#criminal mids fluff

[inkandpaperqwerty]

It's been four months. They've been studying, experimenting, and solving the occasional murder along the way. But it's finally time to get Ed back to his own world... and then to start coping with whatever comes next.

Through the Gate Chapter 11 // Work is Now Complete

AO3 // wattpad // fanfiction.net

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Very very early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT!! (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone). Next upload will prob be heavy angst/no smut post-prison spencer (god help me please, i must be a masochist for the way i make myself suffer)

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There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[g4rvez-r3id]

One Bed…

S6! Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU Reader

Synopsis: You and Reid get paired together in a hotel room after a case, only to discover there’s only one bed in the hotel room. And that said hotel room is freezing.

Category: Fluff!

Warnings: established friendship, age gap between reid & reader (8 years, spencer is 29, reader is 21/22), takes place mid-season 6, pre-lauren storyline- all basic criminal minds themes, (nothing too graphic, just mentions of a case)- mentions of 4x07 “Memoriam”, 4x26 “…And Back”, 5x01 “Faceless, Nameless”, reid is a reduced to a dummy when it comes to women, teasing, mutual crushing, cuddling, all the fluff! slowburn (?) that should cover it(?)

Author’s Note: hey, lovelies! this is my first time writing on tumblr so please take it easy on me, it’s my first time doing this, haha! my specialty is wattpad and this was originally an idea i had for one of my books but i realized it more so fit reid x reader so here y’all are!! <3

It was a pretty tough case. The ones with children always were, at least. Since it was now the nighttime, everyone had headed back to their hotel for the night. They would be flying home early the very next day.

Hotch had told the team that they would all have to share their rooms as they headed up to the third floor, where all of their rooms were. Hotch handed Emily, Morgan, you and Reid two keycards so they could figure out how they were rooming.

Naturally, Hotch and Rossi went to go share a room. You looked over at Emily, but realized she soon called the room with Morgan. You furrowed her brows at Emily and the woman shrugs, “You snore.”

You deny the rumor and shake your head, “I don’t snore.” Morgan and Emily chuckle to themselves as Morgan opens up their room door with one of the keycards.

“It don’t matter,” Morgan replied. “You’re still sharing a room with Reid.” He tosses over yours and Reid’s keycard to you and you catch it with a sigh as you watch the two disappear into their hotel room.

You turn around and look over at Reid, who is showing off his tight-lipped smile, and holding his satchel strap on his shoulder. He almost looks sad at your reaction to you two sharing a room together. “S-Sorry.” He apologizes, not exactly knowing what he’s sorry for once he says it.

You shake your head and furrow your brows at Reid. “Oh, don’t be sorry, Reid. I’d rather actually share a room with you than either of them.” You lean closer and whisper a bit. “They both snore.”

“We heard that!” Morgan and Emily shout from the other room.

“You were meant to!” You shout back.

Reid has a small smile protruding onto his face as he looks down and you nudge your head towards the room next door. “Come on, I’m wiped.” You yawn, holding the keycard in her hand.

As soon as you open the door, you’re full on expecting two beds — one you’re expecting to crash on after your nightmare of a case and the other you expect Reid to be reading on for the rest of the night, since he barely sleeps enough as it is.

Once you opened that door, your heart dropped. “Oh, my God.” You groan as you throw your head to the ceiling in disbelief and Reid peeks over your shoulder to see what the issue is.

You’re both staring at a menacing queen sized bed, right in the middle of the room.

You chuckle to yourself in disbelief. Of course, you and Reid were stuck with the room that only had one bed. This was bound to happen at some point with the amount of times you’ve had to share a room together. But this was different now that you realized you had a crush not too long ago.

You’d had a bad morning so far. You forgot to set your alarm clock, your coffee machine broke and you wound up with a stain on the shirt you were planning on wearing today to work.

This day could not have possibly gotten worse when you’d taken the Metro this morning and dealt with the crowd of people standing near the door and had to fight your way through them in order to get out.

But your morning ended up taking a turn for the better when you’d walked up to your desk to find your coffee order with a chocolate cake pop next to it.

You looked over at Reid and he smiled at you, guiltily and that’s when you realized he’d be the only person that makes a bad day turn better. And that these feelings you were hiding were blossoming into more.

It didn’t help that Morgan also teased you about it, saying how the pretty boy is falling for the pretty girl and how he didn’t manage to get his or Emily’s coffee orders like he did with you.

And then, you’d fallen hard.

And you worried that this was only going to make it worse.

Both you and Reid looked at one another and you sighed as you placed her go-bag next to the bed.

“I can just sleep on the floor.” Reid offers, already settling his stuff on the floor.

You turn to him, shaking your head. “No, you don’t have to do that, it’s fine.” And you feel bad that he even suggested it to you.

“No, I insist. I don’t- I don’t sleep that much anyways. And you could use the rest.” He told, no hint of annoyance in his voice as he spoke.

You looked back on the bed. You couldn’t ask him to do that. Not for you, as much as the gesture seemed polite. But you’d feel bad if he didn’t at least get a few hours of sleep on a nice bed rather than a hard floor.

Which is why, after their nighttime routines, you were placing pillows in between yourself and Reid. Reid had noticed the goosebumps on your skin as you fixed the pillows between them. He saw that you opted for a white top and sweatpants to wear to bed. No doubt you were freezing.

“This is a pillow barrier. We cannot cross the pillow barrier. The pillow barrier prevents any contact. So, it’s not… weird. Okay?” You explained and Reid nodded to your words. “Okay.”

With that, you turned off the lamp on your bedside and Reid’s was still on because he was currently reading. His book tonight was The Illustrated Man by Ray Bradbury. You’d been the only one who he talked to about it, something about science fiction short stories and how it was his twelfth time reading it.

Your heart absolutely fluttered that day he talked about it, the light in his eyes gleaming with excitement as his mouth moved quickly to explain what he was reading to you. You often hated when Morgan or JJ would quiet him down due to his rambling, but you loved every minute of it.

(Of course, it may have had something to do with the fact that you’ve been harboring a massive crush on him ever since you joined the bureau nearly three years ago.)

An hour or so had passed and Reid had finally gone to bed. But your slumber was being interrupted by the freezing cold air every hour or so. You were confused on how a hotel room could be so freaking cold.

You turned over to see Reid’s backside and realized that one of the pillows had been removed from the pillow barrier and then realized you were the one that had been holding the pillow.

But you held onto it even tighter when the cold air touched your skin and you moved deeper into the covers. Doing so, you realized your foot nudged against Reid’s leg. You also noticed that Reid was still awake because he turned his head over to the girl.

“S-Sorry.” You muttered as you burrowed yourself deeper in the covers. Reid then sat up and turned the lamp on. “Are you cold?” He asked.

“J-J-Just a little.” You admitted, teeth chattering as you spoke. It had to have been below 40 degrees in this room. Reid stood up from his side of the bed and you felt him get up and you turned over to see what he was doing.

You then saw Reid had reached into his bag and picked up one of his sweaters. It was his red cardigan sweater he’d worn just about a couple of cases back. He was gonna wear it tomorrow before they left but he hadn’t had a use for it at the moment.

“Here,” Reid spoke, tossing the cardigan to you on the bed. “You need it more than I do.” You didn’t bother to get out of the covers as you put it on and wrapped it around your body.

“Sorry I woke you up.” You apologized to Reid as he got back in the covers. “No, it’s fine. I was already awake.” Reid stated, turning the lamp on before getting deep in the covers as well.

“You never went to bed?” You asked. “Can’t really attempt to sleep when all you can hear is teeth chattering nonstop.” Reid told, and you chuckled a bit through your shivers. “Sorry.” She said. “It’s okay, really. I don’t sleep much anyways.” Reid admitted and you turned over to him.

You two looked into each other’s eyes and you’d scooted back a bit, realizing you were getting way too close. No, no, don’t think about kissing his perfect lips, right now. But you felt the heat radiating off of his body practically.

“Any facts on how to stay warm?” You joked and Reid shrugged. “Well, there’s warm beverages like hot tea and coffee that could help you stay warm. Moving around at least once an hour and avoid sitting still for long periods. Even light exercise will help keep you warm. There’s also—”

Reid then stopped himself and you furrowed her eyebrows at him. “What’s wrong?” You asked.

“Oh, this is usually where most people stop me from droning on an on.” He said. “I’m aware that I tend to ramble a lot.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” You told and Reid was left confused for a moment. “Go on.” You encouraged.

You always loved his quirks, his personality, his rambling, the way he often sported cashmere cardigans and mismatched socks because he thought it was good luck. Everything about him you just seemed to enjoy. And he didn’t seem to realize it until now.

Spencer smiled to himself a bit and carried on with his last sentence, hoping to God it wouldn’t sound strange suggesting it. “There’s, uh, also sharing, uh… body heat with… someone. The rate of heat transferred from one body to another increases with the difference in temperature between them. Consequently, the rate of heat lost from a human to the surrounding very cold ambient environment is lower than the rate of heat lost from a human to another human. Like, cuddling, for example, it actually has warming benefits.” He explained, finishing off with his signature tight-lipped smile.

“Cuddling?” You questioned, raising a brow at Reid.

Reid looked at you and realized that maybe you viewed that fact as him trying to cuddle with you and felt as if he was initiating something that he didn’t mean to initiate.

“Not-Not-Not that I, uh, was suggesting that, uh… we-we should, no, I do-did-didn’t—” After stuttering numerous times, Reid nearly just shut up completely and was happy that you had finally decided to interrupt him.

“No, it’s, uh,” You sat up a bit. “It’s actually not a bad idea.” It was Reid’s turn to be confused now as he raised a brow at you this time. “I mean, if you are-if you are… uh, com-comfortable with it… that is.”

Reid’s mouth is open in shock and you close your eyes, now realizing how it sounds. “Oh, God, this just got weird. Uh, how about I just sleep on the floor tonight?”

“No!” Reid answered immediately and you looked back at him, in shock on how fast he denied that. He clears his throat. “I mean, I don’t-I don’t mind. As long as, uh, y-you don’t?” He finished off in rather a question than a statement.

“Uhm, not-not at all. I’m freezing anyways.” It took a second for either one to move so you just started off by removing the rest of the pillow barrier between them. It a simple start to a grand finale.

Since Reid was very inexperienced on how to handle things with girls involved, you kind of just took the lead. You then hesitantly put your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat going 100 miles per hour as you did so.

Reid felt like he didn’t know where to put his hands and immediately settled his right arm around your waist. You kind of found it cute at how flustered he seemed. You wrapped her arm around his slender torso, holding onto him.

In the midst of getting comfortable, the heat radiated off both of their bodies and you snuggled closer subconsciously if anything. Reid’s head rested on top of yours as you moved closer.

“This, uh, this isn’t weird, right?” You asked, beating yourself up for even asking. “Not weird at all.” Reid assured, answering rather quickly. “I think it’s best if we don’t mention this at all to the team, though—” You nod faintly, “I agree.” She said. “They’d never let us live it down. This is purely because I’m cold, that’s it.” Reid agrees, “Yes, that’s all it is.”

She could see Morgan and Emily’s teasing and Garcia’s prying from a mile away. There was absolutely no way they’d live down the harrowing embarrassment.

“Do you think, you could like… I don’t know, give me like some… random facts about something?” You asked and Reid didn’t quite understand what you were asking. “It would really help me sleep.” You added, knowing you could listen to him all day if you wanted. And he’d secretly hoped you wanted to.

So, Reid decided to ramble about anything necessary. It started off with some minor body heating facts, then about numbers, then Doctor Who, then the hotel building’s history and the architecture.

What Reid didn’t realize was that you’d had fallen asleep as soon as he started talking about Doctor Who and he should’ve realized sooner when you stopped asking questions and started responding with ‘mm-hmm’ every few seconds until you were finally lulled to sleep.

He finally came to a stop around 3:30am and noticed that the teeth chattering had finally stopped. He looked down at you and had taken account of your features like he hadn’t before.

Your nose that scrunched up when you slept and had an itch to scratch. Her eyelids hiding the orbs he’d admire once in a while when you looked his way. Her lips (that were in dire need of chapstick at the moment) but nonetheless looked… good. Definitely not kissable. Your hair, which was currently to your shoulders once you cut it on a whim. He never told you but he liked it at this length. He preferred your hair longer when it was but you could suit anything and he’d still think you were pretty.

Yes, he’d admit it — Spencer Reid thought you were pretty.

There was a total of five times in his life now that he realized he may have a slight crush on you.

The first time being when you walked into the bullpen that first day. You started off with a consult on the case and he admittedly thought you very pretty and Garcia and Emily teased him for it. But he was allowed to think you were pretty without liking you. But when it came to it, he was stuttering like an idiot and his facts surrounding the case were running 100 miles an hour in his brain and Emily said something about his IQ being slashed to 60. That’s when he knew something was up. He never got like this before. But of course, he’d never admit it.

The second time was when you defended him in Las Vegas when he thought his dad murdered Riley Jenkins. When Morgan and Rossi were giving him a hard time, you’d taken his side. It didn’t help that you’d also had issues with your own father. He always knew he could relate to you with the daddy issues — it’s probably the reason why you two ended up so close. You’d stuck by his side during the whole thing and he’d known you wouldn’t exactly do that for anyone else on the team that quickly after you’d joined. And he’d do it for you, too.

The third time was the time when they had that case in Canada and you two were paired up to look into the life of their unsub, Lucas Turner. He remembered climbing on the ladder and you following behind him and how you almost fell off the unsteady ladder but he’d caught you. You were both stuck in a weird position at first, his hand around your waist and your arm around his neck. He remembered how he looked into your eyes and felt a weird feeling in the pit of his stomach. And in a weird way, he sensed it from you too, but he wasn’t so sure if you felt the same way. He knew he was sure when you had immediately pulled away from the awkward encounter. But he couldn’t blame you. After that, the weird feeling in his stomach didn’t go away.

The fourth time was after he got shot in the leg and you had decided to stay with him for the night in the hospital. He didn’t even remember sleeping, if he was being honest. But he could remember your distinct laugh and your jokes and your facts about random stuff like he’d often do. You two had talked almost the whole night until maybe around 5am when you finally drifted off to sleep. He remembered how content he was when he turned over and had seen you sleeping right next to him. You looked uncomfortable in the chair you were sleeping in but you had wanted to be near him nonetheless. You had even taken him home once he was released. Of course, the team would come to visit before he got out of the hospital but you staying the entire time he was there meant more than anything.

The fifth and final time had been this moment. You, here, sleeping on his chest — simply because of body heat. He really didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable with that fact, he just thought he’d be telling you for her own benefit and to use that how you saw fit. He guessed, you saw it fit with him. And the fact that you liked his rambling, oh, that poor boy’s heart leaped so quickly.

But even after all these times he realized he may have a slight crush on you, he knew that you’d probably never feel the same way even with your head on his chest like this. You two were best friends and nothing more. Since JJ left, you two clung to the hip. You guys had each other now and that was pretty much all you needed. Of course, the two youngest team members should be friends, right?

Granted, you had eight years between you two which was also another reason why Reid couldn’t pursue his crush on you. You were twenty-one, turning twenty-two next month and he was coming up on twenty-nine. You’d started at the BAU the same time Rossi had, making you about eighteen when you were a consult on the case. But the way you carried yourself when you walked in the bullpen that day made you seem older. It seemed almost weird to him, liking you when you were so young. So, here he was, still holding back.

But now… times were different and they were different ages now and you were an adult in your early 20s. And finally since he maybe finally got to know you over the years, he realized you were an awesome person. An awesome person who bad things have happened to. In ways, he’d seen a younger version of himself walking through the BAU at times. You were nice and sweet and pretty and… well, Reid just didn’t know what his exact feelings were just yet.

When you two got up the next morning, you’d both kept your word about not reiterating a word to the team about their sleeping situation. You two actually hadn’t said a word to each other all morning because you were so busy, getting ready to leave for the jet.

And once you two left the room, you turned your key in and headed off to the jet to return home. What happened in that hotel room… stayed in that hotel room, as far as you guys were concerned.

But the one thing Reid told the team was that he didn’t even mind that you snored.

i hope y’all enjoyed my first tumblr story!! please let me know if y’all would like more!! :) thank you for reading! love you all!! <333

-mya

[enviedear]

LOVING ALONE IS WHAT YOU MAKE IT

₊ ⊹ JASON TODD

🧸ྀི REQUEST | jason having (what he thinks is) an unrequited crush

CW | lovesick!jason with issues accepting love, just-a-buncha fluff. 1.6k words. 🎧ྀི

your eyes flicker to your window for the hundredth time in ten minutes. there's an attempt at forcing your gaze back to your book, but your concentration on it has long since shattered. it's impossible to concentrate on anything other than him, perched on your fire escape right outside your window—JASON TODD.

he thinks he’s so subtle, as if you'll never notice when he parks himself on your fire escape like some sort of gargoyle. you smile slightly at the thought, heart pounding a little faster than it should. a condition that makes itself apparent far too much when your mind drifts to him.

he's silently taken on a sort of sworn protector role, separate from his nightly redhood rendezvous. you count yourself lucky to have his presence around your domicile so often. you truly never got over the culture shock that was gotham, but jason helps. even if he decides to go to great lengths to try and hide it.

outside, in the frigid and everpresent putrid gotham air, jason todd sits in complete rumination. he has goosebumps marring his arms beneath his leather jacket, but he pays them no mind. no, he's far too busy listing all the reasons he should just leave, why sitting outside under the guise of guard is utterly stupid, but still, he sits.

he runs a gloved hand through his hair, tugging slightly. he feels pathetic. how can he meet death, the criminally insane, survive things that would kill most—and somehow, he's shocked still with nerves at the very idea of knocking on your window.

in his head he has it all pictured, if it went perfectly. you'd come to the window, a confused look on your face until you spot him. he'd pull some stupid line, something he heard dick use once, and it'd make you laugh. he loves hearing that, more than anything. then he'd crawl in—spend the rest of his night with you, doing anything. and in his head, that's perfect.

but the underbelly of that dream keeps him rooted to your fire escape. to him, there's no way you could ever share his sentiments. you refer to him as a friend and no matter how much he wishes for something else, he can't change reality. can't force himself to make something more out of what you give him.

between the blood on his hands and the rage he can never seem to fully rid himself of, he's come to the aimless conclusion that you deserve someone better. someone more delicate, someone who doesn’t live with one foot in the grave. but every time you laugh or shoot him an easy smile, it gets easier to admit that he’s too far gone.

you deign the separation foolish, but still, you give yourself one more attempt at reading before you put your book to the side. really—you just wish he’d just say something. you’ve thought about saying something yourself, more times than you care to admit, but the timing never feels right. besides, there’s a part of you that wonders if jason even realizes you’ve been waiting out for him.

every time you joke or tease, you can see some struggle behind his eyes. as if he wants to let go and laugh with you, but something—himself—holds him back. your very own sisyphus—his very own boulder to carry up a labyrinthine mountain.

maybe it’s his past and the walls he’s built around himself, but you’re over him expecting you to be afraid of him. you wonder how much more evident you need to be. if anything, you wish he could see himself the way you do—intense, yes, but also loyal and good, even if he doesn’t believe it.

he proves it every night when he stands watch outside your shitty apartment.

with a sigh, you stand up from the couch, moving toward the window. he’s always so close, and yet there’s a distance he keeps in place—you’ve had enough of that.

you slide the window open, leaning out just enough to catch him mid-step as he’s about to leave—flee moreso. “going somewhere?”

he turns on his heels, red helmet in his hands, "figured you'd be asleep."

you hum, eyes narrowing, "already? it's six pm on a saturday."

“just didn’t want to bother you.” he admits, voice low, almost timid. he doesn’t meet your eyes, and it’s frustrating how hard he tries to hide, even from you.

“you’re not bothering me, jason.” you say softly, leaning on the window frame. “you never do.”

jason looks at you then, something uncertain flickering in his gaze. his lips dart out to quell his chapped lips—you hold his stare, hoping he can see what you’re trying to tell him, wordlessly.

that you want him here, that you’ve been wanting him all along.

“i can stop by for a few.” he finally says, adding a shrug to the end of his sentence.

you smile, opening the window fully as invitation. jason crawls in, a rather innocuous task but given his stature, always surprises you.

“i have pizza and brownies. saturday special.” you tell him, a persuasion. you want him to eat.

“sounds good.” he’s in the middle of slipping out of his redhood garb, clad in a skintight athletic tee and his cargos—mask sitting on your coffee table. “i’m gonna change in the bathroom, i’ll be right back.”

before his fingers can grab his duffle you start, “why don’t you shower here? i know you don’t have any of your usual stuff but—”

he cuts you off, “i couldn’t. i’m already eating your food…and using your fire escape as a landing spot.”

“jason, seriously. shower here. i’ll heat up the food and put on some tv. it’s a saturday.” you’re not one to beg, but this is treading the line.

his shoulders sag, but there’s a small smile on his face, “thanks, sweetheart. you’re too nice to me.”

his tone is sarcastic, self-deprecating, and that annoys you slightly. you want him to know that he’s welcome here, wanted. needed.

“i like it when you’re here, you know.” you feel like sparking a match, timid flames sparkling. “i miss you when you’re gone and everything.”

he quirks a brow, "what are you tryin' tell me?"

you feel silly at his question, the air around you seemingly buzzing. jason peers down at you with a raised brow, as if he's genuinely confused by the sentiment. as if he's baffled by the notion he could be someone to miss.

your breath hitches as you debate your next move. you're walking a thin line between saying too much and not enough. you could play it safe, keep your cards close to your chest—or you could be honest. near painfully so.

when you find your voice, it comes out soft, "i'm trying to say that i like it better when you come inside instead of sitting on my fire escape. i don't want to be a landing spot for you, i want... more."

he clears his throat, shifting on his feet, "you don't want that." he seems to take a step back, not physically, but mentally. his face goes still, chest breathing even, mind anywhere but the present.

you groan, annoyance evident, "i do though. you have to see that in some way by now." you step towards him, "sometimes i think you feel the same way."

jason’s gaze flickers toward the floor, and for a moment you wonder if you’ve crossed the line, if he’ll pull away entirely. but then he looks up, eyes darker, severely sincere. “you have no idea what you’re asking for.” he cautions, but his voice is lower, almost a whisper.

you smile softly, finally letting your hand touch his arm, feeling the solid warmth beneath. “maybe i do. maybe i’ve been waiting for you to realize it.”

“don’t say that unless you mean it,” he murmurs, his voice rough.

“i mean it.” you reply, sincere in your admission. “i’m not afraid of you, jason. i’m afraid of what happens if you keep shutting me out.”

he grumbles at that, a half-willed attempt to argue against your point. you stay quiet, urging him to continue where you left off. you watch his face contort through a realm of emotions—confusion, fear, and then, thinly masked and wistful poignancy.

“i’m not shutting you out. if anything, i’m protecting you.” he finally decides, arms crossing over his chest, eyes scanning the wall behind you. nervous.

you shake your head, fingers reaching for his twisted expression, finding home on his pink-tinted cheeks. “i don’t need you protecting me from you. i need you to want me as bad as i want you.”

your words are bold, maybe overconfident, but you mean them to the fullest extent. you’re so beyond exhausted of attempting to disregard or conceal your feelings. even if jason’s not, you think he deserves to know.

jason todd looks you over. his eyes raking you up and down like you’re some high valued product—and he’s unsure wether to take the bid or let it pass by. in the time you’ve known him, even in the thralls of his vigilante persona, he’s studied things. eyes pointedly and silently assessing his situation, no matter how far removed he is from his upbringing—his “father” lingers in his antics.

finally, he chuckles, low and more timid than usual, “you don’t know how badly i want you, sweetheart. but…” he stops himself, and you’re grateful because you would have done it yourself if he had continued on with some rebuttal. “fuck. you’re all i want.”

it comes out like a beg, pleading that rarely works it’s way onto his features. you smile, and pull him closer. his arms uncross, opting to gingerly hold your shoulders. still timid, unsure.

“you should know how much you mean to me. you do such a good job of showing me…keeping watch and never letting me eat alone. it’s sweet, you’re sweet. i want you to know it.” you keep his gaze when you speak, hopefully drilling each sentiment permanently into his consciousness.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut, “i believe you. swear. i just… this is new. i never thought…” he falters off, equal parts unsure and dumbstruck. “i like you a lot. i didn’t know you felt the same, sweetheart.”

you grin, inching your face closer to his, “well i do. deal with it.” your tone is teasing, playful. pulling him back into the safety of reassurance—what you want him to anticipate from you.

it seems to put jason back in his element, “oh? you have demands? usually that’s my thing.”

you laugh, “could always be our thing. the demanding couple—sounds inspired, don’t you think?”

“something like that…” his smile is soft, “but for now, i think i’m fine with just being yours.” he says it so earnestly, no thought to it. just the truth, and it feels damn good. it envelops you just the same as his arms, wraps you up in utter victory. love hard fought—and it feels so sweet.

[pencil-n-pen]

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

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

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

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

He was also really, really, really hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

The case is going terribly.

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

And now she won’t stop calling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t want to see her.”

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

It is a fact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

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

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

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

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

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

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

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

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

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

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

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

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

“I just thought—“

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

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

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

That… doesn’t make any sense.

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

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

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

You blink. “Oh.”

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

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

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

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

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

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

“About?”

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

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

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

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

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

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

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

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You never joke.” JJ says.

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

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

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

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

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

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

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

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

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

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You frown. “What are you saying?”

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

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

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

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

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

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

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

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

“Drink it anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

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

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

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

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

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

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

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

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

“We’re both profilers.”

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

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

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

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

“Who said anything about dragging?”

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

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

“They keep staring at me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

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

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

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

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

—

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

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

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

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

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

You slept the entire day away.

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

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

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

“Hotch?”

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

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

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

“He bet against me?”

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

“How long did you bet for?”

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

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

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

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Keep it.”

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

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

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

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

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

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

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

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

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

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

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

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

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

—

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

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

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

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

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

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

He blinks. “For?”

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

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

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

“Do you know why I chose you?”

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

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

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

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

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

“Maybe I am.”

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

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

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

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

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leave the mug there.

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing here?”

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

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

“But… the paperwork.”

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

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

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

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How about Spencer?”

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

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

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

“You know dis comes from—“

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

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

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

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

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

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

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

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

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

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

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

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

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fi—“

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

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

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

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

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

“Let’s go home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please let me do this for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You really do tear up then.

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

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

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The muscles in his jaw work.

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

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

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

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

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

“Crying and sad?”

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

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

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

“Just?”

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

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

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

“But mostly this.”

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

“Really?”

“Really.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

જ⁀➴

[benevolentbones]

Hi! What about if an unsub was threatening the teams families and so they had to gather everyone together and that’s how the team finds out that Spencer has a very pregnant girlfriend lmao

Maybe some angst but lots of fluff!

surprise surprise | spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: minimal angst, lots of fluff!! happy couple

word count: 0.8k

a/n: thank you for the request! hope you enjoy this short fic !! reblogs n comments appreciated!

the bau had been dealing with a particularly difficult unsub for weeks, a conscientious criminal who always seemed to be a few paces ahead. and now this unsub had changed his motive, he was now threatening the families of all the members of the bau.

which lead to the team having their respective families brought in to quantico, with no choice other then to have them go into protective custody.

the team were all gathered in the large conference room, waiting for their family members to arrive. slowly people began entering the room, first morgan’s mother and sisters, then penelope’s brother and so on until almost everyone’s families were present.

all except spencer’s. he anxiously stood by the door, hotch to his side. every so often he would glance to the door and then back to hotch who gave him a stern but reassuring look.

“they’re on the way..don’t worry.” he placed a hand on spencer’s shoulder to calm the younger man. hotch was the only one who was aware of spencer’s…situation.

after a few more moments, diana, spencer’s mother walked through the door being guided by a member of police. he relaxed slightly, giving his mother a brief hug before continuing to look towards the door.

hotch scanned the room, checking off all the members of the bau and their families. another few minutes passed and spencer was growing anxious again.

spencer pulled out his cellphone for the 30th time in the last hour, dialling the same number he had tried the last twenty nine times. it went straight to voicemail. shit. he thought, he brain wandering to the worst possible scenario.

until a girl in her mid twenties ambled through the doorway, followed by a member of the police. she held onto her stomach as she walked, letting out a breath when she got to the doorway.

spencer instantly relaxed, quickly rushing to the girls side. she was clearly a few months pregnant, the shirt she wore riding up around her midriff to expose the bump.

spencer immediately pulled her into his arms, holding her close. morgan and emily who were a few feet away exchanged a look to eachother. “is that reid’s sister? they look nothing alike.” emily whispered out.

spencer pulled away from you, his hands resting on either side of your arms. his eyes softened when they met yours.

“i was so worried-“ he began, pausing when you smiled back at him.

“i’m alright spencer really..” you responded, placing a soft hand to cup his cheek.

he let out a breathy sigh, scanning your body. “are you okay? is the baby okay?” he quizzed, still a little anxious about the thought of the unsub threatening you.

“spencer..we’re okay.” you mumbled, lightly moving his face so he was locking eyes with you. “you don’t need to worry anymore.”

“i- i know i can’t help it..” he smiled, resting his hand on your cheek before pulling you in for a kiss. you relaxed in his hold, melting into the sweet embrace.

morgan and emily’s eyes widened slightly at the sight. “ooh not his sister.” emily muttered out, slapping her hand lightly off of morgan.

when you pulled away he rested his forehead against yours, letting out a small breath. “i love you..”

“i love you too spencer.” you smiled as you pulled away from him, noticing a few sets eyes staring at you both. you let out a small cough to get spencer’s attention, he awkwardly took your hand in his and lead you over to the team.

hotch, morgan and emily stood there, their expressions ranging from curiosity to amusement. hotch shuffled closer pulling you into a quick hug. “it’s great to see you again y/n.” he muttered out, earning a look from emily.

“you knew this whole time-“ she let out a small gasp earning a chuckle from you.

morgan raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “when we’re you going to tell us, pretty boy?”

spencer who had been standing to the side, his hand around your waist spoke up. “well i wasn’t exactly going to keep in a secret forever..you would have found out eventually.” he admitted, signalling down to your stomach.

you rested your hand on the bump, earning a sweet gasp from emily. “oh my god a little baby reid!” she exclaimed, before pulling you both into a quick hug.

just then, agent rossi entered the room and noticed the gathering. "what's all the commotion?" he asked, curiosity evident in his eyes.

morgan grinned. "pretty boy here was keeping secrets. he's got a baby on the way."

rossi's eyes widened in surprise before softening into a warm smile. "congratulations, reid. you're going to make a great father."

spencer blushed slightly and nodded his thanks. as the team settled into quieter conversations, the tension in the room began to ease.

hotch, ever the leader, stepped forward. "alright, everyone, we need to stay focused. our families are here to stay safe, but we still have a job to do. let's regroup and make sure we catch this unsub before he gets any closer."

taglist!! @0108s22m @rainoftearss @potatovoyager @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @luvmia222 @shardsofmarxx @silver138 @lover-of-books-and-tea @thedancingnerdmermaid @khxna

[tlou-reid]

Baked Goodies ❤︎ Aaron Hotchner

♡ SUMMARY: aaron is smitten for his new graduate student neighbor as soon as he meets her.

♡ WARNINGS: male masturbation, allusions to smut but nothing fully written (part 2?), tooth-rotting fluff, mutual pining & slowburn, mentions of drinking and alcohol, mentions of criminal minds-esque violence, age gap (mid 20s/mid 40s)

—♡

Aaron doesn’t think he’s ever blushed before now. The warmth on his cheeks was an unfamiliar feeling, as was the smile that was slowly making its way across his face. “Thank you,” He says with a voice that’s slightly lower than his usual tone. His hand reached out to grab the Tupperware container you were holding in yours. He tried to ignore the gentle shock that reached his fingertips as they made contact with yours. He also tried to ignore how soft the skin of your manicured hand was. It was probably a lotion, one with the same lavender scent radiating off your body.

“No need to thank me!” Your voice was so lively, so excitable. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard before. “If you ever need any more baked goods, I’m right across the street.” As you spoke, you lifted your arm to point at the house across the street from his.

You were his new neighbor. The house had been on sale for a few weeks and Aaron had been keeping his eye on it, seeing who the new family would be. He was hoping it would be a family that had a child similar to Jack’s age. He didn’t have any friends in the neighborhood, they all lived a few blocks over. Having someone Jack could bond with right across the street would make things easier for both him and his son. Especially when Aaron had to leave for days or weeks at a time due to his job.

But, selfishly, he was not disappointed it was you at all. You hadn’t disclosed if it was just you living in the house or not, but Aaron had already formed an imaginary life for you. It was just you and some pet living in the house, and he was going to be the protector. He’d check on you, you’d come to him when you need some manly job done at the house. And he hadn’t known you for more than five minutes yet.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a slight chuckle. “It was nice to meet you, Aaron!” You called to him as you stepped off his porch, heading to the next house to take your fresh-baked goods to. He closed the door, stepping in and taking a look at the container you’d dropped off. It had a mix of different treats, all homemade. There was a little note inside.

“Jack, I got food!” He yelled to his son as he made his way to the kitchen. He quickly sat it down, opened it, and took out the note before Jack could see it. “Hi! I’m Y/N, your new neighbor! I hope you enjoy these! (p.s. there’s no peanuts!) x” is what the note read. He smiled at the fact that you didn’t give off any real personal information, and even more at the fact that you worried about the allergies of the neighborhood. Not even people you knew. You were worried about the allergies of strangers. He felt his blush come back.

“What’s that?” Jack’s voice tore him away from his thoughts. “Someone moved into the house across the street, she baked some stuff and is giving it out,” Aaron explained. “For free?” Jack inquired, reaching for a chocolate chip cookie. Aaron laughed, “Yeah, she was introducing herself.” Jack nodded, biting into his cookie. “Wow!” He exclaimed, surprised at how good it tasted. Aaron laughed again, reaching for one of his own.

It was almost a week before Aaron saw you again. The team had been called in to work on a semi-local case that lasted four days. It wasn’t the worst thing Aaron had been through, but it’s never easy to come face-to-face with a serial killer. Then, he’d just become busy with paperwork and Jack’s after-school activities. Aaron had helped coach one of his soccer games, which wasn’t something he got to do often.

So now, late Sunday morning, he was finally making the walk across the street to your house. He had planned this since the moment you’d dropped the Tupperware container into his hand. He was going to return it just so he could see you again. 

He gently knocked on your door, loud enough you would hear it if you were around, but not loud enough to wake you up if you’d decided to sleep in today. He hadn’t seen enough to observe your routine. Not in a creepy way, just the way you notice when your neighbor’s car is in its driveway or if they do yardwork every Saturday evening. Come to think of it, he didn’t know any of his neighbor’s routines. He was never around enough to notice them.

When you opened the door, his attention left the surrounding houses and landed right on you. He had been looking around upon realizing how little he knew about the people in his neighborhood. You’d be the first one he’d get to know, he decided.

“Aaron!” You were basically beaming at him. He smiled and mumbled out a, “hello”. “How are you today?” You smiled, stepping out onto the porch to stand near him. “I’m good, I was just coming to return the container.” He explained, holding out the Tupperware. You reached out to take it from him, looking at his hands. You couldn’t help but notice the veins that ran along them.

“Oh! You didn’t have to,” You chuckled, moving your eyes up to look at his again. If you were being honest, you’d been surprised when he answered the door. Chatter about the older man from the neighbors you had given your baked goods to prior to arriving at his house had you ready to be nervous and intimidated.

Instead, you were undeniably attracted to him. When he had first opened the door after hearing your timid knocks, you couldn’t help but let your eyes scan his broad form. You didn’t think he had noticed, as he was too busy trying to figure out why someone was unexpectedly knocking at his door.

“Did you like them?” You asked with wide eyes. He could tell you were genuinely curious. “I did,” He smiled as he continued, “With the few that I had at least. My son loved them.”

“Your son?” You couldn’t stop yourself from asking. Of course, an attractive man like him was married with kids. You weren’t sure why hadn’t assumed that before. “Yeah, Jack. He’s my son.” Aaron was awkward, not really knowing what you were asking. You recovered quickly, “Which ones were his favorite? I can make more!” Aaron smiled with a slight shake of his head, “He loved them all, you don’t have to worry about any of that.” You laughed, “I do! I love baking, it’s a nice way to pass time.” Aaron nodded along to your words, “I guess he liked the brownies the most, they were gone in a day.” You smiled, taking a mental note. 

“And your wife?” There was a hidden motive behind this question, one you hoped Aaron didn’t pick up on. You wanted, no, needed to know the details of this man’s life. You needed to know if you could keep up the fantasy you were creating of him. He let out an awkward laugh, “Uh, no,” he cleared his throat, “No wife. Just me and Jack.” You almost wanted to break out into a smile at his words, but you knew that would be inappropriate.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to like, pry, or anything.” The awkward tone of the conversation was beginning to make you uncomfortable. As much as you wanted to know, you didn’t want to blow your chances with him. “It’s okay,” he comforts you when it should definitely be the other way around, “Just a bit of a touchy subject.” You nodded in understanding. You two stood there in silence for a little bit, before Aaron stepped back. “I should get back,” He said, nodding towards his house.

“Yeah, yeah. It was good to see you again.” Aaron took note of the awkward smile and lack of eagerness in your voice. “You too, Y/N. See you around.” He stuck his hands in his pockets as he walked down the steps of your porch

He was just reaching the curb on his side of the street when he heard someone yell your name. You hadn’t retreated back into your house, instead opting to tidy up the furniture on your porch. He didn’t know you were waiting to make sure he had made it into the house safely. Aaron watched as the man who lived two houses down from you began to approach your porch.

“The cookies were delicious!” The man was still shouting as he walked over. Aaron couldn’t tear his eyes away from you. He watched as you giggled at his words, yelling back, “Thank you!” When the man approached you, he handed off the same kind of Tupperware container Aaron had given you. Aaron couldn’t help the jealousy that took over him as he realized this man and he had the same idea: returning the container just to see you again.

Once the man reached you and Aaron could no longer hear your conversation, he turned to continue walking back toward his home. He couldn’t help but notice how you giggled at this man’s words. Your conversation with him felt so natural, which was very different from the uncomfortable conversation you two had.

Aaron couldn’t help but feel insecure about this. Of course, you’d want to conversate with the younger, handsome, athletic guy who lived in the neighborhood. Why would you choose an older man who had a child and knees that creaked when he stood from his office chair? You wouldn’t. No one would.

Little did Aaron know, you had been watching him the entire time you were talking to the neighbor. You couldn’t help but check Aaron out as he walked away. His sweatpants hugged his hips deliciously and the athletic fit shirt showed off the muscles in his back. Aaron was hot and you couldn’t deny it.

The next time you saw Aaron was very unexpected. Your friend, Elise, had convinced you to volunteer at the local middle school, working the door for entry to the soccer game they were hosting on a Friday night. Part of her grad school program involved her working at this school, so you guys had signed up together. She was excited to see the students she had been working closely with.

 You, however, had completely forgotten you had a paper due for one of your graduate classes. So, she was up, selling tickets, conversating with parents, and wishing the students good luck, while you had your nose buried in your laptop. Textbooks and articles were spread across the table that was holding the register for the ticket money.

“Jack! You’re gonna do great!” You heard Elise encourage one of the students, not really paying attention anymore. It wasn’t until you heard a familiar voice that you looked up from your halfway-done paper. “He’s been practicing hard,” Aaron smiled, touselling the hair on the little boy’s head.

Your movement from behind your laptop caught his attention. “Hello, Y/N,” he said, not expecting to see you there. Jack and your friend both turned to face you, surprised that you and Aaron knew each other.

Aaron pushed Jack forward with a gentle hand on his back, “Buddy, do you remember the cookies and stuff our neighbor had dropped off?” Aaron asked him, ready to introduce you two. “You made them?” Jack asked, stepping closer to you. You nodded at him with a smile, “Yes! I live across the street from you!” You smiled at the young boy. You didn’t notice the eyebrow raise your friend gave you, knowing about the crush you had said you were growing on your older neighbor. She was connecting the dots.

“Do you work here?” Aaron asked as Jack ran into the stadium to join his team. You shook your head, pointing to Elise, “She does. She needed volunteers and asked me to work.” Aaron nodded. He let out a light laugh and pointed to your laptop, “Doesn’t seem like you're doing a lot of work.”

Your cheeks started to warm up in embarrassment, “I have a paper due that I completely forgot about.” Aaron was shocked to hear you discussing college. He thought you were older than that. “You’re in college?” He asked. You nodded again, “Grad school. I only have one more semester until I graduate.” You explained, and he relaxed. You were older than an undergraduate. 

He knew you were young, but he didn’t think he was being perverted by forming a small crush on you. Sure, some people may deem it inappropriate, but it is up to you in the end. If, by some miniscule chance, you harbored the same feelings he did, he wouldn’t feel weird about it, he didn’t think.

Aaron questioned what you were studying and you explained your major, your intended career, and how passionate you were about what you were doing. As your face lit up and your hands aided in your expressive explanation, it was as if Aaron could feel fondness growing in his chest. He began to feel warm, as if you were the sun shining on him.

 He hasn’t felt like this in a long time. The only feeling that could mirror what he was feeling now was when Jack got crowned MVP at his last soccer tournament. It’s the kind of pride that you feel when you know someone is going to go far. Aaron wanted to go with you.

Unfortunately, the buzzer interrupted his thoughts. He let out a breath, a small “Shit” escaping from his lips before he continued, “I gotta get to my seat.” He chucked, rushing away, “Good to see you.” He nodded at you and your friend before disappearing into the stadium.

“So that’s him? The hot next-door neighbor?” Elise squealed, with a wiggle of her eyebrows. “Elise! Stop!” You whisper-shouted at her, still weary of Aaron’s presence, “I have a paper to finish.” She laughed at the way you made your eyes big, emphasizing that she needed to drop the subject.

“Okay,” Elise breathed out after a while, relaxing in the seat next to you, “we’re done!” You nodded at her words, moving to save the file on your laptop. “What’s next?” You asked as you closed it, deciding to finish the paper later. “You hungry? The concession stand has fantastic pizza!” Even if you weren’t, the way she practically moaned about it had you wanting this pizza. “Sure,” you shrugged. You packed up your things as Elise dropped off the register where it needed to go, and then you guys headed into the stadium.

The line for the concession stand moved quickly. You couldn’t help but scan the stands for Aaron, wondering where he ended up sitting. When Elise proposed staying to see the end of the game, you agreed, solely because it would increase your chances of seeing him again.

And, you did. Not until the very end of the game, after the buzzer had sounded and Jack’s team ran to the sidelines, celebrating the win they had just claimed. The only way you found Aaron was through the cheers. He was the loudest one, the proudest parent sitting amongst the whole school. It brought a smile to your face to know how much he loved his son.

“Congratulations, kid!” Elise cheered for Jack as he approached the entrance to the field, by where you two were standing waiting to congratulate the team. Jack just smiled before turning back to his friends. “You guys did great!” You called from behind her. Aaron smiled at you as he reached where you and Elise were stood.

“So, will you guys be at more games?” He wasn’t going to invite you, as he felt that would be overstepping some invisible boundary he had made up in his head. But, if you were going to be around anyway he could at least offer to sit with you. “I definitely will be!” Elise cheered, turning to you. “I’ll see. You never know with school and work.” You shrugged, trying to mask the disappointment. You were not aware that Aaron was doing the same.

“Dad!” Jack shouts, running over to his father, “Can I sleep at Chris’ house tonight? The whole team is going!” You couldn’t help but notice how adorable he looked, and the fond look Aaron gave back to him. “Sure thing, buddy. Let’s just run home to get your stuff.” Aaron turned to bid a quick goodbye to you and Elise. To your surprise, he turned back to you. “Did you need a ride home?”

You stuttered at his words, “Uh, no, um, Elise-” “Yes, she does! I was her ride but my boyfriend just asked to meet somewhere!” Elise nudged you as she cut you off. She waved her phone to emphasize her point. “Thanks, Mr. Hotchner, you’re the best! Have fun at your sleepover, Jack!” Elise said as she stepped away from the group. Once you were the only one that could see her, she threw you a big smile and thumbs up, before taking off to your car.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that happened,” You gestured to your friend running off as you apologized. “No need to be sorry, I wouldn’t have offered if it bothered me. It’s not like you live far away.” You nodded and smiled at Aaron’s comforting words, thanking him again. “C’mon, the car’s this way.” You followed him and Jack, watching as Aaron congratulated Jack on the win and questioned him on the different strategies the team uses throughout.

Aaron opened the passenger door as Jack climbed his way into the back. Your jaw almost dropped as you realized he opened it for you. It was so casual. He didn’t even stop his conversation with Jack as he held it open for you. He laughed at something as you buckled your seat belt up.

 When he leaned over to check that you were comfortable in the seat, his eyes met yours. He gave you the softest smile you’d ever seen and you could feel butterflies take flight in your stomach. Your cheeks felt warm and you looked down at your hands, growing nervous under his gaze. You mumbled a soft “thank you” as he closed your door, walking around to the driver’s side.

Aaron noticed your nervousness this time. He could tell you were shocked at his actions. Initially, this made him sad as he realized that no man had ever shown you the care you deserved. However, that sadness quickly turned to excitement as he realized he could be the first. He wanted to show you how you deserved to be loved in so many ways, definitely more than just opening a door for you.

The drive to your homes was filled with laughter as you and Jack tried to sing the pop songs that were steadily playing on the radio. Jack kept stumbling over the words and you could not carry a tune to save your life. Aaron had matching butterflies to yours as you interacted with his son.

His car pulled into the driveway and Jack was inside the house faster than you could even open your door. You both laughed as Aaron made his way around the car to stand with you. “I can walk you across while he gets his things,” Aaron gestured to his house, indicating Jack might be a second inside.

“You don’t have to. Get him to his sleepover, he seems excited.” Aaron laughed, nodding along to your words. “Have a good night, Aaron.” He wished you the same and watched as you made your way to your house. His eyes didn’t leave your figure until you were safely inside.

Jack gathered his things for the sleepover very quickly. Aaron was almost certain he had forgotten something as they made their way back into the car. Once they were buckled and on their way, Jack shifted his body to face his dad.

“Dad?” He asked, getting his father’s attention. Aaron let out a gentle “hmm” of recognition. “Do you have a crush on our neighbor?” Aaron didn’t answer, reaching forward to turn up the radio, but the pink spreading across his dad’s cheeks was the only answer Jack needed.

Aaron was exhausted. Completely and totally exhausted. The case and been long and gut-wrenching. The only victory was the arrest of the unsub, as he had murdered all of his previous victims before the team could save them. Aaron was gone for two and a half weeks, and barely got any sleep while he was away.

“Thanks, JJ,” His voice was weak as he thanked her, reaching into the back of the SUV to get his go-bag. He had been too tired to drive himself. JJ had kindly offered after seeing the dark eye bags he was wearing. “Anytime, Hotch. Get some sleep.” He could only muster up a nod in return.

Aaron was turning the key in his lock when he heard your door. “Shit!” You yelped as the glass outer door slammed. He turned around with a chuckle, never too tired to see you. “Hello, Y/N!” He called as best he could with how tired he was.

He was suddenly wide awake when you faced him. He hoped you couldn’t see his eyes scan the entirety of your body, pausing at your very exposed thighs. You were in a loose, long-sleeved t-shirt that came down the end of your butt. The shorts you were wearing with it were incredibly short, barely covered by the shirt. Even with the distance between your houses, he could tell you weren’t wearing a bra.

He wanted to blame the way his dick was hardening on how tired he was, and definitely not the dirty thoughts he was having about you right now. He could imagine the way his rough hands would trace the skin across your thighs as he pulled you into his lap, preparing to devour you. His fantasies did not slow as you yelled back to him, very excitedly, “Aaron! Where have you been?”

He shook his head, attempting to clear it so he could have a normal conversation with you. His heart fluttered at the fact that you’d noticed his disappearance. “I was away for work,” he informed, “for far too long.” You erupted into a smile, walking off your porch, “Well, the neighborhood missed you!” He knew you were lying. No one in this neighborhood knew him. They didn’t care if he was gone or not.

But, being a profiler had its perks. He knew the hidden meaning in your words. You missed him. His brain was tired and his heart was beating a million times a minute. That must’ve been why his mouth was moving before he could stop it, “I missed you too.” The words rolled off of his tongue, no thought behind them. No thoughts, but definitely feelings.

You hoped Aaron couldn’t see the way your eyes lit up at his words. You could feel the heat growing in your cheeks as you continued to make your way to your little garden. That’s why you were out here, to get your front yard set up for Halloween decorations. “Get some rest, Aaron. Welcome home.

Even with you raising your voice, he could hear the softness behind it. You sounded so fond. This is how he wanted to be welcomed home after every case, with your sweet voice and gentle demeanor. “Have a nice night!” He called to you, before stepping through his front door.

He dropped his stuff by the door and reached up to loosen his tie. He kicked his shoes off and then moved to undo his belt. Leaving both the tie and the belt on the arm of the couch, he made his way right to the master bathroom. He had texted Jessica to let her know he would pick Jack up in the morning during the drive home, too tired to make the drive to her house.

Aaron had forgotten about his half-hard dick, too encompassed by your presence outside. He ignored it, stripping down and climbing into the hot shower. He hadn’t realized how tense his muscles were until the hot water ran down them, relaxing his whole body. As he loosened up, his mind drifted back to you. As he imagined holding onto your thighs as he fucked into you from behind. He could clearly make out the curve of your ass.

He felt as if he wasn’t controlling himself as his hands moved to his now fully hard dick. He didn’t mean to jerk himself off to dirty thoughts of you, his brand new, younger neighbor, but you looked so fucking sexy. His hand wrapped around his cock tighter as he remembered the outline of your tits that he could make out from across the street.

He could feel himself getting closer and closer to release as he tried to imagine the noises you would make for him. All the times you said his name replayed in his name and he tried to imagine you moaning it, whining it, grunting it, screaming it. He could’ve sworn he could smell your lavender perfume as he came. He opened his eyes as he finished stroking himself through his orgasm. He watched as the water washed away the cum that had landed on his hand and stomach.

“Fuck,” he said to himself, frustrated with the hold you had on him. Now that he got that out of his system, he couldn’t believe he just came to the thought of you.

 He had been having doubts earlier, wondering how inappropriate, how immoral, how wrong his growing crush was. Being a senior in graduate school, you had to be late 20s, maybe early 30s at the most. Being mid-40s, there was at least a 15-year age gap between the two of you.

He had to shake these thoughts. He quickly lathered himself up, rinsed off, and got out of the shower. He slipped on a pair of boxers and climbed into his bed. He was asleep in less than five minutes.

The next morning, he was woken up by knocks on his door. He had slept for about 11 hours, so he wasn’t mad that his slumber was interrupted. “Coming!” He yelled, shuffling for pants to throw on. Once he got a pair of plaid pajama pants on, he made his way down the hall to the front door.

He didn’t have time to register who it was before he heard your voice, “I’m so sorry to wake you up! I know it’s early but my car won’t start and I have an exam at one and I really need to be on time so I was wondering if maybe you could come look at it?”

Your mouth was moving faster than your brain could keep up with, obviously feeling bad about the whole situation. “Slow down,” Aaron breathed out, trying to get you to relax. His efforts failed as you ran your hand along your hairline and mumbled an “’m sorry”. “I can come, give me just a minute.” He stepped back, opening the door further for you to step inside to wait.

Your eyes widened at his silent invitation. You followed him through the door, awkwardly standing by the front door. You could tell from your spot in the entryway that the layout of his house mirrored yours. He was currently on his way down the hall to the master bedroom. To get a shirt, you presumed.

You definitely noticed the lack of clothing on his part. It was clear you’d disturbed him, and while you felt bad about that, you were ridiculously grateful. His morning voice, low-rise pajama pants, and hairy chest will be pressed into your memory, ready to be used when you needed some help finishing yourself off.

He appeared again quickly, fully clothed with socks and slides on his feet. He opened the front door, gesturing for you to go through. He followed you across the street to your driveway, where your very old sedan sat. “Can I have the key?” You nodded, retrieving the key from your pocket and pressing it into Aaron’s large hand.

As Aaron went to start the car, it was hard for him not to realize that this was the dream life he had conjured up for you when you first showed up on his porch. Here he was, being the manly man, helping you with your car. He tried turning it on and the sound of the engine sputtering made you want to cry. Without words, Aaron walked around to pop the hood, analyzing what was going on. He was quiet as he looked, and you wouldn’t dare interrupt it. “I think it’s the spark plugs. I have the stuff in my garage.” He said after a few minutes.

You nodded along to his words, trying to convince him that you knew exactly what he was talking about. As he began to make his way back across the street, you couldn’t help yourself from apologizing again. “Thank you, Aaron. I’m really sorry.” He was quick to turn back around to face you. With a hefty shake of his head, he spoke, “Please stop apologizing, this is what I’m here for.” He smiled at you, before returning to his journey to the garage.

If you were growing a crush on him before, it was full-fledged now. You needed to do something about this before your heart exploded at his actions and you soaked through your underwear at his words.

He returned after a few minutes, carrying a toolbox. You couldn’t do anything but stare as he worked on the car. He didn’t say much, focused on doing this right for you. Every once in a while he would attempt to explain what he was doing, but you were too distracted by the way the muscles in his arm contorted as he worked.

“That should do it,” He said as he made his way back into the driver’s seat. Sure enough, after a few turns of the key, the car sputtered to life. “Oh my god, thank you!” You spoke as he stepped up from the seat, throwing your arms around his neck. “You’re a lifesaver!” You squealed. Aaron’s hands awkwardly found their way around your waist, surprised at the sudden contact. Surprised, but very intrigued.

When you pulled away, Aaron felt cold. “Not a problem, Y/N.” He said as he wiped the grim off of his hands. “Why don’t you give me your number so next time you don’t have to walk all the way over?” The way he asked was so casual. He was so calm as your heartbeat increased with every word. Your number? Next time?

“Yeah! Sure!” You were afraid your voice sounded too excited, blowing your cover. Aaron picked up on it but didn’t mention it. You two quickly exchanged numbers, and he excused himself, stating he needed to pick up Jack. “Seriously, Aaron. Thank you.” You emphasized, grabbing his hand and pulling him forward. You were being bold. You pressed a gentle kiss against his cheek. He turned away before you could see the pink blush spread across his cheeks. “Anytime.” He said, starting to walk away.

You spent the next couple of hours cramming for your exam and trying to repress any thoughts of Aaron Hotchner that your brain was attempting to conjure up. It was working, your focus on passing this exam. However, on your drive to campus, your phone dinged. Your car showed you a message from ‘Aaron (neighbor)’. You were giddy the rest of the way, not wanting to open while you were driving.

When you parked, you opened your phone to a simple text: “Good luck on your exam! You got this.” You walked into class with a smile, and you were pretty sure you aced the exam. 

You were surprised at the amount of time you and Aaron spent texting. It was definitely an assumption you had made based solely on his age, but you did not expect him to want to text. However, he appeared to be better than men your age at it. Quick replies, letting you know when he’d be unavailable, and absolutely never leaving on you read. Sometimes you had to explain emojis or slang to him, but you found it adorable.

You had learned that he works for the FBI in a unit that catches things like serial killers, rapists, and kidnappers. He was away on a case right now, somewhere in California. He had learned that you had a very old dog, but other than that, it was just you in the house.

There were times when the conversation felt a bit flirty. Teasing jokes thrown around, compliments to each other. Part of you was starting to think he may reciprocate your feelings, but the other part was starting to think you were delusional. There was no way he could ever like you back.

Until he did.

Elise and a few of your other friends had dragged to a bar downtown. One you had never been to. Like normal, you and Aaron were in the middle of a text conversation while you were sitting at the bar. You had been up and dancing, having fun with your friends, but you couldn’t stay away from your phone long enough to enjoy your time.

Elise was picking up on this. After a few rounds of shots, she was getting aggravated. She couldn’t comprehend how you were managing an intelligent conversation with him, but she knew she had to get you away from it. She kept telling herself it was for your own good, not wanting to feel guilty about the atrocities she was about to commit.

However, it was going to be so much worse than either of you had anticipated.

Elise slithered her way in between you and the person sitting on the barstool next to you. The older lady on your right was definitely agitated with her actions, but Elise did not care. She saw the white screen of your text messages and long contact name and knew who you were texting. Even in her drunken state, she could recall all of the screenshots you had been sending her from your conversations with Aaron.

“Give it here,” Elise slurred, reaching for your phone. It was still unlocked as she held it in her tight grasp. “You’re texting your hot middle-aged neighbor. Come shake some ass with us and find a guy your own age.” Her words were a little bit harsher than she intended. “Elise, stop. I’m enjoying texting my hot middle-aged neighbor and do not want to find a guy my own age” You demanded with your own drunken slur, reaching for the phone. “Uh-uh,” Elise shook her head, locking the phone and tucking into the cup of her bra, out of your reach for the rest of your night.

Only because you were forced to, you eventually did get up and dance with your friends. Just your friends, no men at all.

Elise only returned your phone at the very end of the night, when you needed to order an Uber home. Your head was starting to spin from all the alcohol, so that was all you did. After the order was placed, you gripped your phone as a way to keep the world from twirling underneath. The Uber arrived, too slow for your liking, and you were home. You immediately made your way towards the couch, ready to pass out.

The loud knocks on your door did nothing to help the pounding headache you had woken up with, and you couldn’t imagine who was knocking. The knocks were powerful and authoritarian. “Hello?” You questioned as you threw open the door. There was clearly attitude behind your greeting. “What did that mean?” Aaron’s voice sounded rushed as he pushed himself inside the door. He was dressed in a suit and acting very different than the Aaron you had known before.

“The message, the last one you sent.” He seemed stressed, running his hand through his hair. Something about the way he looked made him look exhausted. Your eyebrows furrowed, not understanding what he meant. You grabbed your phone from the end table next to your couch and opened your and Aaron’s message thread. Your eyes widened at the voice message marked as “read: 1:32 AM”.

“I-I don’t know,” you stuttered out, afraid to meet his eye, “What did it say?” Aaron took a step away from you. “It was Ms. Landon, uh, your friend from the game,” He sounded nervous as he spoke, “You should just listen to it.” You nodded, checking the volume on your phone and then listening to the message

It was right after Elise had grabbed your phone when she was berating you for being on your phone the whole time. When she mentioned your hot middle-aged neighbor and you replied, also calling him your hot middle-aged neighbor. And saying you did not want to find a guy your age because of him.

“Aaron, I am so sorry-” You started, wanting to apologize for your and your friend’s actions and blame the whole thing on being intoxicated, but he cut you off. “Forgive me for barging in here like this, Y/N, but I need to know why you were ignoring your friends to text me.” He finally locked eyes with you, and the eye bags under his eyes were the first thing you noticed.

There was a beat of silence, until he continued, “Y/N, I have enjoyed the sparse moments we have shared together. And I may be reading this wrong, I may just be incredibly sleep-deprived, but I think you have as well. I understand that I am older than you, but I would like to continue to have these moments with you. I would like to see what else we can do together.” 

Your heart started to beat at his confession. You nodded at his words, rendered speechless for the first time in your life. You couldn’t stop yourself as your legs moved forward, reaching for his face and pulling him into a kiss.

There was very little hesitation as Aaron’s hands slipped around your waist, pulling you closer. You didn’t know he’d been waiting to do this since you met, but you were going to find out soon. His hands gripped you tighter as he deepened the kiss, moving his tongue into your mouth. He was very skillful in the way he held you and the way he kissed you.

You didn’t separate until you needed air. If it wasn’t for the fact that you needed air to live, you could’ve stayed wrapped up with him forever. Your forehead was pressed to his as you whispered, “Are we gonna talk about this?” He knew that you were talking about where you were supposed to go from here. Is it gonna be a relationship? Are you going to be exclusive? How would it work with him being away so much? What would your role in Jack’s life be?

Aaron decided all of these questions would remain unanswered as he said, “Later, we got things to do right now..” He pulled you tight against him, roughly pressing his lips to yours again.

[soleilapproves]

burnt out reader crying about her grades while being fucked by ex convict!Sukuna / alternate title: Sukuna discovers empathy.

Notes: fem/afab!reader, NSFW, angst to fluff (I think), comfort. This is related to the burnt out reader x ex convict!sukuna prompt I posted earlier.

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Everything was so overwhelming. From the rumpled sheets beneath your rocking body to the dimness of the room- Sukuna said he’d rather keep the lights off. Something about coming too soon if he saw your face.

You were spent. Mentally and physically. You didn’t have the energy in you to moan, only letting out breathless pants as Sukuna’s cock roughly moved in and out from your spasming hole. You had come long ago by his fingers so all you were waiting for was for his release so you could leave his apartment and sleep in your own bed as soon as possible.

Sleep.

Something you had been missing for days, trying to cram in everything as much as possible for the back to back exams in the coming weeks. Normally, Sukuna’s voice would’ve had you hypnotized with how deep his moans sounded, but you just weren’t there today. You were glad the lights were off- his ego wouldn’t have been able to handle your ruminating expression. Eyebrows furrowed and all.

Your mind kept flashing you the image of the grades from your mid term exams- C, C, D, B-. These grades are not what you see on a scholarship student’s transcript, but you only had so much mental strength left in you to keep studying. Guilt seeped into the discreet crevices of your contemplation- did you even like your major? Gone were the days of your ambitious past, back when you were an academic force. A storm in the grade curve.

Now you’re just a husk of what was once a great feat.

And then it happened, one tear. Two tears, and then a whole flood of them. Your pants turned into whimpers and wails.

What were you doing with your life? The person you were three years ago would’ve slapped you if she saw the present. Your life had come to an all time low. It was always said that the brightest flames burn out the fastest.

Everything felt like it was being held together by a delicate cloth, and now it was beginning to tear from the seams, spilling out everything you were trying to control. At this point there was nothing left to hold on to. Your body shivered as you removed your hands from Sukuna’s biceps that were caging your body to hug yourself.

“Shit, am I fucking you that good?”

His question made you wail harder, prompting him to cum into your sopping cunt. Even the man who had crept into the most intimate parts of your body didn’t know how you felt. It felt worse knowing that you both didn’t even have any romantic feelings towards each other, simply using each other’s bodies for sexual gratification. An escape from whatever the real world had muddled you in.

Your tears just wouldn’t stop flowing and Sukuna was starting to get concerned.

“What the—did I go too hard?” The room was dark but it was enough for you to see that he was leaning closer and closer to your face, too concerned to remove his limp dick from inside you. You pushed his face away with your small hand but the man was as persistent as a stone hedge.

He pulled out and flipped you both over—your small body now laying on top of his hard, muscled one. His bulky arms wrapped tightly around you as you sobbed onto his shoulder.

“What are you-“

“Just shut up. You can go back to your place later.”

Staring up at the ceiling with a hand on your head, he began to wonder what led him to do that. Every woman he had fucked in the past was kicked out the second he was done with them but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to treat you like that. He didn’t think that it would’ve been possible to treat someone like this. Not after all his years of being a criminal.

Maybe it was because you were in a vulnerable state right now or maybe it’s because you’re at a point in your life where you just need some kind of stability. Even if it veils toxicity. He never knew about whatever was on your mind because you simply never talked about your life with him. Just texted him that you wanted to see him, fucked him, and then left. If it weren’t for your arousal all over his lower half, one would think that you were simpler never there.

He unexpectedly begins to rub up and down your naked back and pulls up his blanket to cover you when he notices that you’re shivering.

The scent of his sweat and body wash mixed together clouded your senses of both smell and judgement. You didn’t say anything and just held him tightly, trembling arms almost choking his thick neck. For now, he was your oasis.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Words to Die By

The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader

Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.

Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker

Word Count: 13k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules

As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.

“Can I help you?”

You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.

“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.

“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”

You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.

“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.

“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.

“He is. Do you know him?”

You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”

“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.

“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”

Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”

“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”

A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”

“I am. I assume you remember him?”

“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.

“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”

You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.

“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”

“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”

Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”

“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”

“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”

“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.

“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.

“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“

“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.

“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”

“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.

“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.

You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.

“More evidence?” you whisper.

She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why  Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.

Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.

“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”

Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”

Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.

“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”

Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.

JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”

“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.

“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”

“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.

Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”

JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.

“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”

Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”

“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”

Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.

“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.

Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.

“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.

“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”

“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”

Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”

You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”

You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?

“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.

“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.

“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”

“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”

“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”

“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.

“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.

“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”

“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”

As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.

“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.

“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”

“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”

“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”

“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.

Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”

Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”

“With my life.”

“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”

“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”

Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.

“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.

“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”

“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”

Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”

You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.

“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.

“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.

Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.

“What happened?” Lucy tries.

“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.

“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.

Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.

“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”

You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”

Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.

“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.

The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.

“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”

You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.

“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”

“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”

“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”

“I did.”

“There’s more to it.”

“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“

“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”

“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.

The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.

“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”

As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.

“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.

You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”

“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“

Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”

“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”

“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.

“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.

“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.

“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.

“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“

“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.

“I ran into him at the diner.”

“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.

“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”

“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”

“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.

“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”

Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”

“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.

Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.

“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”

“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”

Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”

“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.

“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”

“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”

“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Fine. Why?”

She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.

“Garcia?” You ask.

The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.

“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.

“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”

“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.

“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think…  I think he left you a message.”

“What is it?”

“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”

“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.

“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”

“It’s about me?” you whisper.

“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”

“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”

“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“

You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.

“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”

“Let me finish-“

“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”

Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.

“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”

“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.

You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”

“Left it where?” Grey inquires.

“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”

“The date?” Hotch presses.

You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”

“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”

You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.

“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“

“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”

“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.

“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”

“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”

“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”

“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”

You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”

Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.

“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.

“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”

“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”

You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”

Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”

“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.

“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.

“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”

Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.

“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”

“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”

“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”

“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.

“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”

“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”

“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”

You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.

“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.

“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.

“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.

“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.

“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”

“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”

You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”

Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”

“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.

“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”

“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”

“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”

“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”

“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.

“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.

“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”

“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”

“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”

“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”

“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”

“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”

“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”

“What if they could help?” JJ argues.

“No.”

“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”

“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”

You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”

“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”

“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”

Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”

“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.

“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”

“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.

“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.

“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”

“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.

“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”

“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.

As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.

“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.

“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”

“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”

“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”

Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved and the killer is behind bars, you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.

“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”

Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.

Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.

“Ready?” you ask Lucy.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.

“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”

“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.

“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”

“What was the cause of death?”

“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”

You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”

“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”

“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”

“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”

“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”

“That’s a lot of options.”

“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”

“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.

“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”

Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.

“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.

Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.

“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”

“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”

Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.

“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”

Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.

“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.

“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”

“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”

“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.

“Why be a TO?”

Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.

“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”

“Got it. Thank you.”

Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.

He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”

You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’

“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”

Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.

“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”

“She retired,” Tim replies.

You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”

“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.

“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”

Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.

“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”

“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”

“The novellas?” he guesses.

“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”

“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”

“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”

“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”

You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”

“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”

Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.

“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.

“Let me tell my team.”

Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”

“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”

Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”

Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.

“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”

You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Agent Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”

“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”

“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.

“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.

You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”

“We can hope.”

“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.

“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.

“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”

“She is.”

“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”

Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”

“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”

“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”

“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”

“That’s one connection.”

“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”

“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”

“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”

“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”

Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”

Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”

“I was scared.”

“And you think the people living here weren’t?”

“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”

She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”

“Who?” Tim asks.

“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”

“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”

“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”

“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”

Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”

“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”

“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”

“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”

Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”

Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.

“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.

“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”

“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”

“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”

“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”

Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.

“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.

“I’m going with you,” Tim states.

“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”

“You need me-“

“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.

“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”

You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.

“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.

“What?” Tim snaps.

“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”

“Convenient.”

You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.

“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.

“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”

“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”

“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”

“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”

“You got it.”

You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.

“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.

“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”

Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.

“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”

“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”

“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”

“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.

“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”

“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”

“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”

“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”

“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.

“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”

“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”

“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”

“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.

“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”

“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”

“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.

“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”

Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.

“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.

“Bradford,” Wade begins.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”

“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”

“No idea. Sir.”

“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”

You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.

“Be safe out there,” you conclude.

As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.

“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.

“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.

“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”

An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.

“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.

Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.

“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”

“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.

“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.

“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”

“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”

“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”

“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”

“Yes.”

“You could have told me.”

You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.

Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.

“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”

You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.

“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”

Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.

“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”

“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.

“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.

“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”

“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.

“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.

“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”

You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.

“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.

“Yeah. You.”

“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”

“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.

The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”

“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”

Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.

“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”

“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.

“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”

Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”

“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”

“Not recently.”

Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”

“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”

“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.

“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.

“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”

“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”

“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”

You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.

Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.

“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”

Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.

“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”

“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”

“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”

Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.

“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.

“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.

“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”

“You said your character died in the new one.”

“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”

“Welcome to the club.”

Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”

“You think it will?”

“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”

Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”

“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”

“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”

“I hope so.”

You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.

“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.

Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”

Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”

“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”

“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”

“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”

“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.

“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.

“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”

You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.

Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.

“You made it,” he says.

“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”

He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.

“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”

“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.

Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.

“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”

Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.

“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”

You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.

“I won’t hurt you.”

Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.

Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”

“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”

Riley fidgets, then nods.

You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”

“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.

Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.

“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”

“You know who,” Alex mutters.

You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”

“Of course.”

“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”

“You were so far away,” he whispers.

“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.

He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.

“Kick it,” he demands.

“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.

“Kick it.”

Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.

“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”

“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”

“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.

Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.

“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”

“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.

“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”

“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.

He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.

“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”

“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”

“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”

“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”

As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.

Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.

“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.

Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.

“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.

“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.

Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.

“That was your boss,” Tim points out.

“He can yell at me when he gets here.”

“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”

You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.

Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”

When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”

You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.

“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”

You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”

“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”

“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”

You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.

“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”

Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.

Two Weeks Later

“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.

“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”

“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”

The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.

“I could have done that,” you complain.

“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.

You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.

Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”

As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.

“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.

“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.

“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”

You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”

Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.

“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”

“Please do.”

You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.

A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”

[mrsshabana]

𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐋𝐚𝐭𝐞 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

ꔫ‧₊ Content Gyutaro x female!reader, 18+ MDNI, vaginal sex, creampie, breeding kink, pregnancy, age difference, angst, fluff, modern au ꔫ‧₊ Note 5k words. This is the last chapter for this fic, but I still have lots of things that I want to write for this au so be on the lookout for oneshots in the future. Thank you for all of your support for this series ♡ ✧:･ﾟ→ Part one ✧:･ﾟ→ Part two

“Fuck fuck fuck! What do I do? Her mom is gonna kill me if she figures out I’m dating her daughter! And then Y/N is gonna kill me for telling her mom!” Gyutaro thinks to himself as he begins to panic.

“Ahem,” your mother clears her throat and repeats her question, “Who the hell are you, sir?”

“Er um… Gyutaro?” he says as if he’s not sure what his own name is. 

“Gyutaro?!” her eyes widen.

“Shit… does she already know who I am? I thought Y/N didn’t tell her…” he thinks again. 

“Y/N! Come here!” she yells inside the house, then she turns back to Gyutaro and opens the door, “Come in, Gyutaro.”

“Um… th-thanks,” he stutters as he nervously steps inside, not sure whether your mother is angry with him or not. 

“Yeah, mom? What’s wro-” you stop mid-sentence as you come into the dining room and see your boyfriend standing there. 

“Y/N,” your mom says sternly, “This man just told me that his name is Gyutaro.”

You blush, “Um yeah… this is Gyutaro.”

“You failed to tell me that your boyfriend was a grown ass man,” she scowls and walks into the kitchen.

“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you! I was scared of how you’d react,” you plea as you follow her into the kitchen.

Gyutaro just stands awkwardly in your dining room, wishing that he could shrink and hide somewhere. His palms begin to sweat as he thinks about the consequences of his actions. Is your mother going to make you break up with him? 

The thought makes his heart ache. Is he going to lose his sister and his girlfriend on the same day? 

Your mom comes back into the dining room holding a teapot and some cups, “Gyutaro, come sit and make yourself comfortable,” she says as she pours a cup of tea for him. 

“Y-Yes ma’am,” he mutters and sits at the table.

You aren’t sure what to do or say to make things better, but you sit beside Gyutaro and give him a reassuring look in an attempt to comfort him. In response, he looks at you with a guilty look in his eyes as if he’s apologizing. 

“Gyutaro,” your mom says calmly as she sits across from him at the table, “I have three questions for you.”

“Y-yes?” he gulps.

“Do you have a job?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do you have a criminal record?”

“No ma’am.”

“Do you pay your taxes?” 

“Of course!” he answers enthusiastically.

“Alright. Now Y/N, I have three questions for you,” she diverts her attention to you now, “Does Gyutaro make you happy?”

“Y-Yes! He makes me very happy…” you blush. 

“Does he behave like a gentleman?”

“Yes, always,” your cheeks redden.

“Do you love him?”

“I-I do,” you mutter, feeling shy about admitting this in front of your mom. 

“Alright, then I approve of him. Even though he’s a bit older than you, he seems like a decent man,” she states as she looks over at Gyutaro’s flustered face, “Welcome to the family, Gyutaro.”

“Th-Thank you Miss L/N!” he lets out a sigh of relief, finally feeling in the clear that your mom approves of your relationship. 

“See mom! I told you he was a good boyfriend!” You jump up and give him a big hug, genuinely feeling so happy that your mom accepts your relationship. It was something you were really worried about, especially since your mom has always been very protective of you. Honestly, you're quite surprised she’s so cool about the age difference between you and your boyfriend. 

“I honestly thought you’d be mad,” you laugh nervously, hoping you aren’t jinxing it. 

She sighs and sips her tea, “You know dear, your father was the same age as me. And he left me when I was pregnant with you. He was young and immature. Age means nothing,” she shakes her head, “I rather you date an older man that pays his taxes and takes care of you than a man your age that only cares about himself.”

Gyutaro smiles, finally feeling like someone accepts him and doesn’t judge him. He sees where you get it from now. 

“And that’s why your father is in prison for tax evasion…” she mumbles under her breath, only Gyutaro hears what she says. 

“Aw mom… I promise you Gyutaro is nothing like dad,” you say, looking a bit somber as you take a sip of your tea. 

“I can already tell,” she smiles, “Well, you two can go have your fun. Just be home by ten.”

“Are we going on a date, Gyu?”

“Oh uh no… actually I came over for something else,” he swallows dryly, “Um… I told Ume about us.”

Immediately from the look on his face you can tell things didn’t go well. “Oh… Did she take it really hard?”

“Yeah,” he nods, choking up a bit, “She called me disgusting… then she slapped me and left,” he touches his cheek, still red from her hand. 

“She what?!” you gasp, totally shocked that Ume would get physical with her brother. You aren’t sure what words to say, it seems like nothing would be able to fix this. The one person who has been with him his entire life, the person he dedicates all of his hard work to doesn’t accept his relationship. It’s a really hard pill to swallow, and he’s still struggling to even think about it. 

The surprise meeting with your mother distracted him momentarily, but all of those raw feelings from his argument with Ume are flowing back now and he feels his eyes begin to well up with tears. 

“Ume is his sister, right?” Your mother whispers to you.

“Yeah,” you nod. 

“I see,” she puts her hand on Gyutaro’s shoulder, feeling lots of sympathy for him, “Gyutaro listen, your sister didn’t mean it and I think you know that. The two people that she’s closest to started dating and she’s probably feeling left out. Like you two will get closer without her and leave her. She’s just scared and said whatever she could to try to hurt your relationship. Just give her time, I promise she’ll come around.”

Your mom smiles softly, offering Gyutaro that motherly care he grew up without.

“Th-thanks,” he sniffles, trying to hold back his tears, “I know you’re right. It just hurt when she said those things, but I know she still loves me… and I still love her too. I just hope she comes home soon…”

“Maybe try calling her tomorrow if she doesn’t come home by then,” you suggest as you rub his back.

Gyutaro nods, feeling better after having talked to the both of you. 

Of course, it hurt like a ton of bricks crushing his balls, but he knows the pain is only temporary. Soon enough his sister will come back and he’s going to make sure she doesn’t feel left out. 

The thing is, even after a couple of days Ume doesn’t return home. Nor does she answer Gyutaro’s phone calls. 

Every day you receive worried texts and calls from Gyutaro asking if you’ve seen his sister. You haven’t heard anything from her, and to be honest you think it’s kinda messed up that she’s ignoring her brother like this. Sure they had a pretty big argument but she knows he cares about her, and she knows he’s losing his shit worrying about her right now. 

Seeing your boyfriend so torn up over it is making you really upset, and you’ve had enough of it. 

Ume has been ditching class for a couple of days, but she finally shows up. Coming into the room completely ignoring you, taking her seat at the opposite side of the lecture hall. Even though you hate confrontation you know you can’t just let her walk away after class ends, so you stop her as she’s leaving the lecture hall. 

“Ume! Hey wait up!” you shout as you follow her out of the room. 

“I have nothing to say to you,” she turns her nose up.

“Please talk to me,” you finally catch up to her, “I just want to talk, Gyutaro told me what happened.”

“Of course he did,” she scoffs, “Because you two are so buddy-buddy now. How about you just move in with him and take my spot in the house? I bet you’d like that, huh?”

“What? No! I’m not trying to take him away from you!”

“What else am I supposed to think?! You were my best friend and then I find out you’ve been hooking up with my brother behind my back! You’re a shady bitch!”

“It’s not like that! I was never “hooking up” with him!” You plea, “We just started dating like any other couple, I don’t see why you have to say it like that.”

“So what is it then? If you weren’t just hooking up with him what were you doing then? Do you want his money or something? Want him to be your sugar daddy?” she makes a disgusted face.

“No! You don’t get it! Just because Gyutaro’s older than me doesn’t mean I’m using him for this or that. I just like him because he’s a good guy,” you say, trying to get your point across without yelling at her, “Why can’t you just accept that I like him for who he is?”

Ume’s frown begins to soften and her eyes dart from side to side as if she’s thinking about something. She’s beginning to realize how selfish it was of her to think that someone couldn’t love her brother for who he is. Gyutaro came to the realization that he was unlovable long ago, and his beliefs rubbed off on his sister. But now she’s starting to see how wrong that is, she should have been his biggest cheerleader regardless of how glum things seemed. 

Sure Gyutaro isn’t the most attractive guy, nor is he the most charming, but she knows her brother more than anyone. And she can think of a thousands reasons why someone would fall in love with him. 

“I’m sorry Y/N,” she says, “You’re right. My brother is super slay, and I shouldn’t have been surprised you liked him. You’re the only girl to get close to him, so I guess it makes sense.”

You smile, finally feeling like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. 

“It’s alright, I know it came as a surprise to you,” you lean forward and hug her, “But I’m honestly just happy to have my friend back.”

“Me too,” she says with a smile.

After you reconcile with Ume, Gyutaro comes to pick you up from campus as the two of you had planned a date for tonight at his place. But when he pulls up to the curb and sees you with Ume he immediately parks his car and gets out.

“Ume!” he shouts as he runs towards you, “Where the hell have you been?!”

“Calm down brother,” she acts nonchalant about being missing for three days, “I was staying with a friend.”

“You had me worried sick,” his voice cracks as he tears up. Feeling a mixture of anger and relief.

“I’m sorry,” she gives him a tight hug, “I-I’ve been a brat lately. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did when you told me about Y/N… and I should never have hit you either. I’m really sorry, brother…”

“It’s alright, sis,” immediately Gyutaro’s attitude changes and he has a smile on his face, “You are a brat, but I love you anyways,”

For the first time in your relationship, Gyutaro actually feels normal. Knowing that he has the approval of his sister, he no longer feels so much shame about being older than you. He can confidently walk out in public with you now and hold your hand without giving a fuck. Someone stares at you weirdly? Well, fuck them! Gyutaro is with his girl and he couldn’t care less about anyone else’s opinion about it. He’s happy and you’re happy. That’s all that matters to him. 

The three of you go back to Gyutaro’s house and watch a movie together. The plan was for you and Gyutaro to have a stay-at-home date together, but you decided it’d be best to include Ume too so she doesn’t feel left out. It went well despite the fact that Ume decided to sit in between you and Gyutaro. 

After the movie ends Gyutaro asks you a question as he cleans up some popcorn that fell between the couch cushions, “So uh… did you want to stay the night?”

“Not with me!” Ume butts in, “She has your cooties now!”

“Ume! Shut it!” Gyutaro blushes, “Cooties don’t exist, don’t be so childish.”

“I was just kidding, brother,” she rolls her eyes, “Y/N just stay in my brother's room. Just promise you guys won’t be too loud.”

“H-Hey!! It ain’t like that!!” he shouts with a completely red face as Ume is already walking back towards her bedroom. He knows she’s just teasing him but he still feels very shy when it comes to this kind of thing. Especially since the two of you have only spent one night in the same bed, and both of you vividly remember what took place then.

“It’s ok Gyu,” you chuckle, your cheeks already pink from Ume’s earlier statement, “Let’s just get ready for bed, ok?” 

“Ok…” he grumbles as he finishes cleaning up his sister’s mess. 

Following Gyutaro to his room, you can’t help but think about what might happen tonight. Will you have sex with him again? How will it go? Maybe you’ll try a different position or maybe even oral this time. Your heartbeat quickens as you think about all of the possibilities. 

Little do you know, he’s thinking about the exact same thing. He wants to be intimate with you again so badly. And for the first time instead of feeling awkward and insecure, he feels confident about initiating sex with you.

“I’m going to run a bath for us,” he says after he closes the bedroom door behind you and walks into the bathroom that’s connected to his room. 

“O-Ok,” you stutter as your face heats up. Did he say he’s going to run a bath for us? Meaning he wants to take a bath with you?

As you hear the water running in the bathroom you decide to take off your clothes, only leaving your undergarments. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, you take a deep breath and try to calm your thoughts. If you do end up having sex with him tonight, you want to be relaxed so you can enjoy the moment. 

But even though Gyutaro seemed cool and collected he’s freaking out on the inside. And that shows when he comes back into the room to see you in nothing but panties and a bra. Immediately the cool guy act crumbles and he’s staring at you like this is the first time he’s seen a naked woman. 

“U-um Y/N?” he stutters. 

“Is the bath ready?” you sit up to meet his flustered gaze. 

“Yeah,” he nods, tenderly taking your hand and leading you to his pristine bathroom. The first thing you notice is how clean and neat it is compared to Ume’s. 

Gyutaro avoids eye contact with you as he begins removing his clothes. First to go is his shirt, revealing his muscled torso and the large tattoo on his arm. He hesitates when taking off his pants, already feeling himself getting hard. 

“Fuck…” he mutters to himself. Not wanting to make this awkward by just flaunting his hard-on. So he faces away from you and quickly steps into the tub, covering himself with his hand just to be safe. 

To be honest, he got in so quickly that you didn’t even really notice. You do feel a bit shy removing your own clothes though, this will be the first time he’s seen you nude in a fully lit room. 

And your boyfriend can tell just how nervous you are so he doesn’t stare. Only reaching out a hand to help you get into the tub when you’re ready. 

The water is warm and soothing, the surface covered by cherry scented bubbles - which he strategically put in there so you wouldn’t be able to see how achingly hard he is. 

Leaning back with a content sigh, Gyutaro opens his arms to you, “C’mere.”

With a blush you come to your boyfriend and lay your head on his chest, snuggling up to him under the warm water. Surely by now you can feel it, so maybe the bubbles were a waste of time. But that’s ok because Gyutaro isn’t even worried about that anymore, he’s too focused on how lucky he is to be having this moment with you right now. 

“This is nice, Gyu,” you hum as you trail your hand up and down his chest, “I like being alone with you like this.”

“Me too,” he whispers while trying not to moan from your touch. “You-you look really beautiful by the way…” His gaze drifts down to see your curves peeking out from beneath the water. 

He can’t deny it anymore, how badly he wants to have sex with you right now. Ever since you did it the first time it’s constantly been on his mind. But not for the reason you may think. He loved it so much because he felt so loved. It was the first time in his life that he felt so intimately close to someone. That kind of love and closeness is something he’s craved for his entire thirty-five years of life. 

And after today, all of the confidence he gained from finally having his sister’s acceptance, he’s feeling less ashamed of himself. His girl loves him, so why shouldn’t he show her how much he wants her? There’s nothing to be afraid of. 

Mustering all of the confidence he has, Gyutaro gently caresses your cheek - moving a strand of hair away from your face and looking into your eyes. Immediately you feel your knees go weak and your thighs rub together with need. 

He pulls you closer and presses his lips against yours, initiating a heated kiss. 

You can’t help but completely melt into him, allowing him to guide you fully on top of him. Now you’re definitely able to feel his erection as it presses between your legs. But it’s no surprise, you could tell he wanted you by the way he looked at you before he kissed you. 

Beneath the water he maneuvers his hands, one cupping your breast and the other squeezing your thigh. Enjoying the slippery softness of your soapy skin under his touch. Moving his kiss down to your neck, he nibbles and sucks on your delicate skin. 

“Ah, Gyu,” you whimper and hold onto his shoulders. 

He can’t help but smirk, pride building up within him that he’s able to make you melt like this. “M’gonna make love to you,” he whispers into your ear as he moves forward, pushing you to lay on your back as he moves your legs to hang over his shoulders. 

Looking up at him, you feel like your body has become jelly. He looks so sexy as he hovers above you, from the way his long damp hair sticks to his forehead and neck to the way the water droplets cling to his abs and biceps. Not to mention the patch of hair that trails up to his belly button. It all makes you feel butterflies and you can’t help but spread your legs for him. 

Tightly gripping your thighs, he leans forward and whispers, “Don’t worry baby, I’ll go slow,” and gently moves his hips forward - gradually sliding into you, splitting you apart on his length. 

You gasp and squirm beneath him, your body sweats as you are not only surrounded by the warm water but also by his hot body on top of you. 

Once fully inside, he slowly thrusts into you just as he had promised. Making sure to pay close attention to your reaction to make sure you're comfortable. 

And you’re more than comfortable. If anything you’re too comfortable. The fact that he isn’t vigorously ramming into you as if he intends to put a baby in you is unbearable. So you grab his hips and forcefully plunge him into you, “Fuck me harder Gyu!” You pant, desperately trying to guide him to a faster pace. 

His eyes widen and his cheeks turn pink, but he doesn’t need to be told twice. With your permission, he grabs your hips and violently thrusts into you - so hard that the water in the tub spills over the edge. But neither of you care, too lost in pleasure to even notice. 

“Ahh, I wish you could put a baby in me, Gyu!” you moan, not fully realizing what you’re saying. But your statement sparks something within him and triggers a kink he didn’t even know he had. 

“Fuck… I wanna put a baby in you so bad,” he grunts, “gonna stuff you full.”

The thought of getting you pregnant makes Gyutaro absolutely feral. A family is something he’s always wanted, so just the mere idea of you carrying his baby drives him to fuck you even harder. Determined to get as deep as possible, ensuring that his seed fills you nice and full. 

With that thought in mind, he picks you up and holds you close to his body while he stands on his knees. Holding onto your hips as he pounds into you, the sound of wet skin slapping fills the room along with water splattering onto the tile floor. 

Meanwhile, you wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tightly while he fucks you silly. Saliva dripping down your chin and your tongue lolls out of your mouth, moaning and gasping as your boyfriend continuously forces the air out of your lungs. Your entire body begins to tingle, you know you’re getting close. And he knows it too by the way your walls are tightening around him. 

That’s the only warning he gets before you’re cumming all over him. Your body shaking as his strong arms hold you up. 

However, his orgasm hits him out of nowhere, as soon as he feels your orgasm hit you it pushes him over the edge as well. He didn’t want to cum just yet but you feel so good that he can’t help it. His cock twitches as it fills you to the brim with his sticky seed. The warmth spreading inside of you comforts you as your sensitive body lies in his arms. 

Gyutaro pants as he holds you there for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Then he gently lowers himself back into the tub, holding you and softly kissing you as you remain in his arms. 

Now that his orgasm has ended, he knows it was all just talk. That he can’t actually get you pregnant since you’re on birth control. But he can tell that a part of what you said was true and not only because it was in the heat of the moment. And it was true for him too. He really would like to get you pregnant and start a family one day. 

“Don’t worry my love,” he whispers, “One day we will start a family together, I promise.” 

You can’t help but smile and snuggle closer to him - hoping that one day you really will get to start a family with him. 

.˚₊┈୨♡୧┈₊˚.

And it won’t be long until Gyutaro makes you an official Shabana.

Because a year later he proposes to you. 

After you graduated and moved in with him he knew that he had to make you his wife. So it wasn’t long until he couldn’t wait any longer and just asked. The two of you were on a weekend trip to the beach when he proposed. Nothing too fancy, but it was nice and romantic. He hadn’t planned to propose that weekend either, he had been carrying the ring around in his pocket for weeks. But when he saw how beautiful you looked as you walked beside him on the shore, he knew he had to make you his wife as soon as possible. 

You had the wedding four months after the proposal. It was a small ceremony with close family and friends, but it was absolutely perfect. 

Ever since then your life has felt like a dream. 

Gyutaro got a promotion so now he doesn’t have to work overtime as often and there’s no pressure for you to work a full-time job if you don’t want to. Ume moved into an apartment in the city so now it’s just you and Gyutaro living in his house.  He’s even taken up doing some renovations in the kitchen and the spare bedroom too. 

It’s strange how your life changed so quickly after you met Gyutaro. You went from a college student living with your mom to being married and living with your husband in your own house all in the span of a year and a half. 

This isn’t the life you had envisioned yourself having after college, but you wouldn’t change a single thing. It’s perfect, and it’s only going to get better from here. 

“Honey, I’m home!” Gyutaro shouts as he comes into the house, “Sorry I’m late. I wanted to pick us up something from the bakery-” he stops when he looks around and sees you’re nowhere in sight. 

He peeks into the kitchen, “Where the hell is she?” next he checks the garden. “Y/N?” no, not there either. 

Usually, when he gets home from work you’re in the kitchen preparing dinner or sometimes outside in the garden. Sometimes you go out with your friends but you usually tell him first. He’s not mad though, he just assumes you went out and forgot to tell him. 

“Oh well, I’ll text her and see what she wants for dinner tonight,” he says to himself as he takes off his tie. His mind is lost in thought as he thinks about what he wants to make tonight, he’s thinking one of your favorites. 

As he contemplates dinner, he walks into the bedroom to see you sitting on the bed. Immediately he can tell that something is wrong. 

“Y/N? Are you alright?” he walks over to you and puts his hand on your shoulder, “What’s that in your hand?” He asks as he notices you’re clutching something in your hands, hiding it from his view. 

“Gyu… I-I have to tell you something…” you mutter. 

“Babe, you’re scaring me… whatever it is, you can tell me. I promise I won’t be mad,” he says in a caring manner, trying to comfort you. 

Your thoughts are spiraling, not sure whether he will be happy or angered by what you say. But you know that it’s something he needs to know. 

However, you can’t even muster the words. So you just hand him the object you had clutched in your palms. 

The room is filled with silence as he closely observes the object, “You… you’re pregnant?”

“Y-yeah, I’m pregnant,” you nod and look up at him, anxious to see his reaction. And it isn’t at all what you had expected. 

There are tears pouring from his eyes as he clutches the positive pregnancy test. All of his walls start crumbling down and he lets it all out, sobbing uncontrollably. 

“Gyutaro?” you gasp, starting to panic. 

Before you can reach out to him he lunges forward and embraces you, tightly wrapping his arms around you. “We-we’re gonna have a baby!” he sobs, “I can’t believe it.”

“Aw honey, so… you’re happy?”

“Of course I’m happy! Th-this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me!” he says between sobs.

It seems you were worried for nothing. You knew Gyutaro always wanted children but you didn’t know if he wanted them now especially since you haven’t been married for very long. Gyutaro has always been nothing but loving and supportive towards you, so of course he was overjoyed at the news.

Your husband drops to his knees and presses his forehead against your stomach, “This is everything I’ve ever wanted…”

“Aw Gyu…” you smile and kiss the top of his head, “You’re going to be a great father.”

Hearing those words makes his tears flow even more. “I-I had no idea you were pregnant...”

“It was bound to happen,” you chuckle causing him to chuckle too.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right haha,” he stands and gives you another tight hug. 

The news was shocking to him, but he couldn’t be that surprised. Ever since you got married you’ve been having unprotected sex so it’s no surprise that it happened so soon. However, even though he’s married to a beautiful woman there was still a part of him that told him he was too old to have a family. Too old to have a child of his own. And too old to make a woman like you happy. 

But now he’s finally starting to realize that none of it was true. 

And he does deserve this. Marriage, children, and most importantly you. 

“I love you, Y/N… thank you for making all of my dreams come true.”

Taglist: @gyusimp @kyu-kitsune @idontevenknowlsjsbsbdj @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @chibi-absol @sterzin @cherrysxuya @angelicsaiko @misskaorii @matsukaah @dawn-rays-dingo @hoshigafuru @gloomysel @tergyri @404starlight @irondreamerface @zoroisminty @edenminx @multisstuff @that1lxnlybxch @emberlovesthemoon @blurpleuni-squid @boggiesho @nekee-lilac02

[rizzanon]

silly little sanaerio that came to me in a dream (literally)

reader tries to sneak out to go to the park with caitlyn and adrien and gets caught by damien

to shut up damien reader takes him with them and they all go park tgt idfk

damien refuses to admit he wanted to just spend time with reader , he wasnt actually gonna snitch

when sneaking back in they all domino onto eachother (reader walks in first then stops beecause ruh roh they got caught) and damien bumps into reader, caitlyn bumps into adrien and eyeah

tgis prollh doesng make sensw idk what im on abt tyoing this half aslddp

-🍰

HELLO WHAT?? I LOVE THIS (although this exact scene won’t happen, i think it’s cute that damian is forcing reader to let him tag along so that he won’t snitch—literally younger sibling core and there will definitely be a moment or two like in this undoing fate (for the bants/fluff) lol)

reader: (quietly tries to sneak toward the back entrance of Wayne Manor, bag slung over your shoulder)

Damian: (from the shadows) And just where do you think you’re going?

reader: (startles, spinning around) Damian?! What the— What are you even doing here?

Damian: (arms crossed) The better question is: what are you doing? Sneaking out like some common criminal. Suspicious, don’t you think?

reader: I’m just going to the park to meet Caitlyn and Adrien, okay? It’s no big deal. Go back to brooding or whatever it is you do.

Damian: Tch. You’re sneaking out to meet those two? Again? Does Father even know about this?

reader: (glaring) Do you know how to mind your own business?

Damian: I could let this slide… or I could inform Father. Imagine his reaction when he hears about this little escapade of yours.

reader: You wouldn’t dare.

Damian: (raising an eyebrow) Try me.

reader: (groaning, pinches the bridge of your nose) Fine. You want to come? You can come. Just don’t ruin it for me, okay?

Damian: …..Hmph. I suppose I could accompany you. Someone has to keep you out of trouble.

reader: (mutters) Yeah, because I’m the one who causes trouble.

(You and Damian reach the park where Adrien and Caitlyn are waiting for you)

Caitlyn: Took you long enough. (gaze shifts to Damian) Oh, you brought company.

Damian: (flatly) I assure you, I did not want to be here. Someone needed to supervise you lot.

reader: (rolling eyes) Oh, please. He just didn’t want me to have fun without him.

Damian: (sharply) I don’t care about your fun. I have better things to do.

Adrien: (teasing) Sure, sure. And yet here you are.

Caitlyn: (grinning) Well, since you’re here, you might as well enjoy it. Or at least try.

Damian: (grumbling) I’m not here to enjoy anything.

[pretend you all hangout at a nearby night fun fair, and afterwards, after much begging, Adrien and Caitlyn managed to convince you to let them crash at the manor for the night]

reader: (whispering) Alright, stay quiet. No one’s around, so if we’re careful, we’re good.

Damian: (scoffing) Speak for yourself. I don’t get caught.

reader: (rolling eyes) Right, because you’re oh-so-perfect.

reader: (steps inside cautiously, but freezes mid-step as you hear someone—) Oh no—

Damian: (not realizing you stopped, walks straight into your back) Watch where you’re—

(Adrien, close behind, bumps into Damian, and Caitlyn crashes into Adrien. It’s a domino effect, leaving all four of you in a heap at the door.)

Adrien: Why do I always end up on the bottom?

Caitlyn: You’re just unlucky, I guess.

Damian: Get off me, you imbeciles!

reader: Shh! You’re gonna—

Alfred: (calmly stepping forward) I trust you all have a good explanation for this?

[All four of you collectively freeze, dread sinking in.]

Adrien: (still on the floor) …I’m just gonna stay down here.

Damian: This is entirely her fault. (points at you)

reader: Yeah, this is going to be a long night….

(i might write a full on oneshot for this lol i actually love this idea)

[red-riot-unbreakable-heart]

Frisky Movie Date 💕 | Shoto x Reader

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Ship: Shoto Todoroki x AFAB Reader 💋

Genre: Smut, Fluff, Romance

Summary: You reconnect with Shoto as adults. You start to explore your mutual attraction through a series of basic dates. When Shoto takes you to the movies, the last thing your'e expecting is for things to get spicy off screen! Suddenly Shoto's giving you the star treatment in public. Turns out, he's a credit to heroes everywhere - he's determined to show you that a Pro Hero always gets the job done. TLDR: Shoto fingers you into oblivion while on a movie date and it's HOT AF! 🔥

CW: MDNI!, A18+, kissing, romance, sexual tension, spicy scenes, fingering, lemon, Smut, Dirty Talk, All characters are in their mid-twenties!

It's late evening and you're at the movies with Shoto Todoroki.

You've gone on a few dates together since reconnecting at your UA class's 10 year anniversary. You're both successful heroes in your own right - Shoto is consistently on the Top 10 Hero charts, while you prefer to operate in the shadows and off the grid. When you bumped into each other at the reunion party, the attraction between the two of you was undeniable.

Shoto in his mid twenties is...woof. He's handsome as ever - that trademark two toned hair does all the talking when he walks into a room. He's bulkier now than he was in school - he's filled out quite a bit with muscle since you last sparred with him in a UA gym.

He dresses much classier now, too...you recall days in the dorms where he would wander around in joggers and loose sweatpants. He's definitely retained a hero stylist since then. These days he dresses like old money - expensive cable knit sweaters, suit jackets and neutral leather shoes. And he always smells delicious - an interesting combination of fruit and sandalwood.

The first few dates were innocent enough - dinner at a high end restaurant (in a private room, of course. You needed to guard your identity carefully and it was imperative to your underground hero work that you not be spotted with a high profile hero like Shoto). A quiet evening outing to a museum after close. A stroll through a local park at dusk when most people had gone home for dinner.

Each date had been fun and sweet - you and Shoto have caught up and come to better understand one another's lives post graduation. You've asked questions about Shoto's hero agency, his challenges with sidekicks and administrative BS. And in turn, he's asked you to explain how you partner with detectives and the police in order to take down criminal rings throughout the city. You've talked about the state of the hero world, the gossip you've heard about your old classmates, and about your favorite foods (his being Soba).

Despite the sweet and chaste nature of your dates, sexual tension is constantly pulsing between you, staticky and sharp. You can feel it in the way he glances sideways at you when you walk side by side. It's evident in how his hugs linger a moment longer than they should, in the way that his hand brushes yours more than necessary when you sit down for dinner or coffee.

All of your interactions are above board, though. It's too soon to get physical. And you know that Shoto is a little slow on the uptake, so you assume he's going to take his time before trying to do anything *spicy* with you during a date.

Turns out...that assumption was dead wrong.

For your fourth date, Shoto takes you to a new mystery movie that's just hit the theaters. You sneak in during the previews so that no one will notice the two of you. He doesn't want to be swarmed by fangirls and you don't want your underground hero identity compromised. Sneaking around is a necessary evil when you're Pro Heros of this caliber. It also makes everything feel a bit clandestine and sexy.

You breathe in the cool dark air of the theater - there's something magical about going to the movies these days. It's so easy to stream things in your little apartment or at your agency office. There's something so fun and purposeful about setting aside time to go to a physical theater, to grab snacks and just intentionally enjoy a film with another person.

You stumble over an overturned popcorn bucket, your hero senses failing you. Shoto glances back at you and holds out an arm to brace your fall, easily slipping his hand into yours once you steady yourself. He guides you through the dark theater to the reserved seats. His hand is strong, reassuring. Strangely sexy? You wonder what those strong, supple fingers could do to you...

You refocus on the task at hand - finding your seats. Shoto locates them with ease and stows your drinks in the chair cup holders. He drops your hand unceremoniously and waits for you to plop in your seat before taking his own. You're pleased to see that the theater is fairly empty - there's no one sitting in your row and there don't appear to be any rowdy moviegoers in this particular crowd. The audience is mostly comprised of couples in their twenties and thirties. You fit right in.

You settle in, pleased that it's one of those theaters that has the fancy reclining seats. You eagerly hit the buttons and the chair hums faintly as its backrest tilts you into a slightly more comfortable position. Shoto reclines his chair to match yours, gazing up at the pre-film commercials with his usual intensity. His mismatched eyes glimmer in the cinema screen's glow and you can't help but admire how gorgeous he is.

As the previews wrap up, Shoto lifts the armrest up so that he can scooch next to you, his muscular thigh pressing flush against your own leg. You glance up at him in surprise - you definitely were not expecting him to try and cuddle you during this date. He's usually so reserved and shy!

You let yourself lean into him lightly, feeling the coolness of his right side seep through your thick sweatshirt and leggings like a refreshing mint.

"I'm excited." You whisper softly, tilting your head up so you can speak close to his ear. "I've read good reviews of this film!"

His lips ease into a smile and he nods. "I'm excited, too." He reaches down and slides his hand over your own where it rests on your thigh. A shiver runs through you at the touch. If Shoto notices, he doesn't show it.

The movie starts to roll. A half hour goes by - characters are introduced, settings are explored. A ragtag group of misfits is locked in a mansion and challenged to solve a startling mystery. You're both engrossed in the plot line (or, so you think) - when Shoto removes his hand from on top of yours and brings it to rest lightly on your upper thigh. Instantly you freeze, eyes darting down to where his large hand now rests on your leg.

You give him a sidelong look. He feels your eyes on his face and turns ever so slightly towards you, eyes widening questioningly almost as if to say "what?"

You shake your head loosely, unable to come up with a response.

What would you even say? Shoto's hand on your thigh doesn't seem particularly suspicious, and you want to be in constant contact with him anyway. He's cute and you're attracted to him and every touch he lavishes on you feels electric. You shake your head again and refocus your attention on the screen. Shoto smirks as he turns back to watch the movie as well, giving your leg a light squeeze with the pads of his fingers. You can't help the tremor that runs through your body at the delicate touch. For a moment, your brain goes off the deep end - you're craving his fingers everywhere.

You sink your attention back into the movie, interested to see how the film plays out. The plot moves forward - the characters explore the spooky mansion and the mystery deepens. You have a few theories as to how the plot might resolve, but it's still too early to tell.

You almost jump when you feel the Shoto's finger twitch at your thigh. No, not quite a twitch...more like a tap? Shoto starts to lightly tap his finger on your leg. You can't ignore the gentle beat he taps into your leggings - you haven't been touched in that particular spot in a long while. It feels both casual and intimate. You quickly glance down at his strong Pro Hero hands. You wonder if the tapping could be a nervous tic - extra energy flowing out through his finger tip.

You try to refocus on the movie, but when Shoto starts to trace soft circles into your leggings, you realize the touch is purposeful. You're not quite sure what he's trying to do, but he has your full attention as he glides his finger tips in small shapes against your leg.

He slides the finger an inch or two upwards and hits a sensitive spot on your inner thigh. You're instantly turned on - warmth radiating up your legs and straight to your cunt. You don't dare look over at him - it might break the tension. The spell. You can tell through your peripherals that Shoto is still staring straight ahead at the movie screen. There's no note in his expression to indicate that he's trying to silently seduce you.

He continues to run his fingertip featherlight back and forth across your soft leggings, moving slowly upwards. You feel yourself getting wetter with each gentle circle and pattern. It doesn't take him long to crawl his hand up to towards your pussy.

You're craving his touch on your clit now, but he's caressing everywhere but - his fingers slide up your waist, around your hips, down the dip of your the point of your inner thigh that connects to your labia...

You long to buck up your hips or to guide him to your pussy with your own hand. But you don't dare. You want to see how this plays out.

The movie plays on. And Shoto's gentle caresses continue.

After 15 minutes, you can barely sit still. You're soaking wet and your core is absolutely aching. Shoto's fingers swirl and slide down across your hip bone and ghost across the edge of your pussy lips. Tired of his teasing, you lightly shift your hips, desperate to get some friction against your tingling clit. At your sudden movement, his fingers still.

You worry that you've ruined his game, turning your head slightly to the left to gauge his reaction.

He softly turns to look back at you, his gaze locking with your own. His eyes are glazed over, boring into your own as he bites at his perfect mouth. Your eyes dart down to his mouth, drinking in the flash of white teeth sinking into his lower lip. He leans towards you slowly, closing the distance between you so he can whisper in your ear: "Can I touch you, sweetheart?"

You're suddenly intensely aware of where you are - a public place sprinkled with other couples. But the theater is dark and the movie is loud and Shoto's leg and side are pressed so closely to your own that you doubt anyone would notice if you just let him give you what you so desperately need...

You release a breath you didn't even realize you were holding, your vocal chords barely buzzing under the thick film score blasting through the theater speakers: "...yes."

That seems to be exactly what Shoto was waiting to hear. He swirls his fingers quickly to the center of your pussy, drawing the pads of his fingers up and across your cunt in the most delicious way. You try not to grind up into his fingers as he feels around for your sweet spot. When he finally locates your clit, you hiss appreciatively, a short burst of air leaving your lips before you clap your hand over your mouth to shut yourself up. You glance back at Shoto and see that he's grinning at you mischievously. It's an expression you've never seen on his face before. He looks cute and handsome and diabolical.

He pulls his hand away and you keen lowly in the back of your throat at the loss of contact. His face breaks into a grin as you make a noise he's certain only he can hear.

On the large silver screen before you, the protagonist is being chased by some sort of villain character. You're too punch drunk to remember what the movie is about anymore. What's the genre? No clue. The title? Don't care. Your pussy is soaked and throbbing and you're pretty sure you might need to ditch your ruined panties in the cinema's ladies room so you can make it home comfortably.

Your mind zooms in a thousand different directions - You're horny. Shoto is hot. Does he like you? Or does he just want to fuck you? Who cares - get your hands back on me, you Icy Hot freak! Why did he stop? Should you have pretended to ignore him - does he just like the chase? What is this movie called again? Why is the protagonist hiding in the woods? Is her underwear comfortable? Because yours is certainly not right now -

You feel Shoto's large, steady hands wrap around your hips. Before you can fully register what's happening, he's pulling you into his lap.

Jeez. Lord Almighty help me.

He pulls you towards him so that your back is flush against his chest, and his chin rests on your right shoulder. His breath is hot against the bare skin of your neck, causing ripples of goose bumps to prickle to life with each exhale of air. You feel him beneath your butt - he's unmistakably hard in those fancy pants of his. You glitter at the realization - Shoto Todoroki is hard for you. You wonder how big his dick is. You wonder how good it might feel.

Fuck.

No. No! You're in public right now. You need to cool off before someone notices you both and kicks you out of the theater for being too handsy. Or, worse - you need to cut this out before someone snaps a picture of two Pro Heroes are canoodling in a public movie theater. The press would go haywire if they found out about this.

You slowly turn your head around to see if anyone has noticed this sudden...intimate...change in position. But once again, there's no one sitting in your row. The movie theater chair backs are high enough to allot an illusion of privacy, and all of the other couples seem to be staring at the movie screen with rapt attention. The score swells as the protagonist continues to run through the woods in search of cover, and you hear audible gasps from the audience as she trips and falls over a log. People are invested in this movie. Unlike you.

"You're so beautiful, I can't seem to behave myself." Shoto whispers thickly into your ear. "I can't keep my hands off of you for some reason." He breathes in deeply. "Does your quirk have some kind of hormonal side effect?"

You want to burst out laughing - based on his tone of voice, his question is completely earnest, it's not a flirty come on.

"No, that's not how my quirk works at all Shoto. You're just horny." You say quietly, trying to keep the timber of your voice as low as humanly possibly so as not to draw attention to the way your bodies are currently configured.

"Yeah. I definitely am." He says simply, nuzzling lightly into your neck. He slides his hands up and down the sides of your legs as if to warm you up. "Did you enjoy the way I was touching you?" He says, a hint of slyness creeping into his hushed tone.

"I'm soaked through." You say, shifting uncomfortably in his lap. He sucks in a breath at those words, his own body pulsing with need. You feel his cock beneath you, heavy and getting harder by the second. You wish you were anywhere else - you wish you could hop off his lap, unzip his pants and hop on that sweet Pro Hero cock. You'd ride him through the night and well into the morning if you could.

Your mind is now a cloudy haze of hormones and longing.

"If you'd like to...maybe I could finish what I started." He says flatly, turning his head so that his lips ghost the hollow under your ear. You feel your heart beat quicken at the suggestion. Your entire body screams out yes! yes! yes!

"No. Shoto. We're in public." You hiss between your teeth as you feel his fingers dance across your legs and up towards your pussy. "What if we get caught? It's a PR nightmare waiting to happen."

Shoto says nothing. Instead, he reaches behind him and grabs his thick, corduroy jacket from where it hangs on the chair back. He quietly spreads the fabric across your lap, covering you like a blanket.

"Better?" He says softly, his fingers starting to swirl gentle circles into your thighs once more.

"Um." You gulp, taking one more look around at the theater before throwing caution to the wind. "Why the hell not?"

That's all the answer he seems to have needed. He draws a hand delicately up your inner thigh and dips towards your vulva, gently tracing circles into the comfortable fabric of your leggings. When he gets to your clit again, it's feels like magic. You wish you could moan out his name, but you're too nervous to speak. Beneath the jacket on your lap, his right hand is working wonders.

Meanwhile, he brings his left hand to his mouth, slowly sucking on his fingers.

"What are you doing?" You hiss out as he swirls his right fingers around your clothed pussy in a controlled, practiced sort of way. The impact is buttery and pleasurable in all the right ways. Your panties are dripping wet.

"You'll see." He says, distracted. You find out the answer a moment later when his fingers ghost beneath the elastic of your leggings.

"Shoto." You say warningly, still unsure about having a Rated R moment inside of a public theater.

"Trust me." Is all he says before he dips his spit covered fingers underneath the elastic bands of both your leggings and your underwear. You stifle a gasp as he slides his wet digits down, down down...swiping his dexterous fingertips across your swollen clit with practiced skill. Your whole body feels alive and electric at the contact.

He doesn't spend long playing with your clit - he has other plans for you. You feel him explore your pussy, sliding his fingers around your labia before finally dipping into your hot core.

You hear the tiniest gasp of air escape his lips as he realizes how fucking wet you are. He buries his face in the side of your neck and groans softly as he swirls his fingers into you softly. He's curling and scissoring his index and middle fingers lightly to give you a delicious feeling of stretching fullness. He feels so lovely inside of you, stirring your arousal around like thick honey. You grind up into his fingers gently, trying to flex your needy pelvic muscles in a subtle, refined sort of way (aka, you try not to look like a humping maniac in the middle of this public movie theater screening).

Shoto's fingers are the perfect mix of calloused and soft. He's got an amazing dexterity that no doubt comes from years of training in hand to hand combat. Each gentle push and pull of his fingertips makes you see stars.

You feel an orgasm building quickly as your pussy flutters and throbs around his capable digits. And honestly, it doesn't take a lot to bring you to the brink of pleasure.

Shoto continues to play with your pussy with his left hand. He drags his right slowly up your neck, letting his hand linger for a moment at your throat. There's no pressure in his touch - you just feel the weight of his palm against your windpipe. It's almost like a teasing little promise...I could choke you if you wanted me to. Your pussy pulses steadily around his fingers at the implication. After a moment, his palm travels up your throat, dips across the curve of your chin, and comes to rest snuggly across your mouth. He pulls back your face lightly, a silent command to keep quiet. This is something you've always loved about Shoto - the way he's so direct.

Ironically enough, as the film hits its climax you get closer to your own. The protagonist and the villain are having some big CGI battle, and the surround sound is LOUD. The image on the screen blurs as your eyes roll back in your head a bit, blissed out and riding high on Shoto Todoroki's fingertips. You have no fucking clue why there's a swamp monster in this movie and you don't fucking care.

Shoto takes his time working at you - his motions are gentle but precise. You huff lightly into his hand and shift needily in his lap, trying to get some friction going against his cock. You can feel him hard beneath you, his dick a welcome presence against your butt. You want him to fill you up with more than his fingers, and your hazy brain wonders what it would feel like to be stretched out by a top hero's cock. The thought sends your senses spinning.

Holy fuck you're about to cum hard.

Luckily, Shoto has been studying body language for quite some time in his hero work. He dips his lips to the shell of your ear, dragging the very tip of his tongue across the delicate cartilage before he whispers: "Cum for me, pretty girl."

He dips his head lower to plant a deep, wet kiss against the sensitive part of your neck and that's all it takes.

Theater goers and mysterious swamp monster character be damned, you're going to orgasm in the middle of this goddamn CGI fight scene if it kills you.

Your ears are ringing with the anticipation of your high - your blood is pumping through your veins a bit too fast, and you've all but forgotten to breathe. The music coming out of the surround sound speakers swells alongside the pressure in your pussy.

You cum - hard. Shoto's finger pulses in and out of you in time with your orgasm, and you take a short, shuddering breath as you ride out your pleasure. This is the wettest you've been in so long and it makes cumming feel so glorious and comfortable.

You lean your head back into him when you're finished, head falling against the hard muscle of Shoto's chest. Your body feels fizzy and warm - the kind of relaxed feeling you get when you step into a hot bath. He curls his finger inside you one last time as the aftershock of your orgasm dies down before covertly removing his hand from your panties and pants. He releases your mouth from his grasp and you breathe in the cool theater air.

Shoto's mouth finds your ear again, and he whispers one final sexy thing: "A Pro always finishes the job."

Your whole body shivers at the words.

The movie screen goes dark and the credits begin to roll. You turn your head ever so slightly so you can see half of Shoto's face through your hazy eyes. He smiles softly at you as he raises his left hand to his lips and licks your orgasm clean off of his fingers. Holy fucking shit.

Without warning, the lights flicker on and all around you. Couples stand and start to drift towards the theater's exit. You quickly scrabble up and off of Shoto's lap on shaky legs, incredulous. You can't believe you just did that.

You shiver from the shock of it all.

Shoto has managed to scoop his jacket off your lap before you get to your feet. He wraps the thick fabric around you, squeezing his palms lightly against your shivery shoulders. He pulls you in towards him, dipping his head down so that his lips meet yours. It's your first kiss with Shoto, and it's sweet and chaste and the complete opposite of whatever the hell just took place in that pleather theater chair.

You jump when you hear someone from the back of the theater say to their partner: "Is that Pro Hero Shoto!?"

Shoto flashes you a grin before he grabs your hand and you haul ass out of the emergency exit. An alarm blares to life and you cry out in shock as he tugs you along around the side of the building and towards the parking lot.

"Shoto! Shoto that's definitely illegal!" You cry out as your shoes hit the pavement. The air is crisp and chilly.

"So is fingering your girlfriend in public. So we're two for two." He laughs, so much more confident than the Shoto you knew back in school. Where did all of this charm come from?

And...hold on a second!?

"Girlfriend?" You question as a gust of wind nearly blows the corduroy jacket from your shoulders. You grasp at it desperately and manage to hold on with your free hand.

"Well yes. I figured I sealed the deal when I gave you an orgasm back there."

"Wha - ?"

"Denki told me that's how you ask someone to be your girlfriend. You pleasure them." Shoto locates his car and the two of you come to a stop as he fumbles for his keys. And boom goes the dynamite - Shoto is just as clueless as ever. He's being mislead by Denki, who clearly wanted a laugh at yours and Shoto's expense.

"Shoto." You say, pulling your hand away and pushing your arms into the jacket's sleeves to maximize comfort. "Shoto, have you ever had a girlfriend before?"

"Not formally. But I'm excited to be on this journey with you." He finds the right key and clicks open the passenger door to his expensive car. Ever the gentleman, he helps you inside and turns on your heated seat before making his way to the driver's side. He throws his key into the ignition and the engine purrs to life.

"Shoto...Kamanari was messing with you. Usually you have a conversation with someone about your relationship status before you slap a label on it. You don't just...give a girl an orgasm to lock her down."

"Oh." He turns to look at you, face stricken. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend then? Sorry, I just assumed..."

"No, no - Shoto, I want to be your girlfriend! All you had to do is ask."

"Oh thank goodness." Relief washes over his face and he slumps back in his seat. "I am not the best with these kinds of things."

"It's alright." You say, reaching across the center console to cover his hand with your own. "We can figure it all out together. And if you're half as good with your dick as you are with your fingers...well..." You grin up at him and the guy freakin blushes. Oh it is so on.

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

Okayyyyy I hope you enjoyed that little Shoto one shot! We've all been fingered in a movie theater at least once in our lives, right!? So this is a totally relatable tale, right!? Right!

Feel free to check out my other Shoto-centric fics:

Kirishima gives Todoroki S*x Tips | Todoroki x Reader Fic

Shoto Discovers He Has A Daddy Kink | Shoto x Reader

Shoto's First Kiss Series: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋

And here's my Masterlist for good measure!

XOXO,

Red Riot Unbreakable Heart ❤️

[just-aake]

A Feline Connection Part 10 (Final)

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Goodbyes are always hard, but sometimes they’re necessary. Natasha understands that better than most.

Masterlist Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

Warnings: light angst, light fluff

Words: 2239

Natasha tucks her hands into the pockets of her jacket, her boots making soft taps against the floor as she walks slow circles around the lone table in the small, stark visiting room.

On the surface of the table, Widow mirrors her movements, her tiny paws following her in smaller, deliberate circles as if mimicking her pacing.

From his spot near the door, Tony groans dramatically, his patience clearly worn thin. He throws his head back against the wall with a loud sigh.

“Oh my god, stop moving! You two are making me dizzy.”

Natasha pauses mid-step, turning to fix him with a flat, unimpressed stare.

Widow, as if in solidarity, halts her pacing and copies Natasha’s expression, letting out an annoyed yowl aimed directly at him.

Tony points a finger at the cat, his tone exasperated.

“Hey! Don’t you start with me, furball. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to even get you in here?”

At his gesture, Widow suddenly collapses onto her side with a pitiful meow, tilting her head to Natasha with what could only be described as a dramatic cry for help.

Natasha smirks at the feline’s theatrics, scooping her up and cradling her against her chest. She strokes her sleek fur, her voice soft but playful.

“Is Tony bullying you again?” she asks.

Widow chirps in response, nuzzling against Natasha’s arm.

Tony gasps, mock outrage written all over his face. 

“I didn’t even touch her!”

Widow lets out another exaggerated meow and burrows herself further into Natasha’s embrace.

Groaning, Tony throws his hands up in exasperation.

“You know what? I’ll just wait outside,” he grumbles, storming out of the room with a huff.

The metal door creaks closed behind him, leaving Natasha alone with the feline perched contentedly in her arms. The room falls quiet for only a moment before the other door on the opposite side creaks open.

Natasha’s breath catches as you step through, your eyes meeting hers the instant you lift your head.

The guard with you unlocks your cuffs before nodding curtly to Natasha and exiting, leaving the two of you alone.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence is heavy, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Finally, you break it, your voice soft.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Natasha replies, her tone matching yours.

Widow wriggles in Natasha’s arms, leaping to the floor and sprinting toward you with an excited chirp. She circles your legs a few times before hopping into your arms when you crouch to greet her.

“It’s good to see you too, Widow,” you murmur, running a hand over her fur as she purrs loudly in response.

You glance up at Natasha, an amused smile tugging at your lips. 

“They allow pets to visit criminals now?”

“After an extensive search, yes,” Natasha replies dryly, a playful glint in her eyes. “But in this case, technically, she’s not visiting a criminal anymore.”

Confusion flashes across your face as you stand, cradling Widow.

Natasha steps closer, pulling a folder from her jacket and handing it to you.

You open it, skimming the documents inside.

“It’s an updated ruling on your case,” Natasha explains. “Parole with the possibility to reduce your sentencing time.”

Your head snaps up, surprise written across your features. 

“How did you manage this?”

Natasha crosses her arms, leaning against the table.

“I told them how you helped me take down the weapons deals and explained how much of your recent actions were…influenced by someone else.”

Your expression tightens at the mention of Whitney, but you keep your gaze steady.

“She’s still causing trouble, isn’t she?”

“She’s under tight surveillance now,” Natasha assures. “Whatever connections she’s trying to pull to get her out of this, I’ll make sure they don’t reach you or Widow again.”

A small, grateful smile crosses your face as you stroke the cat absently.

“What about everything else I’ve done?”

Natasha shrugs lightly.

“Most of the victims dropped their charges. I guess they didn’t want to return the insurance money they got after you stole from them.”

“Typical,” you scoff, not surprised by the actions of the wealthy people you’ve always targeted. 

“And as for the facilities and buildings…” Natasha smirks faintly. “I may have convinced the owner to let it go.”

You laugh softly, the sound incredulous. 

“Well, I’m glad Stark’s not one to hold a grudge.”

“Oh, don’t mistake it for that,” Natasha says with a small chuckle. “His ego’s still bruised, but I think he’s impressed more than anything.”

The room falls silent once more, the only sound being Widow’s soft purring. The feline seems entirely at ease, her warmth a small comfort in the charged quiet.

You tilt your head slightly, studying Natasha with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“So…what’s the catch?” you finally ask, breaking the silence.

Natasha arches a brow. “Catch?”

You sigh softly, your voice cautious as you clarify.

“Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”

Understanding the weight behind your question, Natasha takes a step closer. Her posture relaxes, her gaze softening as she considers her response.

“A long time ago,” she begins, her voice quiet but firm, “when I thought there was no way out of the life I was living, someone gave me a second chance.”

She reaches out, her fingers brushing gently over Widow’s fur, the motion grounding her. Natasha’s eyes meet yours again, and a small, earnest smile graces her lips.

“So that’s all this is,” she continues, her voice steady and sincere. “Just a second chance. What you do with it is entirely up to you.”

For a moment, you simply watch her, the sincerity of her words settling heavily in the air between you. The faint tension in your shoulders eases as you realize she’s serious—no ulterior motive, no hidden agenda. 

Tilting your head with a faint smirk, you decide to challenge her words lightly. 

“And if I decide to go back to being a thief?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

Natasha’s lips twitch into a slight smirk of her own as she straightens her posture and crosses her arms.

“Then I’ll have to stop you,” she replies without missing a beat, her tone teasing but underpinned with a playful warning. “Being a hero and all.”

A quiet laugh escapes you at her response, soft and genuine, but the humor fades as your gaze drifts down to the cat in your arms. You run your fingers gently along Widow’s fur, your thoughts growing heavier. 

When you speak again, your voice is barely above a whisper.

“And if I decide to leave?” 

The question hangs in the air, the vulnerability in your tone pulling at something in Natasha’s chest. She hesitates for a brief moment, the thought of you leaving tugging painfully at her heart. 

But she steps closer, her hand reaching out to gently tilt your chin upward, lifting your gaze to meet hers. Her eyes are steady, unwavering, as she offers a reassuring smile. 

“Then I’ll always cherish the memory of the thief and her little black cat who stole my heart.”

Your breath catches at her words, her sincerity cutting through the lingering doubt.

For a moment, time seems to pause, and the world around you fades away, leaving only the undeniable connection between you.

A soft huff escapes you, somewhere between disbelief and gratitude. Shaking your head lightly, you murmur in admiration.

“You really are something else, Miss Black Widow.” 

Natasha’s smile lingers, soft and bittersweet, even as she watches you board the shuttle to leave the prison a short time later. 

Widow presses her tiny face against the glass, her golden eyes watching Natasha intently. In response, Natasha raises a hand in a small wave, her gaze lingering on you and the feline until the vehicle pulls away.

Even after the shuttle disappears from view, Natasha remains standing, her heart heavy yet resolute. She knows she’s done the right thing, giving you the freedom to choose your own path—even if it means you’re no longer in her life.

Tony’s arrival beside her breaks her reverie, his expression equal parts amused and curious. 

“I can’t believe, after all that, you didn’t get the girl,” he quips, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “Seriously, Nat, next time you’ve got a crush, I’ll give you some tips. They’re foolproof.” 

Natasha rolls her eyes, brushing his hand off as she turns toward the car that’ll take them back to the compound.

“Let’s go,” she says, her tone firm but calm. “We’ve still got work to do.”

Tony follows her, grumbling under his breath, but Natasha doesn’t hear him. Her mind is already returning to a life of training and missions, even as the faint echo of your parting smile lingers in her thoughts.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The seasons have changed since that day months ago, the vibrant green giving way to winter’s icy embrace. Barren trees stand silent and still, their branches dusted with frost, while a fresh layer of snow blankets the ground.

The world moves on, but some things remain the same.

Natasha’s breaths puff visibly in the cold air as her steady footsteps crunch against the frozen trail. 

As usual, running and training is still her method of escape, a way to clear her mind and soothe her thoughts. 

Today, her pace slows as she nears a familiar spot.

She stops by the same tree she had stood beneath all those months ago, her hands resting on her hips as she catches her breath.

The world around her is silent except for the faint wind rustling through the branches above. The chill of the morning air feels sharper here, but it’s not enough to distract her from the wave of nostalgia washing over her.

Natasha glances upward toward the branches, her eyes scanning the limbs as if expecting to see a flash of black fur clinging precariously to one of them.

But like many times before, the branches are empty.

With a small sigh, she shakes her head, chiding herself for entertaining the idea.

It’s been months since she last saw or heard from you and Widow. You had both disappeared from her life after your release, and she told herself she shouldn’t dwell on what she couldn’t change. 

It was your decision.

Just as she’s about to move on and continue her run, she hears it—a soft, curious meow.

From below?

Natasha blinks, her head snapping downward to find a familiar pair of yellow eyes staring up at her from the base of the tree.

The cat sits neatly by her feet, tilting her head in that same inquisitive way Natasha remembered, her gold tag jingling at her collar as the inscribed name glints off the metal in the early light.

“Widow?” Natasha whispers, her voice laced with disbelief.

The cat meows again as if confirming her identity before turning her gaze to the tree behind her. Without hesitation, she leaps and latches onto the bark, her claws digging in as she prepares to climb.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Natasha mutters, quickly lunging forward. She catches Widow mid-climb, cradling the cat securely in her arms before she can get herself stuck again.

Widow lets out a protesting meow, swatting at Natasha’s chin in mock indignation.

Natasha laughs softly, the sound tinged with fondness as she holds the little troublemaker close.

“Some things never change,” she murmurs, stroking her fur gently.

A crunch of snow behind her breaks the peaceful moment.

Natasha turns, her heart skipping at the sight of you approaching.

You walk toward her with a small smile, your hands tucked into the pockets of your jacket.

Stopping a few feet away, you tilt your head, a teasing glint in your eyes.

“You have my cat,” you say, your tone light but familiar.

Natasha huffs a small laugh, shaking her head slightly as the familiarity of the moment settles between you.

“Your cat was about to get herself stuck in a tree again,” she replies, her voice laced with amusement. “I saved her.”

Widow, seemingly unfazed by the interaction, stretches lazily in Natasha’s arms before giving you an expectant chirp. 

You step closer, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. The cat purrs contentedly, leaning into your touch.

“Always the hero, aren’t you, Miss Black Widow?” you quip, your gaze flicking up to meet hers.

Natasha smirks, her eyes narrowing slightly as they drop pointedly to the black leather jacket you’re wearing.

“Well, I’m no thief,” she retorts, her voice dry but playful.

You grin unabashedly, tugging the jacket closer around yourself.

“Finders keepers,” you say with a casual shrug.

Natasha shakes her head in mock exasperation, though there’s no mistaking the warmth that spreads through her chest at your familiar banter.

“Mind if we join you?” you ask, your voice softening as you gesture toward the trail.

Natasha glances down at Widow, nestled comfortably in her arms, then back at you. Her lips curve into a genuine smile, her tone light as she responds.

“I’d like that,” she says before adding with a teasing lilt, “But Widow stays with me.”

A soft laugh escapes you as you step closer, falling into stride beside her.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you reply.

Together, the three of you continue down the trail, the cold morning air no longer biting as it’s replaced by the warmth of laughter, soft meows, and the unexpected connection brought together by a little black cat.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10

a/n: First fic post of the new year on here, and it's the finale of a series 😅. Endings are always bittersweet to write, and this one was really sad to let go.

Thank you all for reading and following along with this series!

The responses to this story have been amazing considering this originally started with just a simple oneshot about Natasha becoming friends with a little black cat. It was fun having their relationship grow and develop so much further, and I'm glad you all enjoyed it.

So technically, the main plotline is complete, but I may still come back to this universe with little side stories in the future, just because I am fond of these characters, so in happier news, it may not be the completely last time we see them. 😁

Taglist : @cd-4848, @carifletchersgirl, @skittlebum, @queen-of-chaotic-surprises, @ima-gi--na-tion, @rainix13, @gay4hotmilfs, @imaginexred, @caramelcat123, @2silverchain, @nowthisisliving27, @waltermis, @scarlettbitchx, @self-indulgent-writer, @ashadash0904, @alowint, @littlyamadeus, @so-to-aqui-pelas-fic, @imthenatynat, @transparentflapfarmsludge, @natashasilverfox, @mousetheorist, @btay3115, @samfunko, @wandaromamoff69, @lost-in-the-ice, @ahsatanizgay, @stonemags, @karsonromanoff, @wandanatlov3r, @l1kepeps1cvla, @esposadejoyhuerta, @fxckmiup, @panickedbabygay, @esposadejoyhuerta, @azaleavolkova, @gay4wandanat, @escapereality4music, @caspianalexander007, @henkermen, @xxnaiaxx, @alyssa-bessse, @alianovnasposts, @mrsriovidal, @thelonewriter247, @azaleavolkova, @tiffthemarvelnerd

[ialreadymadeyouapromise]

𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄.

PAIRING: arthur morgan x fem!reader WARNINGS: shameless flirting, no use of y/n GENRE: fluff SONG INSPIRATION: into you - ariana grande WORD COUNT: 1.8k

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life in the van der linde gang had a way of skewing your sense of normal. when scheming, looting, and solving arguments with fists or bullets were part of daily life, "morality" became more of a suggestion than a rule.

you weren’t exactly a beacon of righteousness yourself, but you liked to think you were the sanest one in the camp.

not that anyone appreciated it. when you pointed out the ridiculousness of dutch’s insane plans or when you tried to keep fights from erupting during yet another round of whiskey-fueled shouting, you’d get nothing but side eyes or snark for your trouble.

it was a thankless role, but there was one shining consolation was arthur morgan.

at first, you hadn’t thought much of him beyond his reputation. a quiet, rough edged outlaw who could silence a room just by walking into it. but the more time you spent around him, the more you started noticing things. 

the way his voice softened when he spoke to jack. the way he’d carry supplies for the women without them asking. the way he’d sit by the fire after everyone had gone to bed, looking like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders but refusing to let it break him.

oh, and the way he looked.

because damn, arthur morgan was walking, breathing eye candy. the kind of man you’d dreamt about long before you’d ever laid eyes on him. the scruff, the broad shoulders, those hands that made you imagine things no one in camp should ever hear about.

when he worked under the sun, his shirt clinging to every defined line of muscle, it took everything in you not to stand there gawking at him.

and sometimes you did, forgetting to mask the blatant admiration on your face. it wasn’t just his looks. though those certainly didn’t hurt, it was the way he carried himself. every movement, every glance, a natural, effortless charm that hit you square in the chest.

you tried to be subtle about it at first, stealing glances when he wasn’t looking, marvelling at the sharp lines of his jaw or the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. but eventually, all pretense of subtlety flew right out the window.

how could it not, when he looked like that and acted like that?

of course, you told yourself that no one had noticed. surely everyone was too caught up in their own drama to care about your embarrassingly obvious crush. but one day, when you caught yourself staring as arthur tightened the straps on his saddle, completely transfixed by the veins in his forearms, you felt his eyes flick toward you.

the heat shot up your neck as you whipped your head away, but it was too late.

arthur had noticed. and from the way his lips twitched into a knowing smirk, it wasn’t the first time.

one evening, arthur sat by the fire, cleaning his guns. his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with just the right amount of sun kissed grit to make you lose focus. it was practically an invitation – or so you told yourself.

you strolled over, plopping down beside him with a grin.

"y’know, arthur,” you began, your voice low and undeniably flirtatious, “it’s almost unfair how good you look doing anything.” you let your gaze linger on him, smirking when he stiffened slightly. “honestly, it’s damned distracting.”

arthur paused mid clean, raising an eyebrow as he glanced your way. “what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“oh, don’t play coy,” you shot back, letting your eyes wander, not even pretending to be subtle. your gaze lingered just long enough on his body to make him shift slightly. “i’m just saying, it’s downright criminal. the rest of us don’t even stand a chance.”

his jaw tensed, and for a moment, you thought you might’ve pushed too far. but then his ears turned pink, and he ducked his head back to his gun, muttering, “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“i like to think so,” you said brightly, leaning back on your hands. “i mean, someone’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

arthur huffed, a soft laugh slipping out despite himself. he set his gun down for a moment, leaning back slightly to look at you. “keep this up, and i’m gonna start thinkin’ you like me or somethin’.”

the words hung in the air, his tone teasing, but the way his eyes searched your face said there was more to it.

you didn’t bother denying it. instead, you met his gaze with a slow, deliberate smirk, shrugging one shoulder like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

arthur blinked, his confident facade faltering for just a second as his ears flushed a deeper red. he muttered something low under his breath, shaking his head as he turned back to his gun, but not before you caught the way his lips curved into an almost bashful smile.

the members in camp started to notice it too.

one afternoon, you were helping pearson unload some supplies when karen sidled up to you with a sly grin.

“still gonna tell me you’re not sweet on him?” she whispered, jerking her chin toward arthur, who was saddling his horse across camp.

“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” you replied, deliberately watching arthur as he worked. the way his hands handled the leather straps with practiced ease was — god, was it warm out here, or was it just you?

“uh huh,” karen snorted, a smirk tugging at her lips. “and you’re about as subtle as they come, huh?”

across camp, arthur looked up, catching your stare. you didn’t even bother pretending you weren’t watching. instead, you gave him a slow wave.

he squinted at you, shook his head, and muttered something under his breath before going back to his work.

the real kicker came when you joined arthur on a supply run. the two of you were riding side by side, the silence comfortable until you decided to break it.

“so,” you started, grinning, "how does it feel to be so damn hot?" you asked, your tone playful as you gave him a teasing look. "must be a real struggle."

arthur groaned, tipping his head back toward the sky. “for the love of – will you stop?”

“stop what?” you asked innocently.

“all the... whatever this is,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely between the two of you.

“flirting?” you offered. “admiring? honestly, i think i’m being pretty restrained.”

arthur gave you a flat look, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet, here you are, riding with me,” you shot back, leaning forward on your saddle with a grin.

arthur sighed, shaking his head. “yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you outta trouble.”

it turned into a full time occupation. flirting with arthur morgan like it was your god given purpose. subtlety was a distant memory. why be coy when you could see that little twitch in arthur’s eye, that helpless smirk he tried to fight every time you laid it on thick?

one morning, you caught him sitting by the fire, patching a tear in his shirt. you strutted over, planting yourself in the seat next to his, “arthur, can i ask you a question?” you blinked up at him.

“go ahead…” he turns his full attention to you now. “do you have a map?” 

he goes to answer, about to start searching his pocket until you speak up, “cause i think i just got lost in your eyes.”

arthur froze, his jaw tightening. he glanced up at you, then down at the shirt, his face already turning red. “you ever get tired of talkin’ nonsense?”

“not when it’s about you,” you shot back. “you’re my favorite topic.”

he sighed, shaking his head. “you’re gonna give me a headache.”

“i’ll kiss it better,” you said without missing a beat, leaning into his space.

arthur gave you a look, half-exasperated, half-amused, but the twitch of his lips betrayed him. 

“you’re somethin’ else.”

“and you’re somethin’ fine,” you quipped, giving him a wink.

later that day, you spotted him chopping wood near the edge of camp. the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up, muscles flexing with every swing of the axe. it was almost cinematic, the way the sunlight hit his sweat slick skin.

“arthur morgan!” you hollered, startling him mid swing. he set the axe down, turning to face you with a wary look.

“what now?” he grumbled, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

“you’re gonna need to start carrying a warning sign,” you said, sauntering over with a grin. 

“danger to hearts within a hundred mile radius.”

arthur snorted, leaning on the axe handle. “you need help, y’know that?”

“oh, i’ve got a problem, alright,” you agreed, gesturing dramatically at him. “how is anyone supposed to focus when you’re walking around looking like that?”

he pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about needing a drink.

“you can’t run from this,” you teased, following him back toward camp. “your hotness is a public safety hazard, arthur. i’m just trying to raise awareness.”

the next morning, you found him saddling his horse. he’d just come back from a job, dust clinging to his shirt, his hat tipped low. you leaned against a nearby post, arms crossed as you watched him work.

“you look good dirty, morgan,” you drawled, smiling when he stiffened.

arthur turned, leveling you with a flat stare. “ain’t you got somethin’ better to do?”

“absolutely not,” you said, grinning. “admiring you is a full time job.”

he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he tightened the saddle.

“i’m serious,” you continued, stepping closer. “you’re like a fine work of art – rugged, mysterious, impossible to ignore. if i had a lick of talent, i’d paint you.”

arthur paused, one hand on the saddle, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “you’re unbelievable.”

“unbelievably smitten,” you corrected, giving him a cheeky grin. “so, what do you say, cowboy? you gonna let me take you out on a real date, or are you just gonna keep pretending you don’t enjoy all this attention?”

for a moment, arthur just stared at you, his lips twitching like he was fighting a smile. then he leaned on the saddle, tipping his hat back to look at you properly.

“you ain’t gonna quit, are you?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

“not a chance,” you replied, stepping even closer.

arthur sighed, a soft chuckle escaping him. “alright, fine. but if i say yes, you gotta promise to quit with all the hollerin’ about how ‘pretty’ i am in front of the whole damn camp.”

you grinned, holding out your hand. “deal.”

he took your hand, shaking it firmly. “you’re really are somethin’ else, darlin’.”

“and don’t you forget it,” you said, winking at him.

arthur laughed, shaking his head as he mounted his horse. “god help me.”

you watched him get onto his horse and ride off, already plotting your next move.

subtle or not, you were winning this man over one shameless compliment at a time.

reblogs and comments are appreciated ᯓ★

© ialreadymadeyouapromise 2024.

[cherryxbooo]

May I please request a fic where the female reader is an FBI agent and former Marine who has a reputation for being tenacious and tough and she runs into the LAPD while working on a case, reuniting with Tim whom she has a passionate history with?

Just like old times

Summary: Y/N, an FBI agent, reunites with her former lover, Tim Bradford, while working on a dangerous case with the LAPD. Their chemistry rekindles, and after the case, their relationship is revealed, sparking curiosity among Tim’s coworkers.

Note: First of all, I want to thank all of you for all the support you showed me on my last few fics. It means a lot, thank you so much 🫶🤞Thank you for your request, I gave it my own little spin so I hope you like it! Enjoy 🤍

Reader x Tim Bradford

Genre: Fluff/tiny bit of angst (if you squint lol)

The police station buzzed with the usual chaos: phones ringing, officers shuffling through files, and the occasional banter to lighten the tension of their work.

But the air shifted when the captain’s door opened, revealing Commander Grey alongside a woman in an impeccably tailored suit.

The first thing people noticed about her wasn’t her striking appearance, though that was undeniable.

It was the way she carried herself; shoulders squared, gaze sharp, exuding an air of authority and control.

It was the look of someone who had seen the worst humanity had to offer and lived to tell the tale.

“Who’s that?” Jackson West muttered to Lucy Chen as they leaned against the edge of their desks.

“No idea,” Lucy replied, narrowing her eyes at the mysterious newcomer. “But she screams FBI.”

Angela Lopez walked up, crossing her arms. “She doesn’t just scream it, she’s it. Look at the badge on her belt.”

“Great,” Lucy said under her breath. “Another suit to look down on us.”

As the whispers spread, Tim Bradford entered the bullpen, his usual brisk and no-nonsense demeanor firmly in place.

His sharp eyes scanned the room, narrowing when he caught sight of the figure beside Grey.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Tim froze mid-step.

It was you.

The last time Tim Bradford had seen you, the two of you had been tangled in a mess of emotions.

It was a heated goodbye neither of you wanted but both knew was necessary.

You had been on the fast track, transitioning from your time in the Marines to the FBI with an ambition he respected but couldn’t keep up with.

He was a police officer with roots too deep to pull up, and your career demanded a level of movement and detachment that didn’t fit into his world.

The chemistry between you had been undeniable, volatile at times, but magnetic.

When you were together, it was like nothing else existed. But the breakup wasn’t ugly; it was bittersweet.

You’d left with mutual respect and more than a little unresolved tension.

And now, years later, you were back.

“Bradford!” Grey’s voice snapped him out of his daze. “I need you for this.”

Tim approached, his expression unreadable, though the quick flicker of surprise in his eyes didn’t escape you.

You tilted your head slightly, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“Sergeant Bradford,” you said smoothly, your voice carrying the same confident edge he remembered.

“Agent Y/L/N,” he replied evenly, his tone giving nothing away.

“Wait,” Lucy whispered loudly to Angela and Jackson, “he knows her?!”

The case was a high-stakes operation that had everyone on edge. For months, the LAPD had been chasing leads on a sprawling human trafficking ring operating across state lines.

The criminals were highly organized, using fake businesses and offshore accounts to cover their tracks, and their connections ran deep, involving corrupt officials and dangerous enforcers.

Every lead the LAPD pursued seemed to hit a dead end. Frustration was mounting, especially for Tim Bradford, whose no-nonsense approach had been tested by the complexity of the operation.

The captain had finally called in a favor with the FBI, hoping a fresh perspective and federal resources could turn the tide.

That’s when they sent you.

When Commander Grey introduced you as the FBI agent assigned to the case, the bullpen had gone silent.

Your reputation had preceded you, not just as a skilled investigator but as a former Marine who was known for your grit and relentless pursuit of justice.

Tim’s coworkers were impressed, though they couldn’t help but notice the palpable tension between you and the sergeant.

“We’ve been tracking this network for years,” you explained during the initial briefing, clicking through a presentation of maps, photos, and suspect profiles.

“They use legitimate businesses,restaurants, shipping companies, as fronts for their operations. They’ve been moving people through LA under the radar, and we believe this city is a critical hub in their network.”

Lucy Chen leaned forward, studying one of the photos. “How are they avoiding detection?”

“Fake documents, forged permits, and insider help,” you said grimly.

“We suspect they have someone on the inside tipping them off. That’s why every move we make has to be airtight.”

Tim, seated at the back of the room, crossed his arms. “And what’s the endgame here? Arrest a few mid-level operatives while the bosses disappear?”

You met his gaze evenly. “The goal is to dismantle the entire network. That means taking down everyone, from the enforcers on the ground to the kingpins running the show.”

The room fell silent, the weight of the task settling over the team.

As the precinct buzzed with the aftermath of the sting operation's success, the atmosphere began to lighten.

Officers filtered out one by one, their weariness mingled with satisfaction.

You were seated at a table with a pile of paperwork, methodically logging the details of the operation, when Tim approached, his face unreadable but his presence grounding.

“Looks like the big bad FBI agent has paperwork too,” he teased, setting down a mug of coffee next to you.

“Don’t think for a second you’re exempt, Bradford,” you shot back, smirking as you gestured toward his own untouched stack of forms.

“Or is LAPD above such mundane tasks?”

“Not a chance,” he quipped, pulling out a chair and settling beside you.

Your easy banter didn’t go unnoticed. Lucy and Angela exchanged a curious glance from across the bullpen, while Jackson leaned closer to Nolan, whispering something that made him grin.

Eventually, Angela couldn’t resist. She sauntered over, her arms crossed and an amused expression on her face.

“So,” Angela began, dragging out the word. “How exactly do you two know each other?”

Tim stiffened slightly, though he didn’t look up from the file he was reviewing.

“Work,” he said curtly, clearly trying to shut down the conversation.

You arched an eyebrow at his abruptness but decided to play along. “We’ve crossed paths before,” you said vaguely, keeping your tone neutral.

Angela wasn’t satisfied. “Crossed paths? That’s it? Because the two of you seem awfully... in sync.”

Lucy, unable to resist joining in, pulled up a chair.

“Yeah, it’s like you’re finishing each other’s sentences out there. Spill. Is this some FBI-Marine/army secret society thing?”

Tim finally glanced up, his expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “We’ve worked together before. End of story.”

“Oh, come on, Bradford,” Nolan chimed in, grinning. “You can’t just drop breadcrumbs and expect us not to follow.”

You exchanged a glance with Tim, silently communicating whether or not to indulge them.

His slight shake of the head told you all you needed to know: he wasn’t about to open up. Still, you decided to throw them a bone.

“Let’s just say Tim and I have some shared history in... high-stress situations,” you said, your tone deliberately cryptic.

Lucy’s eyes lit up. “Oh, like what? You were partners? Rivals?”

“Or lovers?” Angela added slyly, clearly enjoying Tim’s discomfort.

Tim shot her a sharp look. “Focus on your own love life, Lopez.”

“Oh, relax,” Angela said, waving a hand. “We’re just curious. It’s not every day we see you get along with someone.”

You bit back a laugh, deciding to rescue him. “It’s complicated, okay? And classified.”

That seemed to satisfy them... For now.

They dispersed, though you caught them glancing back occasionally, whispering among themselves.

Tim let out a low sigh, running a hand through his hair.

“Classified?” he echoed, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’re welcome,” you replied with a wink, returning to your paperwork.

Later that evening, when the station was nearly empty, Tim and you were left alone to tie up loose ends.

The earlier teasing lingered in the air, but now it felt like a private joke between the two of you.

“You think they’ll let it go?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“Not a chance,” Tim said dryly. “Lopez will probably turn it into a guessing game, and Chen will dig through every detail of my life.”

You chuckled. “They seem like a good group.”

“They are,” Tim admitted, his voice softening. “Annoying, but good.”

There was a brief pause, then he looked at you with a hint of a smile. “Thanks for handling that back there.”

You shrugged. “Part of the job, Bradford. I’ve got your six, remember?”

His expression shifted, something more serious flickering in his eyes. “I know you do. Always have.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, the weight of his words settling over you like a warm blanket.

Then, with a faint smile, you nudged his stack of paperwork toward him.

“Now finish your reports, Sergeant,” you teased.

The morning after your arrival at the station, you found yourself in the briefing room, surrounded by Tim and his team.

The station buzzed with an energy you hadn’t felt since your days in the Marines.

As a former Marine turned FBI agent, you were used to commanding respect and navigating high-pressure situations.

Today, though, you were walking into a hornet’s nest.

Grey stood at the front of the room, the case details projected on the screen behind him.

“Alright, people, listen up. We’re working with Agent Y/L/N on this one, so I expect full cooperation.”

Your name was enough to draw a few looks, especially after yesterday’s whispers about your connection to Tim.

You stayed professional, though, your expression unreadable as Grey continued.

“The target is Ethan Marlow,” Grey said, gesturing to a mugshot on the screen.

A rugged man with a scar across his cheek and an unmistakable smirk stared back at the room.

“Suspected arms dealer. We’ve been trying to nail him for months, but he’s slippery. Last week, we got a tip that he’s planning a major shipment through the Los Angeles docks.”

You stepped forward, holding a remote to switch slides.

“Marlow’s operation is large, but he’s not untouchable. My team and I have been tracking his movements across state lines, and we believe his associates are using a shell company to smuggle weapons through legitimate cargo shipments.”

Lucy raised her hand. “Why not just hit the docks and seize the cargo?”

“Because Marlow doesn’t work alone,” you replied, flipping to a map that highlighted his network.

“His associates are just as dangerous, and if we spook them, they’ll scatter. We need to cut off the head of the operation. That means Marlow.”

Tim’s eyes flicked to you, his brows furrowing slightly.

He wasn’t used to taking orders from anyone, but he respected competence. And you? You radiated it.

Angela chimed in. “What’s our play?”

You glanced at her, then looked back at the team.

“Marlow’s hosting a private party at a nightclub downtown tonight. It’s our best shot at getting close to him.”

“Undercover?” Nolan asked, leaning forward.

You nodded. “Exactly. We’ve got a cover story and fake identities for two officers. You’ll mingle, gather intel, and plant a tracker on Marlow’s vehicle.”

Tim leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “And who’s going in?”

You paused, meeting his gaze directly.

“You and I.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. Tim’s lips quirked into a faint smirk, his demeanor calm despite the weight of your suggestion.

Angela raised an eyebrow. “Well, this just got interesting.”

As the team dispersed to prepare for the operation, you caught up with Tim in the hallway.

The sound of your boots echoed against the tiled floor as you fell into step beside him.

“Was that a problem?” you asked, glancing up at him.

He shrugged. “Nope. Just wondering how you managed to finagle me into this.”

A sly smile curved your lips. “Thought you’d appreciate the chance to dress up.”

Tim chuckled, low and warm. “You’ve got jokes.”

There was a pause as you both walked in companionable silence.

Memories of your past flashed unbidden in your mind, the long nights on stakeouts, the adrenaline-fueled moments of action, and the quieter times, when his touch was all you needed to feel safe.

“Remember the first time we worked together?” you asked softly.

Tim glanced at you, his expression softening. “Yeah. That drug bust in San Diego. You saved my ass.”

“You were pinned down,” you reminded him, smirking. “I didn’t have a choice.”

He shook his head, his voice quieter. “You didn’t hesitate. Not once.”

“It’s what we do,” you said simply, though your heart warmed at the admiration in his voice.

Tim stopped walking, turning to face you. “Y/N... what happened with us... back then—I never really got a chance to explain.”

You held up a hand, cutting him off gently. “Tim, it’s okay. We both had our reasons.”

“But you’re here now,” he said, his voice steady. “That’s what matters.”

For a moment, the unspoken history between you hung in the air, a tangible thread connecting the past to the present.

Then, the sound of a door opening down the hall broke the moment, and you both fell back into step.

Later that evening, you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your earpiece and smoothing out the sleek black dress you’d chosen for the undercover op.

Tim emerged from the adjacent room, his suit perfectly tailored, exuding confidence. His gaze flicked to you, lingering a beat too long.

“Looking good, Agent,” he remarked, his voice teasing but low enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“You clean up nicely yourself, Bradford,” you replied, adjusting his tie.

As you rode to the nightclub together, the tension in the air was palpable, not the bad kind, but the kind that made your pulse quicken and your senses sharpen.

You exchanged glances, each silently acknowledging the trust you’d built through years of working together.

Inside the club, the operation went off smoothly, at least at first. You and Tim played your parts to perfection, your chemistry undeniable as you mingled with the crowd.

Marlow was sharp, but not sharp enough to see through your cover. It wasn’t until a hiccup in the plan, a sudden appearance of Marlow’s enforcers, that things took a dangerous turn.

The nightclub pulsed with the heavy bass of music, its dim lighting and crowded space creating an almost oppressive atmosphere.

You navigated the sea of people with ease, Tim trailing behind you as you both subtly scanned for your target.

Marlow was seated in a VIP booth, surrounded by his entourage, his laughter echoing through the space.

Tim leaned closer to your ear, his voice low and steady. “We’ve got eyes on him. What’s the play?”

You turned slightly, catching his intense gaze in the neon glow. “I’ll distract him. You plant the tracker.”

His jaw tightened. “You sure about that?”

“Tim,” you said, your tone firm. “I’ve done this a hundred times.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it,” he muttered, but he didn’t argue further.

Adjusting your posture, you approached Marlow’s booth with the confidence of someone who belonged.

His eyes flicked to you immediately, a sly grin spreading across his face as he motioned for you to come closer.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “Who do we have here?”

You gave him a coy smile, slipping into character. “Someone who heard you’re the man to know in this town.”

As you spoke, you felt Tim’s presence nearby, his movements precise as he maneuvered around the booth.

The tension in your shoulders eased slightly, until one of Marlow’s men, a bulky enforcer with a sharp gaze, stood abruptly, his eyes narrowing on Tim.

“Who’s this guy?” the enforcer barked, his voice cutting through the din.

Tim didn’t miss a beat. “Relax. I’m just here to grab a drink.”

The enforcer didn’t look convinced. Marlow waved a hand, his focus still on you. “He’s fine. Sit down.”

Tim used the distraction to slide the tracker beneath the table, his hand steady despite the close proximity of Marlow’s crew.

You kept the conversation light, your laughter carefully timed, your every move calculated to keep the target’s attention on you.

But just as you thought you were in the clear, Marlow’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, his expression shifting to one of suspicion. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He stood abruptly, motioning for his men to follow.

Your heart raced as you exchanged a look with Tim, both of you realizing the same thing: something was off.

As Marlow disappeared into a back room, you and Tim quickly regrouped.

“He’s onto us,” Tim said, his voice low but urgent.

“We need to pull out,” you replied, scanning the room for the nearest exit.

Before you could move, one of Marlow’s men appeared, his gun drawn. The tension in the air snapped like a live wire.

Tim stepped in front of you instinctively, his stance protective.

“Easy,” Tim said, his tone calm but authoritative. “We’re just leaving.”

The man didn’t budge, his finger twitching near the trigger. You acted quickly, your Marine instincts kicking in as you disarmed him with a swift, calculated movement.

The gun clattered to the floor, and chaos erupted.

Tim grabbed your hand, pulling you through the panicked crowd as more of Marlow’s men gave chase.

The music and flashing lights blurred into a cacophony of sound and color as you navigated the crowded dance floor, your adrenaline surging.

“Out the back!” Tim shouted, his grip on your hand firm.

You burst through the back exit, the cool night air hitting your skin like a shock.

Tim covered you as you drew your weapon, both of you taking defensive positions as Marlow’s men spilled into the alley.

Shots rang out, the sharp crack of gunfire echoing in the narrow space.

By the time backup arrived, the scene was secured, and Marlow’s operation was compromised.

You stood with Tim in the aftermath, both of you catching your breath as you surveyed the chaos.

“You okay?” Tim asked, his voice steady despite the adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though your hands were still trembling slightly. “You?”

“I’m good,” he said, his eyes lingering on you. “You didn’t have to jump in like that.”

You gave him a wry smile. “What? And let you play hero? Not a chance.”

His lips twitched into a small grin, but the concern in his gaze remained. “You scared the hell out of me back there.”

Before you could respond, Captain Grey approached, his expression a mix of relief and frustration. “Nice work, Agent Y/L/N. But next time, let’s try to avoid a full-blown shootout.”

“Noted,” you said, nodding.

Back at the station, the air surrounded with residual energy from the operation.

As everyone debriefed, Lucy sidled up to Angela, her eyes flicking between you and Tim, who were standing a little too close for professional comfort.

“Okay, what’s the deal with them?” Lucy whispered.

Angela smirked. “I don’t know, but I’m dying to find out.”

Nolan, ever the curious one, joined in. “You think they’ve really worked together before?”

“Obviously,” Angela said, her tone teasing. “But there’s definitely more to it.”

Harper chimed in, her arms crossed as she observed from a distance. “They’ve got history. You can see it.”

As the group speculated, Tim and you shared a glance, both aware of the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

For now, though, you kept your history, and the rekindled spark between you, to yourselves.

Later that evening, after the precinct had quieted down, you and Tim found yourselves in the dimly lit briefing room, both reviewing reports from the operation.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, it was thick with unspoken words, lingering tension, and the familiarity of years past.

Tim glanced up from his file, his voice breaking the quiet. “You were incredible out there today.”

You smirked, not looking up from your notes. “I know.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Still as humble as ever, I see.”

Setting your pen down, you met his gaze, your expression softening. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, his tone turning more serious.

“You scared me back there, you know. When that guy pulled the gun.”

“I’ve been in worse situations,” you said with a small shrug, trying to downplay it.

“Doesn’t make it easier to watch,” he replied, his jaw tightening.

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “Tim, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know the risks.”

“I know you do,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with you putting yourself in the line of fire.”

“Funny,” you said, tilting your head. “That’s exactly how I felt about you the last time we worked together.”

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge how much of the past you were willing to bring up.

Finally, he leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “And how did that work out for you?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Not great, Bradford. You have a way of making people care whether they want to or not.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile. “Same could be said for you.”

The words hung between you, heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

A few hours later, after the station had emptied out, Tim offered to drive you back to your temporary FBI accommodations.

The ride was quiet at first, the hum of the engine filling the space.

“Still driving this beast?” you teased, gesturing to his truck.

He grinned. “Reliable. Like me.”

You snorted. “Debatable.”

As the truck came to a stop outside your building, he shifted in his seat to face you. “Listen, I’ve been thinking…”

“That sounds dangerous,” you quipped, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for your hand, his touch gentle but firm. “I’ve missed you, Y/N. Not just working with you. You.”

Your breath caught, the sincerity in his eyes nearly undoing you. “Tim…”

“I know we didn’t end things the way we wanted,” he continued, his voice steady but soft. “But seeing you again… it’s like no time has passed. And I can’t ignore it anymore.”

You looked down at your intertwined hands, your heart racing. “Tim, this job… our lives… nothing’s simple.”

“I’m not asking for simple,” he said, his tone resolute. “I’m asking for you. Whatever that looks like.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, raw and honest in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

But as you looked at him, his expression equal parts hopeful and vulnerable, you realized that maybe you were.

The next day, you arrived at the station to find Tim waiting for you, two cups of coffee in hand.

He handed you one without a word, his fingers brushing against yours.

The small gesture sent a spark through you, a silent acknowledgment of the conversation you’d had the night before.

As you worked through the details of the case, the team’s curiosity about your relationship with Tim only grew.

Lucy, ever the inquisitive one, cornered you during a quiet moment.

“So,” she began, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “You and Tim—what’s the story there?”

You smirked, taking a sip of your coffee. “You’ll have to ask him.”

When Lucy relayed this to Angela, Nolan, and Harper, it only fueled their determination.

During a briefing, Nolan couldn’t help but ask outright. “How exactly do you two know each other?”

Tim shot him a look that could wither a cactus. “Not your business, Nolan.”

Angela leaned back in her chair, smirking. “Interesting. Usually, you’re a lot less… protective.”

“Drop it,” Tim said, his tone leaving no room for argument. But the subtle way his eyes flicked to you didn’t go unnoticed.

Later, after the team had dispersed, you found Tim waiting for you by your car.

He leaned against it, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“You okay?” you asked, approaching him.

He nodded, then gestured for you to come closer. When you did, he pulled you into a quick, fierce hug, the suddenness of it catching you off guard.

Not expecting the cold, grumpy Tim Bradford to behave this way.

“What’s that for?” you asked, your voice muffled against his chest.

“Just wanted to,” he said simply, his tone soft.

As you stood there in the quiet of the parking lot, you realized that while the job might be dangerous and the past might be complicated, having Tim by your side made it all feel a little less daunting.

The next morning, you arrived at the station to find Tim already in the war room.

He stood in front of a large board covered with photos, timelines, and maps, his focus intense.

It was a scene you were familiar with, Tim Bradford in full mission mode.

“Morning,” you said, stepping inside with a coffee in hand.

He turned, his expression softening when he saw you. “Morning. Got started early.”

“I can see that.” You handed him a second coffee. “Figured you might need this.”

He took it with a small smile. “You know me too well.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Old habits die hard.”

The two of you stood side by side, going over the latest developments in the case.

The criminal organization you were tracking was sophisticated, with layers of secrecy and a network of loyal operatives.

It was the kind of operation that required precision, patience, and trust.

“I think they’re using the docks as a secondary drop point,” you said, tapping a location on the map.

“We need to get eyes on it, but we can’t tip them off.”

Tim nodded. “Agreed. Harper and I can run surveillance. You and Nolan can follow up on the warehouse lead.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Nolan? You’re pairing me with a rookie?”

“He’s not a rookie anymore,” Tim replied, smirking. “And I trust him.”

“Fine,” you said, pretending to grumble. “But if he slows me down, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

Tim chuckled. “Noted.”

As the day progressed, the rest of the team couldn’t help but notice the easy rapport between you and Tim.

Lucy, always perceptive, leaned over to Angela as the two of you passed by.

“They’re definitely hiding something,” she whispered.

“Obviously,” Angela replied. “But what? They act like they’ve known each other forever.”

Harper, overhearing the conversation, chimed in. “Whatever it is, Tim’s not going to spill. You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said, grinning. “But Y/N might be more willing to share.”

The three women exchanged a conspiratorial look before following you into the bullpen.

“So,” Lucy began, leaning casually against a desk. “How’s working with Tim treating you?”

You glanced up from your notes, arching an eyebrow. “Fine. Why?”

“No reason,” she said, feigning innocence. “Just curious. You two seem... close.”

“We’ve worked together before,” you said simply, refusing to elaborate.

Angela smirked. “And how did that go?”

“About as well as you’d expect,” you replied, your tone even.

Their curiosity only grew, but before they could press further, Tim appeared, his presence effectively ending the conversation.

He shot you a look as if to ask if you were okay. You gave him a subtle nod, and he relaxed.

Later that evening, the team gathered to finalize the operational plan. The stakes were high, if the operation failed, it could mean months of lost work and the possibility of the suspects disappearing altogether.

“The docks are our best shot,” Harper said, her tone firm. “But we need solid backup. These guys won’t go down without a fight.”

“I’ll take point,” you said without hesitation.

Tim frowned. “No way. It’s too risky.”

You met his gaze, your expression unwavering. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can,” he said, his voice quieter. “But I’m not letting you go in alone.”

The room fell silent as the tension between you and Tim became palpable.

The rest of the team exchanged glances but didn’t intervene.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But don’t slow me down.”

Tim’s lips quirked into a small smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The docks were dark and quiet, the salty breeze carrying a faint hint of diesel and seaweed.

You and Tim crouched behind a stack of shipping containers, eyes scanning the area for any sign of movement.

The operation had reached its climax, and you were at the forefront of the action.

“I count three guards near the north entrance,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the distant hum of machinery.

Tim nodded, his gaze sharp. “Two more near the warehouse entrance. Harper’s team is covering the perimeter.”

You adjusted your earpiece, your heart steady despite the tension. This wasn’t your first high-stakes operation, and you knew it wouldn’t be your last.

But there was something different about this one. Working alongside Tim brought a layer of intensity and focus you hadn’t felt in years.

“On my signal,” Tim said, his voice calm but authoritative. “We take out the guards at the north entrance first. Quietly.”

You nodded, your fingers tightening around your weapon. “Got it.”

As the seconds ticked by, you felt Tim shift closer to you. His shoulder brushed against yours, a subtle reminder that he had your back.

Despite the danger, his presence was grounding, a steady force in the chaos.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low.

“Always,” you replied, a small smirk playing on your lips.

The operation moved quickly. You and Tim approached the guards with practiced precision, each movement coordinated and silent.

When the first guard turned, you stepped forward, delivering a swift and calculated blow that sent him crumpling to the ground.

Tim handled the second guard with equal efficiency, his movements smooth and controlled.

“Clear,” you whispered, signaling to the rest of the team.

From the earpiece, Harper’s voice came through. “Perimeter’s secure. We’re moving in.”

You and Tim pressed forward, making your way toward the warehouse.

The massive structure loomed ahead, its rusted exterior illuminated by flickering floodlights.

Inside, you knew the operation’s ringleader was waiting, along with the final pieces of evidence needed to bring the entire organization down.

As you reached the entrance, Tim glanced at you, his expression serious. “You good?”

You gave him a confident nod. “Let’s finish this.”

The air inside the warehouse was heavy with the scent of oil and metal.

Stacks of crates and pallets created a labyrinth of narrow pathways, each one more precarious than the last.

You and Tim moved silently, your weapons at the ready.

“Two o’clock,” Tim murmured, gesturing toward a shadowy figure near the back of the room.

You nodded, signaling that you’d cover him. Tim moved ahead, his steps deliberate and soundless.

He closed the distance to the suspect with remarkable speed, subduing him before he had a chance to react.

But just as the suspect hit the ground, the room erupted in chaos.

Another figure appeared, shouting a warning that sent the rest of the criminals scrambling.

“Contact!” you shouted into your earpiece, diving behind a stack of crates as gunfire erupted.

Tim dropped beside you, his expression tight. “We’ve got to neutralize them before they make a run for it.”

“On it,” you said, your adrenaline surging.

The two of you moved as a unit, covering each other as you advanced through the warehouse.

You took down one suspect after another, your training and instincts kicking in with precision.

Tim’s presence beside you was a constant, his sharp commands and quick reflexes ensuring that you were always one step ahead of the danger.

As the chaos subsided, you found yourself face-to-face with the ringleader.

He stood in the center of the room, a smug grin on his face as he held a gun pointed in your direction.

“Drop it,” you ordered, your voice cold and commanding.

The man chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t scare me.”

“You should be scared,” Tim said, stepping beside you. His tone was low and menacing, his weapon trained on the suspect.

For a moment, the air was thick with tension. Then, with a sudden burst of movement, the suspect lunged toward a nearby crate. But he didn’t get far.

In a flash, you and Tim fired simultaneously, your shots hitting their mark with precision.

The suspect crumpled to the ground, his weapon clattering harmlessly to the floor.

“Clear,” Tim said, his voice steady.

You nodded, lowering your weapon. The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving you with a sense of relief and satisfaction.

“Nice shot,” you said, glancing at Tim.

“Right back at you,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips.

As the rest of the team secured the scene and processed the suspects, you and Tim stepped outside to catch your breath.

The cool night air was a welcome contrast to the stifling heat of the warehouse.

“That was intense,” you said, leaning against a nearby railing.

Tim chuckled, shaking his head. “Just another day at the office.”

You rolled your eyes, but a smile crept onto your face. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re reckless,” he shot back, his tone teasing. “But I guess that’s why we make a good team.”

The banter felt easy and familiar, a reminder of the connection you shared.

As the night wore on, you couldn’t help but feel grateful for the chance to work alongside Tim again, even if it meant navigating the complexities of your past and present.

But one thing was clear: together, you were a force to be reckoned with.

After the successful operation, the precinct was buzzing with activity. Arrests had been made, evidence was secured, and the team was riding the high of a job well done.

You and Tim lingered in the bullpen, going over the final report. The room had emptied out, leaving the two of you alone.

Repeating the same praises and compliments to each other.

“You were amazing out there,” Tim said, his voice low.

“You weren’t so bad yourself,” you replied, smirking.

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “So, what now? Back to the FBI?”

“For now,” you said. “But I’m sure our paths will cross again.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said, his gaze steady.

There was a beat of silence before he added, “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever worked with anyone like you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”

“Definitely,” he said, his tone warm.

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment before he reached out, his hand brushing against yours.

It was a small gesture, but it carried a weight of unspoken feelings.

“Y/N,” he said softly,

“I know we’ve been dancing around this, but... I’ve missed having you in my life. Not just as a partner. As you.”

Your breath caught, his words sinking in. “Tim, I—”

Before you could finish, he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was equal parts tender and passionate.

It was a moment of clarity, the past and present colliding in a way that felt inevitable.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours. “Tell me this isn’t just me.”

“It’s not,” you whispered, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions. “It never has been.”

While the road ahead wasn’t without its challenges, one thing was clear: together, you were unstoppable.

The next day, you found yourself back at the LAPD station, but there was an odd tension in the air.

You had already wrapped up your part of the case, and you were supposed to head back to the FBI, but something kept pulling you back to this familiar place, and to Tim.

As you entered the station, you couldn’t help but notice the curious glances from his coworkers.

You tried to brush it off, but the whispers had already begun. You knew exactly why. The mission was over, so why were you still here?

Nolan, Angela, and Lucy were at their desks, exchanging amused looks as they watched you walk by.

Their curiosity was palpable, but they hadn’t dared to say anything, yet.

Tim sat at his desk in the busy LAPD station, sorting through a pile of paperwork.

The usual hum of phones ringing, conversations about cases, and the sound of boots echoing in the hallway filled the air.

But none of it seemed to matter. Not when his mind kept drifting back to her.

Y/N.

You had been on his mind ever since their time together last night. The way your smile made his heart skip a beat, the way your laughter felt like a melody to him, everything about you seemed to ground him, even when the world was chaos.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching his desk.

He looked up, and there she was: Y/N. His chest tightened at the sight of her, and a smile spread across his face almost instantly.

You were standing in front of him, hands in the pockets of her jacket, looking at him with a soft but knowing smile.

You didn’t say anything at first, just took in the sight of him with those warm, familiar eyes.

"Hey," Tim said, his voice low and filled with affection, as if the word itself held a thousand meanings.

He stood up, his gaze softening when their eyes met.

Your smile grew, your heart fluttering at the sight of him. You were always struck by how effortlessly he seemed to make everything feel right, even on the busiest of days.

"Hey, yourself," you replied, your voice sweet, with a hint of playfulness.

Tim’s hand reached out instinctively, his fingers brushing against yours.

The simple touch sent a spark through both of us. It was as if the world faded away, leaving just the two of us standing in this quiet, intimate moment.

"You’re here early," Tim commented, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand as you stood there together.

"I wanted to see you," you admitted, your voice a little softer than usual, a hint of shyness lacing your words. "I missed you."

His heart thudded in his chest, and without thinking, he pulled you into him, wrapping his arms around you.

You melted into him almost immediately, your head resting on his chest.

Tim closed his eyes, the familiar scent of your perfume making him feel like everything was in place.

"I missed you too," he murmured against your hair. The words were simple, but they held so much weight.

He felt the warmth of you in his arms, and it made the stresses of the day feel like nothing.

You tilted your head back slightly to look up at him. His face was inches from yours, and you could feel his breath against your skin.

You loved how close you both were. There was something about being in his arms that made everything seem okay, no matter what was happening around us.

Tim’s hand cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your skin. "You okay?" he asked softly, his voice filled with concern.

"I am now," you replied with a small smile, your hand resting over his where it gently held your face. "Just needed to see you."

Your heart raced at the way he looked at you, so open, so trusting. He leaned down, his lips grazing yours in a gentle, lingering kiss.

It was tender, soft, like the kiss had all the time in the world.

When you pulled away, Tim let out a quiet sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

"I don’t want to let go," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

"You don’t have to," you whispered back, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding him close.

Tim smiled, the corners of his lips curling up in a way that only you could make happen. "Good," he said, his voice low and full of affection.

He kissed you again, this time deeper, the kiss filled with a hunger that had been building ever since you'd parted ways the night before.

You both broke away a few moments later, your faces flushed, breaths heavy.

Tim pressed his forehead against yours again, as if trying to ground himself in the moment.

"You’re everything to me," he whispered, the words sincere and full of emotion.

It was rare saying the Tim Bradford like this, all soft. But it was the best thing you've witnessed and you wouldn't change it for anything.

You closed your eyes, your hands gently brushing through his hair.

"And you’re everything to me," you said, your voice soft but filled with so much love.

The moment stretched on, neither of you wanting to move away, to break the peace that had settled between you.

You were lost in your own world, the chaos of the station and the responsibilities of your lives fading into the background.

It was just the two of you, connected, in your own little bubble.

Finally, Tim pulled back slightly, still holding you close. He smiled at you with a softness in his eyes that only you had the power to draw out.

"I’m glad you’re here," he said, his voice a little rough from the intensity of your shared moment.

"I’m glad too," you replied, your fingers tracing small patterns across his chest. "I’m not going anywhere this time."

Tim’s heart swelled with warmth at your words. He leaned down to press a final kiss to your lips, slow and tender.

It wasn’t about passion this time, it was about the connection you had, the unspoken understanding between you.

As you broke the kiss, you smiled up at him. "I guess I should probably let you get back to work," you said, a playful glint in your eyes.

Tim chuckled, but there was a hint of reluctance in his voice. "Yeah," he agreed, his thumb brushing over your cheek one more time. "But I don’t want to let go of you."

"Then don’t," you said softly, your voice filled with a quiet promise.

"Do you think the others suspected anything?"

"Oh definitely."

Meanwhile, the others were spying on both of you, their curiosity getting the best of them.

His coworkers froze, watching in disbelief through the glass window as Tim, usually stoic and reserved, wrapped his arms around you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Oh, my God,” Lucy muttered under her breath, eyes wide. “Is that...?”

“I think that’s Y/N,” Nolan said, his voice trailing off as he tried to make sense of the situation.

“Bradford,” Lucy called out from far, unable to keep her curiosity in check. Storming into his office with the others close behind.

“Since when do you get all... affectionate?”

Tim glanced at them, his usual tough exterior slipping for a brief moment. He didn’t say anything at first, just held you there, savoring the moment.

You, however, were more than willing to answer their questions.

“You all have a lot of questions, don’t you?” you asked with a playful smile, glancing at Tim before meeting the others’ eyes.

Angela raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “We’ve never seen you like this, Tim. And you’ve been so secretive about everything. Who’s this?”

You looked up at Tim, the quiet understanding between you two enough to convey everything they needed to know.

“She’s my girlfriend, so I can do whatever I want.” Tim finally said, his voice firm, as if to silence any further questioning.

He didn’t give them much to go on but the simple truth.

The room went silent.

“Your girlfriend?” Jackson asked, his voice filled with disbelief. “Since when?”

Tim shrugged. “Not too long ago." Tim didn't want them to directly know that the two of you had just gotten back together.

“Not too long ago?” Lucy said, her jaw dropping. “And none of us knew? How... how is that even possible?”

Tim simply glanced at you with a soft smile, giving you the space to add something if you wanted.

You cleared your throat, still not entirely used to the attention.

“We’re private,” you said, your voice gentle but steady. “I’m not here for attention. Just... helping out with the case.”

Angela, ever the inquisitive one, tilted her head. “But you’re an FBI agent, right? What’s the deal with you two?”

You shared a glance with Tim before speaking, your tone calm and honest.

“We’ve known each other for a while. Tim and I have a history... and we’ve kept things private for a reason.”

Tim stepped in then, his expression soft but serious. “This is a personal matter. We’re not ready to share all the details. But Y/N means a lot to me, and that’s all that matters.”

The others nodded, though they still seemed a little stunned by the revelation.

After a brief pause, Jackson chuckled. “I guess that explains the... intimate moment earlier.”

Tim shot him a look, and you laughed, nudging Tim’s side playfully.

“Don’t worry,” you said, “We’ll make sure to keep it professional here. But the personal stuff? That’s ours.”

The others shared a mix of understanding and disbelief, their questions lingering in the air.

But before anyone could press further, you gave Tim a final, sweet smile.

“I should get going,” you said, your hand resting lightly on his chest. “I have work to do. But we’ll talk more later.”

As you turned to leave, Lucy caught your arm, her tone softer now, almost teasing.

“Hey, you’re always welcome to come by. It’s nice seeing Tim... happy. Maybe next time we’ll get to know you better, huh?”

You grinned, nodding. “Next time.”

With that, you left the station, feeling the eyes of Tim’s coworkers on you, but not in a bad way, just a little curious.

Back at your car, you smiled to yourself, the warmth from Tim’s touch still lingering on your skin.

You couldn’t deny it, everything was changing. But you knew you had Tim by your side, and that made it all feel right.

That evening, Tim greeted you at the door with a soft smile and a tight embrace.

You both had a quiet dinner together, sitting at the small kitchen table as you talked about your day.

“Thanks for letting me steal you away today,” Tim said, his fingers brushing yours as he handed you a glass of wine.

“Anytime,” you replied, your voice soft. “I love being around you, Tim. It feels like... everything falls into place when I’m with you. Just like old times.”

Tim leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead. “Me too, Y/N. I couldn’t imagine my life without you now.”

The conversation flowed easily, and the quiet moments between you both were more than enough to make everything feel complete.

As you both relaxed into the evening, you knew this was just the beginning of something bigger, something that felt right.

And in the silence of your shared space, surrounded by love and the soft rhythm of each other’s breathing, you knew you’d navigate whatever came next together.

The end

[darlingdaisyfarm]

Alrighty, beautiful human, I have a request for you if you have the time: I desperately need fluffy Ford. I need kisses and cuddling. The general story is up to you, but I NEED sweet, loving Stanford.

hello, sweetheart <333 thank you for requesting this because I also need sweet, loving Ford myself :,,) but I’m so sorry, about the cuddling part - I got carried away and missed it aghhh I hate myself :(((

ps - I’m absolutely in love with ur fics💗

tags: kind of awkward Ford, coffee date, autumn, forest, fluff, sfw

Leaves crunched underfoot as you and Ford wandered through the forest, the path framed by trees ablaze in shades of red, orange and gold. The air was crisp, carrying the earthy scent of damp moss and fallen leaves. Ford seemed to take it all in with a kind of wonder, like he was seeing the world with new eyes — which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth. After so many years spent away from this dimension, you thought it was cute how he marveled at simple things like sunlight filtering through branches.

“Thirty years,” Stanford started. “thirty autumns I missed. I almost forgot the way the colors seem to breathe in this season." 

He reached up, fingers brushing a low-hanging branch laden with scarlet leaves, and you smiled at that. There was something so sweet about his awe, his joy, so obvious at moments like this.

“Guess you’re getting to be an Earth tourist now,” you teased gently. 

Ford chuckled, giving you a sidelong glance. “Ah, yes, perhaps. But I think I like this. . . rediscovery.” a small smile tugged at his lips. “some things are even better than I remember.”

The path opened to a clearing with a breathtaking view of the valley below, a sea of trees stretching into the distance, every shade of autumn imaginable. You stopped, a thought popping into your head as you took out your phone. “Hey, Ford,” you called, grinning. “take a picture of me?”

He looked at you, surprised, then down at the phone like you’d just handed him a puzzle box. “A picture?” he held the phone with both hands. “Of course, but. . . er, bear with me. These things were a bit. . . different last time I checked.”

You stifled a laugh, nodding as you struck a pose. “Just press that button,” you said, pointing at the screen. “It’ll be easy, I promise.”

Ford cleared his throat, focusing intently as he poked at the screen. "Alright. let me see. I just. . . press this here?"

But as he tried to get his bearings, he accidentally tapped the wrong icon. Suddenly, the camera flipped and his own face filled the screen — caught mid-frown, brow furrowed in confusion. He froze, staring at his reflection like it had personally betrayed him.

“Oh. . . uh. . .” his cheeks flushed as he looked between you and the screen, thoroughly bewildered. “It appears I’ve become the subject instead. Hold on. . . where did— no, this— ah, infernal contraption. . .” Ford mumbled, eyes squinting in concentration as he fumbled to switch it back.

You couldn’t help it — laughter bubbled out and you doubled over, nearly losing your balance. “Awww, Ford! you look so lost, it’s so cute!”

He looked up, flustered but laughing along with you. “Yes, well,” he grumbled, a crooked smile breaking through. “I can navigate alternate dimensions, but apparently, your ‘smartphone’ remains beyond my understanding. I think it’s mocking me.” with a sigh, he handed the phone back, an embarrassed grin still tugging at his lips. “Perhaps. . . perhaps I’ll leave the photographs to you, sweetheart.”

You took the phone from Ford’s hands, still chuckling as you swiped the screen to switch back to the camera. “Alright, here we go, Mr. Genius. Just try not to look too cute when you take my picture or I might just keep it as blackmail.” 

“Blackmail?” he feigned horror, eyes widening dramatically as he stepped back. “Sweetheart, you wound me! I thought we had an understanding! I’m an esteemed scientist, not a criminal mastermind!” 

You giggled and turned your back to him, posing with the beautiful autumn scenery as your backdrop. “Okay, now I’m ready!” 

Ford cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure as he positioned the camera. “Right, focus,” he told himself. “just like in my journals. You know, I could’ve cataloged the beauty of this moment scientifically, but no, I’m reduced to a photographer.” 

He pressed the button, and you could hear the faint click of the shutter. Turning to face him, you couldn't help but brighten at the awkward seriousness in his eyes. “You’re doing great! Now, maybe try a few more. I want options.”

“Options,” he repeated, still smiling, shaking his head in amusement. “Isn’t one good photo sufficient? the universe won’t implode if I don’t get a perfect shot.” 

“Yeah, but what if I want to look cute in a different way?” you teased, putting your hands on your hips.

With a smirk, Ford nodded. “Alright, what would you like? a ‘mysterious thinker’ look? of perhaps a ‘fierce scientist’ pose?” 

“Definitely the fierce scientist!” you exclaimed, throwing your head back dramatically. “I’ll pose like I just discovered a new dimension, just like my man.”

“Very well,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. “On the count of three. . . one, two—”

But before he could reach three, you struck a ridiculous pose, one hand on your hip and the other dramatically raised as if you were battling interdimensional forces. “take that, Bill Cipher!”

Ford burst out laughing, shaking his head. You were just too adorable in his eyes. “Sweetheart, I’m pretty sure Bill would be quaking in his. . . well, whatever he has in place of boots.”

He snapped the photo and you saw the corners of his mouth twitching, clearly trying to suppress his laughter. “Okay, now that was an excellent one. Hold on. . .” he leaned closer, inspecting the image as if it were a rare artifact. Ford seemed to have caught fire with the idea of photographing Bill's defeat.

“Let me see!” you leaned over, your shoulders brushing against his as you peered at the screen. 

“Oh, this is just splendid. You look so cute, darlin.” Ford leaned closer to examine the screen, fixing his glasses. 

Your heart fluttered at compliment and you nudged him playfully. “Now, you should get in the next one. I want a picture of us!”

He looked a bit apprehensive again, glancing at the phone like it might explode. “Are you sure? I mean, what if I fumble it again?” 

“Trust me, you’ll be fine!” you shot him an encouraging smile, and after a moment, he relented, taking the phone back.

“Alright, alright,” he said, adjusting his glasses as if preparing for a complex experiment. “just don’t move too much. I need to concentrate.”

You stood beside him, leaning into his side. “Okay, how’s this?” you asked, flashing a big grin.

“Perfect, hold still.” he raised the phone, staring intently at the screen like it contained the answers to the universe. 

“Uh, Ford, i think you need to press the button now.”

He blinked, breaking out of his focus. “Right! the button!” he pressed it, and just as he did, his finger slipped, causing the phone to snap a picture of you both in the most ridiculous pose — your mouth still open mid-laugh and Ford’s expression a mix of shock and concentration.

You burst into laughter again as Ford stared at the photo, face turning a shade of crimson. “Well, that’s certainly not going to be framed,” he muttered, trying to suppress his smile.

“Oh come on, it’s adorable!” you pressed your cheek against his.

However, your laugh made the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “I suppose it has a certain charm to it,” he admitted, chuckling softly. 

You grinned, putting your hand on his arm. “Let’s take another, hun, but this time, we’ll get it right. Just be yourself, Ford. No need for dignity.” 

“One, two. . . three!” you both said at same time.

Click! 

As the image captured, you both broke into laughter, the sound echoing through the autumn trees. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this free, this happy, sharing this moment with your couple. 

When Ford looked at the photo this time, a satisfied grin spread across his face. “Now that’s more like it,” he said, glancing at you with that spark of affection in his eyes.

As you admired the photos, a realisation suddenly struck you. “Wait!” you said excitedly, grabbing his arm before he could put the phone away.

Ford looked at you, curious. “Wait for what?”

“You’ve been gone thirty years, right? that means you haven’t tried my favourite coffee at that little café by the lake!” you could barely contain your enthusiasm, a wide genuine smile spreading across your face. “we have to go there right now!”

Ford raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a smile as he followed your lead. “Well, you know I can’t say no to my seasoned guide of modern luxuries.”

🍂🍂🍂

The café was a cozy little spot nestled on a quiet corner, with big windows that showcased the lake outside. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans, warm spices, and just a hint of something sugary, like caramel or maple syrup, filled your nostrils. You spotted a chalkboard behind the counter listing their seasonal drinks and pointed eagerly at one in particular.

“That’s it! The ‘Golden Harvest Latte.’ It’s a mix of espresso, steamed milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and a swirl of caramel. It’s like autumn in a cup, I swear.”

Ford eyed the menu with interest. Well, considering his last ‘caffeine experience’ involved coffee brewed over a campfire in another dimension. . . he was open to something a bit more refined.

The barista greeted you with a smile. “Hey there! the usual?”

“Absolutely! and I have a new fan who needs to try it,” you said, motioning to Ford.

You turned to him, your eyes sparkling with happiness. “You won’t regret it! just wait until you taste it.”

And soon, the barista handed over two steaming cups topped with a dusting of cinnamon and an artful swirl of caramel. The scent hit you first, warm and sweet, making your mouth water. You handed Ford his cup, watching as he eyed the foam with curiosity.

He brought the cup to his lips and took a careful sip, eyebrows lifting as the flavors blossomed across his tongue. The richness of the espresso and a hint of spicy warmth from the cinnamon and nutmeg, all balanced by the buttery sweetness of the caramel.

“Wow,” he murmured, eyes widening. “yeah, this is delicious. I didn't know that a drink could have such a complex taste.”

You laughed, pleased by his reaction, and took a long, indulgent sip of your own. “Right? It’s like drinking a warm hug, this is my absolute favorite fall treat.”

Ford took another sip, clearly savouring it this time, his expression softening as he looked out the window at the golden leaves falling. “It’s funny,” he said quietly, “I’ve been to so many places, seen so many strange and alien things, but it’s these little, simple moments that feel the most surreal. Sitting here, with you, drinking coffee.”

You reached across the table, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Well, lucky for you, there are plenty of little things like this to rediscover. And I’ll be here to make sure you try them all.”

🍂🍂🍂

Stepping out of the café, the refreshing autumn air greeted you both, still tinged with the scent of cinnamon and coffee. Ford held the door for you, the smile never quite leaving his face as he watched you rummage in your bag for something. Finally, you pulled out your lipstick, a soft, rich shade that matched Ford’s turtleneck perfectly. 

“Would you look at that,” you said, holding it up beside his collar with a little grin. “I guess I’ve got a good eye.”

Ford chuckled, glancing between the color and his sweater. “It seems I’m unknowingly fashionable. I’ll take that as a compliment.” his eyes lingered on you as you applied the lipstick, your lips soft and inviting, the color blooming in a way that seemed to suit the season and Ford watched, clearly entranced.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you capped the lipstick, noticing the way his gaze softened.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, though his voice had a gentleness to it, he swallowed, shifting his stance slightly. “just appreciating the moment.”

You took a small step closer, lifting a hand to rest gently on his chest. Ford’s breath hitched, neither of you spoke, both letting the warmth build in the silence, the soft murmurs of the town around you fading away.

“I think you might need a little color yourself,” you whispered, your thumb grazing his cheek as you leaned in. His eyes closed as your lips met his, softly, tenderly and you smiled in a kiss. The warmth of his breath mingled with yours and you could still taste the coffee and caramel. Ford’s hands found their way to your waist, holding you.

The world seemed to blur, the only thing that held you back was the feeling of his lips against yours, soft and warm, as if they had been waiting for this. Ford’s fingers brushed against your back, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss with a mixture of gentleness and longing.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes fluttered open, looking at you with a softness you’d rarely seen. He reached up, brushing his thumb across your cheek, unable to take his eyes off you.

“What’s got you so captivated now?” you asked, a smirk creeping onto your face.

“Just realising how lucky i am.”

you noticed the gleam in his eyes, as if he had finally, after all these years, found his way home.