slightly, something unreadable in his expression.

You swallow. “I hope so.” Because it doesn’t feel like the right call. It just feels like the least wrong one.

Spencer studies you for a moment longer, then nods, as if he understands something you haven’t said aloud. The decision is made. 

You catch the guy — you’re with the best team in the world, of course, you do — and subsequently pass the ‘test’ JJ posed for you. This is the deal with your professors: aid in exchange for grades. It’s not totally unheard of, accepting an academy student onto a team for a brief trial to test-run them. Especially a student top of their class like you are.

What’s unusual is how long you stay on the team. 

It’s long enough to catch more sightings of Spencer, scattered across the building, like watching a dove rest.

You don’t mean to linger, but you do. A moment too long, just enough to feel like a pause in a conversation neither of you started. His fingers drum against the ceramic of his mug—quick, controlled, an absent rhythm. You can’t help but wonder if he hears the world like that, like patterns waiting to be unraveled. Like music waiting to be played.

You scamper away, like a startled animal, afraid of what the mundane action awakens. 

You don’t have time to be entranced by Spencer Reid. You really, really don’t, but you still feel the beginnings of it pool in your belly. 

\\

 The air in the bullpen is thick with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, the occasional ring of a phone cutting through the din before being silenced by a hurried answer. Stale coffee lingers in the air, curling around the sharper scent of printer ink and the faintest traces of cologne clinging to coats draped over chairs. It smells like exhaustion, like long hours pressed into fabric, like something too lived-in to ever be fully washed away. The air conditioning murmurs somewhere overhead, cooling the space unevenly so that certain corners feel frigid while others remain stubbornly warm, weighted by too many bodies moving too slowly.

You should be focused. You should be finishing the report in front of you, should be paying attention to the pages you keep flipping through but not actually reading. But instead, your gaze drifts, betraying you before you can stop it. Across the room, at the coffee station, Spencer stands with his back to you, one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped loosely around a ceramic mug, fingers curled just slightly, resting on the smooth surface in a way that seems absentminded. His thumb moves in slow, methodical circles against the ridges of the cup, a rhythm so small and controlled that you might have missed it if you weren’t watching. If you weren’t, despite every part of you screaming not to, noticing. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a pale glow over the angles of his face, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, catching in the strands of his hair that are just slightly disheveled, like he’s run his fingers through them one too many times.

He doesn’t look up.

Not at you, not at anyone. His focus is turned inward, lost somewhere else, eyes fixed on the dark surface of his coffee as if he’s reading something in it, tracing the shape of a thought that hasn’t yet fully formed. His brow furrows slightly, just enough for you to notice, and then his fingers drum once—twice—against the ceramic, a quick tap-tap before stilling again. A habit, you think. A rhythm he follows without meaning to, the kind of movement that comes from a mind that never truly rests.

It is only then, only in the moment before you force yourself to look away, that he lifts his head. Not in your direction, not searching for you, but simply breaking free from whatever thought had been holding him captive. His lips part slightly, as if he might say something, but no sound comes. He just breathes, slow and measured, before lifting the mug to his mouth, taking a small sip, swallowing in a way that seems almost careful, like he’s weighing the warmth of the liquid against the feeling of it settling in his throat. You shouldn’t be watching this. It’s too small, too insignificant, and yet you can’t help but be transfixed by the way something as simple as drinking coffee becomes a deliberate act with him.

You realize that you’re still staring but you’re struggling to stop. You need to, you really need to, but the impulse to look at him is strong. It’s beyond physical attraction — something in him calls to you. A hunger to understand him, to be near him, to listen to him talk. He soothes something inside of you just by existing, piques your interest without trying, captivates your attention and hardly notices.

You tear your gaze away, back to your report, blinking rapidly, but it’s too late. The image of him is already burned into your mind, curling itself around your ribs, slipping into the spaces between thoughts like ink seeping into paper.

You tell yourself it’s nothing.

But you don’t look up again.

The scent of rain clings to his clothes when he sits beside you. Not the sharp, metallic bite of a downpour, but the softer, earthier remnants of a drizzle that has already passed, leaving only damp fabric and the faintest trace of petrichor in its wake. His coat is slung over the back of his chair, sleeves still holding the ghost of the movement he made when shrugging it off, the fabric folded in on itself in a way that suggests he hadn’t given it much thought before sitting down. He smells like paper and ink, like something faintly sweet beneath it—maybe cinnamon, maybe something darker, warmer, something that lingers just long enough to make you yearn to lean closer, to breathe in deeply enough to decipher it. You don’t, of course. You force yourself to stay still, to keep your eyes on your screen, your hands resting on the keyboard even though you haven’t typed anything in at least five minutes.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he flips open a case file, fingers moving fluidly over the pages, eyes scanning the text with a kind of quiet intensity that makes it look effortless. The silence between you is thick, but not uncomfortable. It is the kind of silence that settles rather than lingers, the kind that feels less like absence and more like something tangible, something with weight, something wet and dripping, something shared. You wonder if he feels it, too.

After a while, he shifts, just slightly, and the movement is enough to break the stillness.

“Did you know,” he says, without preamble, voice smooth and even, “that the human olfactory system can distinguish over a trillion different scents?”

You blink, glancing at him, and he’s still looking at the file in front of him, fingers tracing the edge of the page like he’s only half-aware that he’s doing it.

“A trillion?” you echo. You hope you hadn’t inhaled too deeply when he sat down, pray to a god you don’t believe in that you don’t smell, start to attempt to calculate the probability of him simply thinking similar thoughts to you about the rain. The roof has been leaking, the scent of the sky is impossible to ignore. 

His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile but something close to it. “Most studies used to claim it was around ten thousand, but newer research suggests it’s significantly higher. The brain can recognize scent combinations even in extremely small concentrations, which means—”

“That we’re capable of identifying more smells than we ever actually register.”

His head turns slightly toward you, just enough for his eyes to flicker up, catching yours for the briefest second before he nods. “Exactly.”

There is something about the way he looks at you in that moment—something unreadable, something lingering just beneath the surface—that makes your breath catch in your throat.

You glance away first. Spencer exhales through his nose, quiet, considering. He doesn’t continue with the tangent.

But the scent of rain still clings to him, even now. And for some reason, you can’t stop thinking about it.

After stretched moments, the scent of rain and dirt and musk and sweet lingering between the two of you while you try your hardest to get actual work done, Spencer clears his throat. “You know, you have a tell,” he says, voice thoughtful, not teasing.

You turn to him, brow lifting. “A tell?”

“Whenever you’re thinking about something but don’t want to say it, you press your thumb to your middle finger. Like you’re holding something between them.” His gaze flickers downward. Sure enough, you’re doing it now.

You exhale, glancing out at the room in front of you. “I didn’t realize you paid that much attention.”

Spencer smiles, small and knowing. Nearly sad, it twinges at your heart. The organ aches to leap out of your chest and fall into his hands. “I always do.”

The silence returns, but it’s different now. He’s looking at you like he’s already memorized the way your hands move, the way your breath catches, the way your thoughts betray themselves in the smallest, most inconsequential gestures. And maybe he has. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised that he sees you so clearly, that he can read the shape of your hesitations as easily as words printed on a page. It’s his job, of course he does.

The weight of his attention sits heavy on your skin, not uncomfortable but warm, seeping into the spaces between your ribs, something close to reverence but not quite. You don’t know what to do with it.

So you do what you always do. You look away.

It’s nothing more than what he’s trained to do. You’ve noticed his habit of clinking his nails against his coffee mugs. Beyond that, ignoring your fascination with him, you know Hotch only ever sleeps on the plane after a case is solved, never on the way even though the rest of the team will if it's convenient. Emily has a cat that she never talks about, one she methodically lint rolls hair from off of her pants. JJ smoothes her hair when she’s happy. Morgan flares his nostrils often when he’s tired.

You all notice things, it’s natural. There’s nothing more to it than that. Spencer Reid isn’t watching you for any reason other than it’s a habit he’s developed to survive, to thrive, in this line of work. 

The night outside is thick with the slow hush of passing cars, headlights dragging shadows across the pavement, the distant murmur of a city that never quite sleeps. The rain has stopped, but its remnants remain, clinging to the asphalt, to the scent of damp earth rising in waves from the ground, to the fabric of Spencer’s shirt, the faint musk of it curling in the space between you.

You curl your fingers tighter, pressing your thumb to your middle finger again, not even thinking.

Spencer’s breath shifts, barely audible, and when you glance back at him, his eyes are still on your hands, watching, studying, something flickering behind his expression—something unreadable, something you don’t think you have the courage to name.

“What is it?” He asks instead of taking the leap. 

“What is what?”

He gestures at your hands, veins flexing at the movement. “What’re you thinking and not saying?”

You flounder for a moment, lost in what to say. I think you’re beyond attractive, I can’t believe you’ve been staring at my hands, can you tell how often I stare at your hands, did you know sometimes I fall asleep thinking about you, that I have your smell memorized, that I’m sure this means nothing and I just admire you as a person and there are definitely no fluttery feeling in my gut begging me to put my mouth on you? Also, do I reak? Are you spewing facts about smells, about something so unavoidable, because your desk is next to mine and I’m simply putrid?

“I’m allergic to oranges,” you blurt out instead. 

Spencer seems shocked, blinking at you, mouth slightly open. You can see the pink of his tongue between his teeth, slowly pressing into the bone as he begins to smile, pinching the soft skin there in reflex. You hadn’t noticed it in detail before, but you suppose he does that often — bites the tip of his tongue when he’s fighting to keep that full-mouthed smile at bay. 

“What?”

“I’m allergic. And Garcia gives one to me every week and Rossi noticed and assumed I love them so he’s started giving them to me, too, and, well,” you push back your desk chair and pull your drawer open. Orange scent wafts out, perfuming the air and making your nose wrinkle. 

Sitting in the desk are five oranges, collected over the week, that you’ve been waiting on a clear office to throw away. 

“You’re kidding!” Spencer cries, peering over your shoulder and snickering. “I thought you loved them, too. You always smell like them.”

“Oh, ew.”

Spencer waves you off, plucking the fruit from your desk and cradling them in his arms, “It’s lovely, don’t worry. Why didn’t you say anything? You could get sick.”

You swallow the lovely comment, feeling it hit the base of your skull and sink into your blood, warming you all the way down. “It’s only a problem if I eat them, nothing happens if they touch me. Shove a slice down my throat, though, and I break out in hives.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Spencer says, snickering and tossing the oranges away for you. 

You make it through the rest of the evening. You get back to work. You pretend like none of it happened, like you didn’t just let him glimpse a piece of you that you didn’t mean to reveal. You tell yourself that it’s fine, that the moment is already dissolving into the rest of the day, folding itself into the pile of interactions that mean nothing, that don’t linger.

But later, when you’re in bed, staring up at the ceiling, you realize two things.

One—Spencer noticed your scent.

And two—he thinks it’s lovely.

“You lied, earlier,” Spencer tells you, hours later in the elevator. 

“Hm?”

“About the oranges.”

“Do you want to see a doctors note?” You’re tired, struggling to remember what he’s talking about. You two are the last in the office usually — you’re just a student and Spencer is vocal about not doing much outside of work. 

“No, I believe you’re allergic, it’s just not what you were thinking about.” He’s leaning against the wall of the elevator, golden hair illuminated by the fluorescent lights. It’s not the most flattering — the harsh lighting gives him a sickly complexion, deepening the dark circles under his eyes. Frankly, he looks nearly sick. 

Frankly, he still looks so handsome that you feel slightly overwhelmed with it. 

You decide to give him a piece of the truth to satiate him, knowing there’s not much use in lying to a seasoned profiler. There’s a reason why he’s only a few years older than you with years more experience under his belt. 

“You freaked me out. I was thinking about how you smelled like the rain and cinnamon and then you started talking about smells. I thought I either smelled so bad that you couldn’t think of any other way to tell me or you suddenly learned how to read minds.”

Spencer chuckles, motioning forward with his hand as the door opens. You walk forward, keeping your head turned to the side slightly to catch how his eyes crinkle as she smiles. His eyes drift up and then down, a habit he has before he speaks when he’s tired, and then he pushes himself off of the wall to follow you. 

“I mentioned it because I could smell you, but it’s not bad, I promise.”

“Reassuring.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

“Sure. Just say I reak and I’ll change my shampoo or something, promise!”

“Oh, please don’t,” Spencer pleads, laughing. “What will I do without your Pantene-y scent filling the office every morning!”

\\

The safe house is supposed to be secure.

It’s supposed to be a temporary holding place, a nondescript home tucked into a quiet neighborhood just far enough from the city that no one should be looking. The doors are reinforced, the blinds drawn tight, the exits mapped and double-checked. A necessary precaution. A routine assignment. A night of keeping a witness safe until she can testify in the morning.

You tell yourself all of this, but none of it changes the sharp tug of unease curling in your gut.

You don’t let it show. Not when you check your watch for the third time in twenty minutes. Not when you shift your stance near the window, your fingers flexing at your sides like your body is already preparing for a fight you haven’t seen yet. Not when Spencer, who has spent the better part of the evening reviewing case notes at the kitchen table, finally lifts his head and looks at you like he’s about to ask what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” you say before he can speak.

He doesn’t believe you.

He tilts his head, studying you, eyes flickering across your face like he can read the tension there. Maybe he can. Maybe he has been for longer than you realize. You press your thumb to your middle finger, grounding yourself, and Spencer notices that, too.

You roll your eyes as you notice his noticing but say nothing, turning your attention back to the window. The street outside is still. Too still. The kind of silence that doesn’t settle right, that carries the weight of something unseen pressing against it. It makes your stomach twist.

Spencer shifts behind you. “The odds of an actual attack on a safe house are statistically low. Most unsubs won’t risk a direct confrontation in a location they can’t control.”

“Most,” you echo.

He hesitates. “There are exceptions.”

“And this feels like an exception.”

Spencer doesn’t answer right away, but the flicker in his expression is enough. The same unease that’s gnawing at you has made its way under his skin, too. He may not operate on instinct the way the others do, may rely on numbers and data and probabilities before action, but he isn’t blind to the feeling in the air—the one that says something is coming.

And then, something does.

The first gunshot cracks through the silence like a splintering branch, tearing the night open. The second follows immediately after, embedding into the window frame centimeters from where you were standing just seconds before. You don’t think. You move.

Spencer is already on his feet when you shove him down, his body colliding with yours as the two of you hit the floor. The room erupts into chaos—glass shattering, bullets puncturing drywall, the distant, terrified gasp of the witness as she ducks behind the couch. Your heart pounds, adrenaline splashing hot and fast through your veins as you press against Spencer, shielding as much of him as you can. He’s speaking, but you barely hear him over the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears. The ringing of the gunshot so close to your head has left you dizzy and deaf.

“Move!” you manage to shout, grabbing his wrist and pulling him with you, keeping low as another round of gunfire splinters the table where he was sitting just moments before. You don’t know how many shooters there are. You don’t know where they are. But you know you have to get out.

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. His fingers tighten around yours, and together you bolt for the hallway, ducking as another window bursts inward. You shove him ahead of you, searching for cover, for an escape, for anything but the open target the living room has become.

“Basement,” Spencer says, voice sharp, focused. It warbles against your pulsing ears, barely understood. You’re mostly relying on lip reading and context clues. “We need to get underground.”

You don’t argue. You barely register the movement of your own body as you drag the witness with you, shoving open the basement door and practically throwing Spencer down the stairs before following, slamming it shut just as more bullets spray against the frame. Your breath is ragged, too loud in the thick darkness, the only light coming from the single flickering bulb overhead. The space is small, cluttered with storage boxes and old furniture, but it’s shelter. For now.

You’re still gripping Spencer’s arm. Hard. You can feel the hammering of his pulse beneath your fingers, mirroring your own. It takes effort to release him, to force your hands to unclench.

He doesn’t move away.

The witness is shaking, her breath coming in uneven gasps. Spencer kneels beside her, murmuring something soft, something steadying. You press your back against the door, listening for movement above, trying to piece together a plan while your body still thrums with leftover adrenaline.

Spencer looks up at you. His eyes are dark in the dim light, sharp with something between urgency and something else, something you don’t have time to name.

“They’ll breach soon,” he says, quiet but certain.

You nod, swallowing hard. The air is thick. The scent of dust and damp wood clings to it, mixing with the faint trace of Spencer’s cologne, something warm and familiar despite the chaos above. You focus on it, on the grounding presence of him beside you, close enough that you could reach out and touch the fabric of his shirt if you wanted to.

You don’t.

You grip your gun tighter.

“Then we make sure we’re ready.”

Spencer exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, and shifts closer, just slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. The contact is brief but solid, enough to remind you that he’s here, that he’s real, that this isn’t just a moment suspended in panic but something unfolding, something with weight.

The witness sniffles, drawing both of your attention back. Spencer softens his voice, murmuring reassurances, quiet, steady things meant to anchor her. You keep your focus on the door, ears tuned to the movements above, but some part of you latches onto his words, the cadence of them, the way they smooth over the jagged edges of the moment.

Another creak from upstairs. A shuffle of movement. Your fingers flex around your gun. Spencer glances at you again, expression unreadable in the dim light, but his meaning is clear.

Hold.

Wait.

And when the moment comes, move together.

Then the door bursts inward, and everything moves at once. Gunfire explodes, too close, too loud. You fire off two rounds before a sharp pain sears through your side, white-hot and immediate. The impact sends you stumbling back against the cold concrete floor, breath catching as a wave of dizziness threatens to pull you under.

Spencer is there before you even register falling. His hands are on you, pressing against the wound, urgent and shaking, his breath coming fast.

“You’re hit,” he says, voice tight, edged with something near panic.

You grit your teeth. “I noticed.”

Spencer doesn’t laugh. He just presses harder, trying to slow the bleeding, his fingers slick with warmth that doesn’t belong to him. He glances up, scanning the dark corners of the basement, the outline of the intruder slumping forward as your shots take effect. The danger isn’t over, not yet, but Spencer isn’t moving away from you.

“You’ll be fine,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You try for a smirk but only manage a wince. “Worried about me, Reid?”

His jaw tightens. “Always.”

A crash echoes upstairs, heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. Reinforcements. You and Spencer exchange a glance, unspoken understanding passing between you. You both know that staying here is no longer an option.

Spencer shifts, keeping one hand pressed against your wound while the other reaches for the gun at his side. “We need to move.”

The witness, still trembling in the corner, looks between you both with wide, terrified eyes. “What do we do?”

You grit your teeth, swallowing the pain threatening to pull you under. “There’s a cellar door. Side of the house.”

Spencer nods sharply, adjusting his grip. “We go now.”

He helps you up, his arm sliding under yours, bracing you against him. The movement sends fire through your side, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The sound of approaching footsteps upstairs is growing louder, more deliberate. Whoever is coming isn’t planning to leave survivors.

The three of you move as quickly as you can, Spencer leading the way with his gun raised, the witness keeping close behind. The basement door groans on its hinges as you push through, emerging into the damp night air. The rain has started again, a fine mist clinging to your skin as you stumble forward.

Headlights slice through the darkness just as the first gunshot erupts behind you. Spencer pulls you down, shielding you as best he can while the FBI-issued SUV skids to a stop at the curb. The doors burst open, Morgan and Hotch emerging with their weapons drawn.

“She’s hit!” Spencer shouts, his grip on you tightening as the gunfire continues behind you.

Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He returns fire, his stance steady, controlled. Hotch moves to cover you and the witness, his eyes sweeping over your injury before snapping back to the fight. “Get her in the car!” he orders.

Spencer doesn’t wait. He all but lifts you into the backseat, the witness scrambling in after you. You can feel how his muscles strain to lift you, flexing and rolling as he lifts you as carefully as possible, refusing to allow you to help. The slam of the door barely muffles the chaos outside. Your breath comes in shallow gasps, the weight of adrenaline keeping you upright.It takes your swimming mind time to process that Spencer is curling the van instead of allowing you to move over. You should protest but your mind continues to jump around, straining to pay attention to the scene outside. Have they caught him? The witness is safe, she’s sobbing beside you, but is the rest of the team?

Then the passenger door swings open, and Spencer climbs in beside you. He’s breathing hard, his knuckles white where they grip his gun, but his eyes are locked on yours. “You still with me?”

You nod, though exhaustion is dragging at your limbs, pulling you under. “Still here.”

His shoulders sag, just slightly. “Good.”

Morgan jumps into the driver's seat and peels away from the curb, tires screeching against wet pavement. You glance out the window just in time to see Hotch and the rest of the team securing the scene, the last of the gunfire fading into the distance.

Spencer exhales, finally lowering his weapon, and turns back to you. “Let’s get you home.”

\\

The jet hums beneath you, a steady vibration you feel in your bones. Most of the team is asleep, exhaustion weighing heavy after the mission. The overhead lights are dimmed, casting the cabin in soft shadows. You should be asleep, too, but the throbbing ache in your side keeps you from finding rest.

Spencer hasn’t left your side. He sits next to you, his book open but untouched, his fingers drumming against the cover in restless patterns. Every so often, you catch him glancing at you, eyes flicking toward your face, your side, your hands.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not opening your eyes.

Spencer shifts. “I’m not.”

You crack an eye open, giving him a pointed look. “Reid.”

He presses his lips together. “I’m just… observing.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting slightly, wincing at the sharp pull of your injury. Spencer moves before you can stop him, adjusting the blanket draped over you, tucking it carefully around your shoulders. His touch is light, careful.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And, statistically, someone in your condition should be experiencing lightheadedness, muscle fatigue, and an increased need for rest. Your body is trying to compensate for the blood loss by increasing your heart rate, which is why you’re still feeling so warm despite the cabin temperature being nearly ten degrees lower than standard room temperature.”

You blink at him, half amused, half exhausted. “You always talk this much when you’re worried?”

Spencer huffs. “I’m not worried.”

“You’re quoting medical statistics at me, Reid.”

He shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t argue. “I just think you should be resting.”

“Then stop talking and let me sleep.”

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, he nods. “Right. Okay.”

You sigh, closing your eyes, exhaustion creeping in. Just as your body starts to go heavy with sleep, you feel movement beside you—the soft rustle of fabric. Something warm drapes over your shoulders, heavier than the blanket.

You crack an eye open and see Spencer shrugging out of his jacket, carefully settling it around you.

“Spence—” you start, but he shakes his head.

“Just sleep,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “You need it.”

You don’t argue. The warmth of his jacket, the steady hum of the jet, and the quiet presence of Spencer beside you lull you under.

The last thing you hear before sleep takes over is the sound of him turning another page—not reading, just waiting.

\\

The bullpen is buzzing with the familiar hum of keyboards clacking, quiet conversations murmuring through the space, and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. It’s one of those rare in-between days—no pressing cases, no jet waiting on the tarmac, just paperwork and coffee refills. A brief, deceptive calm before the inevitable storm.

You’re at your desk, fingers drumming absently against a stack of reports you’ve been meaning to go through for the past half hour. You should be working, but your attention keeps drifting—particularly to the desk across from yours, where Spencer is deep in thought, a book propped open against his keyboard. He’s not even pretending to do his paperwork.

You tilt your head, watching him for a beat. His lips move slightly as he reads, fingers tapping a rhythm on his desk, entirely lost in whatever tangent he’s found himself in. You fight a giggle.

“Should I be concerned that you’ve been staring at that same page for the last fifteen minutes?”

Spencer blinks, snapping out of his reverie. He looks at you, then down at his book, then back at you, brow furrowing like he’s just realized he’s been caught.

“I wasn’t—I mean, I was reading. But I was also thinking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “About?”

He hesitates, glancing toward his book as if debating whether to explain. Then, with a small sigh, he leans back in his chair, pushing his hair out of his face. “Did you know that the average person speaks about sixteen thousand words per day? But in reality, most of our daily conversations are filled with repetition, small talk, and pleasantries that don’t contribute much meaningful information.”

You blink at him. “So, what, you’re saying we all talk too much?”

His lips twitch. “Not exactly. Just that… statistically, most conversations are redundant. People say the same things over and over again, sometimes just for the sake of filling silence.”

You smirk. “And yet, you’re one of the most talkative people I know.”

Spencer narrows his eyes, but there’s amusement flickering there. “That’s different. I provide new information.”

You hum, pretending to consider that. “Debatable.” The joke dances on your tongue and you see the edge of a smile fight to peel its way across his cheeks.

Before he can argue, a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision, and you glance up to see JJ setting it on your desk with a knowing smile. “Flirting through statistics again?” she teases before apologetically placing another file on your desk next to the coffee-offering and walking off.

Spencer clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his book again, while you just chuckle, lifting the cup in silent thanks, adding the case to your impending pile.

“Face it, Reid,” you say, taking a sip. “You talk a lot. Don’t worry, it’s endearing.”

He exhales, shaking his head, but there’s the hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You’re impossible.”

You grin. “And yet, you’re still talking to me.”

You turn back to your work, flipping through the pages stuck in your folder. You weren’t on the assignment you’re tasked with processing, the curse of being lowest on the totem pole, but the case is interesting enough. Still, you find your eyes skimming, fingers tapping on the desk. 

“Now who’s zoning out?” Spencer asks. When you look up, he’s smiling at you.

“Sorry, I was just wondering. Were you saying that because you feel like our conversations are actually redundant?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “No. If anything, our conversations are anomalous.”

You arch a brow. “Anomalous?”

“Yes.” He shifts in his seat, leaning slightly toward you. “Most daily conversations consist of formulaic exchanges—small talk, routine inquiries, expected responses. But ours deviate. We don’t follow typical social scripts.”

You take another sip of coffee, fighting a grin. “So what you’re saying is… we’re special? Different? Not like other coworkers?”

Spencer huffs, clearly trying to fight back a smile of his own. “Statistically speaking, yes.”

You hum thoughtfully. “That’s a very fancy way of admitting you enjoy talking to me.”

Spencer opens his mouth, then closes it, before finally shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. “You already said that.”

“I’m repeating myself,” he says, deadpan. “Which, as I previously stated, most people do without realizing.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “See? Redundant.”

Spencer exhales, feigning exasperation, but you catch the way his lips twitch, like he’s barely containing his amusement. He glances down at his book again, but it’s obvious he’s no longer reading. Instead, his fingers tap absently against the desk, his gaze drifting back to you as if he’s waiting for whatever you’ll say next.

After a beat, you shift slightly in your chair, hesitating before asking, “If most conversations are menial and redundant, is there anything you’d actually like to know about me?”

Spencer’s fingers stop tapping. His head tilts slightly, eyes brightening with interest. “Yes.”

You blink, caught off guard by his immediate answer. “Oh. Okay.”

He leans forward, forearms resting on his desk. “What’s your favorite color?”

The question is so simple, so unexpected, that you laugh softly. “That’s what you want to know?”

He shrugs. “I like colors. They’re associated with memory and emotion. The colors we gravitate toward can tell a lot about how we perceive the world.”

You consider it. “Hm. Blue, I think. The kind of blue right before the sun sets.”

Spencer’s lips twitch, like he’s cataloging that information for later. “That makes sense.”

You raise a brow. “And yours?”

“Yellow,” he says easily. “Statistically, it’s associated with intelligence and optimism. But mostly, I just like how warm it feels.”

You nod, smiling. “That checks out.”

Spencer watches you for a beat before continuing, “Do you like to cook?”

“I can cook,” you say hesitantly. “Do I enjoy it? Debatable.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “So, a reluctant chef.”

“More like a survivalist cook,” you amend. “You?”

“I actually do like cooking. It’s methodical. Precise.”

You snort. “Of course, you’d say that.”

His lips twitch again. “What about books? Do you read for fun, or do you avoid it since we deal with enough research at work?”

You glance at the stack of case files on your desk before meeting his gaze. “I do read. But nothing… analytical. I like stories. Ones that pull you out of reality.”

Spencer hums, clearly pleased by that. “Escapism.”

“Something like that. What about you?”

“I’m currently translating a Russian novel written in the 16th century.”

“Ah. So you research at work and at home.”

Spencer hums, tilting his head to the side. “No, I think it’s still escapism. It’s something to focus on that takes just enough of my focus that I can let the world fade away. General novels don’t do enough to ‘pull me out of reality.’”

Your conversation continues, the questions growing deeper—favorite childhood memory, biggest irrational fear, if you believe in fate. The air between you shifts, still lighthearted but threaded with something more thoughtful, something lingering. Neither of you notice how much time has passed, how the rest of the bullpen has faded into the background. Neither of you seem to mind.

“Are you two actually planning on doing work today, or just nerding out over here?” Morgan saunters over, arms crossed, a teasing grin plastered across his face. “Seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people more excited to talk about words.”

You roll your eyes but play along immediately, sitting up straighter. “We’re conducting an in-depth analysis of human conversation patterns, actually. Very important work.”

Spencer nods solemnly. “It’s a highly valuable study in linguistic redundancy.”

Morgan snorts. “Right. And how many case files have you two managed to process between all this very valuable research?”

You glance at the untouched stack of paperwork on your desk. “Define ‘process.’”

Morgan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. You’re really letting him rub off on you, huh?”

Your grin falters, just slightly, something warm settling in your chest at the thought. You don’t want to just be letting it happen—you want to belong here, to be part of this team in every way that matters. And for the first time, it feels like maybe you already do.

Later that evening, Rossi hosts a team dinner at his house, a tradition that has somehow become a staple among the group. His kitchen is full of the warm scent of garlic and herbs, the clinking of dishes, the comfortable laughter of people who have seen the worst parts of the world together and still choose to sit at the same table.

When you arrive, the house is already brimming with conversation. Morgan greets you first, throwing an arm around your shoulders with an easy grin. "Look who finally decided to show up. We thought you might be hiding out, avoiding us."

You roll your eyes. "As if I could ever avoid all this chaos."

"Chaos?" JJ chimes in, nudging you playfully as she passes by with three drinks balanced between her two hands. "This is tradition."

Emily smirks, leaning against the counter as she sips her wine. "Some traditions involve singing. Others involve roasting marshmallows. Ours? A fine mix of sarcasm and psychological analysis."

“And food,” Rossi interrupts.

"And some of us even make an effort to discuss more elevated topics," Spencer adds, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under his arm.

Morgan groans. "Oh God, don’t tell me you brought a book to dinner."

"It’s not for dinner," Spencer says, offended. "It’s just something I was reading earlier. Did you know that communal meals have historically played a significant role in human bonding? Anthropologists argue that the act of sharing food helped shape early societal structures, reinforcing a sense of trust and cooperation."

You smile, all warm edges and fuzzy thoughts. "So what you're saying is, this dinner is historically significant?"

Spencer nods, pleased. "Exactly."

Morgan shakes his head. "Yeah, alright, professor. How about instead of a lecture, you help set the table?"

Rossi moves through the kitchen with practiced ease, stirring sauces and pulling fresh bread from the oven, effortlessly hosting while still engaging in every conversation. He waves you over at one point, nudging a wine bottle toward you. "Since you brought such a good one last time, how about you do the honors?"

You take the bottle from him, grateful for something to do, something to focus on besides the bubbling warmth of the evening settling under your skin. As you work the cork from the bottle, Spencer sidles up beside you, watching with quiet amusement.

"You know," he starts, "there’s actually a method to opening wine that prevents cork residue from contaminating the liquid."

You glance up at him with a self-conscious smile. "Is that your way of telling me I’m doing it wrong?"

His lips twitch, a near-smile. "Not wrong. Just… suboptimal."

You roll your eyes, finally freeing the cork and handing him the bottle. "Then, by all means, Dr. Reid, show me the optimal way."

Spencer takes the bottle, hands brushing against yours. You find yourself still looking up at him for a moment, fingers gently touching, a moment collapsing into itself. You watch as his pupils dilate, slightly, a normal reaction to eye contact and nothing further (a notion your body refuses to acknowledge, filled with the silly idea that maybe it’s attraction pushing his eyes open further to observe more of you). His mouth opens, ready to explain what he’s doing. But, before he can launch into an explanation, Morgan’s voice carries across the room. "Oh great, the nerds found each other again. Should we all just clear out and let you guys talk statistics over dinner?"

Emily snorts from where she’s leaning against the counter, sipping her drink. "Honestly, I’d pay to watch that."

You play along easily, shaking your head in faux exasperation. "We were having a very riveting discussion about wine physics, actually. Life-altering shit."

Morgan grins. "Yeah, I bet. What’s next, the molecular breakdown of garlic bread?"

Spencer straightens slightly. "Actually—"

You elbow him lightly before he can get started, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s the smallest moment, but it sends a ripple of warmth through you—this unspoken understanding, the ease of teasing him without making him feel small.

You’ve noticed before when the gentle teasing goes too far. When the team pushes a bit too much, makes him feel like a burden instead of a fountain of knowledge. The painful edge of it digs into your stomach more often than you would care to admit. A significant amount of your energy when talking to Spencer is spent toeing that line. You can’t help but tease but you never want to make him feel like his interests and knowledge are a burden.

Rossi chuckles, setting a tray of pasta on the counter. "Alright, everyone, grab a plate before the food gets cold."

The group disperses into easy movement, laughter trailing behind as plates are filled and seats are taken around the long wooden dining table. You settle beside Spencer again, your knees brushing under the table. The proximity is unintentional, but you don’t move away, and neither does he.

The meal is indulgent, the flavors rich and familiar, but it’s not the food that lingers—it’s the feeling. The warmth of being gathered around this table, among these people, feels sacred in a way you’re not sure you’ve ever experienced before. Like communion, like breaking bread with disciples who have seen you bleed and stayed anyway. You wonder if Spencer feels it, too, if he sees the holiness in shared meals and easy laughter, in the way the team fills the spaces between each other like stained glass fitted carefully into its frame.

You and this team have been through so much together — the rest more than you. The past months shadowing the team have been insightful, exciting, and have done more than anything else to solidify that this is what you want to be doing with your career. Beyond that, the time has been tough. Your grit, your ability to persevere and persist, and your skills, have been tested day beyond day. 

Beyond the toughness though, you’ve found a home. Community. Family. You see through their exteriors to admire them, the people around you. It’s more than you could have ever thought it to be, this life. Before this, you’ve been floating. Drifting through life, living for exams and physicals and finals. Studying, working for a result you were unfamiliar with. Now, though, the taste of the life you’ve ground yourself to the bone for glistening on the tip of your tongue, you’re hungry. Starving for life to continue, salivating at the mouth for any and all opportunities to stay here, in this moment, with the team. 

Conversations flow freely around you, a mix of teasing and genuine storytelling, warmth curling in your chest as you sip your wine and let yourself exist in this moment. Spencer doesn’t talk much, but he listens—really listens—his attention flickering between the voices around the table, occasionally back to you.

At one point, Rossi taps his glass, drawing attention. "Since we’ve got everyone here tonight, I’d like to make a toast. To this team, to good food, and to the fact that somehow, against all odds, we manage to stay sane."

A chorus of laughter follows, glasses raised and clinking together. You catch Spencer watching you again over the rim of his glass, something unreadable in his gaze. Not quite curiosity, not quite something else. Whatever it is, it lingers between you like the space between notes in a song—present, felt, but not yet fully realized.

You take another sip of wine, and the flavor sits heavy on your tongue, tart and deep, reminiscent of something older than yourself. You wonder if this is what devotion feels like—lingering in a moment you don’t want to leave, knowing that if you close your eyes, you’ll still hear the echoes of this laughter in your bones.

Spencer shifts beside you, his knee pressing just a little more firmly against yours. He doesn’t look away this time. And for the first time, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is where you belong.

\\

It starts over coffee, late in the afternoon when the sky has begun its slow descent into gold. The café is small, tucked between a used bookstore and a florist, the kind of place that smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, where the music is just quiet enough to let conversation breathe. You meet there often, sometimes after work, sometimes on weekends when neither of you have anywhere urgent to be. It feels like neutral ground—safe, familiar, but tonight, something feels different.

Spencer is fidgeting.

His fingers curl and uncurl around his coffee cup, tracing patterns in the ceramic like he’s working up to something. His gaze flickers to the window, the steam curling from his drink, your hands resting on the table. Anywhere but your face.

You sip your drink slowly, watching him with quiet apprehension. “You look like you’re debating something incredibly complicated.”

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t quite land. “I am.”

“Must be serious, then.”

“It is.” He shifts, finally—finally—meets your gaze, something fragile and certain flickering in the warm depths of his eyes. “Would you—” he stops, swallows, starts again. “Would you want to go to dinner with me?”

The words settle between you, weighty but delicate, like something precious placed carefully in waiting hands. You can see the way he braces for impact, his fingers tightening around his cup, his breath just a little too still.

You tilt your head, letting the moment stretch, just to watch him squirm. Then, softly, “In what way? A date?”

You are hesitant, voice barely audible. You’re scared to ask, feeling childish, the words tasting forbiddenly sweet on your lips. You tell yourself you can’t have been imagining everything between you two the past weeks — months, even. The lingering touches, the connection that sits at the base of your spine and ignites you with something far beyond holiness. 

Spencer watches you for a moment before ducking his head. He looks shy, uncertain. “If that’s okay, yes.”

The words hit you in the center of your chest. You’re certain you’ve heard wrong for a full second, sure that he couldn’t possibly be confirming your wildest dreams. 

“I would really like that.”

His shoulders loosen, just slightly. Relief unwinds in the smallest of ways—the way his fingers flex, the subtle shift in his posture. He nods, barely, taking a slow sip of his coffee like he needs to ground himself against the movement.

You don’t miss the small, pleased smile he hides behind the rim of his cup.

\\

The evening of the date arrives, and your apartment is a disaster zone.

Clothes are strewn across your bed in varying states of rejection, your closet door hanging half-open as if it, too, is exhausted from your indecision. You tell yourself it’s not nerves—it’s just a normal dinner, just Spencer—but your pulse betrays you, humming under your skin like an electric current.

You tug at the hem of your sweater, second-guessing, then third-guessing, your reflection offering no clarity. A date. The word itself feels foreign on your tongue, weighty in your mind. The possibility of something more, something unknown, something irreversible—

Then, the knock at your door.

You exhale sharply, pressing your hands against your thighs like it’ll steady you, before crossing the room. You hesitate for just a moment, long enough to gather breath, then open it.

Spencer stands there, scarf wrapped around his neck, cheeks flushed from the cold. He’s holding flowers, wrapped in delicate brown paper, not random but deliberate, purposeful. His fingers tighten around them as his lips part, ready to explain, but you reach out first, brushing your fingers over the petals.

“They’re beautiful.”

His gaze flickers to yours, searching. “They, uh… they all have different meanings. I can tell you, if you want.”

Your chest feels warm, full. “I’d like that.”

He nods once, clearing his throat. “Well, the blue cornflowers—they mean ‘hope in love,’ and the lavender represents devotion. And the ivy, that’s for fidelity, and um—” he stops, shifting awkwardly—“I wanted it to mean something. To you.”

Your fingers tighten just slightly around the bouquet, breath catching.

“It does.”

The drive to the restaurant is wrapped in quiet conversation, the kind that feels like warmth on a winter evening. Spencer talks—of course he talks—his voice weaving through facts about the historical significance of first dates, how certain cultures believed that sharing a meal was an intimate ritual, a way of binding souls together.

“You’re romanticizing it,” you tease, studying the way the streetlights paint fleeting golden patterns across his profile.

He huffs a soft laugh. “It’s just history.”

“History can be romantic.”

He glances at you then, something unreadable settling in his features. “I suppose it can.”

You watch him as he drives—the way his fingers flex against the wheel, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrates. There’s something in the ease of this, in the soft lull of conversation and the quiet hum of the road beneath you, that feels like it’s teetering on the edge of something significant.

When you arrive, he moves to open your door but nearly smacks you in the face in his haste. He freezes, mortified, clears his throat. “Sorry.”

You bite back a laugh. “It’s okay. I appreciate the effort.”

The restaurant is intimate, the kind of place that makes everything feel softer—low candlelight, warm wood paneling, the steady murmur of quiet conversation. A flickering candle sits at the center of your table, casting shifting patterns along the surface, making everything feel just a little dreamlike, just a little surreal.

Spencer shifts in his seat, his fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. He exhales a quiet laugh. “This is… nice.”

You nod, the candlelight catching in his eyes. “Yeah. It is.”

The menu is filled with dishes just unfamiliar enough to make you both pause, debating choices. Spencer, of course, has read about half of them before.

“You know, the origins of risotto actually trace back to the Middle Ages. It was influenced by Arabic rice cultivation techniques brought to Sicily, and—” he stops himself, clearing his throat. “Sorry. I can, uh, get carried away.”

You shake your head, smiling. “I like when you get carried away.”

His gaze lingers, just a second too long.

The night stretches in slow, golden increments, conversation winding through shared stories, quiet laughter, the clink of silverware against plates. He tells you about childhood books that meant something to him, you tell him about the first time you realized you loved what you do. The space between you narrows, not in distance, but in something deeper, something quieter.

And then it happens.

The realization strikes like a bolt of lightning, sharp and electric. You want to kiss him. It isn’t a slow realization, isn’t something that builds over time—it hits all at once, undeniable.

The candlelight flickers, catching the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his lips move around words. His fingers curl around his coffee cup, knuckles flexing. Something about it feels holy.

You realize, suddenly, that you’re staring. That you’re leaning in.

Spencer pauses mid-sentence, blinking at you. “What?”

You exhale, a slow smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing.”

He watches you for a beat longer, his gaze searching, curious, like he’s trying to decipher something just out of reach. The air between you thickens, humming with something unspoken, something waiting.

But he doesn’t press. Instead, he picks up his coffee again, takes a slow sip, and when he speaks next, it’s with the same easy rhythm as before.

And you let yourself sink into it, into him, into the quiet certainty of being here, together.

\\

The knock comes late. Too late for pleasantries, too late for anything but something raw, something that has been waiting to surface.

You aren’t asleep. Haven’t even tried. The air in your apartment feels too thick, the weight of the last case pressing into the spaces between your ribs, making every breath feel just a little too shallow. So when the knock sounds again, quieter this time but insistent, you already know who it is before you even reach for the door.

Spencer stands on the other side, hands buried in his pockets, his shoulders hunched like he’s been standing there for too long, debating whether or not to knock again. The dim hallway lighting casts shadows under his eyes, exhaustion lining his face, but there’s something else, too—something hesitant, something that flickers behind his expression like a barely-contained thought.

“Spencer?” you ask, brow furrowing.

He exhales, slow, measured, the way he does when he’s trying to pick the right words before speaking. “I—” He hesitates, shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A lie. You see it in the way his fingers twitch, in the way his breath stumbles. You see it in the way his eyes don’t quite meet yours, how they flicker toward your shoulder, your collarbone, before darting away again, like he’s afraid of being caught.

You step aside, let him in.

The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It settles, wraps around you both as he moves past you, as he lingers near the kitchen counter without quite leaning against it, as you close the door and turn to face him.

You should say something. Should ask him why he’s here, why he looks like he’s spent hours convincing himself not to be. But the words don’t come. They tangle in your throat, unwilling to break the moment that is already unraveling between you.

Instead, it’s him who speaks first.

“I think about you.”

The words are soft, careful, but steady. Not a confession, not quite, but something close. Something that shifts the air between you, makes it sharper, makes it real.

You inhale, slow, deliberate, but it doesn’t steady you the way you hope it will. Your pulse jumps, a small stutter beneath fragile skin, and you know he sees it, knows he’s cataloging it the way he does everything.

Spencer exhales, a quiet, disbelieving laugh escaping him, and when he finally looks at you, really looks at you, there’s something unguarded in his gaze. “I think about you all the time.”

You watch as he sways slightly, like he’s resisting the pull, like gravity itself is urging him closer.

And then he stops resisting.

He moves carefully, like he’s giving you space to step back, to stop him, but you don’t. You stay rooted where you stand, watching as his hands hover at your sides, reverent, hesitant. His fingers flex once, a brief curl like he’s debating whether or not to touch you, whether or not to let himself have this.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath.

You don’t.

Instead, you reach for him first.

Your fingers brush against his wrist, a featherlight touch, tentative, but it’s enough. Enough for him to let out a slow, shaky breath, enough for him to tilt his head, just slightly, enough for his hands—hovering, waiting—to finally settle at your waist. His touch is a whisper of warmth, hesitant, reverent, the weight of it barely there as if afraid that pressing too hard will shatter whatever fragile thing exists between you in this moment.

His skin is fever-warm beneath your fingertips, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric of his sleeves, seeping into your own. The air between you hums, thick with something unspoken, a tension so finely drawn it feels like it might snap at the slightest movement. You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you, maybe it’s the inevitable force that has been pulling you together for longer than either of you has been willing to admit. But suddenly, impossibly, there is no more space left to close.

He is close. Close enough that you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, the way his pupils darken like ink spilling into warm honey. Close enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers where they rest against you, like he’s bracing himself against something too big to name. Close enough that his breath—uneven, shallow, shaking—ghosts across your cheek, the warmth of it sinking into your skin like an imprint that will never leave. His fingers flex—barely, just a little—but the movement is enough to send a ripple down your spine, enough to make your stomach dip like a held note in a song unfinished.

He exhales again, something like a laugh but softer, more fragile, like he can’t quite believe this is happening. Like he is standing at the edge of something vast and unknown, and for once in his life, he is hesitating.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, almost swallowed by the quiet between you.

You smile, small and real, the kind of smile meant only for him. “Me either.”

Spencer swallows hard, his throat bobbing. His gaze drops—to your lips, flickers back to your eyes—searching, waiting, still holding himself back. The space between you crackles with electricity, the kind that comes before a storm, before the sky splits open and the world drowns in something relentless, inescapable.

You make the choice for him.

You lift your chin just slightly, tilt forward just enough, and that’s all it takes.

The first touch of his mouth to yours is hesitant, uncertain, the kind of kiss that feels like a question. A quiet, careful can I? rather than I will. His lips are warm, softer than you imagined, and his breath stumbles against yours as he presses just a little closer, as if afraid you might pull away. You feel it the moment something in him gives way, the moment the tension in his body unwinds and he stops second-guessing himself and simply lets go.

His fingers tighten at your waist, just barely, but enough to make you shiver. His other hand drifts, fingertips skimming up the curve of your spine like a whisper of a prayer, settling lightly at the back of your neck, a delicate anchor. He kisses you like he’s memorizing the shape of it, like he’s afraid he’ll forget how you fit against him if he doesn’t take his time.

He tastes like coffee, like exhaustion, like something sweeter underneath it all, something uniquely him. You drink him in, slow, deliberate, every second stretched thin and precious. The world has narrowed to this—his breath, his touch, the way he exhales so quietly when you sigh against his lips.

And then he pulls you closer, deepening it just slightly, just enough to steal whatever air was left between you.

When you part, neither of you move away. Your foreheads rest together, breaths mingling, still wrapped in the hush of the moment, still holding on, just for a little longer.

Spencer exhales, barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want this to be a mistake.”

You press your fingers against the back of his hand, grounding. “It’s not.”

Something eases in his expression. He nods, just once, before his fingers trace lightly over your jaw, tilting your face back up toward his.

And then, he kisses you again.

[sapphicslaylist]

Loved and Loathed. Wonderful and Wretched. As the newfound comforts or home begin to settle in, a venomous creature begins to untether those roots.

Yet again posting a wonderful piece commissioned for On Borrowed Paths; this time by my good pal @justanumber! This covers a cute scene in the fifth chapter which covers the origins of Witch’s mithridatic nature.

(Both Witch & Damsel are teens in this AU! Just keep that in mind.)

[yes-im-gushing]

Competance

Din Djarin x reader

Rated: T for dirty talk

Din gets turned on when you help cover him in a shoot out.

No smut

----

There was still smoke in the air. Carbon stinging your nose. The skirmish had been fast and explosive. Narrowing down the enemies location and practically pounding down the front door.

The mandalorians had been marginally more stealthy than that but not by much. Something about having so many of them in the same place made them bolder. Din's usually careful demeanor thrown aside for the gunslinger you knew was hidden under his skin far sooner than expected.

They brought something out in each other. A kind of energy that reverberated across this isolated little battlefield. The ghost of what the mandalorians used to be.

Even between just Boba, Din and the Night owls. A group that held little kinship with each other, it was still magnetic.

You were lost in it. The movement of their bodies.

The enemies fell from windows and rooftops and from their feet to puddles of their own blood. Fell under fist and boot.

You couldn't help being pulled into it. Sitting back with your bow, pulling it back until your hand brushed your cheek, catching sight of an enemy raising a blaster towards Din and Boba and loosing an arrow between the two men. The spark of the plasma bolt shining purple as it streaked over Din's armor, throwing your target to the dirt beside another Din had dispatched only a minute before.

His arm raised again to point his blaster up to the ledge above and your eye followed as your arm pulled back in rhythm with his sighting the man kneeled there, ducking to avoid Din's aim. But from your position you had a clear sight and you released another bolt not bothering to wait and watch the body fall.

Eyes back on Din. You Watched the angle of his shoulders, trying to guess which way he'd swing his aim next. Watching the space over his head, the path in front of him. Another enemy appeared, they could have been anyone, they were tucked behind a pillar, unseen. Din was still dealing with the enemy in front of him and you didn't have the time to wait for the enemy to pop their head out. You aimed for the light glinting off their blaster and blew their hand right off.

Din's sight flew to the explosion moving to get the wounded enemy in his sights and blasting a hole through them, a spray or blue blood from the other side the only confirmation you'd needed.

It was over before you knew it, climbing down from your perch to join the others as they cleared the structure. The Nightowls crawling over the brick like sand beetles.

You hold your bow low but don't holster it. Not until the rest of the mandalorians are regrouping and discussing the next move. Din appears at your side a hand unexpectedly firm around your wrist.

There are still bodies and blood on the ground as he leads you away, the whole place reeking of a fight. You struggle not to pinch your nose closed against the smell, unsure why he's even acting like this.

"Din?" you question as you turn down an empty alley between the building and the garage.

You catch sight of his shoulders again, tense even under the armor. His stride faster than it was before.

"Where are we-?" You're cut off as he turns on you so suddenly, gripping your bow where it's strung over your shoulder and using it to drag you to him.

"You told me you could shoot a bow." his voice is accusatory, dark and heavy. "You didn't tell me you could shoot a man's hand off at thirty yards."

You try to laugh it off, the sound of it uncomfortable even to your own ears. "I don't make it a habit of bragging about my marksman skills to Mandalorians, Din be serious."

He is serious, you know it. The line of his shoulders, the ones you'd been observing so carefully before is curved into you now. All of his attention focused only on you.

"What will it take to make you brag?" he demands.

"I don't- understand the question." Where exactly is he going with this?"

"What will it take to make you brag? Taking my kill? Covering my ass? Disarming a man from a sniper's perch?" He shudders, a full bodied thing that runs from his body into yours.

Is this some kind of post battle killing fetish? Would you be a bad person if you decided you could be into that? Would you be a bad partner if you decided you weren't?

"Din, what are you trying to say?"

His hand gripped your bow harder worrying it as he kept you close. "You have skill you used to kill my enemies and avenge my people. If I had armed you sooner-"

Your brows furrow. "Hey, it's ok, plasma bows aren't easy to find. There's only like three systems in the galaxy that even make them, and on of them is Dathomiir. It took some time to find one."

He shakes his head, a breath crackling from the modulator in what sounds like a annoyed grunt. "If I had armed you sooner, I would have known, when we were alone, that you were so competent."

The way he says compentant sounds like an insult. He said it the way you'd heard men say slut. You have to not grimace. He sounds so serious, really digging for his words here. "I'm sorry? did you think I wasn't- uh- competent?"

Done with struggling for his words Din uses his grip on your bow to turn you around, suddenly your back was pressed to his chest, his armor and your bow between in you in a way that wasn't at all comfortable.

Still he crowds around you until your leaning against the wall. "If I had known, I could have fucked you somewhere that wasn't full of bodies and nosey mandalrians with heat vision."

His hands are on your hips now pulling you in until your ass was pressed to one of the few parts of his body that wasn't covered in armor, but it was hard all the same.

"I could pull your fucking pants down and fuck you right here. Make you cum on my cock. Reward you for every clean shot." There's another shudder that goes through both of your bodies.

"Want to smack my cock against that spot on your cheek where you pull your bow back."

It's filthy. Insidious in a way that you know is going to invade your thoughts every time you feel your hand brush against your cheek.

His hands tighten once more around your hips, not grinding you back against him, just holding you there. The pressure no doubt crushing his cock.

"Damn it." He hisses, fingers manually loosening one at a time. He pulls back from your body like your covered in a thick layer of glue, like its a physical struggle.

You could cry. "I- don't. Aren't we-?"

Din's breath crackles hard. "I'm not going to fuck you in a puddle of a strange blood." He hisses. More pissed with himself but it doesn't change the way it makes you shrink.

"But-"

"Come on. I want to finish this."

He won't walk away from you. Won't take more than three steps in any direction your not heading in. He'd glued to your side. Hard in every line of his body. Like he's turned to metal all over.

It's the gunslinger, you realize, watching the line of his arm stay pointed at your hip, always poised to grab, to drag you into him. A permanent target for him to orbit.

[hr-twink]

River + Spider || Little Acts of Violence by Ray Bull

[spinstertheuncommon]

Gotham's Sewist - A Bachelor's Suit [Part 2/2] | Bruce Wayne x reader

Part 1 here

Series master list

A/N: i tried my best to make it gender ambiguous, however if there's any gendered language in reference to what the reader is wearing please notify me (nicely)!

Timeline: Reader and Bruce are 27

Note: Alcohol consumption (no inebriation of reader or bruce), swearing, cannon typical violence, reader kind of crashes out, abelism against young people, reader has a small panic attack which is described through the allegory of swimming,

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

++two months down++

making something for yourself was never your forte. you did begin as a sewist making and mending your own clothes, and through an extensive folio and 4 scholarship opportunities, you eventually graduated with enough respect on your name to work with May. May was what could only be described as a pocket rocket. she was 70, but ran circles around your 20 year old self, taking several orders per week. she had a production speed like no other, so when she got shot down it wasn't something you ever really considered. you always joked that she could just outrun death, but it caught up to her with a led bite in the jaw. just regular goons in regular Gotham. She had told you that no one in her life had such a passion for fashion like you did. so, the shop became yours. but May was such a capstone for the community, that many regulars never came back. numbers dwindled, not enough to cause proper harm to your business, but enough that things became slower.

Slow enough for you to actually have time to make yourself an outfit for the Wayne Gala.

and you were shitting yourself.

sure you could whip up a 3 piece suit for your new celebrity crush and his son, even throw in a gift for the kind butler in the form of custom cufflinks to match the other two suits. you could stay awake and embroider every single golden, art nouveau, stained glass patten into the suits, taking great care to not be tacky, just the right amount of class to match the embossed invite and stained glass window at the Wayne manor foyer. you didn't want to be creepy, but the amount of image tabs open on your ancient laptop of their door may warrant some form of restraint. maybe even revoking your invite.

an invite you have nothing to wear for.

Crunch time it is, then.

++one week left++

You had nothing. Nada. Zip. It felt like purgatory. Constant drafting of capes and cuffs, patterns and draping, drawing and pinterest boards alike. No colour stuck, no fabric you liked. All you had were scrapped plans for client work, and it's not like you could walk around in question marks. So you sat surrounded by swatches, sketches strewn about. You had called several ex classmates, seeing if any of them could give you any idea. All four of them had told you to match to the suits you made for the Waynes. Serves you right for asking them.

But then again, you had left over silk lining.

And many other drafts of embroidery.

Am I really gonna do this?

++the gala++

Jeeze Bruce goes all out doesn't he? You were prepared to taxi your way there, already standing at the curb to flag one down, when Alfred rolls up, claiming Bruce sent him to collect his 'special guest'. In the lux limo is a single serve bottle or champagne, small cut flowers, and hand written thank you notes, from both Bruce and Dick for their suits, Alfred thanking you for the cufflinks when he arrived. You take the flowers, adorning them (hair, breast pocket, lapel pin, etc). They're white stephanotis', complementing the gold and white of your formal atire. You adorne them, wanting Bruce to see your appreciation of his extravagance.

Speaking of extravagant, Alfred pulls up to the entrance, each side of the barricades flocked with paparazzi. Leading to the great arched doorway was a wine red carpet, flush to the stairs. Oh fuck I have to walk that, shit.

Alfred comes to your door, propping it open. The crowds are curious, why is the Wayne butler escorting another guest? Bruce and Dick are already inside. So who are you?

You knew it was bound to happen. As soon as your cane hit the carpet there was a cacophony of camera flashes. A chorus of conspiracies. A-

A hand reached infront of you. Alfred's. Panic meeting professional, you lock eyes. No going back now, he tells you, come swim in the deep end.

And in you jump.

You remember being taught how to swim. It wasn't something you were the best at, you weren't winning any carnivals, but you could float. You never really had a problem with keeping your head above the water, not until now. Nothing you knew could compare to the horror of those 48 seconds. Not even a full minute where you in the fray, but the tides ripped you from consistencies. The only thing there to ground you was the warm, guiding hand firm around your upper arm. One that doesn't let go until you are more than safely tucked away inside the exibit.

Once your mind clears, you lean into your cane, adjusting to the dim lighting. Figures flounce around down the hall, looking through glass cases that line the walls, drinking golden liquor and chatting circles around each other. Your eyes scan around, and land on the case next to you. A dreamy, couture dress flows off the maniquin. The coveted silk may look pearly white from afar, but the closer you come, the more you can see that its mother of pearl beads upon a sea blue silk. You just know that if it spun the curves and colour would dazzle a stadium of people.

Some days you forget why you do your job, why you bend over backwards to craft jackets and fitted suits in time frames of mere minutes. But this, the ephemeral beauty of a dress from centuries ago, is why. To make a lasting impact with your art.

While mesmerised, you almost missed the broad figure standing behind you, until you spied his reflection in the glass. It sounded like a good plan to use the rest of the silk at the time, sustainability and all, but you realise you may be seen as coming on strong to Bruce, with you now matching him, a yin to a yang.

Fuck me I should've just worn my graduation outfit.

"I see you got the flowers?" A half lip smile brushed his face. If you thought he looked good when you saw him at the manor, then this version is ethereal. It feels a bit self aggrandizing, but the way the gold embroidery pulls at the hues in his eyes, and the fine knit wool cascades his shoulders to not constrict, but also not undervalue his muscular build. Just like you had planned, from his slight off centre hair part, down to his shoes. But the one thing you didn’t account for was the boutonnière. On the left lapel, parallel to the edge outer seam, was a small coupling of stephanotis’, exactly matching yours.

Oh he definitely planed this. Well done, Bruce.

“Yes, as well as the champagne. Real expensive bottle too.” You turn back to the dress, presenting as unfazed, but seeping some kind of heat from your cheeks. Embarrassment? Flattery? Anger? Who knows.

“Mmm, yes, it’s one of my favourites, that’s why it’s being served tonight. Did you enjoy it? I can get you a glass.” He moves closer, hoping to catch your eyes again, the same eyes that seem to loosen every muscle in his body through one look alone. A look he craves. One he keeps getting lost in, despite his best efforts. He’s never had the issue of caving to another person, but with you it’s innate. He’s not sure he likes how much power you have.

But you want to feel powerful.

And so, you play against him a bit.

“No, i found it quite bittersweet, actually. I didn’t finish it.” Tilting your head away from him, touching sneak a small glance his way.

“No?” You hear in his voice that he knows it’s a game, but you don’t sway. Why would you loose?

“Mmm, sorry my tastes don’t match your high class.” You face him again, smile full of sarcastic apologies. Bruce cocks a brow, smirking, trying to crack your resolve.

Your stalemate was quickly interrupted by a tiny rocket of energy barring into Bruce's side.

"Hello Y/N!!" Dick Grayson-Wayne chirps, prying himself immediately back off of Bruce. You can tell he hadn't properly managed to learn how one fits in at these high price events, especially when there's little to no children his age here. His shirts untucked and unruly, spilling above his buttoned jacket. The cuffs, although stitched in place have rolled to make themselves uneven. His hair unruly, no matter the gel inside of it.

"Hello Hun. What's kept you busy lately?" You kneel down and ruffle his hair. You figured its easier for it to be stylishly messy than try and tame it again.

"Well I've been helping Alfred in the gardens, but also I bought a new..." he rambles on, talking about a fighting game he's been playing. You take this time to unbutton his jacket and untuck his shirt, evening out the collar as well. You nodd along, grabbing his hands to roll each cuff back down to sit flat and even.

Bruce knew you were kind, always bending over backwards to make life easier for others, but the way you seamlessly cared for Dick, he really shouldn’t be swooning. He never really felt ready to take on a kid. He did it to offer Dick a life lived out of conviction rather than blind vengeance, to not end up like him. But then, the way Dick weasel his way into Bruces heart, Bruce couldn’t help but crumble. Despite only knowing him for just over a year, he would die for this kid. For any kid, really. That's all apart of the job.

Right?

Who knew his words would be challenged so much.

+++++++

Dick ended up dragging you around, showing you all the displays that he likes, or thought you may like, or, just anything, really. He felt he could talk to you, instead of being talked at by rich people trying to get close to Bruce. He's not like them, born into silver spoons and pockets pulling them down. He was like you, wooden spoons and hand stitched pockets. He was comfortable, and so were you.

You were scared that you'd be left to the wayside, which you wouldn't've minded, you could occupy your self, but it was the feeling of being an outsider. No one to talk to, but no. You had Dick. Sure its a bit weird to see a 27 year old running around with a 13 year old that they're not related to, but he made you feel less lonely. Especially against the constant whispers, the looks at your cane, the vulture eyes. It made you feel disgusting.

But Dick grounded you. Him, and Bruce, I guess.

It's not like Bruce wasn't trying to talk to you, but he got swept away by clients and colleagues and even competitors. It was his gala after all. When would he get any private time. All needing eyes are on Bruce, until they're not.

And they're all on the gunman instead.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three shots were fired at the chandelier in the main room, sending it careening to the floor, right onto the crowd. Shards fly everywhere, pushing the wave of party goers away from the destruction. You turn, hoping to grab Dick and run to the exit, but he was gone.

Fuck

You couldn't find anyone. Dick, Bruce, not even Alfred. In the fray and frenzy of the Gotham elite, all trying to save their own arses, you get swallowed whole. You eventually make it to a wall, sliding yourself into a corner to at least break for impact, seizing no chances to get out. Your body aches, the world is spinning, and your knees are practically falling apart.

Stupid fucking cane why do I need you so badly?!!

You curse, but maybe your biggest adversary could be your biggest asset. The 20 or so goons cornered everyone left inside the room, about 60 of us, going around and asking for wallets, jewels, and phones to go into these bags. They got to you, pushing past those infront to reach you in the corner. But you didn't have anything, just 40 bucks for emergencies and your phone thats about 14 generations behind the newest. Its cracked and some of the screen doesn't light up, but it does the job. You comply out of fear, putting them in the bag. But the goon snatched them before they hit the bottom, eyeing them in disgust.

"Are you kidding me? This is what you have? Where's your real shit? I know people like you, people who think they can get away with thow away objects for a robbery, thinkin im dumb? Well I WONT FUCKING HAVE IT!" His gun goes off, right into the wall beside your head. All the hostages dived for the floor. You felt cold, clamy, and unable to breathe. He was unpredictable.

You can run from a knife, not from a gun.

But you can frighten a gun man.

With a clattering sounded just behind him, the goon spun, shooting at it. Seconds later, he was knocked across the floor.

The Bat caught your eyes with a promise of a conversation. Something that held you in the room for what happens next.

Pounding fists and fired guns send further pandemonium. Bodies run and tumble, but yours stay locked.

you're trapped, watching the batman. Watching...

Hm.

Hnmm.

Shit.

That's.. definitely Bruce Wayne.

Like, he would definitely be the first person to be held hostage here, but Bruce was no where to be seen. And nor was Dick, but both Batman and Robin were on the scene in seconds.

And everything fell into place for you.

The looks of familiarity from Bruce.

How comfortable Dick was around you.

The fact you were booked by Bruce Wayne of all people.

Of course he didn't find you through "suggestion", he was the fucking suggestion.

You were pissed.

At yourself, at him, at yourself again. At yourself a third time.

But no, you weren't gonna say anything. Cause why would you? You have the upper hand now.

Okay who are you fooling?

Bruce just threw a man into seven others like a bowling ball.

Damnn

++++++

You sit in the alleyway across from the museum, already been discharged by the paramedics, with only real mental scars to hold. The thwap of a kevlar woollen cape sounds behind you, already knowing whose attached.

"Are you okay?" You ask.

He scoffs.

You smirk, beating him at his own game.

"Come on, let's talk."

"I've sent Robin home, come with me. Please."

++++++++

He pulled you up to the roof of the near by conservatory. Settling you both down so you could see the street and bustle, but not be seen yourselves.

"Throwing your cane. That was brave," he pushed, biting his cheek. He wished he could've been more extroverted as a kid, maybe talking to people on a genuine level could be easier. Or maybe he would still be sitting here, wishing things would fix themselves, and you could be with him his friend without facing danger at every turn.

"Thank you..." you mumble, mind elsewhere.

"'M sorry your night was ruined. You made it clear what seeing the works ment to you. I'm sorry you didn't get to enjoy it uninterrupted."

You scoff, "are you kidding? I had a great night."

He did not believe you one bit, and despite the cowl, you could see the guilt. He blames himself for this?

"What? I got dinner, a show, and an after party. That's way more excitement than what I've had in the last 10 years. I.. I kinda needed it to be honest."

The guilty eyes fall confused, laces with sorrow. You've seen that look, many times over. In grocery stores, in the doctors office, even just on the street. You pick up your cane, and lightly prod B in the shoulder. He’s one of the only people that has never given you that look before. And you never want to see it again.

"Hey, nah uh, no pity. It's not impossible for me to have fun, it's just… also not my priority. But tonight, it was. I mean it wasn't exactly my plan, but it was a brilliant surprise." You chuckle. It felt odd to enjoy the fact that you got shot at, maybe even something you should get looked at by a professional, but it was more than that. It was surviving. Surviving not only the attack, but the gala, the deadline, the social mess that you are. You survived all the turned noses and beady stares, all the whispers. You survived. Isn't that cool?

"We should get you home," Batman stands, offering you a hand. You take it, unconditionally, letting him pull you up.

"But what about-" you look around for the little boy wonder.

He wraps his arm around you, moving you both closer to the roof ledge. He grapples across the roof, and connects his stormy eyes to your less bloodshot ones. You give him the slightest nodd, and a second later your in free fall, but you've never felt safer. Wrapped in arms you've measured to high heavens, both in and out of costume as you now know. arms that will yearn for you in them from this night onwards, no matter how long it takes the brain attached to those arms to realise.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Hey guys! This was a long one lol

I reckon my posting has ended up being a little more sparatic than I wanted originally, but I had back stocked most of these posts with only have two more before I've got no drafts left. So I may be posting once every week/ week and a half.

I'm also dabbling in my brain on writing some oneshots, imagines and headcannons, as I've now decided that if no one will write what I want to read I'll do it myself. These would also be smaller things to hold attention between gs updates. As of rn, I have ideas for

▪︎ Wonder!Reader who will most likely be muscualr femme rep, and in the young justice universe (season oneish)

▪︎ Super!Reader x Jason Todd

▪︎Medical drama Damien + reader

▪︎Damien's twin (maybe hijabi reader? Cause Talia is muslim ¿sometimes?)

▪︎blue lantern reader x young justice

And ofc the sewist timeline. I've written about 30 different prompts for instalments for this story so it may take me a year, it may take me a month who knows.

Do not copy, steal or repost my work! Thanks!

[fated2bydesign]

Chapters: 16/? Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy's Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Major Character Death Series: Part 1 of Missing Gears AU Summary:

One morning, FazCo Sent you an offer that you couldn't refuse. However, upon taking the job, you quickly discover that you may have bitten off more than you can chew with this one. With an understanding of AI's and Robotics, you thought you had expected the worst, but that sadly was only the best-case scenario, as you are quick to find out from the "beloved" daycare attendant.

Something horrible is happening, and it is up to you and a few helpless animatronics to figure out how to stop it before things get any worse.

[shadowreader23]

Time Travel Barnes? (Part 1)

The soldier sputtered and coughed, gasping deeply and painfully and feeling his chest contract and expand. He felt cold from landing in the freezing, muddy water below and it only made him feel worse than he'd already felt.

He coughed again, trying to push himself onto his side so he could lift his heavy, tired body. He was hurt, aching and exhausted from the fight, now weaponless. Apparently, forcing them to fight against each other wasn't the only plan Zemo had. The little man had caught him when his guard had dropped for a fraction of a second and he was hit with something. A glowing rock or whatever. A stone with a shine to it. It was thrown at him and he was suddenly forced down to his knees, yelling and screaming around him and from him and he was being propelled through the air.

And from the looks of it, this wasn't the building he was just in. Instead, he was surrounded by trees and grass and muddy puddles. It was raining, a heavy downpour completely soaking him from head to boot. James coughed a few more times as he managed to get up into a crouch, his hair instantly plastered itself to his face and neck and obscuring his vision until he snapped his head around at the sound of gunfire. He was, thankfully, still crouched on his knees, so he wasn't seen. The sounds of battle weren't that far away, but it wasn't close either.

His first priority was to find out where he was and then he could leave and find his way back to Steve and the team. And... he also needed to find a thick jacket, for warmth and to cover his arm. He'd doubt that anyone would speak to him if they saw the weapon just hanging there like some everyday limb. It would frighten them and they’d turn him away or even run. And he didn’t want that.

James eyed the area, scrutinizing and scanning each and everything he saw. His guard was going to be above high now that he knew he could be surprised by a weaponless man. He’d rather not take any chances at this point. And it didn’t help the fact that he was thrown and was now lost in god knows where.

He was drawn back by the continuous sounds of guns and explosions, grabbing his attention and causing him to wince from an oncoming headache. Not a headache from the noise, but one from a forewarning of a memory, something that was trying to break through his mental wall. He’d had a few of war, especially from his, supposed, time as a Howling Commando. WWII had resurfaced a few times, but they hadn’t lasted long, only a few memories, images. Gunfire, explosions, men calling out the name ‘Serg, Barnes, Bucky, or even Jimmy’ when they needed his attention.

He almost jerked in surprise at the deafening boom landing about a mile away, shaking the ground beneath his feet and forcing him to drop his head in instinctual defence. He tried to calm his breathing in that position, his heartbeat having started racing at the sounds and yells in the background.

At least he now had an idea on which way he was going to go. And that was not in the directions of firing guns and detonating bombs and missiles. He’d rather head away from all of that if it were an option.

James glanced over his shoulder at the mass of trees and overgrowth before turning back and cautiously standing, keeping his senses sharp as he started walking away from where he’d heard the battle. He must’ve been near a war currently going on in another country. That didn’t bode too well for his chances of seeing the team soon and being able to get them out of the cell Steve had mentioned. Apparently Stark was a massive talker when drunk and that little info had slipped. A cell-base for the Avengers and anyone of the like.

He was visually scouting ahead and to his sides when he felt his nervous twitch pick up, a familiar feeling hitting his chest. It felt sadly odd to him, a familiar feeling that he shouldn’t be able to place. And yet, he could.

From what he could tell, from the close battle. He was near the front-lines of a war, something he knew and had felt before he’d been HYDRAs’ puppet. It gave him a sad feeling, a sad nostalgic tug at his heart and emotions. The wars he’d supposedly been in so many years ago.

And it may have been him, but he didn’t feel like it. He didn’t feel like that man after these last seventy years.

The Sergeant of the Howling Commandos, that led one of the best teams through the front-lines of war. It was simpler and easier than anything he’d been through already. He’d had memories, nightmares, images, but not many. They all brought him back to the 1940s’, where life seemed like it was at its worst. The depression, the loss, the constant war between them and the Nazi.

But it turned out that there were far worse things to go through… and he’d been through that already.

He sighed deeply while keeping an ear out on his 6, but he didn't hear much. Just the forestry and bulks of gunfire, explosions and yelling miles and miles away from him. Where the military men were fighting and trying to win for more than just their own sake and freedom.

James easily and gracefully vaulted over a low fence, landing quietly in another muddy puddle before continuing to walk in a random direction, hoping to get to a town as soon as possible. It wasn’t dark, not yet, but it was getting there. The sun was already obscured by mountains and trees, not by the ones he was walking through, but the ones further away, in the opposite direction to where he was going. He’d rather not run around in the dark because if he was to come across a camp, he may be mistaken for the enemy and either be shot or taken in for questioning, probably shot if they took in his dangerous appearance, excluding his arm.

If he couldn’t find a town by nightfall, then he’d have to find shelter before it got too dark and that was when patrol usually increased. It wasn't that he remembered this. It was common sense to someone that had been on constant missions with the STRIKE team and knew more than a lot about military tactics.

James let out a deep yelp as he stood on a strange loose piece of wet mud and grass, slipping and sliding on his ass and into a massive, human-sized hole.

And another military tactic… was foxholes…

“Son of a bitch,” he panted after getting over the initial stun of the trip. His heart had metaphorically leapt into his throat and he could feel his blood pumping from the minor surprise. He’d actually forgotten about these. He and the STRIKE team rarely used them when he was apart of HYDRA, and by ‘rarely’ he meant hardly ever. He was covered in more dirt and grime, looking himself over to see the extent and it was like he took a bath in mud.

He was still a little breathless as he slowly pushed himself to sit up, lifting his head high and taking in deep breathes to calm himself. It just made it easier for the rain to pour over his face, drenching even more than before, if it were possible.

The soldier let out another deep huff before managing to push himself to stand, mud and sopping wet dirt either dropping from him or sticking to his black, combat trousers. He was covered in it at this point, from his fall earlier and now. He could only see a few large patches of black and that was only because he wiped some of the dirt.

“This way? ” James instantly snapped to attention, catching the… German voices. German, was he in Europe? He frowned, quickly and swiftly climbed out of the hole with trained silence, moving quickly through the overgrowth until he was a good way away from the foxhole and hidden behind a thicket of trees. He needed to be fast, agile and noiseless now. If there were voices nearby, that may mean that there’s a small troop, half a platoon maybe. He couldn’t risk staying, either way.

So, he didn’t wait around. As soon as he started hearing footsteps, multiple of them, maybe three sets, he gradually took off in the other direction. He was basically doing an ‘L’ shape from where he started. But at least he wasn’t heading anywhere near the explosions and gunfire. The area he was currently in must’ve been a cleared area, or the battle hadn’t gotten this far yet.

He darted around trees and shrubbery, being as fast and efficient as he was in missions. He stayed low and out of sight and gradually started to jog through the forest, feeling confident enough that he was out of eye-line and hearing range.

James slowed when he seemed to come to a clearing, massive and open, with a wide, empty and wet mud covered road crossing a path in front of the forest-line. There was a cornfield on the other side, a large shed on the other side of that and there was a town just off from the farm-like scene. He didn’t have a jacket, so he’d rather not speak with anyone yet. Maybe he could ask the farm owner? Or steal one… He’d rather not, but if it meant he’d warmer and his arm would be covered, then it was a necessity.

The soldier crouched as he got closer to the tree-line, looking both ways cautiously through the heavy rain. Everything had a foggy tint to it, the mist was thick and the rain was thick, splashing up after hitting the ground. His entire suit was heavy and pulling him down. If possible, he’d ask for borrowed clothes if it meant he could dry his tactical gear.

After a few moments of nothing he gradually moved to stand, still watching both ways before quickly darting across the road and over vaulting over the fence, landing gracefully and without fault. He started back into a jog as he made his way towards the cornfield, ducking a little once he hit the first line of them, to avoid a faceful. It was getting a little too dark now, the sun completely went over the mountains. There was minimal light now and he could only just see what was ahead of him as he trotted through the corn. It wasn’t a big field, maybe two yards? A yard and a half? He’d imagine it was the latter since he could already see the other end and shed coming closer.

James skipped a few times during the jog, his boots getting caught in the overly wet dirt and catching his balance off. It was irritating, but the thought that he might get himself some shelter purged that feeling. He wanted and needed somewhere to take a break and catch his breath. There was no way he had any kind of advantage for wherever he was and that unsettled him.

He darted out of the field, panting slightly before suddenly darting behind a close building. There was noise, voices, machinery.

“Take them and kill them, the house,” more German. At least he figured that he must’ve been in Europe somewhere. It made it easier to think about how to get back. Though, he couldn’t pinpoint where the war was. There hadn’t been anything going on with Germany for years now. He didn’t recall any recent war going on that was this big.

James leaned close to the corner, peeking around to see a few men in uniform, very familiar uniform. They were dressed in dark colours, swastika patches on red fabric around their arms. This was a very real re-enactment of WWII and he was suddenly feeling lost, in his own mind at just seeing the uniform and now taking in the voices and language. It was like a sudden spark lit painfully on his insides. He didn’t like this at all.

The soldier snuck further around back and crouched his way into the very well groomed garden with flowers and perfect beauty, clearly, a woman had her way with it. He reached the back door and grabbed the handle, being as quiet as ever as he opened it and snuck in, closing it silently behind him. He could suddenly hear cries, from a woman and fun, raspy voices of old age having caught up and he frowned before lowering himself into a deeper crouch. He shifted through the hall and stopped at the corner, peeking once again and hearing the aggressive orders of a soldier in the house. And then he saw him, angry and pointing his, what looked like, an old MP-40 at two civilians. Where did they manage to get an old German weapon like that?

He internally shook his head to rid himself of the thought and took a silent breath before launching out at the man, swinging his left arm and backhanding the man across the face with his metal fist. He saw blood spray from his mouth and then he ducked, his arm pulling back and he punched forward, straight into his sternum. James then swiftly circled the German and locked the metal forearm against his throat, using the only weapon he had to his advantage. He could still hear the cries in the background, from the seemingly old couple, huddled against the wall, the woman with her head hidden behind the man and the male was watching on in what seemed like terror, eyes wide and filled with fear.

James returned to the choking man, hearing the rasps and gasps of lost breathe as it left him. There was no yelling or audible sounds from him, only the choking and the feeling of his body getting heavy against him. Finally, after some time, he took a final intake of air and dropped against him, the weight forcing James to steady his stance. He gradually lowered the body and himself, taking a quick glance at the two still against the wall. The woman was sobbing into the man's shoulder and the was still staring. He slowly lifted a finger to his mask and made a gesture to keep quiet, the old male instantly giving a rapid nod, stroking the females’ head and hair

The soldier turned back to the body and quickly began raiding it, slipping the MP-40 over his shoulder. A P38 pistol was strapped to his waist, along with two types of hunting knives and three ‘MB’ grenades, small spheres that were highly explosive. All of these weapons were… they pre-dated the 21st century. They were all based on the War in the 1940s’, WWII to be specific.

Either this was very real Role-playing, or this was the war, and by the reactions and expression of the couple in the room… this wasn’t a game. But… that couldn’t be. It was impossible, preposterous nonsense that still hadn’t been reached in their science and technology yet. It was beyond what they had.

“What year is it…” he still questioned out of the need for an answer and confirmation that this was an idiotic thought because it was. The soldier turned to gaze at him, trying to seem less dangerous so he’d answer. He still seemed understandably hesitant and reluctant, but he opened and closed his mouth, like a fish out of water, a few stutters of words and letters, and then-

“1943,” he gasped with a German accent, still afraid and more than a little wary with a hint of confusion. James’ eyes widened, his heart beating faster and his blood pumping could be heard in his skull. He felt sick, nauseous with his stomach churning.

Part 2 anyone?

[goggledboi]

Heya, you ever miss those old creepypasta slendermansion vibes? Me too, thus why I made this ask blog!

I'm a Tobias/Toby fictkin and I thought it'd be fun to make a ask rp blog of him.

I will do my best to be in my version of the character. (Which isn't too different from how people majority portray him)

Rules and extra information under the cut.

Check frequently, I may change these randomly.

Also check bottom of post for annon claims so theirs no confusion, thank you!

Rules:

No NSFW/NSFT. I'm uncomfortable with it

No shipping involving Toby (Same reason as above)

Be kind, I don't accept hate

Remember this is my version of the character, not 100% the original cannon character

You are also allowed to ask questions in character from these fandoms: Creepypasta, Marble Hornets, and EveryManHybrid

You're allowed occasionally to ask questions to mod/out of character

Toby:

While he's still 80% the original version, I did change minor personality things. In this he's going to be 19 (because I'm 19). He still has his disorders (except Bipolar, I'm swapping that with Borderline personality disorder since I suffer from that as well as ADHD and can portray how I handle them) , I might portray him as paranoid depending on asks. I will have the slendermansion be mentioned, if you don't like it DNI I'll block and ignore hate. He is a proxy of slenderman, but in this AU Hoodie(Hoody) and Masky aren't in the mansion, but know Toby and he knows them. I changed my mind and just decided they don't live in the mansion but live in a abandoned cabin close to the mansion.

Ben (In this version he's 18), Jeff, Slenderman, Sally, ext... Are in the mansion though. You can ask about any of them, but it will be Toby answering about them, not the other characters.

⚠There is times where I may mention bullying, blood, violence, mental illness, and other things typical to the cannon violence of the fandom. Just a warning for all of that, read at your own risk. ⚠

Asks will be responded like this:

No, I actually don't love waffles. I am a fan of them though! They just aren't my favorite.

Oh and try to read tags, sometimes I put funny things or lil blurbs. Well, that's a I can think of right now. I may add to this if needed, but for now have fun! -🌲🦊

Can't wait to talk to you!

(Annon claims/ones that have been used so far:

-Jack👁

-💜anon/💜annon

– 👁👓

- ✖️🔥)

[serenefreakgeekao3]

Apricity

[Table of Contents]

CHAPTER EIGHT, Disorientation

Day 32, Saturday (Day 29, Wednesday)

Adrenaline is pretty handy when you need to get over pain in a life-or-death situation. However, some pain doesn't go away so easily. Like the pain of watching Chuck, poor young Chuckie, get stabbed through the chest by a heaving and terrifying monster creature? Yeah, that wasn't going away so soon.

Adrenaline did help with the pain from your ankle, though. Or, rather, it would explain the lack thereof. You could feel the impact of your feet hitting the hard and uncompromising stone beneath you as you ran and ran, jolting up your legs and shaking your body. You should've been in pain, and if you could've focused on your ankle you were sure you would've been, however, your mind is focused only on one thing right now. And it was repeating over and over in your head.

That damned Griever was going to die for doing that to Chuck.

You weren't sure how long you'd been running, but there were plenty of close calls. A metal blade zipping past your cheek; tripping on a stray rock yet somehow managing to duck down enough to slide under the body of the Griever as it flew by overhead; even a trap you hadn't even known would be in the maze, a netted rope made to hold a body down. You had gotten caught, tangled in the webbing, and had only gotten out by using the rope against the Griever until it cut a hole large enough for you to slip out of.

You were approaching the edges of the maze, where the exits were and the cliffs fell harsh and deep. Glancing over the side as you turn to run alongside the edge of it, you couldn't even see the bottom. You weren't sure what to do, every plan was exhausted in your mind, your body even physically exhausted by this point.

A turn, another turn and clanking noises and the piercing sound of metal-on-metal clued you in to the closeness of your adversary. Another turn and it's a dead end. Mostly. The walls stretched high to either side of you, and behind you was blocked by the oncoming pursuer. Straight ahead was another cliff, coming up quickly. There was nothing else you could do.

You stop at the edge, turning around quickly and stumbling slightly, moving forward enough that your feet don't hang off of the edge. Grievers are horribly ugly, you've decided suddenly, full of black sludge without the rainbow sheen of oil. Metal stuck out in random places like someone stuck a bunch of nails into some melted Play-Doh, and its face and teeth looked like someone made a metal casing of a small dinosaur’s head- it all honestly looked like an enlarged nightmare version of some children's toy.

These were the incomprehensible thoughts flittering through your mind as the Griever closed the distance between the two of you, lifting up both of its arm-blades as if ready to slash downward onto you. Without hesitation, you slide under its ‘elbow,’ taking a chance to shove at the thing with your shoulder before backing up a few steps, watching it as you breathe heavily with exertion.

The Griever flailed, its limbs scratching and clawing anywhere it could reach, only to release loud screeching sounds as the metal glances off of the stone, not digging in. It was almost slow-motion, how the Griever was falling sideways and backwards, trying to save itself from its own momentum, trying desperately to grab a hold of something. Its stinger swings around suddenly, popping out from the inside of its gelatinous body to stab inside of you.

And you're so shocked for a moment, you don't even register what happens. Then your feet begin to get dragged with the Griever as it continues its descent faster, unable to stop itself with the only thing it was able to grab a hold of. You look down at the large metal cylinder pressed against your abdomen, your mouth hanging open as you try to reconcile what just happened. Belatedly, you grab the cylinder and then pull it out.

The stinger comes free, and as you let go of the metal the Griever finally falls away, disappearing into the distance below you. At some point, you can't see it anymore, although you were never really looking at its descent in the first place.

You were stung.

You feel the spot on your abdomen where you're bleeding, pulling your hand back to see just a smidge of that black sludge. The stuff that's in the stinger, that infects people with Wicked’s version of the virus.

Well, fuck.

You turn around, taking in a large gulp of breath in substitute of courage, and begin your journey back. You weren’t sure where you were or how you had even gotten here, but you knew you had to make it back. A few times throughout you had to stop your trek, hiding behind a nearby wall, your back pressed against the cold and unforgiving stone as you try to breathe quickly but quietly. You resume your run as soon as you’re able, but it’s getting too much. You’re slowing down, your ankle is flaring with more pain than when you injured it the first time, and your chest is spiking with pain and lack of breath. Your vision is beginning to blur, and you have to rub your eyes harshly to read your wristwatch.

3AM.

3AM?! You’d been running nonstop for hours on end, and you haven’t even made it back to the original Griever you killed. To where you dropped the stinger you came here so desperately for. Where you left Chuck behind.

You suck in a deep breath, ignoring the stabbing pain that grows ever larger in your chest and you push forward once again. You’re only jogging now, but it’s all you’re able to do. You take your time, scanning the too-similar walls and trying to distinguish where you are. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

There.

You recognize that pattern of the wall, somehow, impossibly. You lessen your jog, approaching the intersection and taking a look around for anything else you might recognize.

SLAM, SLAM, SLAM.

You turn and jog toward the sound, your heart pounding with something other than fright for once tonight. You turn, and you see a lump on the ground. You can’t control yourself as you cry out with relief, rushing quickly up toward where Chuck’s body lay on the ground- pulling your backpack off of your back and around to the front as you land on your knees next to him. Digging into your bag, your eyes are blurry and filled with tears, but after rubbing uselessly at them you find what you’re looking for. You jam the blue vial into the injector, looking down at Chuck finally.

Black was just starting to seep into his veins, but his eyes weren’t open. He hadn’t moved from this spot, so it wasn’t likely that he’s woken up yet. You let your hand touch his cheek, feeling his clammy and feverish skin as you trace the black veins as if trying to rub them away. You line the injector up with his thigh, then shoot the medicine into him. There’s a loud clunk and hiss, and you watch as the blue slowly drains away from the vial, leaving it empty and useless. You toss the remnants into your bag, rubbing Chuck’s thigh to hopefully spread the medicine quicker.

Beep, beep, beep

The incessant beeping finally draws your attention, and you glance up to see your prize. The metal cylinder, a little red light on the outside facing you blinks on and off with the little sound of a beep each time. You crawl over to Chuck’s other side, reaching until you grab ahold of the key.

You lean your back against the wall, letting the coolness of the stone seep through your shirt and hopefully cool you off while you take a small rest. You pull Chuck closer to the wall, just wanting him nearby, then begin to study the key in your hands. It’s still covered in the slime of a Griever, and no matter how many times you try to wipe it off it only seems to spread around more. You finally notice a number as you inspect it. Number 7.

Once you’ve finally caught your breath and kept yourself from falling asleep numerous times, you finally admit to yourself that you’re stalling. You can’t sleep here in the maze, it's not a guarantee that anyone would find you both if Wicked really is interested in capturing you and learning more about you. You stand with a grimace, jamming the stinger into your bag and slinging the whole thing onto your back. Then, you set yourself on getting Chuck up enough to carry him back.

It took a long time, a lot of effort, and frequent breaks. Your ankle still killed you, your body was exhausted, and- sorry, Chuck- but the dead weight you carried around made things infinitely harder. Thankfully, you haven’t had to try to hide the both of you from Grievers. In fact, you hadn’t even heard a call from one in a while. Limping along slowly, Chuck in tow, you struggle to lift your wrist and clear your eyes enough to study the numbers on it. They were all beginning to spin around, jumble together in your vision and head and memory and you thought it might’ve been sometime after 5AM but you weren’t completely sure?

You stumbled? You didn’t even realize you had until you took another three steps. You look behind you as if the cause of your misstep would be obvious, but it's all smooth stone around you. Everywhere is just smooth stone. You’re surrounded by massive walls of stone everywhere, on all sides, even below you. You were weighed down and heavy and even walking felt extraneous- and what were you doing? Why were you even doing all this? You were so tired…

You dropped what you were carrying. You must’ve since you felt as light as a feather now. You took a step, and another step, and it felt like you flew a great distance although the stone swirling around you told you that you only moved a few inches. When did the stone start talking to you?

The sky was awfully bright.

“I’m just bored, Tommy,” You whine, stretching your arms across the dining table as you lay your front half onto it, exaggerating your boredness by groaning loudly. You weren’t worried about bothering anybody, everyone else was hard at work as the object of your exclamation was seated next to you. Well- seated isn’t quite the right word when he’s sitting on the top of the table, using the bench as a footrest. Really, why does Thomas love to sit on top of tables?

“How can you be bored?” Thomas sounded playfully affronted, shoving at your shoulder though barely moving your frame, and you try to peak your eyes upward to see his face but it strains your eyes so you just close them instead. “On our one day off? We finally get to relax and do nothing!”

“Speak for yourself,” You whine mulishly, kicking your injured leg under the table as if he could see it. “I’ve had this thing wrapped up for half a week and haven’t been allowed to do any work. I’ve done all the relaxing I need!” You decide to gracefully ignore Thomas’ cackling, mostly because you don’t have the energy to feel offended right now.

“Well, then,” Thomas shakes the table as he jumps down from his perch, “Let’s go do something to dispel that boredom, then!” You huff, sitting up and turning around to face him, leaning your back against the hard line of the table as you stare at him in disbelief.

“Like what? I’ve been trying to do that for days.”

“Well,” Thomas drags the word out, kicking a stray rock as his eyes scan around the Glade. “How about we go bother Newt?” You furrow your eyebrows at this, pursing your lips. It’s tempting, but…

“But he’s working right now? Shouldn’t we leave him be?” Thomas laughs, reaching for your hand and pulling you to stand, quick with grabbing your cane and presenting it to you.

“Oh, don’t worry about all that. Zart is used to me coming by and bugging him on my day off.” You chuckle, leaning against the cane and moving to follow Thomas. You can tell he’s slowed down his gait for you, and you appreciate it.

“And he’s just okay with that?”

“I said he’s used to it, not that he’s okay with it.” You snort out a laugh, shaking your head as you glance over at him. The sun played across his tanned cheeks, lighting them with a healthy glow and causing his eyes to glimmer. He really was quite attractive. Was there any hope in what Minho told you? That he liked you as much as Newt?

You shook your head, facing forward as you walked. No, you couldn’t let yourself go down that road, not so soon to your plan. You don’t even want to be thinking of your plan right now, just wanting to enjoy what time you have with Thomas.

Thomas ducks down behind a row of trellises, waving for you to follow. You smother a giggle as you crouch down near him, listening intently to the plan he hatches, as if from thin air. Though, knowing Thomas, he probably did just come up with it as he said it. You nod along, moving around slowly to make sure you’re in the right place. Once crouching near where Newt was working, you waited for the opportunity. Soon enough, the farmer who had been working next to Newt wanders off, and he’s set upon by Thomas. Thomas startles Newt, who jumps and shouts something at him that you can’t quite make out aside from his name. You grin, beginning your stealthy manoeuvre over.

Thomas is nodding with a pseudo-sympathetic look, trying his best not to look over Newt’s shoulder and give your position away. You grin, reaching out with both hands and tickling Newt’s sides. He yelps out again- much louder for you, now that you’re closer- and turns around with a look of outrage that bleeds into slight annoyance and amusement.

“Shuck it, [Y/N], you startled the klunk outta’ me!” You can’t answer through your laughter, bending at the side from the heft of it. You can hear Thomas’ laughter as well, and when neither of you stops anytime soon you hear Newt’s voice again, louder, as if trying to talk over your incessant laughing. “Oh sure, sure. Laugh it up. You won’t be laughing later when I get you back!”

He ends the sentence by pouncing toward you, raising his long spindly fingers to dig at your sides, causing you to erupt in even more uncontrollable laughter, eventually falling to the ground as he tickles you, shaking your head and begging him to stop. It finally stops, but as you open your eyes and wipe a tear away you find out why. Thomas had picked Newt up from off of you, tackling him to the ground and pinning him there, tickling his sides nonstop as well. It’s a dangerous idea, what comes to mind, but you feel drunk with laughter and love. You sit up, sneaking up behind Thomas, and reach for his sides this time.

He turns around, a gasp of affront awarded to you as he notices who tickled him.

“Oh, it’s on!”

It’s sometime later, after the tickle war and a gentle not-so-admishment from Zart to Newt about his slacking off, but Newt is given the rest of the day as a gesture of goodwill. You’re not too sure you believe that fully, knowing his second-in-command duties never take a day off, but you’re glad to spend what time you can with both of them. Thomas shows you both his favourite game to play with Minho; Newt ends up showing you how to weave a basket, but this activity doesn’t last long as Thomas is antsy to get up and start moving again; eventually, the three of you can be found lounging in the dining area, asking each other as many unnecessary questions that you can think of.

“What about you, [Y/N]? If you could as the Creators for one thing, what would it be?” You hum in thought, pursing your lips. You couldn’t say what first came to mind, which would be ‘a copy of The Mazerunner so I know exactly how to get us out of here,’ so you take your time to pick something slightly ridiculous.

“Dice,” You finally decide on, shrugging. There’s silence for a moment before you look over. It seemed like both boys had been staring at you with incredulity, but Newt had turned away with pursed lips like he was considering it as Thomas leaned even closer.

“Dice? But why?”

“I can see the merit,” Newt shrugs, causing Thomas to turn on him.

“See the merit?”

“Well, you can get a lot of different games out of dice. And considering [Y/N] has been injured, I think they’re pretty bored of doing nothing by now.”

“Very bored,” You agree, making an exaggerated huff of displeasure that doesn’t garner you any sympathy. Thomas scoffs, throwing his arm out.

“What about something useful, though?”

“Oh yeah, smart boy?” You tease, narrowing your eyes playfully at him. “What would you ask for then?”

“A map out of here!” Newt laughs, shoving Thomas playfully, but a chill shoots through you at his words. “What, I’m right! You know I’m right!” They laugh as they begin a shoving match, and you’re able to compose yourself and regain your smile before they notice it had left.

“So, Newt, what’s your favourite vegetable?”

Thomas hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until he gasped awake, jumping with a start and throwing his arms out to either side. One hand flew through nothing, but the other quickly hit something soft, and he glanced over to see Newt’s grim and tired expression, his hands slowly wrapping around the hand that had smacked into his stomach. Newt meets his eyes, the bags under his own making it obvious he hadn’t slept last night.

“It’s okay, you’re just here with me,” Newt whispers, blinking slowly and reaching up to rub his eyes. Thomas left his hand in the grip of both of Newt’s- though his grip left something to be desired- and leaned forward toward the man. He raises his other hand, rubbing against Newt’s cheeks gently. They were both sitting upright away from everyone else, their backs against the wall next to the western gate. They hadn’t moved since the night before.

“Newt? You haven’t slept?”

“Like you could talk,” Newt murmurs with a yawn, raising a hand to cover his mouth before replacing it back on Thomas’ own hand. “You tried to stay up all night too.” Thomas glances outward, scanning the horizon. A few people were up already, making their way to their early morning routines, and the sun wasn’t out yet but the colours had begun to light up the sky. Thomas turns back to Newt, his fingers gentle as they trace the bags under his eye, then down his cheek.

“Well, it’s my turn to be up now. Try to get some sleep.” Newt’s already shaking his head, raising one hand to grab ahold of the one on his cheek, pulling his hand away.

“No, no, the doors will open soon.”

“And I’ll wake you when they do,” Thomas reassures, smiling down at the sleepy, but cute, Newt. “Just get what rest you can-”

He’s interrupted by the groaning of the maze, a shifting of stone. They’re so close to the maze, sitting on the ground and leaning their backs against the wall, that it’s like they can feel the shaking in their cores. They meet each other’s eyes, and Thomas watches as Newt wakes up fully in under a second. They both scramble to get up, jogging over to the doors as they begin to open. Thomas glances around, noticing a few people walking over to meet them at the entrance. The doors are slightly open, but it's too small and too dark to see anything inside yet. Minho is approaching, along with Gally and Alby. They’re whispering something, something that Thomas can’t quite make out yet. He faces the doors, scanning for any sight of you as soon as he can see into the hallway, but keeping an ear out for their words. Then what they’re saying hits him.

“I looked everywhere, Alby,” Minho’s voice is grave, even more so than last night, if Thomas had to guess. “He’s not here.”

“It’s just not like him.”

“Unless…”

“You think he saw them run into the maze and ran out there with them?”

Thomas turned suddenly, concern etched across his face. “Wait, what? What’s happening?”

Alby turns a hesitant and grave look toward Thomas. He sighs, taking a step forward. “We can’t find Chuck.”

“What?”

“Thomas-” Newt tries to interrupt, but he doesn’t hear him, his head ringing.

“Minho said he’s checked everywhere, but is there some extra place he might be hiding? Somewhere only you know about?”

“What?” Thomas repeats, shaking his head slowly.

“Thomas!” He’s jerked out of his reverie by Newt, blinking and looking directly into his eyes, realizing Newt has his hands gripping Thomas’ arms. Newt also has a slightly manic expression on his face, like disbelief and joy felt all at once. “They’re there!”

Everyone whirls around at once. The doors have just stopped opening, the silence settling around their little group as they stare into the hallway of the maze. There, they could see you and Chuck, both lying on the ground. It looked like you had made it a few steps farther than him before collapsing.

“Are they alive?” Alby asks, his voice full of incredulity. A body brushes past Thomas in his stupor, but the sight of Minho running full force into the maze shocks him into the present. He takes off just after Minho, running into the maze behind him, his heart racing fast with hope and fear in equal amounts. As Minho gets to the bodies, he hesitates as he looks between the two on the ground, then glances behind him. He locks eyes with Thomas, then nods with a stern expression, rushing over to kneel next to Chuck. Thomas throws himself down next to you.

“He has a pulse!” Minho yells out, and Thomas can see him trying to pull Chuck into his arms to drag him out of the maze. Thomas is hesitating, hands hovering above your body as it feels like his heart tries to burst out of his chest. Then he reaches for your face, placing his hands on your cheeks to hold your cold and clammy cheeks. One hand slides down, trying for a pulse.

He feels his heart race faster, if that is even possible, when he can’t find one. The longer he stares the more he sees- your pale skin, the edges of black creeping up from your clothes, the injury on your stomach that seems to not be bleeding heavily but also looks like it might be infected. It hits him out of nowhere. You were stung. His breaths come out like sobs as he reaches for a wrist, raising your right arm up toward him as he tries once again for a pulse.

It’s there, but faint. He sobs with relief, lowering down to scoop you up, looking up to meet Newt’s eyes. Newt, who has stepped inside the maze to make sure you were okay.

“They have a pulse. It’s faint, but it’s there.” The relief that flooded Newt’s eyes matched his own, and they both rushed out of the maze, shivering from the cold and trying to bring you somewhere that could help.

He’d never seen the group of Medjacks look so focused and no-nonsense before. And he could understand it, this wasn’t just what they’d been training this whole time for- this was also their friends. Alby helped Minho carry Chuck inside ahead of Thomas and Newt carrying you, effortlessly lifting his body and laying it down on a nearby cot. You were laid gently in a cot next to him, somehow looking even worse now than you had in the light outside. Thomas is forced back by someone’s hand, and he watches as Jeff tears into Chuck’s clothes, Hannah moving over to begin inspecting you, Clint standing next to Hannah as if sensing that you’re the more desperate case.

“He’s been stung,” Jeff says, and everyone in the room raises their heads, a small gasp emanating from Hannah.

“What?” Clint calls out angrily, skirting around the beds and looking down at Chuck’s body.

“I don’t know, it just-”

“What is it?” Alby asks, and Thomas finally realizes it’s Alby holding him back as the words bounce around his skull from such a close distance.

“No, he’s right,” Clint mutters, fully focused on inspecting Chuck. “But this doesn’t make sense. It’s stabbed all the way through and there are no black marks so the obvious conclusion is the bladed arms, but the puncture wound doesn’t support that. It pinches in, like this-” Jeff interrupts, raising a grim expression toward them.

“It looks like he’s been stung, but he’s not showing any signs of changing.”

“How is that possible?” Alby asks, and Thomas takes a step back just to get a little distance from him, wandering close to Newt and taking his hand.

“Here,” Minho calls out suddenly, digging some contraption from a bag. “[Y/N] was carrying this on their back- is this familiar at all?” He tosses it onto the bed next to Chuck, and Clint snatches it quickly, lifting it to the light. It looked like some kind of-

“The blue serum,” Clint mutters, and Jeff furrows his brow, although it’s Hannah’s voice behind Clint that speaks up.

“I thought you guys didn’t know what the blue stuff did?”

“We don’t.” Clint answers, at the same time Jeff insists,

“We didn’t.” The two Medjacks lock eyes, and then Jeff begins inspecting Chuck closer as Clint rushes toward the cabinets on the wall.

“Guys, I think we have a problem,” Hannah calls out, gently touching your stomach.

“What?” Thomas calls out, moving to step forward but being held back by Newt’s hand in his. “What is it? What’s wrong?” Hannah glances toward Thomas with pity but turns to look in Jeff’s eyes, as Clint is distracted.

“I think [Y/N] was stung too.” Jeff nods but doesn’t look surprised. Clint grunts out in annoyance, slamming a cupboard shut.

“I found it, Clint!” Jeff exclaims suddenly, excitedly, as he looks down at Chuck’s thigh. Minho draws closer, trying to inspect whatever Jeff found.

“Damn it, Hannah! Where is the damn blue serum?” She rushes over, pulling open a drawer to the side. Thomas is too far away to see what’s inside, but he watches as Clint reaches inside and pulls out a contraption that looks identical to the one he had held not too long ago. Then he fits a blue vial into it.

“What are you gonna-” Hannah begins to ask, but before anyone can react Clint has travelled back across the hut and has stabbed the injector into your thigh. Everyone reacts at the same time, except for Jeff, jumping forward with their hands out as if they could stop Clint from whatever act he felt he needed to perform. The blue in the vial slowly sinks away, and Clint pulls the injector out of their leg, huffing as if he’s out of breath.

“What the klunk was that?” Thomas yells out, his breathing starting to pick up. He can feel himself panicking, but the slow drag of Newt’s hand against his back keeps him from rushing Clint and throwing him across the room like his instincts demand. Clint turns, meeting Thomas’ eyes with determination.

“I was saving their life.” Minho turns his attention away from Chuck over to you, touching your stomach as Clint keeps his stare focused on Thomas. “At least, I hope so. I’m running off of context clues, but honestly? I’ve been curious about this damned blue serum since we started getting it.” He huffs, walking away and tossing both injectors into the bin. “We better hope it works, otherwise nothing will.”

“Hey, guys, there’s something-” Minho murmurs, pulling wads of paper out from your pocket. Thomas finally feels the resistance that had been holding him back drop away as both Newt and he walks up toward your cot. Minho is smoothing one paper out, his brows furrowing as he studies the markings on it. Newt reaches for the other, taking his hand away from Thomas to smooth out the paper as well. “This looks like-” He hesitates, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “This is a copy of the map.” Thomas looks up, meeting his eyes.

“The map?”

“Of course, the map, what other map is there Thomas?” Minho looks upset, reasonably so, as he studies the paper. Thomas drops his attention down toward Newt.

“What’s yours?” Newt sighs, shaking his head.

“A letter.”

[animentality]

I understand what they're trying to say but come on now.

[kharmii]

I hope this dunking on white people is gonna stop soon

A wise man once said that to end racism is to stop talking about it.

The need to bend over backwards to appease certain audiences has gone so far that we can't even have a Snow "White" or fairytales that reflect the area they originated from. (it's up to debate when there are different versions but if its the Grimms version there is no debate for me)

The need to constantly berate or belittle white people to make yourself feel better really is just an excuse to be shitty to these people. And a shitty person in general.

(I think there has been a bias to some degree in the past but swinging full force the other way is wrong too)

We need to stop elevate one group of people just to belittle another one.

That way these people aren't better than their "oppressors". And pushing back isn't always -isms or -phobia... this narrative has to stop. The people are sick and tired of it.

IF this nonsense ever stops (and we haven't nuked ourselves off the earth) I wonder how people 100 or 200 years later will look back to this time and what they think...

The worst offenders pushing this crap are liberal white women (with heteronormative traits but they act LGBT to be trendy). I could build a profile based on the last two in the MLA fandom who accused me of being a 'white supremacist' and blocked me for being a Trump supporter.

There's Fungs...mid-thirties, shut in, only leaves the house to take cripped dog out to poop and pee. Projects dysfunctional self-inflicted physical/mental state on favorite pookie. Will probably live in parents' basement and sponge off them for life. No husband and/or kids. Will never become productive member of society. Then there's Frost who has all those same characteristics except she, -despite being a white woman- only makes black ocs with orange-ass hair. Probably never interacts with black people on daily basis due to never leaving the house.

Since I'm a white woman with a family who has seen discrimination against whites in the workplace due to DEI policies, none of the bullshit flies. Since this ask was received, a white high school aged boy was murdered down in Texas, stabbed in the heart. Twitter is all abuzz over it, but the mainstream Pravda media is silent. SJWs claim that the black murderer did it over 'sitting in the wrong seat'. Here's what really happened:

People put up those pop-up canopies to store equipment for their school. It's unclear if Karmelo Anthony was sitting there to loot. It's possible he was there only to cause trouble and pick a fight with the first white guy who dared say something.

Matt Walsh did a segment on the beginning of his show the other day detailing how since CRT has riled up the black populace, there have been many instances of black males going around picking fights and murdering white people for no reason.

IE: Lawrence Herr a handyman was minding his own business fixing his elderly mother's mailbox in a suburb of New Orleans when two black men 'out hunting for white people' drove by and shot him in the head.

-But anyway, radical Marxist academics be like......

......and then minorities respond by........

Some of the victims (too many to count):

The above was talking about Seth Smith who was murdered by an anti-white racist for the sin of being out for a job on a college campus.

This wouldn't surprise me because of the way we all know foaming-at-the-mouth Marxists can get. USAID money probably went toward this:

Christians are told by people who hate Christianity and want it wiped off the face of the earth that we are being "UnChristian" if we don't cheer our own destruction and support policies promoting the end of Western Civilization.

Audrey is a far-leftist who hates Christians and white people for sure.

-And finally, a random:

One can see the suggestions in the comment section. They seem pretty innocuous.

[spellboundrose]

More Eulalia drawings✨️

I love this loserr so muchhh

Plus some ship art of the robo lovers 💠+🦉

[fated2bydesign]

Chapters: 14/? Fandom: Five Nights at Freddy's Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Major Character Death Series: Part 1 of Missing Gears AU Summary:

One morning FazCo Sends you an offer that you can't refuse. However, upon taking the job you quickly find out, that you may have bitten off more than you can chew with this one. With an understanding of AI's and Robotics, you thought you had expected the worst, but that sadly was only the best-case scenario, as you are quick to find out from the "beloved" daycare attendant.

Something horrible is happening, and it is up to you and a few helpless animatronics to figure out how to stop it before things get any worse.

[somefanficrecomendations]

You're as Cuddly as a Cactus, You're as Charming as an Eel

Author: Shleapord Fandom: Young Justice (Comics), DCU

Readers Notes: Cracky, fun, and silly, this fic had me giggling and kicking my feet at my computer screen. YJ98 are always such a fun set of characters and make for the sort of plot that is classic comic book nonsense. If you are at all familiar with YJ98 you’ll have heard of the “Young Justice is responsible for the death of Santa Claus in the DCU” thing that goes around every couple of months and that’s what this fic is all about!

Summary:

Slowly, ominously, melodically, the opening notes of All I Want for Christmas filtered in. Kon shrieked. Cassie leaped up, or at least attempted to, and was slammed back to the floor by Kon’s iron grip on her hair. Tim, on reflex, grabbed a Batarang and prepared to fight the speaker, but before any of them could act, Bart had already sped back over to the console, ripped out the wire, and held the torn cords aloft like the head of Medusa. “Killed it!” he announced breathlessly. His hair was poofed like an electrocuted cat. OR Young Justice goes on a merry quest to fulfill the final wish of a past mistake.

Rating: Gen     Warning: None Apply   Words: 2,904         

Characters: Tim Drake, Bart Allen, Cassie Sandsmark, Kon-el⎮Conner Kent, Darksied

Additional tags: Crack Taken Seriously, Hijinks and Shenanigans, Young Justice ‘98, Bart Allen’s Spaceship, Young Justice Killed Santa Claus, Cannon-Typical Violence

[avacadokin]

Fit's only had one experience with collars before, and it wasn't great. It wasn't horrible either though, just bloody. He'd been too trusting, too young, too naive, the wastelands hadn't scarred his soul yet.

It was a dumb mistake to walk into a strange base without his weapons drawn or a proper escape plan, but their mistake was even dumber. Giving up the advantage, revealing their position, for what? A shitty blow to his neck that didn't even hurt?

He was honestly doing them a service killing them, they'd never make it out here like that.

Their death was quick, brutal and far less painful than Fit would have made it if he knew what he'd find around his neck.

A simple collar, enchanted with curse of binding.

From it hang a tag, engraved with text proclaiming "Property Of--" He couldn't make out the name, and he was glad for it. They didn't deserve any place in his memory.

The enchantment may prevent him from taking off the collar, but the tag was under no such protections. Fit tore it off the collar, stabbing it into the corpse of his nameless attacker and pulling out his TNT.

Normally Fit liked to preserve things, keep a record for history's sake and to help any future travelers who might come along this path.

Today was not normal.

The explosions were music to Fit's ears as he washed the blood and viscera from his hands.

A beautiful show for him to watch as he placed down one final TNT.

A reminder of his safety as he drew his neck up close and lit it.

The familiar sizzle of the fuse calmed him as he waited, head resting on gunpowder, for the TNT to go off. What's a little more brain damage anyway? At least now he'd be free.

[antipathy-arsonist]

i NEED to bring back my saw x madcom au