#have a whole notes page prepared

[gayporcelain]

got my meeting with my boss today to discuss the pay adjustment he conveniently forgot to give me but gave everyone else 🔪🔪🔪🔪

[istherewifiinhell]

IS FLYING GENDERED?

On the masculine default, typifying gender in genre, and women as the other in the transformers cartoons.

question for the ages

once again i said back in the halcyon days of watching g1 (aka 5 months ago) i was like. Nooooo, decepticon is NOT a gender that's Silly. It's funny, but as a Read Of The Text, I thought it largely unneeded. (The concept came about, as a joke, involving dismissing the bad guys using the same language you would abt women (sexistly) that they're emotional [heh, flighty], vain, and shrill) after all. If in the 80s era there are 5 whole named/speaking woman tfs, its only ever gonna get better from here right? (<- booboo the fool)

anyway

Let's consider the axiom that the assumed default gender is male, that maleness is often seen as LACK of gender, and femaleness and gender variance are the PRESENCE of gender. In certain reasoning and worldviews, of course (See Androcentrism). Then add that, for transformers, the assumed default thing a transformer turns into, is car. (Autocentrism, if you will)

(The most general term for what a tf turns into is "Alt mode" as some of them are not vehicles at all. The other mode is "Robot Mode", whether its humanoid or not)

So I will be laying out why I believe the cartoon iterations support: non standard alt modes = non standard genders. This is in spite of the fact that FIRST lady tfs were all cars. Sleek cyber cars, but still. For whatever reason, (possibly, the reason for everything in tf, toys) they might as well not exist for how woman tf characters presence in the cartoons progressed over time.

And, to be clear, this is a reading of how these works of fiction are created, not a new unified bioessentialism but for robots aliens I'm proposing for like. In universe lore reasons. I hate that idea.

That said, alt modes in order of most to least gender: Spider, motorcycle, flying (in general, with rotors, jets), tank, and then FINALLY, car. (water and space crafts are already too marginal to rank, but they too can be assumed in relation to default maleness, AND that in making one a woman, would still qualify as othering her).

The NUMBER one reason for this is the bizarre need to have an ESTABLISHED woman tf character before making new ones. AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE. With a g1 gender ratio something like.... (counting even the most marginal cases for the ladies) 9:120? (That's a rough count from a quick scanning of the tf wiki g1 char list) Shits dire out here.

The second is, ofc, character design based. cis people [stand in phrase for the hegemonic world view] are not okay, and their opinions about how tf gender must need be depicted visually is. uh? Im not a fan. Size and shape dimorphism in general is a given, and specifically having women tfs as far more humanoid and curvy in specific. Also general cartoon lady face syndrome but, whatever. I think there's exactly one character here who doesn't have "lips" or "lipstick" as a distinguishing factor. I'm so tired.

Third is generally, the idea of The Girl Of the Team. When there's The Girl, she often isn't JUST a normal character, who happens to be a girl. See, of course, the Smurtfette Principle. But in my view there's also a trend to give The Girl "special traits" on top of "Girl", maybe even to directly combat the idea that the Girl Character has no other traits? To stop this from being a General Primer on Woman in Media, my explanatory focus is things specific to the tf franchise.

(A phrase I use for thinking about normative modes [in general, not just the Alt ones] in within the tf universe is "unique transformerdom" or, even more clunkily, "A transformer of unique transformerdom". The excessive verbosity is amusing to me personally. All I mean by it is to have an umbrella term for any of the ways tfs can be made unique from their peers in the non allegorical realities of the fiction).

I could, and do, and greatly want to, speak about this AT LENGTH. But it keeps spiraling away from me. So I'll say for now were looking at ways a character is being depicted different from her peers, not because she is the only woman (which she likely is), but cause she's a different kind of transformer, AND if she's othered for it.

(IN SOME forms of the lore. Being a transformer woman, IS A UNIQUE KIND of transformer unto itself. Let's just say I hate it and move on)

Fourth, is the gender of villainy. There is much to be said about gender presentation of villains, the ways they are allowed to be aberrant. We will get to it. There is also all the tropes specific TO evil women, and the modes of villainy open TO female characters. But a general thing I think impacting the gender ratios of the factions is the how "Good" and "Evil" female characters are written. I'll generalize and call this the "Damsel vs Temptress" dichotomy. (See concepts like the Madonna-whore complex). Transformers, is by and large, an action franchise. Unless special reasons are made, characters who can impact the action– have more screen time, and likely more memorable, and iconic presences. A villainous woman can be unchaste, violent, aggressive. While a heroic woman, even if not a literal damsel are more likely to be in a support role. The secretaries of the action genre: medics and techs.

(Another factor is that tfs are giant robots, and the good guys are often friends with tiny squishy little humans. These make very good damsel fodder, and can be taking up the spots on the roster that might, in a different franchise, go to women. Additionally, while woman characters in transformers overall is an interesting topic. When I say tf women, I'm referring to ones that are in fictionally, transformers.)

SO, now understanding our points of attack/obstacles for getting woman into transformers. (Getting established, gendering the designed, uniqueness of existence, and general villainy). Lets go over those alt modes, and the characters that have em, in more detail.

Spiders

The "Beast Era" (1996) intro-ed the spider ofc. And what don't we have with this one. She's a villain, but shes also misunderstood, the era and design style let to these more organic shapes. And they used them to make sure she was very sexy. She's genre aware, she's quippy, she's an absolute icon. So naturally. She gets ported to other later shows. Which means we just have sexy spider ladies running around when everyone else is a fucking truck and shit.

Her own origin is, well think of her as a "Bride of Frankenstein" to the resident evil scientist, also a spider. She was designed for, and manipulated by him in multiple ways. Her protoform (A blank robot base), was supposed to be one of the good guys (a Maximal), but was reprogrammed into a bad guy (Predacon). Even then, she eventually joins them, for her own reasons. She's not even the first predacon to do so, the difference? Well the characters are a lot more NORMAL about his autonomy. Both of these characters stress that being a predacon is an identity they still see as important. But only the woman is told that really, she is was was always MEANT to be a maximal. And while that's true in a sense. There's also a plot were she's forced (by plot contrivance, not the other maximals) to get corrective robot surgery for it. And when they think she died from, everyone's more sad for her boyfriend than for her. Ouch.

The second spider, in the 2007 show, is now one in a world where she is the only "techno-organic" transformer, hence, she is spider, everyone else is a vehicle. Similar to the first, her narrative is very gendered, but less in the way were, like, I do literally think the first was was experiencing in universe sexism from other characters. Here, they really focus on the "techno vs organic" narrative, and the tragic circumstances on how that happened. In this case its just real world sexist writing.

THIRD SPIDER, (2010), instead of misunderstood and tragic evil, this ones just super mega likes to cause pain evil. She also occupies a strange place between the typic vehicular tfs, and the insecticons. This is because she has a helicopter alt mode, and her robot mode is just, a lady with spider characteristics. And, more than just a passing bug like similarity, she has the power to control the insecticons (you know, cause evil woman mind control). However, she doesn't fit in with them either, as the insecticons are at the most insect like they've ever been, in look, living in hives and that most don't even speak.

They may vary in exact character, relationship to the story's moral conflict, and design. But they stay comfortably established, dimorphised, flirty and flirting with villainy. And bonus points, always, for black widow spider trope.

SO. SPIDERS. Established: ✅️ Gendered designs: ✅️ (Extremely!) Unique: ✅️ Othered: ✅️ Villainy: ✅️

Motorcycles

Tooooo my knowledge the first bike lady was in 2004, and fairly minor, in the actual plot, but rest assured, they did go the previously established woman route, by being pink, though, which one shes named after varies by language. But neither were previously motorcycles. (And yes, there is also this problem of mixing together or swapping out one woman tf for another. As if we have the ladies to spare). Even though motorcycle men also exist, this one just stuck for a bit. Maybe something to do with Those Movies. I think the Gendered Existence of a motorcycle is pretty evident though, general sex appeal, being smaller, the mode of riding a motorcycle is different, more physical and intimate. Mainly this ranks so high for the level of grossness they can pack in. Just how objectifying it can be, particularly with two instances where the human rider is an annoying teen boy. Naturally, I've also never seen a male and female motorcycle in the same room, but the approach to design tends to be different. And yeah most of em are Arcee, who's first alt mode was cyber car, but it's not just her.

Established: ✅️ Gendered designs: ✅️ Unique: ✅️ Othered: Depends on iteration, I do NOT like the way one gets called "tough, for a two wheeler". Villainy: ❌(they wouldn't need to be motorcycles if they weren't making them the Special Girl Autobot, after all)

Flying

General: It just tends to stick out when your one girl is only flyer in the group, even she's otherwise tactfully done. Only flyer of the Maximals, a falcon, only flyer of the dinobots, a Pteranodon.

Rotors

I can barely even figure this one. Maybe it's just a general, aesthetics and use case of the actually vehicles, the associations? None of these ladies (and special case) are very connected otherwise. As previously mentioned, the spider helicopter. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

A big one for this is the preschool demo shows, which are rescue team focused. In the first one the only woman on the human response worker team pairs with the helicopter, they mention she does medical at times. The helicopter is male, like the other tfs. But also he's afraid of flying, and while not the first case of a flyer with a fear of heights, their personalities are, pretty different. As he's both fearful AND effeminate, fine as character traits go but, with the tone of humour used, marks him as Other.

In the second, Whirl (pointing to icon) becomes a girl for the first time, now with standard humanized face. I assume as move to keep with the previous show of having a girl one, as there's no human team mates. She's also the only one who really likes rescue school. Aaaand that's all know of her. What more do you want from me.

Helicopters: Unique: ✅️ Othered: ✅️ (milder than some)

But why'd I call this section rotors instead of helicopters? That would be because one of the latest Sole Female TF we just put in everything™ is a VTOL jet with rotors. She'll tend to be the only jet of her type, which is also smaller than the type of jet used for the villains.

And, of course, aside from alt mode, the thing that makes her stand out most in the cartoons? That she's very clearly a comics character. (I find the emphasize that she's "fan created" over done, as it only controlled minor aspects, and irrelevant cause tfs get completely overhauled in new versions all the time). From her design, which is a bit busier than most characters she stars with. And also uses Japanese aesthetic signifiers in ways that I think are a bit misappropriated and untactful. (VERY USamerican comics). Also, when she stars next to a guy, also from comics employing Japanese aesthetic, you can tell its not deployed in the same manner. (E.I she has hair and makeup, he has armor). Either way, her depictions have her either as badass sword lady on mission from god who's constantly getting hit on by an annoying guy. Or have her be from a different planet and has special telepathy.

Do we see how both her gender AND the cultural signifiers are having affects here? That the main woman tf in a series can be a literal alien even among our alien robots, with cultural signifiers they don't have?

Ratings Established: ✅️ (made the comics to cartoon jump) Gendered designs: ✅️ Unique: ✅️ Othered: ✅️ (SO SO EXTREMELY, using methods in fiction and real life)

Jets

I think my association of jets with tf gender is stronger, than some of the above examples, even if there's less reason to it. And why is that? Well, lets get socratic. Here's another question.

Is This All Starscream's Fault?

No. He's not real, he can't do things. But. His legacy as THE main stay transformers character that gets to subvert gender? Yeah. (Sure, the G1 autobots have their own effete, but he's not in every single cartoon they ever made now is he? Plus now that I think about it, he is a FLYING car...)

From the get, he's not a Man's man. He's shrill, he's manipulative and duplicitous, petty and emotional, cowardly and wheedling. He is, of course, the Perfect character. Now naturally, the 80s cartoon was not concerned with your paltry logics. Starscream and his ilk are the jets, but every decepticon can fly. The gun, the cassette player, the camera, the cassettes.

And each to a last, more masculine than he is. Vocally or behaviorally, physically. Every one of them fit the gender expectations more than he does. Even being a small time grunt, is a masculine trait, after all, more so than unchecked ambition. So its not femininity from flying, from jets. But direct relationship, reference, and descendancy from Starscream that makes it. I've yet to see female versions of Jet fire and or the aerialbots, for example.

So what to do when an effeminate male villain was less maltese falcon and more that man has effeminate hips? Well. We had to start getting his ass for being effeminate, explicitly. They made the female clone of him, which yeah, is an offensive joke stemming from the various The Gender Anxieties. (Transmisogyny, homophobia and sexism. General relation toxic masculinity. A heady mix of all and more).

But I mean. It's free girl tf... Once given a name in extra canon materials, she start's showing up in other things. Once you're in books, video games, comics, and most importantly, toys, you're real. And then eventually, her first non clone appearance in a cartoon, and how her presence shaped it.

That being, Cyberverse. Which is a cgi show, you need to know this for reasons of production. Making new models is expensive. This has always been the reason you just make recolours of Starscream and name them different things. Chicken or egg on this one, I don't know, But because CV has Slipstream, and the only difference between her and the generic "male" decepticon jet, is a more feminine face; Suddenly, any random decepticon goon can be a woman.

An absolutely revolutionary take for striving to populate a fictional world with gender parity. By at large it also means they're way more lady villains, and specifically flying model of villain. The show has other woman, but none who get the same androgynous body mold treatment.

Established: ✅️ Gendered designs: Mildly to NO. Unique: By design, no. Othered: Yes for the clone, and Screamer himself, I suppose. No, otherwise. Villainy: ✅️(That's, the whole idea)

Tanks

It needs to be said. Sometimes, when doing things that transgress a norm, anteing up is less subversive. This is another reason why gender variance, female agency and overt sexuality are more common traits of villains. When already defying strictures of society. What's one more.

That's Right. TANKS ARE THE BUTCH WOMAN OF TRANSFORMERS.

Alright. Let me back up. Strika is the stone cold knock out undefeated champ of lady tf designs that, actually has a reoccurring cartoon presence. She is, admittedly, only a reoccurring to minor character.

Her introduction is in another show with techno-organics, this one involved in the struggle between well, the techno and the organic. Strika as we see her, and as the design that will go on to be iterated, is not in her normal transformer body. She has been transferred into a 'vehicon' body. Without a preexisting essence contained in one, vehicons are not considered alive, in the way a transformer is. Visually, they lack the more human body plan, a standard face, feet and hand like appendages.

To further contrast Strika against the two techno-organic woman. Both of them are tall, and slender. Their softer organic shapes designed towards elegance or beauty, whatever your subjective opinion of that result might be. They both have romance subplots too. By the way. Or honestly one subplot and one main plot. Strika. In contrast. Is built like a brick shit house. Her face is. Minimal. And her goal: protecting her planet... by terminating the heroes.

Now, existing as a character that can be referenced for other media, and given the detail that she was a "Famous general", it's off to the races. She makes a wonderful big tank menace that can fill out a background shot, too.

Without her I hardly think we could have Clobber, also from CV. Who is. The true goat. The finest thing, the achievements of all we could ever hope for. A big fuck off woman, gender swapped from a previous male design with minimal faff, with now even more personality and show presence. Friends, wants, desires. Emotions. Thank God for Clobber, Thank Clobber for Clobber. Thank Randolph Heard and Mae Catt for Clobber.

Established: Depends if you want to count that Strika had so much swag they kept drawing/modeling her Gendered designs: FUCK NO Unique: ✅️ Othered: only originally Villainy: ✅️

Cars

So now you have the final piece of the puzzle. In transformers, Autobots are Cars. Yes, there are plenty of autobots that are NOT cars, and there are cars that are not Autobots. But they're exceptions, they're aberrances. They're unique. And Autobots are the norm. They oppose the Decepticons. Decepticons are Villains. And Decepticons can fly. Modal simplified binaries and false dichotomy abound!

And the thing about those original Autobot woman, the one's who largely did not influence all of this? They were cars, it's true, but not like how the men where cars. They've not been designed from transforming car toys, with a shellac of humanoid gender over top. Their designed in the way of human gender. With the car on top.

When the preexisting clause leads to the original designs to be revisited, which, has largely only happened in more recent years. They aren't car woman robots. The cars are literally not part of their bodies, they are additional. Instead of a unifying identity of a robot who is a car, its Arcee and her backpack. Parts of cars get grafted onto their petite lady bodies, and placed anywhere out of the way.

In order to make a transformer a woman, they have to give her a gender, not understanding that that's always been the case. And to give her a woman's gender, she's got to LOOK like a woman, not a transformer. And to look like a woman, she's got to act like a woman. She must be heroic but reactive instead of active, or else, villainous, conniving and or self centered. To be a woman, we must have some other previous woman to explain her presence, or else explain it anew with her unique, strange, or exotic origin. How could she ever be a woman if she simply, existed, looked average, talked average. How could she be a woman if her body is hunks of ungendered car. How can she be a woman if she's everything we expect a transformer to be.

A woman is transgressive, a woman is not normal. Autobots are normal. Autobots are heros. Autobots are men. And Autobots do not fly.

[psychronia]

I've been rewatching Avatar: The Last Airbender because why not and I'm losing my mind at Zuko's proper introduction. I don't know if it's hindsight, shifting characterizations, or just me not watching this in a long time, but this was amazing.

We start off showing he's an impatient and very angry kid. Reasonable, and the sort of flaw we might expect to see in a villain. Kinda funny that he expects to go up against an adult and fully 4-Element realized Avatar, but the kid is desperate and Iroh clearly expects his nephew to get the banishment-denial kicked out of him.

What's important here, though, is Zuko's introduction to the Southern Water Tribe.

Here, we have a very intimidating entrance where his entire ship just sails through the ice right up to the village's front door. It's quite ominous and this is our first proper introduction to how the Fire Nation interacts with a foreign people.

Sokka charges, I'm assuming fully prepared to die, and Zuko casually knocks him out of the way. Okay, so clearly the Water Tribe are entirely outgunned.

He asks "Where are you hiding him?" and the people of the Water Tribe go silent. I assume they're either just too scared to talk or actually protecting Aang.

Whatever the case, it's important to note that the Southern Water Tribe know the terror the Fire Nation can inflict. We have a whole episode dedicated to tracking down a division of raiders. Sokka was able to not only identify the ash-mixed snow as signs of an incoming attack, but estimate how many ships the amount of ash measures to. These are a people who have experience being terrorized and are probably expecting something terrible to happen.

And then, after they don't answer, Zuko grabs Gran-Gran. There was a horror sting to it, and everything the tribe knows about the Fire Nation suggests that Zuko is about to threaten or straight up hurt her to get answers. Classic "terrorize the elderly" bad guy stuff.

And then...

He goes "He's (the Avatar) be about this age and is a master of all four elements!?" and lets her go.

And all of a sudden, the tension that was built up is shattered as Zuko went "I know, I'll give them a reference for the person I'm looking for because clearly they're confused and I wasn't specific enough."

This went from a show of villainy to a show of Zuko being totally socially awkward and misreading the situation entirely. Not helping is that when he does try to menace them a moment later, his fire is slow and angled quite safely.

It still worked on the Water Tribe because they're understandably scared, but all I could think of is that this was the equivalent of a playground bully trying to make someone flinch with that fake-out lunge thing.

Because the fact-and something we'll come to learn-is that Zuko is TERRIBLE at being a Fire Nation oppressor. He's capable of doing morally dubious things and is a competent fighter. But he's lousy at terrorizing people and cruelty-that's kind of the point of his banishment.

And while we can see the story paint this picture of Zuko's true character as the story goes on with hints of good and conflicting loyalties, here we get to see just how bad he is at being "the bad guys". He's still unambiguously being the villain of this scene, and it makes no real difference to the oppressed themselves, but there is a comical gap between where Zuko thinks he is, where he actually is, and somehow it still puts him on the same page as his victims just because of how terrible the Fire Nation's influence is on everyone involved.

[aliteralsemicolon]

I'll wait for your love - 18+

See part 1 | See Part 2 | Part 3 of We can't be friends (wait for your love)

The only thing you’re sure of is that you don’t want things to go back to the way they were and Spencer agrees that change may be for the best.

Spencer Reid X Fem! Reader

DISCLAIMER This story is NSFW and contains graphic depictions + detailed descriptions of adult content. It is intended for mature audiences only, minors do not interact!  You are responsible for the content you consume. Make sure to read all necessary warnings. Please remember this is a work of fiction; if you don’t like it, don’t read. 

WARNINGS: Panic attack mentioned, slight PTSD depictions, case details (barely) mentioned, alcohol mentioned like once. Smut (not the focus at all): making out, nipple play, clitoral stimulation, praise, use of pet names (angel, pretty girl, etc). Proceed at your own risk.

Word count: 10.4K See notes at end for authors note & spoilers.

Avoiding Spencer wasn’t overly difficult on the flight back to D.C. You weren’t entirely sure how to face him after he risked his life for you, so you just pretended to be asleep the whole time. You even took a separate jeep from the tarmac to avoid a car ride back with him, and almost made a clean getaway to your car in the parking lot when Hotch stopped you. 

“I’m sorry to hold you back, but I do need the Anchorage report on my desk before tomorrow morning. It can’t be put off any longer.”

He looked extremely apologetic and you understood. You’re grateful he gave you as much time as he has. That’s how you ended up stuck at work til the later hours of the evening. Besides the few workaholics, security guards and janitors roaming around the corridors, the only other person there with you is Spencer, oddly. Even Hotch has gone home. You’ve spent more time stalking the doctor work through the pile of case files on his desk than you have writing in the one on yours. Only when you're caught do you look away. 

“Everything okay?” The innocent curiosity in his big eyes further reddens the hot embarrassment in your cheeks.

“Fine.” You mutter, dipping your head back down to the open page.

You’re never going to get this damn file done if you can’t get him out of your head, and him being barely three feet away from you doesn’t help. It’s very difficult for you to get your words from pen to paper. Anchorage wasn’t haunting you like it did at first. It was a traumatic event, yes, but alone isn’t the cause of this…block. Obviously the reality that you’re leaving is starting to dawn on you. Somehow your mind has linked this case with your departure and finishing this report makes it more official than your actual resignation. 

Plus, as much as you definitely hate Spencer, you do did care for him. The shock of him almost getting himself killed in front of you is another thing occupying your mind. It’s barely been twenty four hours since then, it’s still fresh. You can see him stand and grab his satchel in your peripheral vision, he’s preparing to leave. There are a lot of memories attached to that brown leather bag. 

Things he would carry in there for you when you forgot your own bag. 

You don’t make it obvious that you’re watching him gather his things in small glances. 

He bought extra hair clips for you to keep in there because you would often forget those too. 

It’s over now. No point in dwelling on it. You shake your head once he’s out of sight, trying to force him out of your thoughts. Now that he’s gone you’re hoping to actually be able to get some work done.

He taught you chess with the mini chess set he keeps in there. You discovered that you actually quite liked chess and would ask to play with him all the time. It was also his ‘secret’ weapon to help you calm down. 

You roll your eyes to push back the tears from the memories that refuse to stop playing. This can wait until you get home, it’s not important. 

It wasn’t the chess set that helped you feel calm. Spencer could win chess against you in just a few moves, but he would deliberately stretch out the game so you could have room to breathe. The longer the game, the more time you had to spend focused on the moves and slow down your thoughts. You could open up at your own pace. He would let you feel in control.

It doesn’t matter if he’s near you or not, Spencer has a way of invading your headspace wherever he is. Your train of thoughts is interrupted with a light thud on your right. You covertly roll the tears away again and turn to examine the source of the noise. A mug of coffee placed on your desk by

“Spencer?” You sputter breathlessly. 

“Sorry. I know you told me to stop. This is the last time I promise.” 

You don’t fully comprehend what he’s going on about, not expecting him to be here at all. 

“I thought you left.”

“I did– was. I was leaving, but I thought I’d make you some coffee before I go. Since you’ve been here a while.” He awkwardly explains. 

You steadily direct your attention back to the mug, reeling in what was happening. 

“Before you get mad, this really is just a cup of coffee from a colleague who thought it might help keep you energised if you’re planning to stay late. There’s no ulterior motive…”

He continues rambling but you’re not mentally present to hear any of it. 

He made you coffee. 

Even though you’ve been nothing short of an absolute bitch. Granted he was a bitch first, but the point is that he’s still thinking of your well being regardless. You can’t hide your tears from him this time. It’s the soft buzz of your name that draws you back to him. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you! I’ll take the coffee–”

His panicked sentiment is cut short when you jump out of your seat and shove past him. The breakdown you’ve been avoiding hits you like a ton of bricks. You run into the nearest empty office and he runs after you, making it past the door before you can lock him out. 

“Spencer p–please get out! I’m fine.” You’re pacing in the same spot, fanning away the stream falling down your cheeks, hyperventilating.

He doesn’t respond to you, instead cautiously taking your hand in his. You’re in too frenzied a state to care. He guides you to sit on the couch against the wall and you blindly go along with it, still trying to get yourself together. 

You want to stop the tears, but you can’t do that until you get your breathing under control. He slowly wraps his arms around you and you slump into him, head buried in his chest. You should try to fight it, you should push him away, but you can’t. Right now, surrounded by his scent, held in his arms, you don’t want to move. It’s not something you can properly explain, but the feeling is so comforting that nothing else matters. All you know is that you’re safe and that’s enough for you to allow yourself to finally break down. 

The first few sobs are loud, like there’s not enough air in the world to stabilise your lungs. They fizzle out into silent whimpers and you grasp onto the fabric of his sweater, balling it in your fist, just letting yourself feel. Spencer still hasn’t said a word. His right hand is rubbing circles on your back and his left hand is gently scratching just above the nape of your neck. 

You stay like that for a while, even after you’ve stopped crying. It’s been so long since you’ve been in this little bubble with him and you don’t want it to end. You pull away when you feel the strap of his satchel across his stomach as your hand drops to his lap. He visually follows every move you make. 

“You’re still wearing your bag.” You sniffle, leaning back. 

“I am.” He whispers, understanding that you no longer want to be touched. 

He stays in his original position; facing you, but now with one arm resting on top of the backrest and the other idly in his lap. You’ve moved so that now you're facing ahead with your back leaning against the cushions, pulling your knees into your chest. You had never found comfort in silence until the first time you experienced it with Spencer. Staying huddled, you divert your eyes towards him. There’s a distinct wet patch on his shirt. It’s less visible on his sweater-vest, but it’s there. 

“Your shirt’s wet now.” It’s almost impossible to make out what you’re saying with your mouth muffled against your arm, but of course, Spencer manages anyway. 

“It’ll dry.” He smiles, tone delicate. 

“But– germs.” You choke a little due to your previous crying. 

“It can be washed.” He’s using his comforting voice again. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The silence resumes. Neither of you dares to move, trying to freeze this moment. It’s obvious that you didn’t grasp how badly you craved each other’s presence. 

“D–do…” The initial sound grabs Spencer’s full attention again. You take a deep breath, hoping he wants to stay here as much as you do. “Do you still carry that little chess set with you?”

A small, airy chuckle comes out from him. 

“Would you like to play?”

“Please.” 

He creates some more space between you and begins to set up the board once he’s pulled it out of his satchel. You move to accommodate the set up, now facing him with your legs crossed on the couch and shoes abandoned on the floor. You wait for him to make the first move. After the opening moves the game doesn’t seem to get any harder and you know he’s throwing the game. You’re okay at chess, but he’s obviously a lot better. 

“You’re going easy on me.” You mumble.

“Because you’re not even trying.” He replies blithely.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Like I said, you’re making it too easy.” He gently teases.

“Not that. Helping me. You hate me, remember?” You say it like it’s the most casual thing in the world. 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“You literally told me that you hate me.” You chuckle, numb to the hurt that sentence once brought you. 

“So did you.” He counters in defence, trailing your hand as it carelessly moves your queen to her demise. 

“I was angry.” 

“So was I.” He spared your queen, in turn leaving his king vulnerable. 

“It doesn’t matter now…” You don’t finish the rest of your sentence but Spencer still hears it.

You’re leaving soon anyway.

“It matters to me.” If he left something unsaid you choose to ignore it. 

“You’re letting me win.” You whisper, feeling the urge to cry some more, but there’s no tears left. 

He doesn’t make a move, bringing the game to a halt. He’s waiting for you to meet his eyes. You know what he’s going to say. 

“Spencer, don't.” You beseech.

“Why?” If you looked at him instead of the board you’d see the way his eyes are pleading at you. 

“There’s no point.” This time it’s your voice that cracks. 

You're looking everywhere else and it makes you too aware of your surroundings. Like how the couch is lined up directly under a window that anyone could peek into. 

“Leaving is not the only option.” He solicits. 

He regards your discomfort and closes the blinds from where he’s sitting, pulling you back into the privacy of your bubble. 

“There’s nothing that you can say to make things go back to how they were.” You bite the inside of your cheek, fiddling with a random pawn. 

It’s not a proper two way conversation. You’re talking to yourself just as much as Spencer’s talking to you. You’re both trying to convince you of what you’re saying. 

“Things don’t have to go back to how they were.” The squeaks in his soothing tone are starting to melt any resolve you have left. 

“There’s no reason for me to stay.” You oppose, trying to make any argument stick.

“I can think of more reasons for you to stay than for you to go.” 

There’s an underlying tension bubbling. Neither of you notice it over your desperate tug of war. 

“I don’t think there’s anything that you can say to get me to stay.” Another baseless sentence meant more for you than for him. 

“Give me one chance. One chance to convince you.” He can see your internal struggle at his request and he throws out one final plea to sway you. “For nothing more than closure.” 

Closure.

You’ve spent months in turmoil over the hows and the what ifs, trying to conjure answers to questions that wouldn’t stop pestering you. You couldn’t turn him down even if you wanted to. 

“Closure?” You repeat, eyes finally latching onto his.

“Closure.” He whispers back in reassurance. 

“Even if you can’t convince me?” You caution, not wanting to give him false hope.

He doesn’t say anything, thinking over the scenario in his head. He simply nods and you mimic the action, blinking away the blur in your vision and dragging around chess pieces. It takes Spencer a second to figure out that you were moving them back to their default places.

“Okay new game.” You announce. 

Spencer blinks in confusion, waiting for you to elaborate. 

“I can ask you any question I want and you have to answer honestly. If by the end of the game I’m not convinced to stay, you back off for the remainder of my time here.” You pause for him to interject, but he doesn’t. “That means we stay away from each other, only talking when needed for work. Even then as cordially and professionally as possible. No more trying to make casual conversation or bringing me coffee or anything like that.”

“Till the end of the game?” He studies you. 

“Yup.” You smack your lips together. “Til one of us checkmates the other.”

“This means you’ll actually give me a fair shot?” 

“Between the two of us, I’m not the one known for cheating at games.” You jab, trying to ease the tension you could definitely feel now. 

“I meant a fair shot at convincing you. As in you’ll seriously take what I have to say into account.” He discards your attempt.

“No, I know. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.”

He can tell you’re trying to hold back a laugh from the small smile on your lips. It’s as adorable to him now as it was the first time he saw it. 

“Any rules before we start?” He asks, unable to hide his own smile.

“Only that we have to be honest.” You answer, immediately dropping your smile.

“Okay.” He agrees, smiling slightly wider.

“Okay.” You nod again.

When he finally makes the first move it hits you that you don’t actually know where to start. Theoretically, you know what you want to ask, but don’t know how to ask. You don’t know if you should jump straight into the questions or start with some ice breakers. Nothing is said for about four to five moves when Spencer pauses the game. 

“Are you going to ask any questions or have you decided that you just want to play one last game for your closure?”

“Huh?” You snap your vision away from the board. “Oh, sorry. I was thinking.”

“Do you want to return to the game after thinking of a few questions to ask?” He raises his brow and relaxes his jaw.

“No, no, we don’t need to do that. Let’s keep playing, the questions will come to me.” You brush off his suggestion and motion for him to continue with his turn. He doesn’t.

“What?” Your voice raises and you scrunch your nose from perplexity.

“Sorry, it’s just that you’ve put us on a time limit and this is how you’re using our time?” He airs, failing to conceal his amusement.

“Well excuse me if I don’t exactly have a list of questions ready to go for you.” You narrow your eyes in annoyance. 

“Why would you suggest this if you don’t have any questions?” He tries to hold back his laugh and ends up snorting as a result. 

“I have questions!” You jabber, unable to maintain your annoyance. “I don’t know what– where do I even start?”

“Start with whichever one comes to you first.” He shrugs, finally making his move. 

A lot of things come to mind when you think about it. The thing that screams the loudest twitches a nerve and you become instantly irate. 

“Okay.” You nod, tone harsh and flat. “Let’s start with whatever the fuck possessed you on the last case. What was your thought process when you put your life in danger like that?”

He almost gets whiplash from the change in mood, his face literally reads ‘are you serious?’. 

“He was going to shoot you.” He states like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“I was wearing a vest, I would’ve been fine.” You contend. 

“I wasn’t willing to take that risk.” 

“Risk?! You literally put yourself in danger for no reason!” 

“I think it was a pretty good reason actually!” 

“Spencer that was–” You stop yourself with a grumble, inhaling deeply. 

“It was instinctual, okay?” He softly explains. “I saw him aim the gun at you and I just reacted.” 

“Well it was a stupid reaction!” You whine. 

“I’m not going to apologise for it.”

The glare you give is piercing, you bite the inside of your cheek to hold your tongue before you say something you can’t take back. Spencer throws his head back and sighs. 

“But I will promise not to do it again.” He adds, not fully intending to keep it. 

This was slowly turning into another argument, both of you shooting back too fast with your responses. You aren’t in the mood for another argument. So you redirect your attention to the game. 

“Check.” You mumble, buying yourself time to think of another question. “Why are you here so late anyway?”

“I wanted to finish some work before tomorrow morning.” He replies, moving his king to safety. 

“Yeah, what’s up with that? You could’ve done those tomorrow as well.” Your voice softens out of curiosity. 

“I wanted to get them finished in case there were more tomorrow.” It’s not his best excuse. You don’t know what he means by that. He doesn’t know what he means by that. He’s lying to you. 

You scoff, poking your tongue against your cheek. “Wow. You really can’t not cheat during a game, can you?” 

“Right, sorry.” Spencer clears his throat after the initial confusion clears. Complete honesty, it was your only rule. “I wanted to be here.”

“For…” You egg on, purposely rolling your ‘r’s to prompt him. 

“I wanted to make sure that you were okay.” He admits, looking away from you. 

“Why?” You’re genuinely puzzled at the admission. “You’re the one who almost died. I mean, it was stupid and your fault, but still. If anything I should be checking up on you.”

“Check.” That’s the only response he gives you. He hopes that you don’t push further, but he knows that you will. 

His lack of response only forces you to think about the possible reasons by yourself, using context clues to figure it out. You are a profiler, after all. 

“Is this because of the panic attack?” You note how his jaw twitches when he swallows at the mention. “It is! You seriously chose to spend your night stuck at the office because of that?” 

“What else was I supposed to do? It’s not like you would talk to me, you literally refused to even look at me!” He gripes. 

“Spencer I think anyone would panic if they got tackled to the ground by a six foot man without warning. I’m fine.” You giggle.

“What happened to complete honesty?” It’s his turn to glare at you.

“I am being honest!” You protest.

“Lying by omission is not being honest.” He rolls his eyes.

“Okay Mr. know-it-all, what am I lying about?” You challenge.

“Seriously? You don’t remember?” His approach is doubtful and he just stares at your dazed expression.

“Fucking spit it out already, Spence!” 

Any sarcasm he had geared up for a response dissipates at your use of his nickname. He’s heard it plenty in the last few months, but not from you. For a moment things feel like they never changed. It stings in a bittersweet kind of way. 

“You sc–screamed– uh–” He clears his throat and rapidly blinks, his nose twitches in the process. “During that panic attack, you repeatedly asked me to stay with you. Y–you, uh– you said you didn’t think you could li–”

“Stop. Stop. Stop talking.” Your voice quavers and you hold your hand up, ears burning up. “I don’t wanna know.”

You don’t know why it makes your heart race the way it does, you don’t even remember it. He waits a while before speaking up again, wanting to be careful about how he goes about the topic without you shutting down.

“May I ask you a question?” He voices professionally, trying to make the conversation less personal so you don’t feel cornered. 

You nod, moving your king out of check.

“Is there anybody you will talk to about Anchorage? Without pushing them away?” He keeps the game going as he speaks to provide you with a distraction. 

“Woah– Anchorage? Where is that coming from?” You titter.

“I want you to remember that we promised to be honest and I won’t push if you ask me to stop, but I know for a fact that you aren’t okay.” He waits for you to stop him but you don’t, even though you know roughly what he’s going to say. “Panic attacks aside, your avoidant behaviour around the topic, inability to focus, being easily startled, you’re showing signs of PTSD.” 

“Spence, c’mon. I don’t need to talk to anyone. I already passed the psych evals.” You attempt to make light of the situation with carefully chosen words so you’re not lying. It was a futile attempt, you know he’s not willing to budge when he doesn’t give you anything more than a blank stare. 

“Why does this matter so much to you?” You sigh in defeat. “Whatever happened…that’s a part of the job, you know that.”

“I also know, first hand, that it takes over your life. You can’t run from it, no matter how much you try to.” His tone is soft as he speaks, yet you feel like he’s accusing you. 

“I am not running! Why would you say I’m running?” You object with a high voice, shrugging your shoulders. “And it’s not taking over my life. Also, check.”

“Because that’s what you do when you don’t want to deal with something.” He states point blank.

“Woah– so– that was entirely unnecessary.” You stammer, unable to deny it. 

“I’m not criticising you. I just happen to know you and I know that you have a tendency to run from your problems. And it is taking over your life.” 

“You’re profiling!” You gasp.

“You know that it’s not something we can just turn off! No matter how much we pretend like we can.” He waves his hands defensively. 

You can’t argue with that, your lips twisting to the side. 

“You want me to be honest?” You murmur sheepishly. 

“Always. Please.” He responds gently, wanting you to be as comfortable as possible.

“I don’t want to talk about it. I spend a good chunk of my day actively avoiding thinking about it, but somehow I always end up thinking about it anyway. At times it’s like I can almost feel…” You breathe in instinctively. “This is the first time in months I’ve been able to do anything without it lingering in the back of my mind. Can we please talk about it another time? I would rather talk about other things…”

Another time. 

“...right now.” 

You’ve implied that there will be another time to talk and he definitely caught it, even if he pretends that he hasn’t. You don’t even know if what you said is true, you got too comfortable with the familiarity of his friendship. It was something you said out of habit from back when you two actually were friends. Not even a full hour's worth of conversation with him and he’s already worming his way back in.

“Um–” You drag yourself further back on the couch, creating more physical distance. 

“That’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it at all.” Spencer senses your urgency to leave the situation and jumps into damage control. “It’s your turn.”

“No, um, I should– I should go. Thanks for doing thi– helping me.” You turn away from him, aiming for your shoes and ready to bolt.

“The game’s not over.” He points out.

“Yes it is.” You declare, still in the process of putting on your shoes.

“You said til checkmate.” He huffs, shifting out of his seated position. 

“I forfeit!” You throw your arms out in a shrugging manner, standing up after him.

“I can’t believe this. You’re going back on your word!” He doesn’t even raise his voice. He’s just hurt. 

“What’s the point, Spencer? Closure doesn’t mean anything, I’m still leaving! You can’t magically change my mind!” You yell, getting louder with each sentence. 

“I disagree. I think that you’re running again!” He blocks your way and yells back, maintaining his volume throughout. 

“Maybe you should think less!” You suggest, still yelling. Sarcasm is your defence mechanism when you have no actual defence. 

“You know what else I think?” He continues, emphasising the word ‘think’ every time he says it out of spite. “I think that you agreed to this thinking I won’t be able to convince you, but I am!”

“I don’t care what you–”

“I think you don’t want to finish the game that you started, because you’re afraid to ask the harder questions!”

“Stop.” You command, but it doesn’t deter him.

“I think that you’re scared to hear my answers because then it all becomes too real for you–” 

“Stop!” The words almost get stuck in your throat, but you choke them out. “You’re wrong.” 

“If I’m wrong then prove it. To both of us.” He sits back down and motions to the board. “Ask the real questions.” 

“I don’t need to prove anything, you’re wrong.” You uphold.

“So leave.” He challenges, knowing that you won’t be able to. 

If you truly believed that he’s wrong you wouldn’t feel the need to prove it, but you do and he knows that. You walk back over to the couch, head nodding from irritation, tongue poking your cheek. You kick your shoes off with a bit of force and return to your earlier position across from him. 

“Your move.” He reminds you as you settle in.

You don’t reply yet, but move your rook to set him up for the next move.  

“Check.” He smugly states.

“Who was she?” 

You don’t move, examining him close for any change in his behaviour. He obviously didn't anticipate that question first, snapping his sights back on you. 

“Sorry?” 

“The woman who greeted me at your door. That night at your apartment.” 

“Charlotte.” He replies, holding your gaze to show you he’s got nothing to hide. “We met at the library a week before.”

“Are you guys together?” You break away first, diverting your eyes to the chess board and trying to seem unfazed when moving your knight. 

“No, God, no.” He denies immediately. 

“I don’t know, she seemed pretty cosy for someone you met a week prior.” You don’t mean to sound as snide as you come across.

“No, it wasn’t like that at all.” He shakes his head. 

“You sure? Because I’m pretty sure I saw her mark you up with a kiss on your cheek before disappearing.” You don’t look at him, examining a captured pawn as you wait for him to make his move. 

“Mark me up?” He cognizes it instantly. “Are you…jealous?”

“What? No!” You vehemently deny, your voice rising in several pitches. 

“You are!” His eyes widen. 

“I am not jealous.” 

His jaw slacks and he lets out an amused scoff. He doesn’t say anything, making you feel the need to fill the silence. 

“I only bring it up because…I know you have a thing with…germs.” Your words falter because of your own uncertainty and you want to dissolve into the fucking floor. 

Spencer tries to suppress a smile by poking his tongue out slightly. If the atmosphere was lighter he’d tease you about it, but he doesn’t want to make you take off again. Still, he feels the need to clarify the events of the night. 

“I don’t know why she kissed my cheek, it was completely random.” He takes his time saying it, still fighting a smile.

You swallow nervously and purse your lips to the side in response. One question answered and you only have new ones in its place. Did she stay the night? Did she sleep on the couch or on his bed? Did he see her again? 

“I drove her home right after you left.” He can almost hear your thoughts. 

“Was it a date?” You softly gulp again, unsure if you even have a right to know.

“Yes.” He hesitates. 

“Oh.” 

“I wanted to try out casual dating for once.” He chagrins. “I honestly don’t know how you did it, it’s not even fun.” 

“No it’s not.” You chuckle dryly. “So no second date, I presume?”

“Definitely not. I was just stressed the whole time.” He chuckles with you. 

“Take a shot of tequila before you go next time, it helps settle the nerves.” You joke, jumping to give him advice you hope he doesn’t take. You can’t help it, it’s what you’ve always done. Even if it goes against what you desire. 

“While moderate consumption of tequila can help relax the nervous system, I will not be turning to alcohol for stress relief.” 

“Then blast classical music while you get ready and give yourself a pep talk out loud, it’s actually really efficient–”

“There won’t be a next time. For a really long time, if ever.” He interjects, miffed at your insistence. 

“You willingly plan on committing to lifelong celibacy?” You exclaim with a puzzled look. “Why?!”

Spencer laughs at how raw your reaction is. He didn’t plan on giving out any more details but, with that prompt he decides that it’s now or never. 

“I don’t think any future dates will appreciate me picturing someone else in their place the whole time.” 

Oh. 

Both of you lock eyes at the same time. This is not a road you’re prepared to go back down, even if that’s literally the whole point of this conversation. You’re too stunned to reply and Spencer uses this as an opportunity to be elaborate. He doesn’t want any misunderstandings this time. 

“I couldn’t stop pictur–”

“Shut up.” You blurt out the sentence in almost one word. 

Your heart’s racing like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff. You’re flustered, every part of your body is heated from how terrified you are.

“Y–you don’t have t–t…you don’t owe m–me an explanation.” You try to elaborate, contradicting yourself and stumbling on your words.

“I want to.” He reads that you’re apprehensive but pushes regardless. 

“Please don’t.” The tears that you thought had dried out were building again.

“Why ask if you won’t let me answer?”

You don’t have anything to say to that. Did you want answers? Yes. Still, you didn’t expect how hard they’d be to hear. He whispers your name and you scramble to think of your next move, and not in chess. You’re unable to even think about the game right now. You want to bolt, but you can’t even get yourself to move. So you deflect. 

“Because it doesn’t matter.”

“I disagree.” Although his tone is subdued, the pace of his wording is faster. “I think it does matter and that’s why you’re afraid to hear it.”

He’s right but you can’t bring yourself to agree. This is only going to over-complicate an already complicated situation.

“It’s not enough.” Your voice cracks.

“How can it be if you won’t even give it a fair shot?” 

“Fair?” 

It comes out louder than you intended. His words trigger resentment within you and you snap. 

“Nothing about any of this is fair! I mean, fucking hell, Spencer, four years. That’s how long we’ve been friends. I mean I’ve shared shit that I thought I would be taking to the fucking grave with you! You were my best friend for four fucking years and all it took was like, five seconds?”

You sob, softer than when you were first crying, but the frustration is clear. He reaches out to touch your hand, but you push his hand away. 

“No!” You choke, sobbing harder when you try to compile your thoughts. “Five seconds to destroy all of it! It makes me wonder if everything we shared, our friendship, was it ever even that strong?”

Your anger simmers to sadness, as evident with how your yelling fades into whispering in the last sentence. 

“I can’t even tell you when exactly those five seconds were. I mean, I know…but…I don’t. Where did it go wrong, Spence?” 

“I don’t know.” Is all he can say after a beat of silence.

He knows exactly where it went wrong. 

“Yeah, me neither!” You sniffle, immediately wiping a single tear that manages to escape. “So again, it doesn’t matter.” 

“When you took it back.”

“What?” 

“That’s where everything changed for me. You showed up at my apartment drunk, after your date with Nathan. Your exact words were ‘I mean as an amazing friend’.” His voice strains like he’s forcing himself to speak. 

Your gaze falls, eyes darting everywhere as you try to jog your memory beyond the one sentence you remember. 

“I don’t understand.” You croak.

“You know, if I wasn’t who I am, maybe you could love me the way I love you.” He chuckles bitterly, fighting back tears of his own. “That was– that was, uh, what you said before you took it back.”

“Spence, please…” You whine without sound, tilting your head back and chewing on your lip as a final attempt to stay composed. 

“No, you wanted to know where it went wrong.” He laughs falsely to downplay his tears. “You can say it doesn’t matter all you want, but the fact is, it does matter. It matters to me and I won’t let you run from it anymore.” 

You can’t look at him. Not with tears free falling down your face. You cup your hands together in your lap, pressing your fingers and nails together. 

“You told me that I couldn’t love you.” You struggle to sound your words. 

“I’m an idiot.” Another chuckle, but he sounds defeated. “When you said that, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to say that I do love you.” 

You tearfully laugh at this admission. 

“I only took it back because of what you said. I panicked. I thought I’d ruined things…which I guess, I still did.” Another laugh from you.

Spencer responds with the same regretful sound. 

The irony spurs another fit of giggles amongst you, this one slightly longer and infinitely more rueful than the last. You look anywhere but at each other until it grows quieter. 

“If you loved me, why the fuck would you tell me that I couldn’t love you?” You sound just as, if not more, defeated than him. 

“Love.” Spencer corrects without missing a beat. 

Your brows twitch up and your heart jumps. 

“I was so hung up on every single part of your sentence that I didn’t know what to say first.” He proceeds to answer you without leaving much room to process what he said. “I wanted to tell you that I do love you. I love you as you are. Not as somebody else.”

“But you didn’t say any of that.” You ignore all his admissions, not fully comprehending. 

“Like I said, I’m an idiot. I was in so much disbelief and that was the first thing that came out of my mouth.” He sullenly huffs.

You don’t reply, sniffling with your head down. 

“For like a second, I had everything I wanted. Then you took it back and it was like my whole world had been ripped out from under me. In those five seconds, you’d given me a taste of what I’d spent four years convincing myself I couldn’t have and I just– I couldn’t go back after that.” He adds after a stillness. 

After a short while, your focus shifts from your hands to the board in front of you. The game’s been long forgotten. You’re immersed in the conversation, in spite of how strenuous it is. 

“I understand why you were distant, even mean, at first.” You snivel. “But after a while you just became downright cruel.” 

Spencer doesn’t shy away from your gaze when you do look at him. His skin is as drenched from crying as yours is. 

“I mean ‘I don’t want to see your face’? I know that I don’t really have a leg to stand on anymore, but, what the fuck Spencer?” 

He doesn’t cringe any less with every reminder. He’s truly regretted the words since they left his mouth. 

“I wanted to hurt you.” He reveals. “I thought you were being deliberately cruel and I wanted you to feel exactly how I was feeling.”

“Deliberately?” 

He nods, hanging his head.

“I thought that you knew how I felt and were just trying to be funny or something.” 

“Well I didn’t. I wasn’t.” You cut him off with a constricted voice.

“Even if you did, it’s not an excuse.” His eyes are glistening from the outpour of tears, but he still lifts his sights back to you. “I’m sorry.” 

You don’t know how to acknowledge his apology at all. You’re not even angry anymore, all you feel is sorrow and regret for the way everything happened. An entire friendship down the drain due to an unfortunate set of circumstances. 

“This is so fucked up.” You say with another mordant laugh. “All of this could have been avoided if we just talked about it.”

It stung less when you had somebody to blame for it. Your vision blurs and you make no effort to clear it, letting yourself cry openly. 

“We’re talking about it now?” It’s almost a squeak, the way it’s spoken.

“Yeah, but,” your shoulders slump, defeatedly, and you have to pause to control your sob, “what good does it do now? I’ve already lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me in the most pathetic way possible.”

“I’m right here.” He counters in such a small voice that it gives your goosebumps. 

“Spencer, too many things have been said…”

“When you first joined the team, I instantly knew I liked you.” 

He chews on his lip and darts his eyes around while he contemplates if he wants to continue. 

“I thought it was because of your kind nature. You were so sweet to everybody.” He decides he does, but his voice shakes throughout. “You have this gift…you make people feel so good about themselves. Whenever you spoke to me, I felt like the most important person in the world. It was impossible not to like you.”

You want to pretend like you don’t know where he’s going with this. You want to stop him, but your voice is stuck in your throat.

“It wasn’t until you bought me coffee for the first time that I realised just how much I liked you.” He chuckles again, as he reminisces in the memory. “You didn’t even get my order right until the fourth time, but it was still my favourite cup of the day.”

“You make me sound like a saint.” You finally choke out, attempting to play down the confession so it doesn’t crush your heart. “The only reason I even started bringing you coffee is because you learned how I like my coffee first.” 

“Not a saint, an angel. I’ve fallen so deeply in love with you that there are times where it genuinely feels like I’m in the presence of an angel.” 

It’s stated with such sincerity that it knocks the wind out of your pipes. Your eyes are widened and you’re biting your tongue with your mouth closed, staring at him with your chin tucked. He seems so confident, even with the glistening from previous tears in his eyes.

“I wanted to be in your life in any way you would have me. Even when it meant that I had to accept you with other people. And it was bearable, until…” His reminiscence only ends at the memory of the night that changed everything. “Like I said, I couldn’t go back.”

The last part fades into another whisper, only then do you find the courage to speak up. 

“Exactly.” You stick to your denial. “It can’t go back to how it was before.”

Your heart is so sure of what it wants, but your head is blinded by fear. You’re at a crossroads, except one path, the path that leads to everything you long for, is clouded with a fog of uncertainty. The other path is so painfully clear, you can practically see what’s on the other side. A fresh start, where the risk of fucking up further doesn’t exist. What you don’t see is Spencer.

“Good. I don’t want it to go back to how it was.” 

Spencer’s waiting for you to enter the fog. He’s going to be there holding your hand every step of the way. 

“I’ve already handed in my resignation.”

“That matters less than everything you’ve claimed doesn’t matter.” He leans in, intensifying his eye contact. 

“I’m pretty sure Hotch is really close to confirming my replacement.” You comment half-heartedly. 

You’re trying anything to dissuade both him and yourself from acknowledging the obvious, but he doesn’t plan on letting you avoid it. 

“I love you.” He whispers softly.

“Spencer…” You begin when he takes hold of your hands and whatever you had to say disappears from your tongue. 

“I love you. With every atom that makes up my body.” He repeats himself with further elaboration to instil it in your mind.

“I’m scared.” You whisper back with a sob, finally accepting it. 

“Why?” His voice can’t be any softer, but it still cracks a little.

“Because, you can’t guarantee that it’s going to end well.” You allow your vulnerability to peek through. “And that’s going to hurt more. I’d rather leave now than fall deeper.”

Although you didn’t say it back, it’s an indirect admission that you love him too. And it’s enough for him to fight harder.

“I know that my credibility isn’t the greatest,” he coaxes a small, sad scoff out of you, “but I truly believe that this, us, we’ll work. Because I know that I’m going to do everything I can to make this work.”

He feels bolder when you don’t pull away from his touch, folding your fingers into your palms and cupping over them. You observe the sight as it unfolds in lieu of a verbal response. 

“I’ve spent four years judging any man that comes into your life, wishing I was in their place, swearing I would treat you better than all of them.” 

Spencer feels the need to fill in the silence and he lets honesty guide his confession. He leans in further as if he’s indulging his deepest secret. 

“Four years wasted wondering what could be, cursing out those idiots, but taking no action to make it happen. And that makes me the biggest idiot out of all of them.”

When he speaks like this, with his big, imploring eyes and prayerful tone, it melts your heart to a point where it almost hurts. The more he talks, the more you begin to lean in, opening yourself up to him.

“It took losing you to realise how badly I fucked up and for that I will never forgive myself. I know that I have no right to ask you to waste any more time on me…”

There’s no more resistance against the pull you both physically feel to each other. 

“...but I’m begging you for a chance to do today what I should have done way before yesterday.” 

Your faces grow closer by the second, you can feel each other's breaths against skin.

“And I’m going to spend every tomorrow proving what I said today.” 

The likelihood of him changing your mind with one conversation wasn’t very high, both you and Spencer knew this when you got into it. You’re not entirely surprised when he somehow manages to overcome those odds too. You take the step to close the gap and lightly press your lips to his. 

It starts off soft, there’s no lust, no ulterior motive behind it. It’s a simple confirmation that you’re both present and this is real. Spencer doesn’t shy away from the kiss, not that you’d call this a kiss. It feels more intimate, more unguarded.

Spencer pulls you onto his lap as he shifts and leans back against the backrest to allow more room for you. You wrap your arms around him and the kiss deepens. In the midst of you straddling him, he slides the entire chess board off the couch and the pieces scatter on the floor. It’s only when you feel that the kiss can’t bring you any closer to him does the lust emerge. It fuels a desire to prove that you both whole-heartedly belong to each other. 

There’s no pinpointing when the switch happens. All you know is that the feeling of his lips against yours is no longer enough. You cup his jaw in your hands, swiping your tongue on his lower lip and it causes his grip on your waist to tighten. He parts his lips for you and it starts what you can only call a dance with your tongues. 

Your breathing grows hotter, your hips subconsciously grind against him. There’s a prominent bulge that brushes against your heat and you whine into his mouth. Spencer grunts your name in response and then abruptly pulls away.

“Wait, wait, wait, slow down.” He breathlessly whispers against your lips. 

“What?” You whisper back with concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” He gazes into your eyes, afraid that you might regret this later.

“I’ve never been more sure, actually.” You’re confident at first but the look in his eyes makes you pull back further. “Unless…you’re not sure?”

“No, don’t misunderstand me. I want you.” His tone rises just above the previous whisper with his clarification. “It’s just that the last thing I want to do is take advantage of you when our emotions are running high.”

“Four years, Spencer.” You lean in again, just brushing your lips against his. “The only reason you should be making me wait is if you’re not sure.”

He shuts that idea down by crashing his lips on yours. The kiss is so hungry, so desperate, it’s everything both of you have longed for and denied yourselves everytime you’ve been in each other's presence. It doesn’t take long for hands to start to roam. He traces the curve from your waist to your hips, stopping just at the hem of your shirt, tugging it like he’s asking for permission. 

You rush to undo your buttons and he meets you halfway, starting at the bottom. His fingers brush against yours as you two reach the final button and you pull the fabric off yourself. You do the same with his shirt, lips remaining locked, except for the small gasps of air you take in between. It requires a bit more manoeuvring with him, but you’re both soon shirtless. 

His mouth travels to your jaw and you shut your eyes from pleasure as he continues down to your neck. The stubble on his chin tickles your skin. You cup it, gently pushing him away with a giggle. 

“Forget to pack a razor in your bag, Dr. Reid?” Your voice is teasing, more playful than seductive.

He chuckles, airily, hiding his groan. He knows you’re being sarcastic, but the use of his title, with your voice in this context, catches him off guard. You moan as you feel his growing bulge against your heat when his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you into his kiss. You swiftly undo the clasp of your bra, but before you can take it off, Spencer grabs you from just below the hips and lifts you up off him, gently laying you down on the seat of the couch. 

There’s no room for hesitation as his lips find your neck again and he nips at the skin. Every suckle earns him short gasps and the grip in his hair tightens as he travels lower. He stops just above your breast, pulling himself up to sit on his knees. You stare up at him with a heated gaze, the nail of your thumb resting between your teeth with your lips parted to make up for the loss of his lips. 

He reaches for your bra strap and begins pulling slowly, searching your eyes for any signs of you withdrawing consent. All he sees is how beautifully they sparkle when you give him a light nod. It’s been too long since he’s seen the stars that you hold in your eyes, stars he accustomed himself to before he even got to properly know you. 

Gazing into his eyes, you’ve never felt more sure, more safe. You trust him implicitly and you’ve never wanted anything more. His constant need to make sure you're comfortable sends shivers down to your core. He slides the garment off you and Spencer’s beyond grateful that he’s already on his knees, knowing that if he was standing he’d fall to them because of the sight below him. 

His eyes don’t falter once, he’s trying to permanently etch this moment into his brain. He hovers his fingers above your body, thumb brushing against your hardened nipple and you softly whine. He looks awestruck, almost like he doesn’t believe what’s happening. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks your boobs look weird. 

“Beautiful.” The words fall out of his mouth in a whisper, as if on cue. He’s really just thinking out loud.

Before you can respond he lowers down and plants a small peck to your sensitive nub before taking it into his mouth. You gasp again, head lolling back in pleasure. One of your hands goes for his hair, while the other clings to his hand that’s already holding yours. He switches between sucking, pulling and squeezing; rolling it between his tongue and uses his teeth to squeeze ever so slightly.

“S–spencer.” A strangled moan falls from your lips. 

You tug his hair, whining and moaning as your hips roll against the strain in his pants. When your motions become continuous, he lets out his own strained groan and is forced to release your nipple with a small ‘pop’. 

“Angel, I really need you to stop doing that.” He murmurs in your ear with a gentle, gravelly tone.

As soon as the nickname reaches your ears your hips involuntarily buck up again, making his hips automatically push down against yours. His cock presses against your core and you both moan, his head falling against your shoulder.

“Spence, more.” You quietly whine in against his ear. “I need more.” 

“More?” He echoes back, turning his head so that your lips brush past each other when speaking. 

“Mhm.” You nod weakly as he brushes a strand of hair out of your face and weakly connects his lips with yours.

Even when he’s got you vulnerable and at your most compromised, he’s still as gentle as ever. You don’t feel him undo your pants or sneak his hand in them, but you definitely feel him press the pads of his fingers against your clothed clit. Air escapes through your nose in a huff of surprise and you hum in his mouth, hips jolting at his touch. He can feel your slickness through your underwear. 

“Oh, my pretty girl.” He sighs, breaking the kiss and directing his whispers in your ear again. “All wet for me?”

“Please..” Even with your broken whimper you beg him for more. 

“Like this?” His deft fingers swipe your panties to the side, fingers landing directly on the clit this time. 

They feel cold at first. The contrast against your heated body makes you squirm and you groan in a soft, high pitch. 

“What are you feeling right now?” He pries a verbal response from you, circling your bud lightly. “Tell me.”

“Good.” You sigh, eyes shut as you try to savour the pleasure. 

“Good?” His voice is still soft against your ear.

“Mhm.” You nod, one arm draping against his shoulder and the other hand running along his scruffy jaw. “So good.” 

“And this?” He adds pressure to his movements. “Does this feel good?”

Your hips buck again and he feels rewarded when you moan. There’s no doubt that the sound of your voice is his favourite. He especially loves it when it’s directed at him. Whether that be in the form of a laugh or your sweet moans. It makes him somewhat dizzy. His lips attach to the skin just under your jaw in an attempt to coax more. 

It’s very effective. Fingers working your bundle of nerves, circling and flicking while changing the pressure, and mouth kissing and sucking near your pulse. It makes your back arch, hand gripping his shoulder so you don’t float away. He’s careful not to leave any purple traces of him on your neck, mindful of you being bombarded with questions from your colleagues.  

“I love how reactive you are, Angel. You sound divine– fuck.” He can’t help the grunt that escapes him. “You are divine.”

His touch alone is enough to make you feel electric, but the sweet nothings he’s whispering in your ear will be what send you over the edge. It’s a foreign feeling, being reminded that he values you for more than just your body. Just under an hour ago you had incredibly high walls built around you and none of them are left standing as you exposed under him.

Spencer’s not the first man to touch you, but he is the first that loves you. It’s something you’re not at all used to and it feels as overwhelming as it does good. It transcends the want, no, the need for the man on top of you beyond lust or love. You plan to show him just how strong that need is tonight. 

The carpeted floor is littered with your clothes, carelessly thrown around and tiny chess pieces scattered around the abandoned chess board. Spencer’s comfortably lying on the couch, facing the ceiling and you’re lying directly on top of him with your face buried in his neck. 

You run your fingers back and forth along his jaw, scratching his beard in slow streaks. He’s enveloped you in his arms, one around your lower back and the other playing with your hair. It doesn’t feel as peaceful as it seems, both of you are afraid of being the first to speak. You know you can’t stay like this forever and you decide to bite the bullet. 

“Spencer?” 

You only get silence from his end. You know he’s awake because his motions in your hair don’t stop. You push yourself up to face him, trying to study his face. The sudden movement brings him back from wherever he was zoned out to. 

“Hm?” His features jump.

Does he regret it?

“What’s wrong?” Your voice shakes from worry. “You have this look on your face.” 

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just thinking.” 

“About…?” 

“How bad we are at communicating.” He chuckles. “It’s concerning when you think about how all we ever do is talk.” 

Hearing this makes you snort and you fall into him again. It sends both of you into a short fit of laughter. 

“Oh that’s promising for the success of this relationship.” You giggle, sarcasm evident. 

Hearing relationship makes Spencer inhale sharply. 

“So you’re staying?” 

“Well obviously, Dingbat.” You scoff playfully at the question and shift upright, straddling him. “But we really do need to get better at the communication thing for this to work.”

Spencer mounts his weight on his hands by either side of him and pushes himself up to you, stealing a deep kiss. 

“Yes, we absolutely do.” He whispers, breaking away for only a second. 

The kisses fizzle in you a plethora of smaller kisses. 

“Spencer, I’m– serious.” You voice in between, loosely draping your arms on his shoulders. 

“I am too.” He says in a hushed tone as he pulls away. 

“I want to take it– this,” you motion between the two of you with your finger, “us, slow. Not four years slow, but, like, by a couple of months at the very least.”

“Okay.” He agrees, his eyes scouring your face with complete adoration. It’s not ideal, but he understands where you’re coming from. 

“That means that we start again. Romantically. We have to talk about a lot of things first.” 

He shifts his body out from under you, resting his back properly against the couch and pulls you back into his lap in one swift motion. Both of his hands graze from your shoulder to your wrist.

“How about…you come over this weekend,” He suggests, wrapping his arms around your waist for a hug, “we’ll do snacks, a movie, maybe an actual game of chess.” 

“That sounds like a date.” You wrap your arms around his neck to return the gesture and lean your forehead against his. 

“It’s not a date. Not yet, anyways.” He whispers. “I’m asking you to come over this weekend so we can talk about things properly, because frankly, I don’t think either of us is in the right headspace for it right now.” 

“Should I be offended at that?” You giggle, not entirely sure what he’s alluding to. 

“No!” He snorts with a high tone. “Dopamine aside, our Norepinephrine and Serotonin levels are too high right now for us to have a proper conversation about this.” 

“I’m not saying that you’re wrong, because you’re not, but I also think you’re just using science to try and confuse me, so that I agree to wherever this speech is heading.” 

“It’s times like this where your attentiveness puts me at a disadvantage, because this tactic has a hundred percent success rate on everybody else.” He grins and you chuckle, both leaning in for another kiss. 

“Can we hold off on starting over? Just for tonight.” He reluctantly voices, not wanting to push any boundaries. 

You draw back and raise your eyebrows with your eyes widened. 

“Spence, I have waited for years for this. You’re insane if you think I’m giving that up without relishing in it for at least a night. We’re not starting over until we’re both officially back on the clock.” 

“Okay.” He heaves from relief, leaning in for another kiss, but quickly withdraws with a new question. “Don’t you think the team’s going to be suspicious when we’re not fighting tomorrow?”

“Forget them, what am I gonna say to Hotch when I ask to withdraw my resignation?” You huff out a tiny groan. “He’s gonna hate me for all this paperwork.”

Paperwork reminds you why you’re here to begin with. You audibly gasp, jumping off Spencer and scrambling to put your clothes back on. 

“Fuck! Spencer, get dressed!” 

Spencer doesn’t share your panic, but adheres to your demand. You mutter a continuous line of obscenities as you throw on your clothes and when you don’t seem to be getting calmer, he intervenes. 

“Hey, hey, hey!” He coos as he steps towards you, still undressed on the upper-half. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that we’ve been here for hours!” You shriek, now fully dressed. 

You push past Spencer and grab his shirt, deciding that he was too slow on his own. He lets you dress him as he probes further. 

“That’s okay. No one’s going to notice this late.” 

“No– Spence–” You sigh, throwing your head back. “In less than four hours, Hotch is going to walk into his office expecting the Anchorage report on his desk. I’ve barely been able to get half of it done in weeks, how am I going to finish it in four hours?”

You shake your head and begin working on his buttons. He grabs your wrists, urging you to look at him. 

“You’ll have it done in less than one. I’ll help you!” His voice is light, airy, soft and accompanied with a chuckle.

“Spencer, you’ve already been here later than you need to be. It’s okay–”

“Let me help you.” He resorts to pleading, releasing your wrists and cupping your face.

You don’t have it in you to argue, his eyes staring back at you with sincerity. He wants to help. There’s no point in pushing him away, because as scared as you are about being too vulnerable with your trauma from that case, you trust him wholeheartedly. You know he won’t push for more than what you choose to share right now.

“Okay.” You nod and smile into the kiss he leans in for after the confirmation. 

“Okay. Now, you go and start some coffee.” he instructs softly with a wide grin, waving to the scattered chess ensemble. “ I’m going to clean up here and join you.”

“I love you!” You lean for another kiss and hushedly exclaim as you break away, receding towards the door. 

It’s Spencer’s turn to lose his breath. He’s affirmed his love for you countless times tonight and this is the first time you’ve verbally reciprocated it. He knows that it won’t be the last time either. That, to him, makes him the luckiest man in the world. He stops you from going any further by your arm and gently yanks you in his direction, crashing his lips with yours. 

“I love you too.” He whispers after the kiss, letting you go. 

Heat rises in your face again and you struggle to hide a huge dopey smile, one that Spencer has too. You’re floating on cloud nine, finally out of the blurry hurricane you’ve endured for months. There’s still a lot of things that you need to work out, but the thought of them doesn’t make you feel dread like it once did. 

"One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love." - Socrates

Spoilers: Yapperoni (so much dialog in this chapter), BAU! Reader, enemies (kinda) to lovers, hurt, comfort, love confessions (they might be a little too sappy, idk, I was sleep deprived), the praise made me giddy at some point, smut but I edge you by not writing out everything, happy ending.

AN - I have a little tiny fear that people (me) will nawt (I don’t) fuck with this monstrosity, but out of all my drafts, this felt like the most natural course of action. I thought it would be really fun to go from friends to enemies to lovers. Now, literally nobody talk to me about writing fics after this. Uni’s started, so I’ll be very inconsistent for a bit. Casual reminder: I am not Spencer Reid. I don’t have an IQ of 187. Any facts I make him spew could very well be bull-shit and he only spews them for the purpose of the story. I also have no knowledge of how the FBI works and lack a ton of common sense. A lot of things were made up for the purpose of this story.

A comment today keeps semicolon away (from showing up to your house and eating all your snacks).

Thank you for reading!

[fluentmoviequoter]

Lost Time

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!wife!reader

Summary: Jason comes home to you, his wife, after a mission and makes up for lost time.

Warnings: fluff and comfort! brief mention of the Lazarus Pit and human trafficking

Word Count: 1.3k+ words

A/N: I really want to write a lengthy oneshot for Jason but I don't know if I capture him well enough. I don't get many DC requests but I love them so much!!

Picture from Pinterest (WFA Jason >>>)

Masterlist | DC/Jason Todd Masterlist | Request Info

Jason Todd leaves, it’s what he does. Sometimes there are warnings, direct and indirect, but other nights he leaves while you sleep or simply doesn’t come home when he should. That’s who he is, what he does. There is more to Jason than meets the eye; he isn’t just Jason, Red Hood, or Bruce Wayne’s dead and nearly forgotten son. One piece of Jason makes him whole: being your husband brings him back, every single time. Jason leaves, but the time you spend alone is spent in confidence that he will come back to you, even if he’s broken and crawling.

While Jason is in Blüdhaven helping his brothers with a mission that Bruce doesn’t know about, you spend the time alone missing him. He hates leaving you, but you understand. That doesn’t mean, however, that you just wait for him to come home. Being married is supposed a 50/50 arrangement, yet you have given everything to Jason and there is not a single thing you wouldn’t do for him.

Tonight, nearly 96 hours after you last saw Jason, you make yourself comfortable with one of his books. The pages are yellowed from use, and highlights and notes fill the margins and the empty pages. Each word reminds you of Jason, and though you miss him, you refuse to look at his empty side of the bed. In the time since he left, promising to come back to you with a kiss and a tap to your wedding ring, you have read several of his books, cooked his favorite meal, and baked his favorite goodies. The distractions you created are all centered around Jason because despite what you tell yourself about needing to think about other things, Jason Todd takes up every single one of your thoughts. He’s captivating, and you never want to escape him.

Your phone beeps as you finish a page of Frankenstein. After taking a calming breath, you read the message from Barbara.

The bats are Gotham-bound.

The message makes you smile, and you rise from the bed to prepare for Jason’s return. He has come home without a scratch, drenched in blood, and everything in between. In sickness and health, you vowed, and you plan to keep it. With his favorite food already prepared and water heating in the kettle on the stove, you sit on the couch and wait for his entrance. The front door is behind you, and you watch as the Red Hood lands on your fire escape and expertly navigates into your home. His home.

The couch is empty by the time he turns from the now-closed window, and your arms loop around his waist as he moves. Jason chuckles at your immediate attention and pulls his helmet off.

“Miss me?” he asks.

You can hear his smile in his voice, and as Jason’s arms wrap around you, you sigh and release every fear and worry that had been pushed into the back of your mind.

“I need to shower,” Jason says, though he doesn’t move his hands from your back. “Blüdhaven is gross.”

“And Gotham is known for its cleanliness,” you argue.

“Get off,” Jason grumbles.

He raises his hands to your shoulders and easily pushes you back. You look at him as you raise your hands to hold his wrists. Jason’s gaze is soft and his touch is softer.

“Ten minutes,” he requests quietly.

“Someone needs pampering,” you tease. “Take your time. There’s food and tea if you want any.”

“Just wan’ you,” he murmurs.

Jason leans in and kisses your forehead quickly. He avoids your hands as you reach out for him. You laugh as he walks away, and the sound brings Jason home. He’s physically home, yes, but he is only home when you are completely and wholly with him.

The water echoes through the apartment as Jason enters the shower, and you prepare two mugs of tea before carrying them into the bedroom. You would wait forever for Jason, but as you lean back and close your eyes, content listening to him move through your shared home, you know that you’ll never have to wait long.

When Jason enters the bedroom clad in a pair of Wonder Woman sweatpants and smiles at you, everything seems better. The darkest Gotham day can’t cast a shadow on what you and Jason have. Before Jason left, he told you all you needed to know about the mission, and you won’t bring it up again. If he wants to talk about it, he will, and you’ll listen.

You raise the blanket as Jason approaches the side of the bed. He doesn’t hesitate to join you and pull you closer. After looping your arms over his shoulders, you push your fingers into Jason’s wet curls and twist them gently around your fingers. His white streak is closest to you, yet you concentrate your attention elsewhere to keep your eyes locked on his.

“You read it again, didn’t you?” Jason asks.

His eyes threaten to flutter closed, but he forces them open to talk to you.

“Read what?” you whisper.

“Tell me what I missed,” he requests.

You know he can see his books piled on your nightstand, but you enjoy the smile he gives you when you pretend not to know what he’s talking about. Jason pulls your hands away from his hair, opting to hold you against his side. You lay a hand over his heart and gently trace the bottom of a scar. You know his scars by heart, and each story behind them is ingrained in your memory.

“Not much,” you answer after a moment.

“Did you do anything? Because everything you do is important, and I want to hear about it,” Jason argues.

You lean closer and spread your fingers flat against his skin. His heart thrums steadily beneath your hand, and you think your heart beats in time with his.

“Maybe you just married me for the post-mission cuddles,” you say.

“Or maybe I just married you because I love you. I love you for accepting all of me and loving the parts that I don’t let anyone see.”

“Jason,” you hum.

“You didn’t tell me about what I missed,” he replies.

The first raindrop hits the window, and Jason is reminded that he’s back in Gotham. He’d move to Metropolis and listen to Clark as long as you were by his side, but being in your arms in his home town is a feeling unlike any other.

“I’ll take it you didn’t go to the manor,” you deflect.

“Why would I when I have a beautiful wife waiting at home for me and four days to make up for? Lost time with you will always be more important than Bruce.”

You sigh before you begin telling him about what you did. There isn’t much to tell. You read one of his books, cleaned, cooked, baked, and read another book.

“You baked?” Jason interrupts. “And didn’t bring it up until now?”

“I thought time with me was more important.”

Jason furrows his brows as he turns, pulling you to lay on top of him. When you first started dating, Jason was hesitant to initiate any sort of physical touch. Not long before, he had been Gotham’s most-feared crime lord and the rage caused by the pit was still present. Now, there is nothing to stop Jason from touching you: no fear of hurting you, no concern of scaring you away, and no doubt that you won’t love him once you see his darkest secrets. Jason’s scars, his past, and his nightly activities make him the man you love, and you love those parts of him, not the other way around.

As you cuddle with the man who recently scared human traffickers into turning themselves in to the authorities rather than running into him again, you simply enjoy being together. Your husband Jason and Red Hood Jason aren’t the same, yet you love them both equally.

“Do you really want to make up for lost time?” you ask over the rain.

Jason thinks your voice is more soothing and melodic than any rainstorm could dream of being. He pries his eyes open to answer, “Every second of it.”

You nod and lay your head against his chest. With your hearts pressed to one another and your fingers intertwined with Jason’s, you know that you are loved, and Jason knows you will always be here when he comes home.

You’re nearly asleep when you mumble, “’S a lotta time.”

Jason smiles but doesn’t move because he doesn’t want to disturb you. “Never enough time with you,” he whispers against your temple.

[cornyforjk]

Drive me crazy | Day 1 | jjk

SUMMARY In which you are stuck living with an arrogant rookie racer who thinks of you as an obstacle, ready to ruin your glory, but things get heated when he has a pervy smile hidden under that pretentious attitude. Emotions that are complicated. You could never fall for your enemy! He's sabotaging you.

Pairing: racer!jk × racer!oc

Genre: angst and pure filth smut

Warnings: trash language only for now.

A/note: HI I'M SCARED BUT HI ALL THE BEST HAVE FUN . First chapter out and I am already head over heels for this Jungkook. I'd say to keep your hobi water ready anytime cause the spice never ends.

___________________♡____________________

"You'd be better off as a pornstar, why not start an only fans page."

The guy beside me whispered as I clenched my fist, a helmet covering his face. Well he was lucky the helmet was there to protect him, or else by now, his limbs would've fallen apart, bit by bit until he was screeching for mercy.

"Stay out of my way." My helmet was a barrier to the fiery glare I was sending his side. I heard him emit an audible but distressed sigh as his tongue clicked in disappointment.

I scanned him from head to toe, not as if I knew him, but my desire to call him a "gay stripper" grew stronger with each tap on the floor.

I close my eyes, collecting my thoughts that were scattered around an endless black hole. Echoes of heels clicking against the floor catching my attention, ear perking up I fix my posture, shoulders rolling back, clearing my parched throat.

A woman with huge circular glasses resting on the bridge of her nosewalked in. Her pencil skirt accentuated her broad hips, her blue eyes fixed on the notepad wrapped around her arm, and the silver metallic pen held her elegant hairstyle together.

She was the definition of what I call 'classy'.

I suddenly felt my shoulders slouch down when her blue icy eyes scanned me, her orbs slowly widening in astonishment. I raise my hand giving a small wave with a crooked smile.

Maybe that was a bit too crooked. Screw it! She can't see me.

"Ahh..." I suddenly squealed under her intense gaze that was scanning me over and over again, pushing the glasses that adorned her button nose back. She cleared her throat grazing over her notepad one last time.

"Lady, you know I am still here, right? Maybe you can do this goo-goo eyes after I'm checked in." The guy beside me commented, earning an eye roll which he couldn't witness. I stomp over his boots, almost throwing my whole weight on his foot.

"OUCH!" He grunts, turning my way, maybe or maybe not glaring like Donald Trump after he found out his steak was cooked medium rare and not brought alive.

"Fight me you ceramic bitch!" He shrieks, ready to throw hands. I hide behind the elegant woman for protection who just watched us bicker.

She cleared her throat again, catching me off guard. She turns my way. "Jungkook and Y/n?" She pursed her lips, narrowed cat-like eyes waiting for our nods.

"Jungkook...more like junk looks," I coughed out, wheezing at that lame pun, perhaps no one has the sense of humour of a five-year-old. The world is turning tables pretty quick.

"Ms Y/n, you aren't supposed to be here?" She waits for my reaction as I freeze on spot.

"What do you mean I am not supposed to be here?" My voice slightly rising, "I checked in myself as the new rookie in racing." I practically throw air quotes at her statement, panic wavering in my

voice.

The so-called guy 'Jungkook' choked, his broad chest heaving up and down as he laughed.

Did I say something funny?

"You are at the wrong location, I think there was an error in our system while registering you, we may have added your name to the wrong list." She ran her index finger across her crisp notepad, eyes moving back and forth like a hawk.

"No, no, no, no-no." I gasped, "do you know how long it took me to persuade my sponsor?! This is my only chance to race; if I don't enter, all of my years of preparation will be in vain."

She looked at me with sympathy. "Can't you make any changes to send me there?"

"I'm sorry...you won't be able to reach in time and we cannot let you go until the board takes a look at this major mistake and have you safely enter your designated place."

She tapped her foot on the marble floor.

Suddenly my head dropped, audibly sighing as my fingers tapped against my thighs. Just one opportunity is given...and it will all wash over like golden sand at the seashore.

"Okay, sad. Moving on, I'd like the Keys to my quarters." Jungkook arrogantly demanded, pushing his hand in front of the woman. She looked at him with no emotion, rolling her eyes, once again checking the name list.

Think Y/n! Think!

I felt my heart clench, the corner of my eyes collided with the water. My craving to have wind tangled in my locks while the engine roared at the starting line with determined racers kept increasing.

That desire in my heart burning stronger than any fuel.

"I can race here!" I exclaimed, earning a groan from the tall man beside me. The woman blinked her eyes, glasses almost falling off her snatched nose.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I can race on this track here in California, till then your board can sort out all their work." Adrenaline rushed in my veins like hope, secretly fist-pumping the air. Finally, this could work out.

"Listen up kiddo, this is California. Here racers make history. They don't sit on the track to have some pink princess tea party, so you can take that bag of yours and move your ass out of this place because you don't belong here." His words were foul, a snarl creeping on.

He was filled with bitterness, swiftly peeling off the helmet on his face. His action left me speechless.

His ethereal beauty was hidden behind the helmet; his soft, glowing skin was the centre of attention; his doe-like eyes were pools of overflowing emotions; his soft lips, the bottom one a little fuller, a mole on his cheek and one under his lip.

I would've stumbled on my face gazingat such charm if only he wasn't being a jerk.

"It's because women aren't usually seen racing here, in fact for the last 50 years no women had the guts to continue on this track." The woman abruptly spoke. I felt the uncertainty in her voice. She was trying to cover up for that jerk.

"but there is no rule against women racing here." I protested back.

"Yes there isn't but-" "Then I race here."

Jungkook's intense stare had my knees go weak. I could feel the sharpness and cold wrath all at once. An unspoken cold blooded war was rising between us.

"What do you think you are doing?" Jungkook exclaimed, his warm hand skimming on my shoulder, the grip crushing my meek corpse.

His jaw clenched and eyes obscuring, he glowered behind the lustrous locks covering his orbs that bled out of outrage.

outrage.

Staring into his eyes my body shook violently, I harshly pushed him away, disgusted by the warmth his hands held. "Don't touch me." My eyes were bloodshot red, wrapping my hands around my torso.

"I won't be outmanoeuvred by a jerk. Especially you, Jungkook."

___________________♡____________________

DM me or send me an ask to be added in the taglist.

[cheezeybread]

Hello! i do have a request headcannons with the housewardens with g/n reader who is very physical affection, yet they are also very smart on academics. They also loves to take a notes during a lessons so imagine they saw reader who writes a lot that definitely until a whole paragraf (even worse if they ran out of the paper or books, they can be write until the table)

I hope you like the idea if you can't you can ignore it, and i'm sorry for the bad grammar, have a good day! (⌒∇⌒)ノ"

Will do! You have a good day, too! :D

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙣𝙚𝙪𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙞𝙨 𝙥𝙝𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖 𝙨𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙩𝙮-𝙥𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨

𝐅𝐭: 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞, 𝐋𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐚, 𝐀𝐳𝐮𝐥, 𝐊𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐦, 𝐕𝐢𝐥, 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐮𝐬, 𝐈𝐝𝐢𝐚

No, this is not proof-read, I'm lazy, sorry TwT

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒

Oh my goodness, you show him physical affection AND you're studious despite not having any magic to practice on in class? He's so in love it's crazy

He finds it very admirable how you pour your heart and soul into the technical aspects of class...which only serves to make Grim look worse in his eyes (I mean, the little Direbeast is your magic-half and he doesn't even pull his own weight! Grim is single-handedly dropping your grades down with every magical assignment)

Anytime there's a group assignment, you bet your bottom dollar that Riddle's going to convince the teacher to make the two of you partners! You both pull your own weight in the task and always manage to get the highest grades on projects! Plus, he enjoys spending class with you

Although he's not exactly the best with physical affection (words of affirmation are more his own love language because of his STUPID MOM-), he does his best to reciprocate, albeit somewhat awkwardly.

Expect some hand-holding from him in public, because that's all he can work himself up to do, PDA-wise. In class, though, he's more prone to absentmindedly touching you. Hand-holding, for sure, or maybe just resting a hand on your side, nudging you with his elbow to see what sort of notes you're writing down. His attention in class is split between the teacher and you, a fair 50/50

But sometimes it leans more towards 40/60 when you squeeze his hand affectionately.

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐀𝐑

A big cat at heart (and physically, lol), Leona's a bit iffy with the physical affection. It mainly depends on the mood you catch him in.

If he's in a particularly gracious mood, he'll allow the physical contact and even give some back, preferring to wrap an arm around you or rest his head on your shoulder

If he's in one of his leave-me-alone kitty phases, he'll allow the touch, of course, but he might be a little less prone to give you any in return. But he'll never say no to you if you want to show him your own way of love

Because of Ruggie, you're now his un-official tutor! I mean, you are his partner, so you might as well help him learn some stuff with all the time you spend around each other, right?

Pretty much how the tutoring sessions go: *y/n, opening their notebook for a class, preparing to read to Leona since he missed that day's lesson* Leona: Wtf y/n: What? Leona: Why do you have so many notes for just one lesson? y/n: Oh, this isn't all of them, actually. Leona:....Why does it say 'Page 1 out of 32'.

Whether he likes it or not, he's gonna learn something from those notes of yours!

Of course, when he does come to class, his attention is always on you throughout the entire lesson.

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎

You're actually his soulmate, he's convinced.

Physical affection? Poor little guy needs all he can get! It helps assure him that 1) You don't find him absolutely repulsive, and 2) That you like him! He's the sort where if you don't give him a kiss upon first seeing him, he'll spiral into a "omg they hate my guts and want me to die now" mindset. Poor fella.

During any lessons the two of you have together, he's found that since you have the better notes out of the two of them, he can look over yours and add to his notes. So expect him to ask to borrow your notebooks after every single class. Or maybe he'll just forgo writing his own notes and copy yours entirely, hm? Nah, he couldn't bring himself to do such a thing-

This man is clingy af

He's always got a hand on you in some way, shape, or form, and always, always finds a way to touch you in passing. Your hanging out with him in the Mostro Lounge? He's leaning up against you, legs crossed. You two are out walking? Arm around your waist. In class? He's got his ankle hooked around yours.

Expect him to constantly ask you if what he's doing is alright or not. He's not well-versed in the relationship-styles of humans, and he knows that merfolk can come off a bit...too much. So he figures that it's better safe than sorry!

He's also totally going to ask you to read over any contracts that he drafts up, asking if you can find any loopholes written in the fine print or not. A second pair of eyes helps out more often than he'd like to admit!

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

𝐊𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐌 𝐀𝐋-𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐌

FINALLY, someone on his level of affection!

PDA? Hell yeah!

Always touching, always hugging, and he gives zero regards to who might be looking when he gives you a lil smooch!

"Oh, yn, you took notes today? You always do, you're such a good student! Can you come back to Scarabia with me and help me out with my classwork? Jamil is busy, and I really want to get better so I can beat him fair and square!" :D

Of course, whenever you go over to help him study, or just to review notes, it ends up in a cuddle-fest.

Are you complaining? You better not!

Every time there's an option to pick partners, you'd best believe he's picking you! Even if somehow he doesn't end up being your partner, he'll congratulate the person who is, telling them how nice and kind you are, and how smart, too!

The world doesn't deserve Kalim, fr fr

But you sure do!

And he'll make sure that you know how much you mean to him, whether it's by an ungodly amount of gifts, compliments to make you all flustered, or even just insisting on hanging around you 24/7!

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐓

Due to his own preoccupation with his looks and such, Vil unfortunately misses some parts of lessons. He'll pull out a small mirror to double-check if his eyeliner is smudged, and bam! Suddenly the teacher is onto the next subject.

Not to worry, though, because he has you!

With a bat of his eyelashes and a few small kisses on the back of your hands, he can convince you to show him your prized notes (of course, you'd be more than willing to give them to him with just a please, but you quite like the effort he puts into it)

In return for you re-reading your notes to him out loud, he'll fidget with your appearance, or simply caress the back of your hands

You two are working in the courtyard? He's running a hand through your hair, braiding it if it's long enough. You're in his dorm reading? He's painting your nails. You're in the library? He's running a hand up and down your arm.

He's more into the low-key physical affection out in public, but who's to say he won't openly kiss you if someone starts trying to hit on you? Or maybe he just feels like a bit of PDA is deserved after all your hard works! Who can tell with that guy!

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐃

Definitely one to gift you with custom-made notebooks.

It started with him watching as you tried to make your handwriting smaller, attempting to fit your last notes onto the veeeeery last page in your journal.

When he got back to his room, Idia found some basic journals that he never got around to using, and he puts stickers on them, quotes, any and everything he thinks that you'd like. It's a sloppy mess, since arts and crafts isn't his strong suit, but it's handmade!

Eventually, though, he'll get frustrated with making the notebooks, and he'll just make some piece of technology that prints spoken words onto a notebook for you, so you don't have to have an aching wrist from writing so much.

God love him, he's trying, A for effort.

On the side of affection, though...he's still getting used to it. If you do ANYTHING in public, he's going to turn into an absolute mess and get all flustered. It's especially bad in class. You accidentally brush your hand up against his and he gives a shriek in response, slamming his head on the table in embarrassment and asking to leave

In private, he's still liable to get flustered, but if you assure him constantly that he's fine, he'll eventually settle down...eventually.

He's determined to get better at physical affection for you, so he's definitely trying...just give him a little bit, and he'll come around.

.⋆｡⋆☂˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆.

𝐌𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐔𝐒 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐀

This is just normal human behavior, is it not?

Most definitely, though, he finds it refreshing to have someone at the school who doesn't fear him and treats him like an equal (although who's to say that there isn't a mutual worshiping going on between the two of you?)

Since you are the Prefect of the Ramshackle Dorm, you are required to attend the Housewarden meetings! On the occasions that Malleus is unreachable and unfindable, you take it upon yourself to write down the notes of the meeting, nearly word-for-word of what transpired. Later on, you'll hunt down Malleus and give him the notes, which in turn you'll receive a kiss as a thank-you.

He truly does appreciate you, in every way, shape, and form. Just so ya know ;)

He'll find old journals around the Diasomnia dorm (either journals that Lilia has and never used, or just ones that were bought for dorm use), and he'll give them to you, seeing as how you make the most use out of them!

And by gosh, these journals are gorgeous! They're rugged and antique-looking, leatherbound, and some of them even have an ancient design burned into the cover. It almost makes you sad to use them, but Malleus is overjoyed when he sees you writing down notes or anything in one of them

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[seoulzie]

beyond the books

WHEREIN: two top students, initially just classmates turn out to be ridiculously in love with each other

彡 pairing: student!soobin x gn!reader 彡 genre: fluff 彡 warnings: none :)

⋆.˚𓆝 read the whole collection here!

you and soobin started as casual classmates, just two top students sharing a competitive camaraderie. it wasn't unusual for the two of you to exchange notes, help each other with tricky problems, or simply greet each other in the hallways. however, as time went on, those simple interactions began to evolve.

you found yourself catching his lingering glances during class, and your brief conversations started to stretch into long, meaningful talks. despite the increase in time spent together, you both managed to keep things relatively platonic—or so you thought.

one day, as you were packing up your books after a particularly challenging lecture, soobin approached you with a nervous smile.

"hey, y/n," he began, rubbing the back of his neck. "i was thinking... do you want to maybe go to that new café near campus? we could have a study session there."

surprised, you looked up at him. "the one with the ryan pastries?"

"yeah, that's the one!" soobin's eyes lit up, his excitement palpable. "i heard they have a really nice atmosphere for studying."

you agreed, not thinking much of it beyond the usual academic assistance. "sure, sounds good. when are you thinking?"

"how about tomorrow after classes?" he suggested, his voice tinged with a mix of hope and nervousness.

"perfect," you replied with a smile. "i'll see you there."

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

the next day, you found yourself seated across from soobin in the cozy café, the warm aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods surrounding you. the atmosphere was comfortable, filled with the quiet rustle of papers and the occasional soft laugh and accidental touches as you reached for your drinks or passed each other notes.

"so, how's your preparation for the finals going?" soobin asked, taking a sip of his iced latte.

"it's going alright," you replied, twirling your pen between your fingers. "i still need to review the last few chapters. what about you?"

"same here," soobin admitted with a sheepish grin. "i was hoping we could go over them together."

as you both dived into your notes, you couldn't help but notice how close soobin was sitting next to you. how his arm brushed against yours, sending tiny sparks of electricity up your skin. the casual touches felt oddly intimate, and you found yourself hyper-aware of his presence.

"do you understand this part?" you asked, pointing to a particularly complex equation.

soobin leaned in closer, his shoulder pressing against yours as he studied the page. "yeah, i think so. here, let me show you."

his voice was soft and reassuring, and you felt a warmth spread through you as he explained the problem. his proximity made it hard to concentrate, but you tried your best to focus on the task at hand.

after a while, you both took a break, sipping your drinks and enjoying the comfortable silence. you looked around the café, noticing the cozy ambiance and the other students engrossed in their own studies.

"soobin, this place is really nice," you said, glancing back at him. "thanks for suggesting it."

he smiled, a hint of shyness in his expression. "i'm glad you like it. i thought it would be a good change of pace."

these "study sessions" soon became a regular thing, and it wasn't long before your friends started to notice how close you'd become. they teased you relentlessly, often saying things like, "just get together already!" whenever someone pointed out how obvious it was that you liked soobin, you'd get defensive, your face flushing.

"what! no! i'm not!" you'd protest, crossing your arms defensively.

but your friends would only exchange knowing looks, amused by your denial. "sure, sure," they'd say teasingly, nudging each other knowingly whenever you and soobin were nearby.

it was the same for soobin. he'd turn red and stutter through his denials, just as clueless as you were about the true nature of his feelings.

despite the teasing, neither you nor soobin seemed to acknowledge the growing attraction between you. you continued to meet for "study sessions" at the café, your conversations becoming more animated and your touches more deliberate.

one day, during one of these study sessions, as you and soobin laughed over a particularly silly mistake in your notes, you caught your friends watching you with amused smiles. 

soon, your friends joined your table with knowing grins, settling in as if they had been waiting for this moment.

"so, what's going on here?" one of your friends teased, nudging you playfully.

"just going over material," you replied casually, though your heart raced with anticipation.

"soobin, you're looking awfully cozy with y/n today," another friend chimed in with a grin.

soobin chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. "we're just studying... you know how it is."

your friends exchanged amused glances, clearly enjoying the spectacle. despite your protests, they could see what was happening between you and soobin, even if you couldn't admit it to yourselves yet.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

during one of your regular café meet-ups, you found yourself pondering your relationship with soobin. the way he made you feel, the way your heart fluttered at his shy smile—it was undeniable. you decided it was time to get to the bottom of things.

"soobin," you began, breaking the comfortable silence. "do you like me?"

his eyes widened, and a deep blush spread across his cheeks. "w-what? i mean... why do you ask?"

you smiled, feeling your own cheeks heat up. "it's okay," you reassured him gently, then turned your attention back to your notes. "i like you too."

the café seemed to fall into complete silence, the world outside disappearing as soobin processed your words. you continued to review your notes, acting as if you hadn't just dropped a bombshell. soobin, on the other hand, was frozen in place, his mind racing.

finally, he broke the silence with a tentative, "so... are we dating now?"

you looked up from your notes, meeting his bewildered gaze with a warm smile. "yep."

"oh," he said, still looking flustered. there was a moment of silence before he asked, "uhm... what now?"

you laughed, reaching across the table to take his hand in yours. "i guess we can hold hands tighter now."

soobin's lips curled into a shy smile, his eyes sparkling with happiness. "sounds like a plan."

from that day forward, your study sessions were filled with more than just academic discussions. you held hands openly, your friends' teasing turning into congratulatory remarks. the lingering glances turned into affectionate looks, and the long talks were now interspersed with shy kisses and sweet moments.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

one sunny afternoon, you and soobin were sitting under the large oak tree in the school courtyard, sharing a quiet lunch. he reached over, brushing a stray hair from your face and giving you that warm, adoring smile that always made your heart flutter. "you have something on your lip," he said softly, leaning in to gently wipe away a crumb from your sandwich.

your friends, seated a few feet away, erupted into a chorus of "awww" and playful jabs about how cute you two were. you laughed it off, leaning into soobin's shoulder. "i think they're just jealous," you whispered, causing soobin to chuckle.

"probably," he replied, his arm wrapping around you protectively.

walking hand-in-hand to class, you felt the world around you fade away. soobin had this way of making everything seem brighter, more beautiful. the hallways, once crowded and chaotic, felt like a serene pathway whenever you were with him.

during study sessions in the library, the two of you would sit close, heads bent over textbooks, occasionally sharing quiet conversations and laughter. one time, soobin had drawn a little heart on your notebook when you weren't looking. it was a small gesture, but it filled you with such joy that you couldn't stop smiling for the rest of the day.

your relationship wasn't just about the grand gestures, but the little moments that made up your everyday lives. the way he would wait for you outside your classroom, the way you would share your favorite songs, and the way he would always know when you needed a comforting hug.

⋆˚࿔ taglist!  @flowzel , @izzyy-stuff , @inkigayocamman ࿔˚⋆

© 2024 seoulzie

[amourjins]

forgot something! - j.wy

pairing , classpresident!wonyoung x fem!reader

synopsis , as listening to beabadoobee’s ‘glue song’, you got an idea to do on your girlfriend.. or at least SOON-to-be girlfriend.

content ahead/genre , fluff!!!, highschool!au, umm no warnings its just silly little fluff

as you walked into class, only spotting your class pres, teacher, and some other classmates that came a little bit early, you took your seat. wonyoung looked up at you when you came in, her face lighting up at the sight of you.

you smiled at her, taking out your books and laptop to prepare for class. a few others walked in right after you, then came the whole class.

the teacher started the lesson when everybody settled in. you took your notes needed, the noise of the teachers writing on the whiteboard spreading throughout the classroom. you looked over at wonyoung, seeing her listening very carefully and closely at the teachers words as she wrote on and on.

“alright, everyone, please take the rest of class to work on your essays!” the teacher suddenly announced, erasing all of the writing off the whiteboard, making you stop doodling onto your notebook paper. you groaned as you turned the girl sitting beside you, kim chaewon. “i hate this essay..” you whispered to her, everyone around you opening up their laptops. “i hate this too, dont worry..” she responded back.

you put in your headphones, opening up spotify on your phone. you put on a random playlist that you had, ‘glue song’ by beabadoobee playing.

it immediately reminded you of wonyoung.

you didnt know why—you two werent even dating, and you didnt even know if she liked girls or not. but, what you do know, is that you two are the closest. always by eachothers side. and that was when you came up with a funny idea to play on wonyoung. she wouldnt play along, right?

as the bell rang, you immediately closed your laptop and slammed your books closed (gently), just happy to be out of that class. you stuffed all of your supplies inside of your backpack, groaning as you put it on. wonyoung seemed to already have packed up, and talking with the teacher. i mean, she was the class president, anyway.

the last bell of the day rang—indicating that everyone was free to head home. you walked out of class, walking to your locker, disposing a few things before you remembered the idea. you always knew wonyoung would be found at the library right after school, so you headed right over, immediately.

you peeked into the library, taking a look around. you took a step in, greeting the librarian as you asked about wonyoungs whereabouts, “do you know where jang wonyoung is?” you whispered, walking over to the counter where the librarian sat. “umm.. should be right at one of the desks. she’s told me about you, ln yn, right?” a light pink blush dawned onto your cheeks the second the librarian spoke. your heart raced, “uhm.. yes, thank you!” you thanked, immediately walking away to cover your face, and especially to calm down.

you walked to where the desks were located, spotting wonyoung flipping through pages of books and her laptop open. you sneaked over to her, standing beside her, “whatre you doing?” you questioned, startling her a bit as she looked at you, smiling. “hi, um, extra credit.” she replied, pointing at her laptop. you didnt understand anything that was on there, so you just nodded.

“anyway, did you need something?” she asked, directing her attention back to the books, shifting around in the chair. “um..” you thought for a second, taking a breath. “you forgot something today.” you lied (but did you really?). “what? huh? whatd i forget? i never forget anything,” she scrambled, as you just stopped her with a giggle. “no, not that.. you forgot to kiss me.”

“..are you serious?” a blush appeared on her cheeks as she turned to you, and you definitely did NOT expect her to react like this. “do you want me to be, jang wonyoung?” you teased, “oh shut up..” the taller girl mumbled, embarrassed, standing up.

“so are you?”

“am i gonna what?”

“kiss me.”

tension fueled between you two as wonyoung grabbed a book out of her book-bag, you confused on what she was about to do. she opened it up, holding it with her left hand. she covered the both of your guys’ side profiles with the book, covering the view of what you guys were about to do.

she leaned in, kissing you as her lips crashed onto yours. immediately after a few seconds, she pulled back, leaving you stunned. she then let go of the book, closing it and putting it back into her book-bag. she then went back to what she was doing, sitting down, acting like nothing happened. you sat down in the chair beside her, in a daze. your face was bright red as you dug your head into the wooden, cold desk.

“..no way class pres did that.” - k.mj

“did what?” - y.jm

“she held up a book to cover her and yns kiss,” - k.mj

‘ DON’T FORGET TO KISS ME,, OR ELSE YOU’LL HAVE TO MISS ME .. ’

[lttl3babybug]

how do you feel about ford as a caregiver?

Very strongly. I feel very strongly about him. So you can have some headcanons.

Cg!Stanford Pines Headcanons

🪬 Veryyyy protective of you (mainly cause he knows abt all the weird going’s on in Gravity Falls)

🪬Keeps you in his lap while updating his journal on new things he finds

🪬Occasionally he’ll let you add a few little notes on your opinions about the creatures to the page, you get your own special glittery gel pen Mabel let him have

🪬Keeps an extra paci on him just incase!

🪬He’s always prepared for you to randomly regress

🪬Ford is really good at coaxing you into regressing without you even realising till he’s slipped the soother into your mouth and calling you a handful of gushy pet names

🪬Likes rules, he has a set list of rules that he doesn’t like to make exceptions on

🪬Although there will be things he’s okay with bending the rules on

🪬Nap time is not one of them, he prefers for you to stick to the nap schedule because that way you’re not cranky

🪬Bedtime he’s willing to bend the rules on because he knows no matter how hard you try to stay up with him you’ll end up asleep in his lap either way

🪬Other than that he’s a very much no nonsense cg

🪬He loves to play make believe with you

🪬He’s very good at acting like a damsel in distress if that’s what you need

🪬Quite fond of tea parties, not so fond of getting up off the floor afterwards because his old man joints do NOT appreciate it

🪬Will let you apply makeup to him, does not mean he will enjoy the whole process

🪬If you’ve had a bad day he likes to get you to regress before you sleep specifically so you can go to sleep without having to worry about your day

🪬Snacks! Snacks galore

🪬Will cut up a hundred and one apples for you if you want that many

🪬Healthy snacks are what he’d prefer for you to have but if you outright refuse it he won’t give it to you and he’ll compromise

🪬If you’re a baby regressor he is very happy to bottle feed you. Seeing you all snuggled up in his arms with a bottle in your mouth has him melting.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Shots II

Pernille Harder x Baby!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Pernille and your shots

Magda has to take paternity leave. Well, technically she could have taken shared parental leave but it was difficult to do when both she and Pernille were athletes so paternity leave was the next best thing.

In theory, she was only entitled to two weeks but the club were generous and eager to keep her with them for many years.

They gave her six.

Six whole weeks to spend with you and Pernille in Pernille's little apartment in Germany. Six whole weeks to get used to you in her life and her new role as mother.

Six weeks, however, didn't extend to your first shots or, rather, your first group of shots after your birth.

You'd been given a round of vaccines in the hospital the day you were born along with being measured and weighed and checked for any issues.

Your next round comes at eight weeks though and Pernille is all alone.

You sit on the floor in front of her in your carrier. You're blissfully asleep, blanket wrapped around you and a little hat to keep your tiny head nice and warm.

You look peaceful and happy, smacking your lips together in your sleep like you're being fed in your dreams.

Pernille hates to ruin it but her name is called and she lifts up your carrier to head to the doctor.

"Right," The man says," Eight weeks. Is that about right?"

"Yes," Pernille says," Eight weeks."

"Well then." He wheels his chair back. "Let's get her weighed and measured and then we'll discuss shots."

Pernille gently gets you out of your carrier, carefully stripping you down to your nappy so you can be weighted accurately.

The doctor nods along with what he sees, noting it down in your baby book.

"Good weight. Good length. How is her eating?"

"Good," Pernille confirms," She's been doing really well. Sleeping good too."

The doctor continues noting things down. "And I seem to remember you saying your partner was returning home. Has that been an okay transition for you both?"

Pernille nods. "It was a little weird during the first few days but now we've adapted. It's going well."

"Good, good. Now, vaccines?"

Pernille winces inwardly. "I was told she's due a few."

"We can do all three today."

Pernille's eyes bulge. "All three? But-"

"Two are injections. One is oral," The doctor explains," It's best we get it all done today."

Pernille finds herself nodding. She knew that this would happen but she wasn't quite sure she'd prepared for it. But, still, she nods and signs the page in your baby book giving her consent.

The first one is simple and easy, liquid drops being placed into your mouth for you to swallow.

You've woken up now, pulling a face at the taste and smacking your lips together in annoyance.

Pernille can deal with that.

What she can't deal with is the way you go from annoyed to heartbroken as the doctor jabs two needles into your legs in short succession.

You're sobs are heartbreaking and you don't stop even when you're in the car.

"It's okay," Pernille coos at you, taking your hand and gently waving it around," It's okay. you're okay. It's to make sure you don't get ill later on."

But you're a baby and you don't understand why Momma has let you get hurt by the mean man with the cold hands.

So you keep sobbing.

Fat tears roll down your chubby cheeks as pain radiates from your leg where you've been jabbed.

"Shh, shh," Pernille says, her own tears pricking in her eyes," Princesse, baby, it's okay. It's over now. Momma's here."

But you don't stop and Pernille decides to just pick you straight out of your car seat, propping you up on her chest.

Tears roll down Pernille's cheeks, matching yours until you're both crying together.

"It's okay," She keeps repeating to you," It's okay. Let's get home, alright?

You sniffle, still whining.

"I know. That doctor was a meanie, sticking you with medicine that's going to save your life one day."

You whimper as Pernille clips you into your car seat again.

"Just a little longer," She promises you," And we'll be home for cuddles and nap time."

[atlabeth]

dance until we're bones

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem reader

summary: you and hotch both confront a lifetime of things left unsaid when a case forces your past into the light.

a/n: so i started this. two years ago. got 1k in and left it, came back now for some reason, wrote like a freak until it was done. lol. this is quite heavy and different than most things i usually write and it is SO much longer than expected but im very proud of it 🫶 i didn't really pay attention to the canon timeline so just know that reader and hotch were in their early and late 20s in law school (90s) and early and late 30s in present day (early 2000s). title from i lied by lord huron and allison ponthier

wc: 17.2k

warning(s): a lot of angst. typical bau case stuff, murder (familicide), implied/referenced past child abuse, reader and hotch go at it basically the whole time, character death, kidnapping, slight mention of drugging, injuries, mentions of blood. i wouldn’t say a happy ending but a hopeful one

Hotch can barely stay awake. 

He got the call thirty minutes to 4 a.m, and if he hadn’t already been up, he would likely be in a much worse mood. He can only hope that the rest of the team has gotten used to rude awakenings at this point. 

It’s poor planning on his part—he already got out late due to extra paperwork, and once he got home, he found himself staring at the wall, and then staring at the ceiling. If he’s lucky, he’ll get to sleep on the jet. If things go the way they usually do, he won’t be out until their first night in a hotel. 

He started making calls to the team on his way to the office, but to no one’s surprise, he was the first one there. He had time to wash down a shitty office coffee and get started on a second one by the time everyone’s there. 

Morgan, Prentiss, and JJ all have coffees—JJ comes prepared with her own thermos, but Morgan and Prentiss fall victim to the BAU’s supply—Reid is fighting back yawns as he tries to fix a hastily made tie, Garcia is slightly less energetic than normal as she passes out files, and somehow Rossi looks the same as always. 

Hotch just hopes he’s put together enough to make the team feel better about being here at an ungodly hour. 

“Welcome, welcome, welcome,” Garcia greets, setting down the last folder in front of Reid before taking her spot next to Hotch at the front. “As lovely as it is to see all of you this morning, I’m afraid that we’ve got a grisly one on our hands, hence the hour.” 

“Great,” Prentiss mutters. “How bad is it?” 

“Three married couples have been murdered in St. Louis, Missouri in the past two months, with the most recent one happening yesterday,” Hotch says, and Garcia grimaces as she clicks onto the pictures. “Mom and dad are killed, but the children are spared.”

“Awful lot of similarities between the parents,” Morgan says dryly as he flips through the folder. “Looks like our killer has some family issues.” 

Reid nods. “The unsub likely stalks these families once they see the similarities. I’m guessing he was abused as a child, seeing as they kill the parents but keep the children alive.”

“Probably has a grudge against his father,” Prentiss remarks. “They make it out the worst every time.”

“There’s no method to the torture,” Morgan says. “It looks like he’s just trying to make it hurt as much as possible.” 

“Our guy probably isn’t trained in anything, then,” Rossi says. 

Reid flips to another page in the file. “Serial killers like to see their victims suffer. If he’s not torturing the mom physically, then he’s likely making her watch.”

“He doesn’t kill children, though,” JJ notes. 

“Maybe he thinks he’s doing them a favor,” Reid says. 

“The unsub sees himself in the kids?” Morgan suggests. “He’s doing what he didn’t get the chance to do.” 

“Whatever it is, we have to keep a tight hold on this,” JJ says. “The press eats this stuff up, and the last thing we need is a terrified city making it harder to do our jobs.”

“Especially with families being killed,” Morgan murmurs. 

JJ sighs. “I’ll draft something on the jet and make some calls when we land.” 

Hotch nods and he closes his file. “Wheels up in thirty. I hope you’re all ready for a long day.” 

-

The jet is silent the entire way to Missouri, full of sleeping agents trying to delay the inevitable—save for JJ scribbling down notes on a legal pad for the first thirty minutes, but even she knocks out sooner rather than later. Thankfully, Hotch manages to fit an hour in himself, though it doesn’t do very much for him. He spends the rest of the time reading through the case file. 

The team settles in quickly at the city’s precinct, and Hotch takes charge as usual. The uniforms are just as tired as they are, but he makes it work. Soon enough, JJ is off to work with the local liaison to craft a narrative, Reid has situated himself in an empty conference room to get to work analyzing maps with Garcia, and Hotch and the rest go to check out the crime scene. 

It’s brutal—much too brutal for this early, but Hotch forces the emotions out of it and gets to work questioning the present officers. Morgan follows suit, with Prentiss and Rossi going to investigate the rest of the house. 

They don’t learn much from the officers that they don’t already know. This is the most recent crime scene—George and Marsha Springfield, undeserving of such a grisly fate. Their two kids, 8 and 9, were off visiting their grandparents in Nebraska when it happened, and though they avoided the same fate, they’re going to deal with a lifetime of guilt. 

It’s all Hotch can think about as he examines the first body. The six children left to deal with the carnage, about their past and future marred against their control. 

All he can think about is Jack, and the dreary fate that awaits him if his father falls in the field.  

Hotch swallows his doubt and his guilt all in one and forces every thought out of his mind. He has to be unshakable for the team, for what’s left of these families, for a city on the brink of hysterics. 

They’ll find whoever did this. That’s what gets him through it. 

They spent early morning at the crime scene, collecting evidence and gathering information from the officers and trying to make sense of the killer’s motive. Progress is slow, partially because of the hour, but they make enough that Hotch feels comfortable moving onto the next job.

Their four a.m. start time was too early to go knock on doors and get interviews, but now it’s a more normal 10 in the morning. After a quick stop back at the station to share information with Reid, Garcia, and JJ and down a few cups of coffee, they get right back on the road.  

Hotch and Prentiss take one van and Morgan and Rossi take the other, splitting up to get what they can from interviews. It’s difficult working with kids, especially with such recent trauma, so they hold off on it for now, allowing the local uniforms that have been with them for a bit longer to set things up before the BAU tries anything. 

First they go to a neighbor’s house, then an alleged eye witness. They don’t get much other than personality reads, but it at least gives them the beginnings of a profile. The third place they hit is their earliest idea of a suspect. 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss reads off the file one of the local officers had put together. “Thirty-nine, born and raised in St. Charles, Missouri. High school degree, but never got to college because he was in and out of jail.” 

“What has he been charged for?” 

“Booked a few times for public intoxication and convicted three times for assault. Once was for third-degree assault, Missouri’s version of aggravated assault,” she says. “He got out of jail a little less than a year ago, and it looks like he’s been living in St. Louis for some of that.”

“Assault and drinking is a far cry from serial killing, even aggravated,” Hotch says. “What makes him a suspect?”

“Both parents are dead,” she says. “And from the looks of it, it was not a happy home while they were around. He’s got a sister, so it fits the initial theory of trying to replicate his family.”

Hotch lets out a loose breath and nods. “We’ll start there. Try and get a story from this guy, build a profile, see if it matches the one Morgan and Rossi have made for their guy.”

“And hope we pin something down before more bodies show up,” Prentiss murmurs. 

They’re at their destination soon enough, and Hotch parks in an open spot on the other side of the road. His eyes dart around as they walk up to the front door, filing things away in the back of his mind. 

The house number and last name—1432, Hartford—on the mailbox plagued with rotting wood. What there is of a yard is poorly cut, and a small garden of wilted flowers has their own corner, victims of the winter weather. One car is parked slightly crooked in a small driveway—there’s no garage, so at least he’s probably home. Two potted plants sit on either side of the door, thankfully alive. 

“Remember,” Prentiss says as they come to a stop together, “be nice.” 

“I’m plenty nice,” he murmurs, and she huffs the slightest laugh. 

Hotch knocks on the door as Prentiss fishes around for her ID, and thankfully, they don’t wait long. The door cracks open after a few seconds to reveal a woman—certainly not their unsub, but something a whole lot more surprising. 

You.

Your brows furrow at the sight of him, and Hotch has to hold back his shock. 

You don’t live in St. Louis. And your last name certainly isn’t Hartford. 

“Aaron?” you ask in disbelief, and he doesn’t even have to look at Prentiss to know the questions he’s going to get later.

He says your name, able to control his surprise with only the slightest crease of his brows giving it away, then corrects himself just as quickly. “Miss Hartford. My name is SSA Aaron Hotchner, and this is SSA Emily Prentiss. We’re here with the FBI.” 

Your frown deepens as they show their IDs, and you actually take it from Hotch, skeptical eyes scanning over it for much too long. You glance back at him as you hand it back over. “What is the FBI doing here?” 

Emily clears her throat as she puts her credentials away. “We’re here investigating the latest murders in St. Louis. Can we come in?”

“The murders?” you ask with exasperation. “What— what murders? And what do I have to do with them?” 

Aaron notices the way your grip tightens on the door just the slightest bit, and a shred of sympathy strikes him before he speaks up.

“We’ll be able to explain everything if you let us in,” he says. 

You swallow thickly in your throat, your gaze darting back to Aaron before you finally nod. “Okay. Sure. Why not?”

You move and Hotch and Prentiss walk inside, gesturing with a hand towards your living room as you shut and lock the door behind them. “Take a seat. Uh— do you guys need anything? Water, or coffee, or…” 

You trail off, and Prentiss shakes her head. “Thank you, but that’s not needed.” She takes a seat on the sofa, but Hotch can’t stop himself from looking around the house. 

It’s a small place, one story—likely rented, seeing how paintings sit on countertops and mantels rather than hanging on the wall. It has a certain charm to it, but something is off about it all. 

Two styles clash—decorative pillows at odds with a filled and painted-over hole in the wall, an attempt at neutral tones ruined by dark articles of clothing scattered around, one person’s mess barely being held back by another’s cleaning efforts. You lived with someone else. Likely Lucas Hartford, possibly their unsub. 

“Are you gonna sit down, Aaron?” you ask, snapping him out of his profiling haze. “Or do you want to look around some more?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says, clearing his throat as he walks over and sits down in an open chair near Prentiss. “Just curious.” 

“That makes two of us,” you say, and you cross your arms as you look at him. He notices that you don’t sit down yourself, and there’s still a coldness in your eyes. “You’re FBI now?” 

He nods. “I had a change of heart.” 

You huff a laugh. “Thought at least one of us would be a lawyer by now. I guess not.” 

Hotch frowns, but Prentiss takes over before he can continue on that particular thread. “Miss Hartford—”

You interrupt by saying your first name, and it spurns something strange in his chest. It’s been over a decade since he’s heard your voice. “You can skip the formalities.” 

Prentiss nods and repeats your name. “As you know, we’re investigating the murders that have been occuring in the St. Louis area.” 

“And you think I have something to do with it?” you ask, the accusatory edge to your voice not lost on him. 

“Not you,” Hotch says. “Do you know a Lucas Hartford?”

“He’s my brother,” you say, and your frown deepens. “You’re not saying—”

“No,” Prentiss interrupts, “we’re not saying anything. We’re just asking.”

And just like that, your entire stance, your visage, it all changes. Hotch can sense the walls slamming up around you, and he immediately realizes two things: 

Getting information out of you is going to be much harder than planned, and you’re not anywhere near the same person you used to be. 

Hotch doesn’t know what he expects, really. He graduated with the intent to prosecute for at least a decade—now, he’s with the BAU. It’s not fair to assume you’re that same girl he met in law school. 

“My brother is not a murderer,” you state clearly.

“And we aren’t accusing him or you of anything—” she starts. 

“Me?” you interrupt, and you let out a harsh laugh. “I’m a suspect too?”

“If you would allow Agent Prentiss to finish her sentences, you would be less upset,” Hotch says. 

You glower at him, but you stay silent. 

“We aren’t accusing either of you of anything,” Prentiss finishes. “We’re just trying to gather information with what little we know.” 

“I know my rights,” you say, unflinching gaze still meeting Hotch’s. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Prentiss looks at him as well, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “That’s unfortunate to hear, Miss Hartford.”

“You know my name, Aaron. Use it.”

He does, and the letters feel strange on his tongue after so long. “This is a serious matter. This isn’t an accusation—we’re in the early days of this case and we need all the information we can get.” 

“Ask away,” you say. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.” 

“Lucas Hartford,” Prentiss starts. “He’s your brother?” 

You nod. “He lives with me.” 

He lives with me, not we live together. Makes him think that you pay for the place, he came knocking, and you didn’t have the heart to turn him away. 

“Why is that?” Hotch asks. 

You look at him, those scrutinizing eyes attempting to peer into his soul the same way they did all those years ago. But Hotch has changed since law school, and he’s much better at guarding his emotions. It seems you are, too. 

“He’s a student,” you finally say. “He goes to community college. I’m giving him a place to live while he gets his associate’s.”  

“Community college and living with his younger sister at 39?” Prentiss is trying to get information out of you, even if it isn’t in the kindest way. Your jaw clenches, and he knows her words have some effect. You’ve probably heard it more than once, the way things are going. 

“He’s getting his life back on track,” you say defensively. “I’m the only one left that can help him, so I am.” 

“What about your parents?” she asks. “Surely they’re a better option than this.” 

“Both dead,” you answer. “And no one else cares enough to help him. Are you here to do anything other than dig up my past?” 

Hotch feels Prentiss’s eyes on him, likely because it’s a step in the right direction for a really shitty reason, but he can’t look away from you. 

“Really?” 

He knows your parents are dead—it was in your brother’s profile, and by extension it applies to you—but it still hits him. 

He met your mother, had countless lunches and dinners with her. Helped her move out of her old house. Spent two Thanksgivings and a Christmas with her. 

And he didn’t even know when she died. 

You shrug and wrap your arms around yourself, and for the first time you look something other than defensive or standoffish. You look— well… sad. 

“Mom went a few years after you graduated,” you say, looking at Hotch. “Dad went last year.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Prentiss says. 

You nod your thanks, the notion a bit numb. 

“You never told me,” Hotch says with a slight frown.

“We haven’t talked in ten years,” you say. “Sorry that I didn’t know you still wanted updates.” 

Hotch tries to think of something to say in response, but Prentiss starts getting a call and she stands up. “Excuse me.” 

His jaw clenches for a moment as Prentiss ducks into a nearby bedroom, but he’s recovered by the time you look at him again. Your arms are crossed, but your expression is even. 

“I take it this was as much of a surprise for you as it is for me.” 

Hotch nods. “We came here looking for your brother.” 

“Does your team know about our history?” you ask simply.

“No.” 

“Do you want them to?” 

“…No.” 

You huff a laugh, your eyes narrowing a bit. “‘Course not. Probably counts as conflict of interest.” 

You wait another beat, then ask another question. “How’s Haley?”

“Good, last I heard,” he says, and then he hesitates. “We’re… divorced.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Really?”

He nods. “This job isn’t easy for anyone.”

You look like you want to say more, but once again, Hotch is saved by Prentiss as she walks back in. Her phone is closed in her hand and she looks at him. “Morgan and Rossi have a lead. The chief wants everyone back at the precinct to go over everything we’ve found.” 

Hotch nods again and stands up. Prentiss takes her card out of her pocket and holds it out to you. 

“Thank you for your time, Miss Hartford. If you find out any information, or want to tell us anything else, please give me a call.” 

“Pass that along to your brother, too,” Hotch says. 

You reluctantly take the card, but you don’t look at it. “You can see yourselves out.” 

Prentiss nods. “Thank you again. Have a good day, and stay safe.” 

She leads the way, and Hotch follows after her. He fights the urge to look back before he shuts the door. 

Prentiss looks at him as they walk back to the car, and he can only imagine what is going through her mind. But eventually she just shrugs and pulls out her phone again. 

“Garcia?” Prentiss asks after she picks up. 

“You’ve reached the office of all that is holy.” Penelope’s voice comes out through the speaker, and Hotch can’t help the smallest twitch of his lips. “What’s up?” 

“Dig up everything you can find on Lucas Hartford,” Emily says, and her glance at Hotch does not go unnoticed. “And throw in his sister, too. He’s one of our only suspects, and we need to know if she’s in on it.” 

“On it,” Garcia says. “I’ll call you back when I’m done.” 

“You’re the best,” she says, and then she hangs up. They get back to the car, and it only takes Prentiss all of five seconds after they get in for her to start drilling him.

“Alright,” she says, buckling her seatbelt with a click before she sets her attention on him. “What was that back there? You two know each other?”

Hotch busies himself with his own seatbelt and starting the car, answering as casually as possible as the engine revs to life. “We were friends in law school.”

“Sure,” Prentiss nods. “The way you were around her, that’s not just ‘law school friend’ stuff.”

Hotch is once again reminded of how, sometimes, it was a downfall to constantly be around profilers. It was nearly impossible to keep anything a secret. 

“It’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back onto the road. “We knew each other, we fell apart, we’re here now.”

Emily hums. “Is it too far to ask if you were together?”

“Yes,” he says sternly, maybe a bit too hasty. “It is.”

“Fine,” she says breezily, and she looks out the window. “But that tension was thick.” 

Hotch knows what she’s thinking. Hasn’t he been with Haley since high school, what kind of history did you and him have, were you together, would he be okay to work this case— 

He doesn’t really want to answer any of them. You were a part of his past he hadn’t expected to resurface any time soon—if Hotch is being honest, he didn’t know if he would ever see you again once he graduated. Not after the way he broke things off.  

You’ve changed a lot. So has he. 

And now your brother is a murder suspect, and you could be covering up for him. 

That’s the only thing that should be on his mind. 

-

“For the last time,” you huff as you storm down the stairs, “I don’t want to deal with this.” 

“Because you know that Mia is a lying bitch!” Cleo exclaims, following after you. “I’m sick of you stealing my clothes!”

“I’m not stealing your clothes,” Mia scoffs in your wake, just behind Cleo. “They’re too ugly for me to want anyways. I bet I wouldn’t even fit into them.”

“You are! And you’re stealing my fucking jewelry, too!” she yells. “All of my shit is going missing, and I know it’s not Little Miss Law School, so it’s got to be you!” 

Mia draws out a mirthless laugh. “You are not accusing me of this.” 

“I don’t have anyone else to accuse!” Cleo shouts. 

They both look at you, and Mia says your name. “You have to settle this before I kill her.”

“Oh, I’ll kill you first!” she hisses. “At least I’ll get all my stuff back!”

You clench your jaw as your nails dig into your palms, and you’re about to bite back when the doorbell rings. You don’t even try to hide your sigh of relief. 

“That’s Aaron,” you say as you grab your coat and your bag from the table. “I’m leaving. If you kill each other, don’t get blood on the furniture.”

You don’t give them a chance to say anything before you rush to the door, open it, and shut it behind you. 

“You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” you breathe. 

“What’s going on in there?” Aaron asks, amused. 

“My roommates are fighting again.” You roll your eyes. “It doesn’t matter. You’re much more interesting.”

“You know this is a study date,” he says wryly, and you cut him off with a kiss. 

“Still a date,” you murmur against his lips. “And something seriously needed.”

Aaron chuckles as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his side, and the two of you walk to his car. “You’ve gotta get out of this house, honey.”

“I know,” you grumble. “But I can’t afford a place on my own.”

“Doesn’t have to be on your own,” he says as he opens the door for you. “It just has to be away from the girls that are making you miserable.”

“The lease ends at the end of the semester,” you sigh. “Just have to make it until then.”

“You know,” Aaron boxes you in against the car when you lean against the side of it, smiling softly at you, “I do live alone.”

“Oh yeah?” You ruffle his hair with your fingers and grin. “What are you proposing?”

He shrugs, letting his hands linger on your waist. “Just that you hate your roommates, and you don’t hate me. You could spend your time somewhere else.” 

“Careful,” you warn. “You keep saying things like that and we might not make it to the library.” 

“You keep saying things like that, and I might not mind,” Aaron muses. 

You grin as he leans in and kisses you again, once, twice, three times as your back hits the side of his car and you card your hands through his hair. Mia and Cleo are probably killing each other inside, but you don’t really care at this point. They’ve made your life hell for a semester and a half—they can bother each other for once. 

“Aaron,” you whisper against his lips, and he gets one more in between words, “I’ve got a test on Tuesday.”

“And today’s Sunday.” He nips at your neck and you laugh, your eyes falling shut as you lean your head back. “You’ll be fine, honey.”

“You have one on Monday,” you remind him, and he sighs. You feel his hot breath against your neck. 

“Ruining our fun in the name of schoolwork,” he says. “No wonder all your professors love you.”

“Everyone loves me,” you correct. “Including you.”

You steal one more kiss before you open your door yourself and get in, and Aaron lets out a breathy laugh.

“You’ve got that right.”

He closes your door then gets in the other side, and you’re already rifling through the glove box full of cassettes. You pull out the mixtape you made for him for your six month anniversary and pop it into the player, and Aaron smiles as the first few notes of Stairway to Heaven come on. 

“You’re a threat to my grades, y’know.”

“Maybe it’s all part of my plan,” you say. “Distract you with kisses to make sure I’m a shoe-in for this fellowship.”

“A dastardly plan,” he says with mock austerity. 

“I’ve been told I have to be more of a shark,” you muse. “Consider this me taking down my competition.”

Aaron laughs, and you find yourself smiling just at the sound of it. You love the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, how they soften just so, how he acts like himself around you, and not some perfected or stoic image that he thinks he needs. 

Falling in love with Aaron Hotchner has been the easiest thing in the world. 

“Don’t let anyone know,” he says, and he reaches over to intertwine your fingers together. “But I’ll happily fall to you every time.”

“As long as you don’t tell everyone how whipped I am for you,” you tease.

“Looks like we’ve both got reputations to keep up.”

“Looks like it.”

You share a smile, yours just on the edge of a grin as you try to bite it back. You hold hands the rest of the way, just soaking in each other’s presence with songs from bands you introduced to each other floating through the air. 

(It is a goddamn struggle to get any work done at the library with that face across from you the whole time.)

- 

You had sky-high aspirations when you were younger. 

Ones that would make your teachers offer a smile and tell you to shoot a little lower, that would make your friends’ eyes widen, that your father would scoff at and your mother would humor you on just to get you to move past it. 

You didn’t listen. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you went on a class field trip to a courthouse in elementary school and saw all the attorneys hustling about, dressed to the nines, making last-minute deals outside the courtroom.  

They were just… so confident. So smart, so stoic, always knowing the answer to everything. The good ones had money, sure, but more importantly they had the power to change lives for the better. And as a kid that had to cover up bruises before the school day, nothing sounded more appealing. 

All you’ve ever wanted to do is help people. 

And as you sit in a cold, empty interrogation room, you can’t help but wonder where the hell you went wrong. 

You don’t want to be here, obviously. But you know the FBI won’t stop bugging you until you give them answers—you know Aaron Hotchner won’t stop bugging you. 

Because god— what are the odds? 

What are the fucking odds of your ex-boyfriend from a decade ago showing up at your door with a badge and an attempted case against your brother? 

It’s ridiculous, and it’s such bad luck that you think it could only happen to you. You’ve thought about Aaron Hotchner more than you’d like to admit over the years, especially when you found your old GW crewnecks, and the box of school supplies you used for a decade, and those photo albums from what should’ve been your golden years. 

It’s not like any of it matters, though. You only agreed to come in and talk because you want them off your back and you don’t want them poking around your house. You saw it in Aaron’s eyes—he was profiling you and your place the entire time. 

If the cops want to invade your privacy even further, they can get a goddamn warrant. 

Your thoughts are interrupted when the door opens, and you hold back a mirthless laugh, because of course it’s Aaron. He greets you with your name, and he has a file in his hands. You wonder if it’s on you or your brother. “Thank you for taking the time out of your day to come in and talk with us.”

“Well, you seem to think my brother is a murderer.” You cross your arms as you sit back. “I’m not really gonna let that stand.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked for a lawyer,” he says as he sits down across from you. 

“I don’t plan to be here for very long,” you respond tartly. “But don’t worry—that can always change. I know my rights.” 

“I’m the last person you need to tell that to.” Hotch sets the file down and looks right at you. Though he’s obviously older—more grizzled, more hardened; harsher, sharper lines that define his face; lips set in a taut, unflinching line—you still see that young man from law school. The passion, the care he puts into everything, the penchant for striped ties. 

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. 

“Your last name wasn’t Hartford when I met you,” he says. “Why is it now?” 

“Not one for small talk,” you remark. 

“I never have been.” 

“I remember.” You hold his gaze. “It’s my mom’s maiden name. I changed it to put some distance between me and everything else.” 

You can practically see the gears of his brain working, neural pathways branching off with every word you say to make sense of it and reason a thousand different meanings from it. Aaron’s always been like that, but it’s tenfold now. 

You suppose one has to be like that, to try and get anywhere with the types of criminals they face. 

“How long have you been living in St. Louis?”

“Seven years. I’ve had that house for three.” 

“Rent or own?”

“Rent,” you scoff. “I don’t make enough for a down payment, and I don’t want a place tying me down.”

“What inspired the move?”

“Close enough to home to be familiar, far enough to not be.” 

“And home is?” 

“St. Charles,” you say, and you purse your lips. “Shouldn’t you already know all this?” You nod at the file in front of him. “It’s either on me or my brother, and we share a lot of the same info.” 

“We prefer to get our information from the source,” he says. 

“Sources can lie.” 

Aaron doesn’t waver. “And we can charge you with obstruction if it harms our investigation.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, not entirely without heart. “Ask your questions, Aaron.” 

He opens the folder and slides the first picture over to you—your brother’s first mugshot, taken when he was only twenty-one. You still remember riding your bike to the station in the sweltering August heat to drop off his bail and pick him up. 

You had to catch the bus home together, you had to pay his fare, and his bail drained everything you’d been saving from your waitress job. But your dad refused to pay it, and you refused to be alone in that house any longer than you already had. 

You swallow the memory. It still tastes as sour as the day it happened. 

“Lucas Hartford is our main suspect,” he says. “He matches our initial profile—in and out of jail since his twenties, his parents are dead and he has an unstable home life, and he’s got a sister.”   

“None of those sound like questions,” you say. 

“Where is your brother?” he asks firmly. He’s given you a bit of leniency, but you can tell he’s getting tired of you. Some things never change, you think to yourself bitterly. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. 

“You don’t know,” he repeats. 

“I let him stay with me, and my only requirement is that he goes to his community college classes and stays out of jail,” you say. “He’s done both, so I stay out of his business.”

“And you’re telling me you haven’t questioned it?”

“I called him the other day after you left,” you say. “He didn’t pick up, and I didn’t get a call back until the next night.” 

Aaron’s eyes sharpen. “What did you say to him?” 

“I called to see where he was,” you say evenly. “I think you all are wrong, but I wanted to make sure he was okay.” 

“You didn’t tell him—” 

“No,” you interrupt, “I didn’t tell him about your investigation. If I think you’re wrong, why would I need to let him know?” 

He still has that look in his eyes, and you know you’re getting on his nerves with the constant interrupting, the constant backtalk. But he probably deals with much, much worse. 

“Good,” he nods. “You could be putting lives in danger if you do—including yours.” 

“Please,” you scoff. “He won’t hurt me. He never has.” 

“Why do you let him stay with you?” Aaron asks. “You’re straight-edge, he’s a borderline alcoholic that’s been in and out of jail for years. You’ve got a law degree, he never made it past high school. You’ve got your life together, his is falling apart.” 

“That’s why I do it,” you say. “Our parents are dead. I’m all he has left, and he’s all I have left. I want him to get better, so I’m trying my best to help him get there. How can Luke put his life back together if he’s got no support?” 

“That’s an awful lot of faith to put in someone who hasn’t earned it.” 

“I’ve gotten good at that over the years,” you reply. 

Aaron stares at you, and you stare back. You let the moment linger. You hope it stings, even fleetingly. 

“And you’re wrong, by the way.” 

“About what?” he asks. Again, unshaken. 

“I don’t have a law degree,” you say. “I dropped out.” 

And for some reason, that is what gets him. He frowns, and you wonder what it means that this is the most unexpected thing he’s gotten out of you. 

“Why? You were only a year out. You had stellar grades.” 

“My mom got cancer,” you say. “Luke was serving his second stint, Dad fucked off to some corner of the country to drink himself to death a couple months before. I was the only one left to take care of her, and I couldn’t do that from DC.” 

“I had no idea.” This is the first time he looks taken aback since you’ve met him again. “And she’s—”

“Dead,” you supply without waiting for an answer. You know he already knows it, but it still seems to have some effect on him. “Went a couple months after I was meant to graduate.” 

“…I’m sorry for your loss,” he says. He’s just repeating what his agent said at your house, but it feels genuine, at least. 

“It’s been a decade,” you say. “I’m just sorry it was her instead of my dad.” 

Aaron’s brows knit together again, and less work goes into covering it up this time. “You seem to have something against your father.” 

You huff a mirthless laugh. “Excellent profiling.” 

“Child abuse is common for serial killers,” Aaron says. “We find it’s typically the root of their problems later in life, or plays a part in their MO.” 

You stare at him again. This isn’t just an interrogation with Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner—it’s revealing parts of your past that you never told your ex-boyfriend Aaron. 

“Yeah,” you finally say. “Our dad beat us. Is that what you wanted to hear?” 

“You know th—” 

Aaron cuts himself off before he can finish whatever he wants to say, and he lets out a short sigh with a nod. “It’s valuable information for the profile.” 

The room feels a lot colder all of a sudden. “Sure.” 

He still looks like he wants to say more, but he bites his tongue as he takes the picture back and closes the file. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Would you like anything? Water?”

You shake your head and remain silent. He takes the folder and stands up, and you watch him the entire way to the door. Just before he can open it, you find words escaping without you thinking. 

“Look, Aaron,” you blurt out. He pauses, and he turns to look at you. “I know this is your thing, and this is your investigation, but I’m telling you—my brother and I don’t play any part in it.” 

“The profile—” 

“I don’t care what your profile says,” you interrupt. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have done it.” 

“He’s rough around the edges, I know. In and out of jail isn’t good for anyone.” You hold onto the edge of the table as you continue rambling, needing something to do with your hands. “But he’s working to get better, and he is not the kind of person to do something like this. If you believe anything I say, believe that.” 

“I suppose we’ll find out,” he says evenly. 

He leaves the room, and your hands fall into your lap as your nails dig into your palms. You don’t mean to be desperate, but you feel it. You’ve been defending Lucas at every chance, but you’re terrified of being wrong. You’re terrified that Aaron might be right—that he might be behind all of this. 

For his sake—and your sake, honestly, because you think you deserve to be selfish when he’s all you have left—you hope you’re right. 

You have to be right. 

The room feels even colder. 

Your stare drifts to the one-way mirror, where you know his team is watching. You saw the way Agent Prentiss watched Aaron when they came to your house—he said he doesn’t want them to know, but you think they already do. 

You wonder the kind of things they’ve come up with about you and him. 

-

Morgan whistles when Hotch walks out of the interrogation room. 

“She does not like you.” 

“Did you gather anything else?” he asks placidly. He sets your brother’s file down so he can fix his tie. 

“Abusive dad, dead parents, criminal background,” he says. “Lucas is looking like a stronger suspect. Oh— and she really doesn’t like you.” 

“If you don’t want to go back to building a file on your suspect, move on,” Hotch demands. 

Morgan shrugs, clearly unfazed, but he keeps his mouth shut. Reid, meanwhile, is still staring through the glass at you. You haven’t exactly relaxed, but you’re not as tense as you were while talking to Hotch. You pick at a loose strand of thread on your sweater, and when you pull it out, you let it fall to the floor. 

“Her brother feels like a prime suspect,” Reid murmurs. “I feel like I could just figure it all out if I could talk to him.” 

“I told Penelope to keep an eye on him,” Prentiss contributes. “She’s tracking his cards, the car registered in his name, even called the person in charge of the AA meetings he goes to to keep an eye out—everything. We’ll know if she gets anything.”

“Serial killers want to see the damage they’ve done,” Reid says. “Things are falling apart here—the whole city is terrified. He’s gotta be in St. Louis still.” 

“You’re sure that he’s still in the running.” Hotch glances back at you, and he knows he has to at least ask, for your sake. He doesn’t want to put you through anything more than he has to—not after what you’ve told him. 

And Hotch knows your past is your business—he just can’t believe you never told him. 

He’s turned over your relationship in his head just as many times in these past few days as he did the months after he ended things. 

“I’m sure, sir,” Reid says. “I’ve read over both their files, and Lucas matches with our preliminary profile. His stressor could have been his father dying.”

Morgan frowns. “Explain.”

“Family annihilators typically go after their own family for a myriad of reasons,” he says. “Paranoia, to cover up their lies, to free themselves from what they see as oppression, sometimes just pure jealousy.”

“He’s killing the parents but leaving the children alive,” Hotch says. “Sounds like a liberator to me.”

“That’s what I think,” Reid nods. “If Lucas has been banking on killing his father for that attempt at freedom, and then lost the chance?” He shrugs. “That could be why he started going for other families.” 

“Other fathers to take his place,” Morgan realizes, and he nods again. 

“You should talk to her, Spence,” Prentiss says. “You’ve got a handle on the profile, and you’re pretty good at conveying info. She seems like a reasonable person—just can’t accept her brother doing something like this.” 

“It’s typical for someone to deny their family member’s involvement,” Reid says. “No one wants to think their sibling is a murderer.” 

“If you lay it all out for her like that, with facts and the profile, I think she’ll listen.” Prentiss looks at Hotch. “She’s too closed off with you.”

“That’s how she is,” Hotch claims.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, “but it’s much easier to hate you than it is to hate Reid.” 

Hotch glares at her, and Reid clears his throat to insert himself back into the conversation. 

“I’d be happy to talk to her,” he says. “I know what it’s like to be in this kind of position—I can put her at ease, sympathize with her.” 

They all look at Hotch, and he wants to say no. He wants to be the one to get this out of you—some part of him wants as much time with you as possible. But he decides to swallow his ego. 

“Fine.” He nods, and he hands the folder to Reid. “I trust you to handle it.” 

Reid nods too, far too many times, and he takes the file. “Thank you. Uh— sir. I appreciate your trust.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but it has no bite to it, and Reid walks inside. 

He says your name and sits down across from you. “I’m Spencer Reid. I know we’ve already said it, but thank you for talking to us. It may not seem like it, but it goes a long way towards figuring out this case.”

You nod. You already seem more at ease than you were with him, and it makes Hotch… 

Not jealous, because that would be insane. But it makes him upset that he doesn’t understand you the way he used to—that he doesn’t hold that key to you anymore. God, it feels like he doesn’t know you anymore. 

Hotch doesn’t get why a side of his brain still thinks this way about you. 

“They sent a new one in,” you say. 

“You looked like you needed a break from Hotch,” Reid says. “Don’t worry. We all do sometimes.”

You huff a slight laugh and your posture eases, your expression softens just so. Reid was right, as usual. 

“I can imagine.”

He starts talking to you about the case, laying out all the facts, and though you don’t look happy, you don’t cut him off like you cut Hotch off. 

“She’s pretty,” Morgan offers, glancing at Hotch. “And stubborn. I see why you like her.” 

“Shut up, Morgan,” Hotch mutters.

He chuckles and holds his hands up, and focuses back on the interrogation. 

The rest of it passes in silence, save for the occasional input from Prentiss or Morgan to elaborate on a point. You talk much more with Reid than you did with Hotch, and you don’t stare daggers at him the entire time. 

Time doesn’t always heal all wounds, he thinks. 

When Reid is finishing up inside with you, Morgan glances back at Hotch. “You think she’s part of this?”

He shakes his head. “No. She has no reason to kill, nothing to gain. She talks about her past too plainly—it hurt her, obviously, but it hasn’t taken over her life.”

“What about her brother?” Prentiss asks. 

“The more we learn, the more I suspect him,” Morgan says. 

She nods in agreement. “We just have to find him.”

Hotch isn’t sure yet. 

But for your sake, he hopes his gut feeling is wrong. 

-

Spring has finally sprung in DC, and you couldn’t be happier. 

It’s hard to feel down on your walks to class when the birds are singing and the sun is beaming down on you, when you see students sitting on blankets reading and talking and actually enjoying life for once. 

You’re two years into law school, and it feels like you’ve spent 90% of your time studying in either the library or your room. A bit of a sad existence, but it’s made better with Aaron. 

You’re laying down on a blanket—one you crocheted yourself in undergrad—resting your head on Aaron’s chest as he reads a book, the spring sun shining down on you. It feels like the first moment of relaxation either of you have had since classes started, and you chose to spend it together in the University Yard. 

You should probably be studying or doing some kind of homework, but you don’t care. It has been too damn long since you’ve gotten to just sit around and exist with Aaron, and you’ve got at least a couple days until your next quiz. That’s far enough away for you. 

It’s been a rough semester for both of you, between classes and endless homework, between your internship and your endless family issues—Luke is two years in, and his parole was denied, and your dad still insists on being the reason you stay on campus year-round. 

You don’t think you’re pushing it when you say Aaron’s support has been the only reason you’ve gotten through it, your grades—and your mental state—relatively unscathed. 

Aaron says your name, and you hum. 

“Are you listening?” he asks. 

“Of course,” you say. 

“Your eyes are closed.” 

“I don’t need my eyes to listen,” you say wryly. “What’s up?” 

You feel him tense for a moment, feel him adjust his position slightly. 

“I got a call from Haley,” he says carefully. 

Your eyes open and you frown. 

You know the name, but only in the way that you talked a bit about your past relationships while you were still getting to know each other. She was his high school girlfriend, and it was a big deal then, but they broke up before college because they both wanted different things.

It shouldn’t be a big deal now. But he’s treating it like one, and that makes you hesitate. 

“Yeah? What’d she want?”

“…She’s in DC for the weekend,” he says. “Some conference for school. She asked if we could grab a coffee or something and catch up.”

You finally sit up, his hands falling from where he’d been playing with your hair, and you look at him.

“Your high school girlfriend wants to catch up.”

“An old friend wants to catch up,” he corrects. “I haven’t really talked to her since we graduated high school.” 

“…Okay,” you say slowly. “Do you want to see her?” 

He shrugs. “I thought it would be nice.”

“Do you think she thinks it’ll be more than nice?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t even know how she got my landline. I think my mom might have given it to her.” 

Your eyebrows rise. “Your mom gave your ex-girlfriend your number?” 

“It’s the only way I can think of her getting it,” Aaron shrugs. “Like I said, I haven’t talked to her since graduation.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to think as you look at Aaron. 

You’ve met his mom a dozen times. You’re insistent that she doesn’t like you, despite Aaron’s assertions towards the opposite—it wouldn’t surprise you if she gave this girl his new number in an effort to push him in a new direction. 

But that train of thought feels a little crazy. You’re confident in your relationship with Aaron—you love him, and he loves you. God, he made an off-handed comment about marriage the other day. You’re not threatened by a girl from his past wanting to catch up. 

“Go for it,” you finally say. 

He frowns, like he was expecting the worst. “Really?” 

“I trust you, Aaron,” you say. “You say she’s just a friend, I believe it.” 

You lean forward to kiss him, your eyes fluttering shut, and it lasts much longer than it should. When you pull away, Aaron’s smiling softly at you. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“‘Course,” you say, tipping a shoulder. “I’m known to be rational from time to time.” 

He chuckles, and you smile as you lay back down on his chest. Soon after, you feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder. 

“I love you,” he says. It feels more like a reminder than anything. 

You entangle your fingers together and press a kiss to the back of his hand. 

Sometimes you need reminders. 

“I love you too.” 

-

“Four more bodies,” Prentiss mutters. “God.” 

“You can say that again,” Morgan murmurs. 

Hotch is silent as he examines the father’s body. They’ve been so busy the past few days trying to nail down the profile, both on their unsub and geographically, that this happening again hadn’t been at the top of their list. There was a month between the first two, and two weeks between the second and third. 

No one expected this to happen so soon. 

The entire family was killed this time, and once again, the parents look similar to the other victims. It’s the work of their unsub, no doubt. 

Hotch and the team had already been at the precinct for an hour going over all the information they’d found when they got the call at 8 in the morning, the bodies discovered by the family’s maid when she arrived for work. 

An entire family, parents and children, senselessly slaughtered for one man’s deranged quest for liberation. 

Hotch has been in this business for a long time, seen things that most people only imagine in nightmares, and he still has to take a step back when children are involved. 

He sees Jack in every single one. He can’t help it. 

Hotch took Prentiss and Morgan with him to the crime scene—JJ has a kid, Rossi had a kid, and he just didn’t want Reid to see it. They’ll all be more valuable working together back there anyways, and it’s imperative that JJ controls the narrative before this can break to the press. 

Again, Prentiss talks to the officers at the scene and Morgan helps him examine the bodies. After all, there are double the amount. 

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Morgan says as he stands back up. “Our guy is killing surrogate parents to get back at his own, fine. Dad was tortured again, mom was killed with a bullet. But bringing the kids into it isn’t his thing.” 

He uses a gloved hand to gingerly lift the father’s arm away from his body so he can examine the underarm. “Look at this. He’s been stabbed at least ten times, and his arm’s nearly severed from his body.”

“And his neck,” Morgan mutters. “He’s half decapitated.” 

Hotch sets the arm back down. “The unsub always wants the father to suffer, but this is a new level.” He looks up at Morgan. “I don’t think he has a reason for killing the children. I think he’s getting sloppy—he’s getting overwhelmed by his anger.” 

“You think he’s devolving,” he says, catching on. 

“Something tells me we’re coming to the end of the line,” Hotch says. “Whatever he does next, he’s going out with a bang.” 

-

The mood in the precinct has fallen dramatically since the last hit. The uniforms aren’t happy that they’re working around the clock, the chief isn’t happy that the BAU hasn’t figured everything out yet, and the city isn’t happy that ten murders have been committed with what they think is no end in sight. 

JJ and Rossi have gone out to bring in the suspect that he and Morgan found together for the sake of covering their bases—they still haven’t been able to find Lucas, despite Reid calling you every day to check in and upping police presence around the city. 

The rest of the team sits around a conference table, over a dozen coffees between them, going over everything and racking their brains for information. 

“This just isn’t matching up,” Reid complains. “Lucas has just been at home for the first two, but for the third and the fourth he’s got alibis.” 

“What are they?” Hotch asks. 

“He was on the road all night when the third happened,” Reid says. 

“And how do we know?” Prentiss asks. 

“Garcia picked up his debit card being used a couple times from Des Moines back to St. Louis when the third set of murders happened,” Morgan contributes. “Must’ve been a road trip, because there are stops at a gas station, a restaurant, and a rest stop.” 

“The last one happened during an AA meeting he was supposed to attend,” Prentiss says. “I called the leader and she said he was there.”

“Do we have footage from any of those places?” Hotch asks. “We need to make sure.” 

Reid nods. “I asked her to check it all this morning, including the AA meeting. She must still be going through it—I can’t imagine it’s easy to get all that access.” 

“What about a second unsub?” Morgan suggests. 

Hotch shakes his head. “These are all meant to be personal for liberation—catharsis. Involving someone else would take away from the feeling.” 

“What about your suspect?” Prentiss asks, looking at Morgan. “Could he be the unsub?” 

“Patrick Fenton,” Morgan says, and he shrugs. “He fits it—dead parents, jail time, child of abuse. But he’s got two sisters, and his parents died when he was in his twenties from a car accident. I don’t see why he would start killing almost twenty years later.” 

“Maybe we’ll figure something out in questioning,” Reid says hopefully. 

Morgan’s phone suddenly goes off, and he hits the button to answer. “You’re on speaker, babygirl.” 

“I found the security footage from those three places, the ones that Lucas was at on his supposed road trip when the third family was hit,” Garcia says, voice slightly tinny through the phone.  

“And?” Hotch asks. 

“I was getting there,” she says. “Lucas wasn’t there. He wasn’t on any of the footage—his sister was.” 

Hotch frowns. You? 

“You’re sure?” he asks. 

“I’m always sure,” Garcia responds. “And I don’t know if Spencer is there, but he also wasn’t there at the AA meeting—I combed through the whole meeting, and he didn’t show up at any point. Just another guy that looked like him.” 

“And you’re sure about that, too?” Hotch asks again. 

“What is with this questioning of my abilities?” she asks, offended. “Yes. I’ve stared at so many pictures of Lucas Hartford over these past few days that I’ve got him burned into my brain.” 

“Thanks, babygirl,” Morgan says. “We’ll call back if we need anything.” 

“And you’re always welcome in this house of miracles,” she muses. Morgan chuckles before he hangs up. 

“Lucas gave her his card,” Reid realizes. “It’s an easy alibi, but it falls apart when you look into it even a little bit.” 

“Probably seemed solid to him at the time,” Morgan says. “He doesn’t seem like a detail oriented guy.” 

Prentiss frowns. “That means he’s back on the chopping block. We can put him at the scene of every murder.” 

Hotch leans over the table and grabs Lucas’s file, and he pulls out the page compiling his family. “His father died a year ago from liver failure. Hartford got out of jail nine months ago after a six year stint.” 

“If he’s been plotting some elaborate murder of his father for years, just to get out of jail and find out he drank himself to death?” Morgan shakes his head. “He’d snap. It doesn’t feel like justice.” 

“He thinks he’s saving the kids of these parents that he kills,” Reid says. “He sees himself in them—he can’t look past his own childhood, and he assumes those kids must want their parents dead too.” 

“He’s trying to get back at his dad,” Prentiss says. “We know that.” 

“But that’s not his main goal,” Reid insists. “If his dad died when he was a kid, the abuse would have stopped. His mom wouldn’t be the battered wife anymore, and he wouldn’t be the battered kid.” 

“His goal has always been protection,” Hotch realizes. “Yes, he’s getting his revenge by killing his father over and over, but ultimately, he’s trying to save himself.” 

“But he didn’t anticipate the kids being home this time,” Prentiss says. “He had to kill them too.” 

“If he‘s seeing himself in these children, recreating what he never got to do, then that means that he effectively died in this scenario,” Reid says. 

“He didn’t get what he wanted,” Morgan says. “That’s gonna take a toll on him.”

“He’s coming to the end of the line,” Prentiss nods. 

Hotch’s brain is working overtime as they work information off of each other. They’re so damn close—they just need the last piece of the puzzle. If they find Lucas’s next victim, they find him. 

“His next crime will probably be his last before he goes out himself,” Reid says. 

“You think it’ll be a murder-suicide?” Morgan asks. 

“It’s common with family annihilators,” Reid says. “Hell, it’s common with anyone who sees no future beyond their murders. It’s their way out.” 

And then the answer hits Hotch like a ton of bricks. Reid is still rambling next to him. 

“If his dad was still alive, I’d say he would be the target. But the only one left—”

“—is his sister,” Hotch grits out, and he’s dashing out of the conference room before anyone can stop him. 

“Hotch!” Morgan yells, and he turns to Prentiss with wild eyes. “Where the hell is he going?” 

“The last victim,” she says as she starts following him. “The one person he never managed to save.” 

“Goddammit,” Morgan curses, and he grabs his phone from the table, dialing Garcia as fast as she can while he runs. Reid is close behind him.  

“What’s up, sugar?” she asks. “Got anymore leads?” 

He laughs dryly. “We’ve got a big one, babygirl. Lucas has finally reached the end of the road — he’s going for his sister. I need you to call JJ and Rossi and—” 

“Send them the Hartford address and fill them in on everything?” she interrupted, and he could hear her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Already on it.” 

“What would I do without you?” he asks. 

“Be half the man and twice as sad,” she says. “I’ve got to call JJ. Be safe, my love.” 

“Always,” he responds, and he hangs up. 

Hotch distantly registers Prentiss stopping by the chief to alert him of what’s going on, because he’s in the fog of a rampage. He’s in the driver’s seat before he knows it, starting the car, and he sees Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid running out after him. 

Prentiss takes shotgun and Morgan and Reid file into the back, and they’ve all got Kevlar vests in their hands. He didn’t really think of that through his haze. 

“We’ve got an extra one for you,” Reid says, reading his mind. 

“Thank you. I— I know what you’re all thinking—” Hotch starts, but Prentiss shakes her head.

“Just drive.” Her lips set themselves in a taut line. “We’ve got a murder to stop.”  

And he does. 

-

You sit on the curb, surrounded on either side by a box of your things. Packing up everything made you realize how little you had at his place. You thought you’d integrated yourself into his life fully, but it really just took an afternoon while he was in a lecture to disappear. 

Summer has fully turned to winter, and you’re as morose as the weather. This side of town looks so depressing without the warmer months to pick it up—the sidewalks are lined with dead trees, the grass is shriveled up and yellowing, and you feel like you’re living in grayscale. 

A shiver runs through you, the weather only partly to blame. 

Amy is supposed to pick you up, but as usual, she’s running late. You don’t know if it’s a personal issue or DC traffic has just struck again, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, you’re stuck here, and your bad luck seems intent on making it worse, because you watch a familiar car pull around the corner. 

It parks a distance away—there’s no space in front of the complex, and he always complained that they didn’t do assigned spots—and you have to hold back a scornful scoff. 

Of course you have to deal with this now. 

Aaron picks up his pace when he gets out of the car, surprise—and what you think is shame—painted on his face. He says your name when he slows down. 

“You’re already packed.” 

You shrug. “I’m nothing if not efficient.” 

“I could’ve helped you with all this,” Aaron says, frowning. 

“Why do you think it’s done already?” you ask. 

His throat bobs and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Let me save you the pain of chivalry,” you say. “I’ve got a friend coming to pick me up. I’ve already found a place. I called your property manager the other day and argued my way out of the lease, but I still paid my next month. You’re welcome.” 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says. 

“You know what they say about a clean break,” you intone.  

“I’m sorry,” Aaron tries again. To his credit, he looks like he means it. Against his credit, it’s about the fiftieth time you’ve heard it from him in the past two weeks. 

“I shouldn’t have let you get that coffee,” you say with a grim smile, “should I?” 

His lips pull into a taut line. “I didn’t cheat on you.” 

“I know,” you say. It’s the one thing you do believe. “I just don’t think you ever fell out of love with her.” 

Mercifully, you see Amy’s car pulling up in the distance. She’s your only friend with an SUV, so at least your boxes will fit. 

“My ride’s here,” you say as you stand up, and you pick up one of your boxes. Amy throws on her hazards and she gets out to open her trunk. 

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she breathes. “Traffic was awful, and Jake has been so annoying—” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you say with a slight smile as you put your box in the back. “You’re already doing me a huge favor.”  

“I want us to still be friends,” Aaron calls. When you turn back, he has your other box in his hands, his expression shamelessly desperate. Amy glares daggers at him. 

“Why?” you ask innocently. “So I can go without talking to you for ten years, ask you for a coffee when I’m in town, and then get you to leave Haley?” 

“That’s not what happened,” he says, but you’re already shaking your head. 

You take the box from him and smile thinly. 

“Have a good rest of your life, Aaron. I hope it doesn’t involve me ever again.”

-

You let out a noise of frustration as you struggle to get the key into the lock, gritting your teeth as you try to fit it in. It’s always been finicky, but you just don’t have the energy to deal with this tonight. Thankfully, just when you start getting annoyed, you get it open. 

You get a few steps in before your eyebrows rise, the sight of your brother at the kitchen table a surprise. He’s got his head in his hands, and your surprise turns to concern.

“Lucas,” you say with a slight smile, shutting the door behind you, “I didn’t know you were gonna be home tonight.”

His attention shoots to you immediately as he says your name, and he looks slightly out of it. “I was wondering when you were gonna get back.”

“Stole the words right out of my mouth,” you say wryly, and you ruffle his hair with your free hand as you walk past him. He swats your hand away in brotherly protest, and you snort. “This place has been quiet without you. Well— except for the cops. They were pretty loud.” 

“They haven’t been back, have they?” 

You look back at him and notice his leg is bobbing up and down insanely fast, and he keeps scratching at the soft wood of your table with his nail. 

Your smile fades. “Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking.”

“Of course I haven’t,” he insists, but you turn on the kitchen light, then move closer to peer into his eyes against his protests. 

“At least you’re not high,” you murmur, taking one last look before you pull away. “And stop ruining the table. I need it to last for the next ten years.” 

He huffs, and you can practically hear him roll his eyes, but he stops. 

“Did you go to class today?”

“You don’t have to act like Mom,” Lucas says, crossing his arms again with another huff. 

“And you don’t have to act like a child.” You roll your eyes as you set your tote bag on the countertop and begin unpacking the groceries you bought. “I’m asking you about your day—that’s definitely not acting like Mom.”

“Yes,” he mocks. “I went to class.”

“Good.” You glance back at him. “I’m proud of you, Luke. You’ve been making progress.” 

His smile is a bit thin, but he nods. “Thanks. How was work?”

You scoff and shake your head as you put a couple things in the pantry. “Don’t even get me started. I swear, Marie’s going to get me fired someday if she keeps her bullshit up.”

“She’s still on it?” Luke asks, and you can’t help but smile a bit. 

“Don’t act like you know what I’m talking about,” you say. “Just agree with me.” 

“I agree with you,” he says. 

“That’s it,” you muse. 

Your eyes fall back on your bag, and you’re reminded of what you meant to do next time your brother showed up. 

“Oh—” You go back over to the kitchen table for your bag and pull out your wallet. You slide a debit card out and hold it out to your brother. “Thanks for letting me use it while I was up in Des Moines. I finally got my bank to get rid of the freeze on my card.” 

“…Of course,” he says, and he takes it back. “Glad I could help.” 

“I’ll pay you back, obviously,” you say as you get back to your groceries. “I just have to wait to get paid again.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “And uh— you never answered me. Did the cops come by again?” 

You huff a mirthless laugh and shake your head. “You have nothing to worry about, Luke. I think they finally realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

“…Good,” he says. “I can tell they’ve stressing you out.”

“Like that looks any different than my normal state,” you say wryly. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad.” 

You recall the shock you felt when you opened the door to Aaron, and how nervous you were on the drive to the precinct. It’s almost been a decade, and yet he still has an effect on you that he has no right to. 

“You remember that guy I dated when I was still in law school? Aaron Hotchner?”

“I think? I was in jail, so.” 

You roll your eyes. “I know I told you about him when I visited you while we were together.” 

“I remember you telling me how he broke your heart,” Luke says. 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then what are you saying?” 

“That he’s with the FBI now. The BAU,” you enunciate, and you huff. “He’s one of the guys on this case, coincidence that it is. They came here—they even brought me in for an interview.”

He frowns. “What’d you say?”

“The truth.” You pull your cutting board and a knife out of a drawer and get to work washing your vegetables. “That I didn’t know anything, and neither of us are involved in either way.” You shake your head with a sigh. “They must believe it, because they haven’t come back.” 

“What have they said about me?” he asks. 

“I’m not supposed to say.” You roll your eyes. “I think you’re innocent, but I could get charged with obstruction, and I really don’t feel like dealing with that…” 

You trail off into a sigh as you finish washing the peppers and set them on a towel. “I hope they find whoever’s doing it, though. It is freaking me out that there’s a murderer out there.” 

You pick up your knife and start cutting them up—they’re not the freshest, but it’s all Kroger had after work—and you glance back at Luke. “You really shouldn’t be going out so often with this going on, y’know. I don’t want you getting hurt.” 

“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m careful.” 

“I doubt that,” you say wryly. “Still, though. I worry about you.” 

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asks. “I’m your older brother.” 

“I worry about everything,” you say. “It’s my thing.” 

You hear him huff a laugh and you smile a bit to yourself. You get through your first pepper before you remember what’s been nagging at you your whole ride home. 

“Oh— can you get the TV?” you ask. “Channel 8, I think. Marcy is getting interviewed for something with her nonprofit, and I told her I’d record it for her.”

Lucas doesn’t respond, though you hear the scrape of the chair as he gets up. 

“Thank you,” you say. “I think they have a fundraiser coming up or something…” you trail off and shake your head as you scrape the cut peppers onto a plate. “God. I need to start paying attention in the break room.”

Another few seconds pass, and you don’t hear the television switch on. You huff and turn your head slightly. “Luke, I’m making dinner tonight. This is the least you could do.” 

“I’m sorry.”

The words come out as a murmur, but you can tell he’s much closer than he was before. 

You don’t even get the chance to turn around before something crashes against your head and your vision goes dark. You feel yourself fall to the ground, and your head hits the floor hard. 

Then, there’s nothing. 

-

Hotch has been breaking every speeding law there is. 

The station isn’t too far from your house, but it’s still too far. All he can see is your body, crippled and lifeless just like every other victim they’ve had to look at. 

It should never have gotten to this point. Lucas has been a suspect for the first day, but they looked to other suspects, got caught up in statements from neighbors and the kids of the victims. 

If Hotch just found him and booked him on the first day, this wouldn’t be happening. Your life wouldn’t be in danger. 

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. 

“I seriously think we’re looking at a murder-suicide if this gets to play out,” Reid speaks up from the backseat. “This is his way of ending this for both of them—the ultimate protection of his sister.”

“No one can hurt her if she’s dead,” Morgan mutters. 

“Hotch,” Prentiss starts, treading carefully, “are you sure you’re okay to lead this?”

“Yes,” he says, though he wants to say what kind of question is that?

You were together a lifetime ago in law school, yes, and he might still have feelings for you that he didn’t even realize were there, yes—but he’s an agent and a professional before all of that. 

It doesn’t matter that you have history. It doesn’t matter that you likely hate him. 

It doesn’t matter that he thought he was going to marry you one day, and then was watching you drive out of his life after he got back with his high school girlfriend another day.  

Aaron Hotchner is not going to let you die. It’s as simple as that. 

Hotch’s phone rings and he picks it up and flips it open immediately. “Talk to me, Garcia.”

“JJ and Rossi are on their way,” she says. “Are you headed to their place?” 

“Yes,” he says, and he puts it on speaker. “I’ve got Prentiss, Morgan, and Reid with me still.” 

“Do you think there’s anywhere else he could be?” Morgan asks. “If he’s going to kill her, he might not want to do it in this house.” 

“Already a step ahead of you, my love,” she says, and he can hear mouse clicks through the phone. “They grew up in a house in St. Charles—it’s abandoned, from the looks of it, some place on the outskirts. Never got another buyer after the past owners moved out. I’m sending the address to Emily right now.”

Prentiss gets a buzz on her phone and she nods in confirmation after flipping it open. Hotch immediately switches lanes and makes a U-turn, his jaw clenching. 

“Tell me how to get there, Prentiss,” he says. “He’s there.”

“You need to get on I-70,” she says, and then her brow furrows. “How do you know?”

“He’s killed everyone else in their homes because he sees it as the source of it all. His sister’s rented place isn’t personal enough.” Hotch shakes his head. “Why wouldn’t he want to go back to theirs to end it all?”

“Hotch.” Penelope’s voice rings out in the car, and he doesn’t even realize he forgot to hang up. 

“What?”

“Be careful,” she says, and he rushes to turn it off speaker and press it to his ear. “I… I know how important this is to you.”

Hotch’s throat bobs and his eyes burn with the beginnings of tears. He blinks them away—he can’t be weak now. He can’t let his team see him be weak now. “Dare I ask how?”

“I found an article about GW’s mock trial team,” she says. “Kind of went down a rabbit hole from there.”

Somehow, he huffs the slightest laugh. It feels like a lifetime ago—it honestly is, at this point. Before he saw carnage and gore on a daily basis and tried to solve it, when he thought the DA’s office was the endpoint, when he came home to your smiling face every night. 

And now… 

Hotch’s spine somehow stiffens, and he knows the other three in the car are watching him. He can’t decide whether he cares or not. 

“Thank you, Garcia.”

“No problem,” she says, and he can almost hear her blink in the pause. “Uh— for what, exactly?” 

For the memory, he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He can’t, not right now, so he tries his best to snap out of it. 

“Keep a watch on the patrol cars,” he says instead. “Update JJ and Rossi on our plan, but tell them to stay on their path. I’m sure I’m right, but we need to cover our bases.” 

“Of course, sir.” He hears her fingers flying across the keys. “I’ve got yours and the squad cars’ locations up—I’ll call them now.” 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Good luck, Hotch,” Garcia says softly. 

Hotch hangs up before he gets too emotional. Penelope has a way of bringing that side out of him. 

“We’ll get him,” Prentiss assures. She’s been watching him this whole time, he can feel it—she’s been attuned far too keenly on this entire part of the case involving you and him. “And we’ll save her.” 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel, and for once, Hotch can’t find the words. 

-

It feels like your head is slowly being cranked in a vice when you eventually wake up, a dull but insistent pain. Your arm stings too, but you don’t know why. 

You blink a few times as you try to figure out where you are, a low groan slipping out as you fully come back into consciousness, and you move to rub the grogginess out of your eyes. 

Your arms don’t move. You try again, panic spiking your heart for a moment, and that’s when you realize you’re in a chair—tied to a chair, your wrists bound together behind you and your ankles bound to the chair legs. 

Now the panic fully sets in. There’s a murderer in St. Louis, but you don’t fit the victimology from what you’ve seen, but does any of that fucking matter when you’re stuck in something out of a horror movie?

Lucas was the only one there with you. So either he’s in the same situation, or he—

“You’re finally awake,” a voice murmurs. When he comes into view and sits down across from you, your heart stops. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at your brother with wide eyes. You see the gun in his hand through your peripherals, but you don’t look away from his gaze. 

“I was worried I was too rough,” he says softly. “But you’ve always been resilient.” 

“Lucas,” you breathe. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s finally going to be over,” he says, ignoring your panic. “We’ve been hurting our whole lives because of that bastard of a father, and I can finally make it all stop.” 

Your brother is fucking crazy. He’s fucking crazy, and he’s going to kill you.

You’ve spent two weeks telling Aaron he was crazy and your brother was innocent, and now he’s going to be proven right when he finds your dead body. 

You try to tamp down on your panic. You don’t have a law degree, sure, and you never officially practiced, but you’ve been a good speaker, a persuasive one, all your life. 

And if there’s ever been a fucking time to be persuasive, it’s now. 

“You don’t have to do this,” you whisper. “We— we can talk if you want to talk.” You tug at your ankle restraints. “This is unnecessary.” 

He shakes his head. “I know you. You’d run.” 

“Come on.” You manage as much of a smile as you can. “I’ve always been there for you, Luke. Why would this be any different?” 

“…You’ve always been too nice,” he says, and he sets the gun down on his leg. At least he doesn’t have his finger on the trigger. “Anyone rational would’ve kicked me to the curb when I asked you for help.” 

“You’re my brother,” you whisper. “I— I love you, Lucas. I’d never do that to you.” 

“Family’s supposed to be everything, right?” He shakes his head. “You were the only one of us that understood that. You were there to pick me up every time my sentence was up.” 

“I’ve always believed in you,” you say. 

He huffs a monotone laugh as he stares at the ground. “You’re definitely the only one.”

You shake your head. “That’s not true.” 

“Mom didn’t care enough to stop anything,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “And Dad wished I was dead every goddamn day. He didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he definitely tried.” 

You can’t defend your parents. Your dad’s a piece of shit, and your mom didn’t stop anything he did—but you could never find it in yourself to fully hate her because he hurt her too, with more than just bruises. 

“I’ve dreamt of killing our dad every day for twenty years,” Lucas says. “And that old bastard had to fuck me over one last time and die while I was in jail.”

You remember when you got the news. You were next of kin—your mother was dead, and your brother was incarcerated—so you got the call from the hospital. You deliberated for hours before you bought a plane ticket to Montana—apparently that was where he fucked off to drink himself to death—and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt more numb than when you were sitting in some lawyer’s office, listening to him drone on about his will and how his estate would be divided. 

“So you killed all of those people?” you asked. “Because you didn’t get to kill our dad first?” 

“I was saving those kids!” Luke yells, and you shrink in on yourself. “Saving them before their parents could fuck them up like ours did to us!” 

“You don’t have to do this,” you repeat. “You’re just letting Dad win. Proving every shitty thing he said about you.” 

“And that’s the zinger, isn’t it? Luke laughs and shakes his head. “He was right. We’re a whole family of fuck-ups. An alcoholic abuser, a battered wife, a nonstop jailbird, and you…” He shakes his head with a sigh. “You should be out there prosecuting people like me.”

“He ruined us,” Luke murmurs. “And I’m finally going to fix it.” 

All you can do is stare at your brother, wide and teary eyed. You can’t find the words, but you don’t have to. 

Police sirens begin to filter through the air as they get closer, and Luke huffs. “Of course.” He eyes you. “Don’t go anywhere.” 

“I wouldn’t dare,” you say weakly. 

When he leaves to peer out the front door, you take a second to look at your surroundings. It takes a second because they’re so decrepit, but you could never forget. 

Luke brought you back to your childhood home—the place in St. Charles, rotten down to its bones. It’s abandoned by now, but the atmosphere is nothing less than oppressive. There’s a reason you graduated high school a year early, why you never came back once you got to college—except with Aaron, to help your mom move her things out. 

You refuse to die here. Even if you have to claw your way back through the gates of Hell inch by inch—you will not die here. 

You hear footsteps, and when Lucas comes back in, he has a crazed glint in his eye. He shakes his head as his finger returns back to the trigger, and you can’t help but flinch. He won’t. Not now. 

“Looks like your friends the FBI are here,” he drawls. “You said you didn’t tell them anything.” 

“I didn’t,” you insist. “They’re profilers—they figure things out.” 

He shakes his head. “They don’t realize that I have to do this.” Luke kneels down in front of you and takes your chin in an iron grip. “This is the only way to end our pain.” 

He lets go of you then stands up, moving behind you—you want to protest, but you don’t get the chance. He presses his gun to your temple and then the door is broken down. Four agents rush in, guns at the ready. Aaron leads them, and he’s got fire blazing in his eyes.

“FBI,” he barks. “Hands up.”

Lucas doesn’t seem fazed, his breathing staying the same. You stare right at Aaron, unfiltered fear in your eyes, and you feel torn bare. He’s going to watch your brother put a bullet in your head. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he says smoothly. “This is a family matter.” 

“Put the gun down, Lucas,” Aaron says. 

“You know my name,” he says. “I know yours too, Aaron Hotchner. My sister told me you were with the feds. She also told me you broke her heart.”

“Put the gun down,” he repeats. 

“I don’t think I will,” Luke says. “You see, I don’t go around just kidnapping people for fun. I have a purpose here.” He tilts his head to the side. “But you know that, don’t you? You’re all profilers.” 

“You’ve been targeting families that look like your own,” he says. “You think that killing them will end the pain inside you, and protect those kids in a way that you never got.” 

“I don’t think it,” he bites, “I know it. If my dad had been shot thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be here right now.” 

“This isn’t going to bring you peace,” Aaron says. “Your sister has been the only person to stay by your side through every part of your life. Do you really want to lose that?” 

“Trust me,” Luke says. “I’m not losing her.” 

He flicks the safety off and you flinch. He’s going to kill you. 

“Put the gun down,” another agent warns. 

“If you all don’t leave right now, I’ll shoot her.” Your whole body stiffens as he presses the gun harder into the side of your head, your breathing going off kilter. “Except you, Aaron Hotchner. You can stay.”

“We’re not doing that,” the woman says. Agent Prentiss, you think. 

“Really?” Luke chuckles. “You think you hold the cards here?” 

“It’s okay,” Aaron says. “Go.” 

Agent Prentiss frowns, and the other two men look different levels of puzzled. They obviously doubt the decision, but they don’t doubt Aaron, because one by one, they leave. 

“Wow,” Luke muses. “They really trust you.” 

“Because I know you don’t want to hurt her,” Aaron says. “Deep down, you know you’re not protecting her. Not by hurting her.” 

“I’m not hurting her,” he says. “She’s always been the one to keep me safe over the years—I’m finally paying the favor back. I’m finally taking her pain away.”

“You were abused as children. Both of you.” Aaron looks at your brother. “Your sister always tried to protect you, but it never worked. It just made it worse for her, and it made you feel worthless. You’re her older brother. You’re the one that was supposed to protect her.”

“My sister said you’re profilers,” he says, and though his tone is lazy, you know your brother. You can tell it’s starting to get to him. “Is that what you’re doing right now? Profiling me?” 

“You would never be good enough for your father, and your mother would never do anything to stop it,” Aaron continues. “All you had was your sister, and even that wasn’t good enough—you hurt her just as much as your dad did. At least your dad didn’t think he was a good person.” 

Luke growls, and he puts a hand on your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “Shut up.” 

“Your sister has told me you can be more than this,” he says. “And I think she’s right. You’re better than this—better than living between the margins and jail.” 

“I’ve had a hole in my chest since I was born,” Luke mutters. “And I’ve tried to stop it, but it’s just grown and grown and grown. This— this aching pit of pain, and he caused it. You’ve got it too— I know it.” 

“I— I do,” you say. And you’re not lying. You’ve had a pit of despair in you for as long as you can remember. The only difference is that you’ve fought every goddamn day of your life to keep it from consuming you. “And it hurts, Luke. Trust me, I know. It took me so long to even be able to deal with it, but I know how to. I can help you—we can both walk out of here.” 

“No,” he whispers. “No—we can’t.”  

“Yes, we can,” you plead. “I love you, Luke. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life helping you if that’s what it takes to get rid of that hole.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. For a moment, you think you’ve gotten through to him. Aaron never takes his eyes away from you. 

“I’ve never been able to protect her,” Luke murmurs. “Not from our dad, not from the world, not even from you, Aaron Hotchner.” He presses the gun harder than ever into your head, like he wants to bury the metal in your skull along with the bullet. “But that all ends now.” 

You screw your eyes shut. You don’t want to see Aaron’s face when your brother kills you. 

And then it happens so quickly you barely process it. 

There’s two gunshots, almost at the same time. You scream, first because of the gunshots, then because of the sudden roaring pain in your side. There’s a thud next to you, your eyes shoot open, and you see your brother’s lifeless body fall to the ground. 

You scream again—you can’t even control it, it just rips out of you at the sight of the hole in his head and the blood pooling beneath it—and Aaron drops his gun to rush forward. The rest of his team thunders in after him, all in guns and bulletproof vests, and they’re talking, but you can’t focus on a single goddamn thing because your brother’s dead body is right next to you. 

Aaron pulls out a pocket knife and begins to cut through your restraints, and the instant he finishes you collapse. He catches you without a second thought, and you immediately wrap your arms around him. 

Torrential sobs wrack your entire body as you bury your face in the crook of his shoulder, every part of you shaking as the reality of it all hits with full force. 

Your brother is a serial killer. He killed ten people, he tried to kill you. And now he’s dead. 

The only part you had left of your family—gone, just like that, with four other families ruined in his wake. 

Aaron’s soft voice in your ear is the only thing bringing you back from the edge of hyperventilation, his own hold on you the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs and he shrugs off his windbreaker to wrap it around your arms. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

“He’s gone,” you choke out, voice muffled as you speak into his chest. “He’s gone, and he tried to—”

A fresh round of emotions hit you, unable to get the words out, and you fully break down in Aaron’s arms. 

“I know.”

Aaron’s fingers linger on your side and you feel some dull pain, but you feel his breath still for a moment. 

“You were shot,” he says with your name. “We have to get you to a hospital.” 

You don’t even feel it. God, you don’t feel anything. There’s a distant ringing in your ears, an insistent pain in your skull, and you finally realize Aaron is right when you pull away and see the blood on his fingers. 

But black spots start to fill your vision. You may not feel it, but your body holds the score. The pain intensifies in your side as your adrenaline starts to slow down, and you collapse against Aaron. 

“Get an EMT in here!” he yells, keeping an arm wrapped around you. “We’ve got a GSW— she’s losing blood fast!” 

You can feel Aaron’s rapid heartbeat, can feel his steady arms as he keeps you propped up. You feel the warmth of his body, feel the warmth draining out of yours. 

“Aaron,” you whisper, your strength fading. You don’t think he hears you.

He helps you up and you’re suddenly hoisted onto a stretcher, and he’s beside you as the EMTs run you out of your childhood home. The night is a blurry canvas of red and blue lights, and your eyelids feel like they’re made of concrete. 

“Aaron,” you try again, and you have enough left in you to grasp his cheek. “Thank you.” 

And as the world goes black around you for the second time, you see his lips form your name. 

It’s not a bad thing, you think before darkness overtakes you, for Aaron Hotchner to be the last thing you see before you die. 

-

You wake up in the hospital alone.  

You don’t know what you expect. You have few acquaintances, fewer friends, and the last part of your family is dead after he tried to kill you. 

The real surprise is that you wake up at all. 

Lucas is dead. 

He tried to kill you. You thought he succeeded. 

You let out a slow, even breath, accompanied only by the sounds of beeping machines. It still doesn’t exactly feel real. 

You’ve spent the last two weeks defending your brother against every accusation, and you ended it in the hospital—well and truly alone for the first time in your life. 

You look at the television. Some muted soccer game is playing, and you’re thankful. You were worried that you and your brother would be the topic of the day. 

Who are you kidding? You’re going to be the topic of the year. He killed ten people. He tried to kill you, and you think he nearly did. He shot you, after all. 

You let your head fall back against the pillow. All of your limbs feel insurmountably heavy, your side aches like hell, and you’ve got the worst headache of your life. 

And you can’t stop playing it all over in your mind. 

He was going to kill you. 

Your own brother, your flesh and blood, the only person you had left, tried to kill you and would have killed you had it not been for the BAU. 

Had it not been for Aaron Hotchner. 

The door opens and someone walks through, your eyes following the movement, and when he sees it, he pauses. And so do you—apparently the devil appears even when you think of him. 

“You’re awake,” Aaron says after a moment. It’s the third time he’s sounded surprised since you’ve met him again. Seeing you, finding out your mom is dead, seeing you. 

But there’s relief there, too.

He has a coffee in his hand and his tie is undone, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his forearms. It makes you realize his suit jacket has been slung over the back of the chair near your bedside. 

“How long have you been here?” you ask, your brows furrowing ever so slightly. 

Aaron closes the door and sets his coffee on the table before he answers you. “Three days.” 

“And how long have I been here?” 

“Three days,” he says. “You suffered head trauma, they discovered drugs in your system, and… you were shot. You had to go into emergency surgery.” 

You frown, and he answers before you can ask any of them. “…Your brother. After he knocked you out, he used something to… keep you out. And after I shot him, he still got one off—thankfully, as he was falling. The bullet hit you in the side instead of the head.”

“How bad was it?” you ask. 

Aaron glances away. “You died on the table. They managed to bring you back, but…” 

“I guess Luke did succeed,” you say absentmindedly. Aaron doesn’t laugh, and you glance away too. “Sorry. Bad time for jokes.” 

He shakes his head. “If anyone’s allowed to joke about this, it’s you.” 

Your lips twitch for a moment, but then you look back at him as he takes a seat at your bedside again. He looks— god, he just looks tired. Tired and ragged and downtrod, and you can’t imagine you look much better.  

“You were out for two days after,” he explains. “This is the first time you’ve woken up.”

“Why are you here, Aaron?” you ask quietly. “Why have you been here?” 

Aaron frowns. “Where else would I be?”

Your throat feels like it’s closing up, and you feel the telltale pinpricks of tears. You blink them away before they can start. 

“My brother was a serial killer, Aaron.” Your hands clench into fists as you stare at the wall. “He killed ten people while he was living with me and I— and I didn’t even fucking notice.” Your gaze moves back to him. “I went against all of you because I thought I knew him, and look where it got me.” 

“It’s not a crime to want to see the best in people,” he says. “Especially your family.” 

“It’s a crime to fucking murder people,” you huff, and it’s only slightly unhinged. “I— I thought I knew him, and I didn’t. And if I did, maybe none of these people would’ve had to die.”

“Don’t blame this on yourself,” Aaron demands. “Lucas was lost. Mentally ill. He was on a path for revenge, for his deranged idea of protection—nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him.” 

You shake your head. “It might be easy for you to say that, Aaron, but I— I can’t. He’s my brother. I gave him a place to live, I gave him easy access to families— god, I fought with you all for two weeks about his innocence, all while he was planning his next fucking murder!” 

“It is not your fault,” he repeats, slower and enunciating the words. “He was the only member left of your family, and you loved him. You were just stubborn, and that’s nothing new.” 

“I just don’t know what to do.” You’ve had these walls up for so long, especially this past week, and now that everything’s come to a head and you’re in the hospital and your fucking brother is dead, the floodgates have opened. “I have to plan a funeral because I’m the only one left to plan one, but— but does he even deserve one? He’s a serial killer, and he tried to kill me for god’s sake, but he’s my brother and even though he’s gone he’s still all I have left and—” 

You break off as you suck in a huge breath of air, the notion shaky as you clench your hands into fists to keep the rest of your body from doing the same. 

“And I just don’t know what to do,” you repeat, barely a whisper. 

You meet Aaron’s eyes, almost desperately. You feel like you’ll shatter into a million different pieces if you even breathe wrong and he might be the only solid thing in your life. 

“Whatever you do,” he says, “you don’t have to do it alone. Not if you don’t want to.” 

“Aaron,” you start shakily, but he continues. 

“I know what you think, and that’s not what I’m suggesting.” Aaron pauses for a moment, and it’s obvious how carefully he’s crafting his words. “I’ve… always regretted how we left things. And I regret losing touch with you. This isn’t the way I would’ve liked to meet you again. But I’m thankful I have.”

He pulls a card out of his shirt pocket and holds it out to you. You realize it’s his business card, and it’s got his number. 

“I’m sorry for the formality,” he says dryly, “but I don’t exactly go around prepared to give out my number for purposes other than work.” 

You take it without giving yourself the chance to think about it. You run your finger around the sharp edge of the cardstock, pressing the pad of your thumb against the corner. 

“Years ago, you wished me a good life, and that you didn’t want to be involved in it,” he says, still treading carefully. You can’t believe he remembers the last thing you said to him. “But— but a lot has changed since then, and I hope that has as well.” 

“I’d like you to be a part of my life again,” Aaron finally says, “if you want to be a part of mine.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Two and a half years of law school flash behind your eyes—coffee shop dates and endless hours spent studying at the library. Movie nights cuddled on his couch, hauling boxes out of your house at an ungodly hour to get away from your roommates. An unhealthy amount of all-nighters immediately followed by going out to celebrate a miracle of an A on an exam. Getting through every soul-sucking part of earning a J.D. together, falling apart before either of you could make it to the other side, and somehow…

Somehow, you’ve ended up on a completely different side together. 

“My life isn’t going to be easy,” you say faintly. “Especially… moving through this.” 

“My life isn’t easy either,” he says. “I’m divorced with a kid and I try to solve murders every day.” 

“It’s not a contest.” An attempt at a joke, but it falls flat for you. Aaron’s lips still quirk at the edges the slightest bit. 

“Getting through this certainly won’t be easy,” he agrees. “But I have more experience than most in these sorts of things. So if you ever need anything, call. Please.” 

“I imagine you’re pretty busy,” you murmur. “Unit chief and all.” 

Aaron shrugs. “I make time for the things I care about.” 

Thankfully, you don’t have to figure out how to respond to that, because there’s a knock on the door, and a nurse walks in after you call a come in.

“It’s good to finally see you awake, sweetheart,” the nurse says with a smile. It warms you from the inside out. 

“It’s nice to be awake,” you say. Her smile widens and she moves over to the computer in the side of the room—to add some things before she makes her checkup, you assume. 

“I’ll give you some time alone,” Aaron says.

Before he can stand up, you grab his hand. It’s fully on instinct, and he looks just as surprised as you feel.  

“Don’t go,” you plead, and it’s almost a whisper. “I— just— please.” 

Aaron stares at you for a moment, that shock glinting in his eyes before it transforms into something a lot warmer. He nods and sits down. 

“Okay.” 

And he stays. 

This time, he stays.

[temiizpalace]

Ahhh ok I love your page so far and this is my first time making an ask so I hope it’s ok. I’ve been craving a little drama for a bit and I had this idea a bit ago and I just wanted to share it :)

Cater, Leona, Riddle taking their s/o home for a Holliday/school break. Reader is sweet & respectful but isn’t afraid to put someone in their place, even royalty. A lil bit of fluff at the end would also be nice. You have creative liberty, it’s your story after all :) don’t forget to eat and drink water, and feel free to ignore this if you want <3

☆┆KNOW YOUR PLACE!

SUMMARY: your partner takes you to his hometown for the break, but you run into someone who thinks they’re a head above the rest..

CHARACTERS: RIDDLE, CATER, LEONA

GENRE: fluff

ROMANTIC

WARNINGS: people are asses

NOTES: i love this idea!! it was a lot of fun to write and i appreciate the request 🫶🫶 hopefully this was up to your standards and you enjoy!

reader is g/n, implied to be yuu

🌹┆RIDDLE ROSEHEARTS

“are you sure you’re okay with this..?”

riddle asks hesitantly, standing by the mirror as he fiddled with his fingers. since you had no place to go to over the break, riddle had invited you to his hometown. granted, he was quite nervous in asking you thanks to the relationship with his mother, but the excitement was immeasurable once you agreed to join him.

“of course i am.” you smile, taking his hand gently. “i understand how difficult it is for you to go back, so i want to be there with you.” riddle blushes at your words of kindness, unused to such affections (especially at NRC). he clears his throat and squeezes your hand. “i-if you insist.. we best be on our way then. mother expects us to be there by 8:30 on the dot.”

riddle leads you into the mirror, holding your hand the whole way through. as you stepped into the queendom of roses, you take in the breathtaking sights of the small village in front of you. “i live close by, have you gotten your gift prepared?” he asks, strolling past the various shops and bakeries.

you pause in your tracks, tensing up at the question. “we needed gifts..?” you ask, feeling part of your soul leave your body. riddle stares at you with a dumbfounded expression, utterly shocked at the fact you had come unprepared. he sighs, taking a deep breath. “thank goodness we’re by the shops. on any other occasion i would have your head..” he mumbles, causing you to awkwardly laugh and walk inside the store.

it was a small store selling small things, like purses. however, it’s not the expensive name brand purses that’d cost both your arms, it was cute and little cozy handmade bags that screamed home just by looking at them. you were in awe at the intricate stitches made onto the bag, not to mention impressed by such a simple design. “do you think your mother would like this?”

riddle turned to look at the bag, examining it thoroughly for any rips, tears, or stains. he smiles softly before nodding, holding it up to get another proper look. “i’m sure she’ll love it..”

as you both walk over to the line, chatting away at what you both were going to do on your visit, you had accidentally bumped into a woman covered in jewelry and what seemed to be designer clothing. you can see where this is going, right?

“ah, im sorry.” you quickly apologize. the woman gasps offendedly, looking over to where you had bumped into her. “excuse me? do you know what you just did? you had just RUINED my new designer jacket.” she exclaims, putting the fur jacket near your face. “do you know how much this had cost me? how do you expect to clean this up?”

riddle’s eyebrow twitched, staring at the supposed mark you had left. there wasn’t even a trace of such thing, she was just lying to make extra cash. “actually, i think you had bumped into them.” he answers, trying to be as calm as he physically can. “i wasn’t talking to you, little girl. buzz off.” she angrily glared at riddle before shifting her attention back to you.

as you glanced back at riddle, you could see him seething with anger. he grit his teeth and clenched his fists, not to mention his face was completely red. “ma’am, i in no way have damaged your jacket. you had bumped into me, and what you had said was uncalled for. please do not talk to us again, we are done here.”

you walk away, squeezing riddle’s hand as a way to calm down, but the woman wouldn’t give up. “how dare you defy me.. you little brats!” she grabbed onto your shoulder, trying to pull you back. instinctively, riddle drew his magic pen, but you signaled him not to use it. you push the woman off your shoulder and look at her with disgust laced in your eyes.

“don’t EVER lay your hands on me like that. do that again and i’ll be more than happy to call the authorities.” you had raised your voice, the entire shop looking at the scene. as the woman looks around, she mumbles something before leaving the store. you sigh, not expecting such ignorance from people so soon. “i’m sorry about that, riddle.”

“no, you didn’t do anything. i could’ve used my unique magic on a civilian if you hadn’t stopped me..” he murmurs the end part, but smiles at you nonetheless. “are you going to be alright?” he asks, caressing your cheek. “yeah, ill be fine. it wasn’t anything serious.” you smile back at him, feeling a ray of sun hit both of your figures in the middle of the shop.

“now cmon, let’s purchase this gift for your mother and get outta here.” you laugh, taking his hand and pulling him toward the register.

“..yeah.”

🦁┆LEONA KINGSCHOLAR

“why’d you have to tag along..”

leona grumbles, leading you up to his room for your stay. “because i know you’d skip out on the dinner if i didn’t.” you retort, knowing damn well he appreciates your company.

“pssh.. why does that bother ya?” he murmurs as he opens the door for you like a gentlemen, despite his contradicting remarks. “no reason, i just want you to show more respect for your family is all.” you mention, walking into the large room. it was definitely bigger than his dormitory, and arguably larger than all of ramshackle. but it was nice.

“..do what you want. settle in, im takin’ a nap.” leona strides over to his bed, yawning while stretching his arms. you frown at him as he turns his back to you, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. leona lets out a surprised grunt before facing you with a scowl. “what the hell was that for-“ he starts before looking at your piercing gaze.

“you’re getting ready for dinner. now.” you demand, standing your ground. he stares at you, no longer having a snarky comment to each word you say. he clicks his tongue before grabbing a nearby outfit and changing in the bathroom. he gave up easier than expected, but at least that means less work for you. speaking of which, you decide to get ready yourself in preparation for the night.

sitting at the table, tensions were high. you expected it just to be leona’s family, but it appears to be a whole system of royals lined up inside the palace. even leona himself was shocked, but he also wasn’t one to keep up on his family events..

the dining hall was incredibly loud. sounds of laughter, bickering, and natural conversation can be heard from every corner. “told ya you shouldn’t have attended.” leona whispers, causing you to raise a brow. “it’s crowded, but i know you’re just trying to find an excuse to leave.”

he frowns before picking at the lettuce on his plate. “you should eat that.” you comment, seeing as the entire steak was gone but the salad was practically untouched (not including him picking at it). “hm? wanna eat it for me instead?” he smirks, about to push the salad onto your dish.

“no way!” you laugh keeping the plate away from him. the night continues, playful laughter exchanges between you both. suddenly, the banter comes to a stop when leona was bumped on the shoulder, and it wasn’t on accident. a snobby looking royal looks back and gives leona a disgusted look.

“my mistake, kingscholar. I didn’t realize second-sons were invited to such a grand event.” the royal chuckles, expecting a groundbreaking reaction from leona. all leona did was furrow his brow before speaking. “yeah well here i am in all my glory. now put a sock in it and get lost.”

the royal flinches, changing the subject to you. “and who might this be? a partner of yours? i had not realized you had one. i never thought you’d get one with such a nasty scar and attitude..”

leona scowls, clenching his fists before suddenly feeling your hand atop if it. “i believe you should show more manners. he may not be king, but he’s royalty just as you are. if you just came to bother him with disrespectful remarks, then i think it’s best you just leave us alone.” you state, leona’s cheeks turning a slightly darker shade.

“who are you to tell me this? you don’t look like royalty, not to mention you reek of no magic. you too attend night raven college don’t you?” he continues, causing your blood to boil. “were you too rejected from royal sword academy? how saddening it is to see.”

you want to punch him, and want to punch him bad. however, you contained yourself and decided to respond respectfully. “acting so snobbish is much more saddening. if royals like you are ruling kingdoms, then i fear its only a matter of time before it falls thanks to a poor king. how about you get your act together and show respect to your peers.” maybe it was a little less respectful than you thought.

“tch. this is not the last of me, kingscholar.” the royal gives up, walking away from the two of you. you smile, looking back at leona, who was a little flustered as you came to his rescue. “i didnt need you to defend me.” he murmurs before averting his eyes to the side. you open your mouth to speak, but get cut off as he suddenly ruffled your hair. “but you got guts.”

you knew this was his way of saying thank you. you laugh. unsure as to why, but something about his awkward ways with affection were definitely charming. “what’s so funny?” he asks, lifting his hand and raising a brow. “ahh, it’s nothing.”

♦️┆CATER DIAMOND

“i have so many things for magicam now!”

cater exclaims, laying out his new props and figures onto the table. after he insisted on you joining him to his hometown, cater took you on a date across town so you can see all the wonderful places the Shaftlands has to offer. you smiled as he already began to take pictures, not hesitating to join in. “they’re adorable, cater! i really like this figure right here.”

you picked up said figure and smiled admiringly at it. cater took in your expression, feeling entranced before snapping out of it. “welll, if you like it so much you can have it!” he exclaims, causing you to shake your head. “no, no! you bought it, it’s yours. i just thought it was nice is all.” you protested, but he wasn’t going down easily.

“well i’d do anything to make my partner happy, so if you like it, it’s yours. no take backs ☆!” he giggles, causing you to pause. “..thank you, cater.” you flash him a smile before watching him take out his phone for a quick photo. with little to no time to react, he had already snapped a photo of you with a huge grin on your face. “hm.. you’re so photogenic, yknow?”

you feel your cheeks get warm at his words, but you came to your senses once you realized you both were in public. “we should pack up the things and get ready to go.” you suggest, cater already being a step ahead of you by packing everything back into its packaging and bag.

a man walks oddly close to the table, but you had decided not to question it. suddenly, in a swift movement one of the expensive props were gone, the man dashing away. “HEY!” you shout, cater looking at you with a look of confusion. “[MC]? is someth— WOAH!” before he could finish, you sprinted towards the thief. the culprit looks back, seeing your angry and annoyed face before turning forward.

“shit..” he mutters trying to pick up the pace. cater follows behind you, feeling tired from running and carrying the bags. “S-SLOW DOWN!” he shouts, but you had one goal in mind. you charged at the mystery thief, a yelp escaping him as he hit the concrete floor. “Give it back.” you stated sternly, pinning his hands behind his back and keeping him in place.

cater catches up, running out of breath as he walked towards you. “hey, what was that about— WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” the culprit struggles, trying to get up off the ground. “LET GO OF ME, FREAK! I DIDN’T DO NOTHING!” you furrowed a brow at him before grabbing the loose stolen item off the ground. “don’t lie. you tried stealing from us. i’m reporting you to police so no poor soul has to deal with you.”

cater looks at you with a puzzled expression before realizing one of his props WERE missing. “i guess i’ll call police then..?” cater awkwardly adds, pulling out his phone to dial the number.

the police eventually show up, taking in the culprit to discover this has happened more than once. he sells these stolen goods for drugs. cater looks at you, a hint of admiration and a little fear could be seen in the glint of his eyes. “hm?” you hum, noticing his staring.

“remind me not to ever steal from you.” he states, replaying the scene back in his head. “you didn’t need to tackle him, it was just one figure!” you shrug before taking his hand in yours gently. “i guess i didn’t want him stealing from you. especially since it was one of the more expensive props.”

“..you’re such an angel.” he states with a look of awe, causing you to laugh. “definitely not, but thank you.” suddenly, an arm pulls you in. your arm comes into contact with caters as he leans in and snaps a quick selfie of you two. he adds the caption before hearing your phone get a notification.

it reads: “my heroic partner ❤️❤️❤️”

you feel your heart beginning to beat faster and your stomach starting to do backflips. just cater doing the bare minimum was enough for you to feel this way. “isn’t it perfect?” he asks, chuckling as you get pulled out of the trance. “..yeah.”

“i like you being my hero.” he smiles, planting a quick kiss on your cheek before tugging your hand. “now cmon, i know this totally adorbs café on the next block and i’ve been dying to take you!”

A/N: WRITERS BLOCK ABSOLUTELY KILLED ME WITH THIS ONE, NOT TO MENTION THE EXAMS UGGGGHHHH

date published: 5/12/24

© temiizpalace — don’t steal or copy my work!

[halarealmadridd]

your touch

pairing. jude bellingham x reader genre. angst to fluff warnings. fighting, cursing request. Hii i love ur work, can you write something about jude and you getting into a really really big argument, it's about him letting other fans/or girls kiss his cheek or something for a photo and him doing nothing about it, And so you two dont talk for 2-3 days, and you guys live in the same house, he didnt even try to apologise and he thinks hes right, But after a week or smth he noticed he missed your touch and other things so he apologized by writing a big big letter for when you wake up, since he has practice early in the morning and you still sleep author’s note. this request is so good! thank you sm lovely i hope you enjoy 🩵

you had no problem with jude giving out hugs, handshakes or something along the lines of those, but kissing is where you drew the line. you couldn’t stand someone else kissing your man, and him doing nothing about it. unfortunately, that was the reality you had to face today.

chilling in your bed, you scrolled through tiktok, until you found a video with a fan kissing jude’s cheek for a picture. the worst thing happened when you checked the comments. they were full of people saying that they shared the same experience, jude kissing their cheek. you were already fuming, but the attitude of those girls was your last straw.

storming out of the room, you were met with a confused boyfriend stating at you with adorable puppy eyes. they almost make you give in, but you refused.

“jude, what the fuck is this” you angrily exclaimed, while shoving the phone in his face to make sure he sees the video.

“that’s just what they asked for, no feelings involved” jude explained, gobbling down a tube of cookie dough ice cream.

“no feelings involved? do you think i give a fuck about that? you let astral stranger kiss you?” you roared, making him furrow his eyebrows.

“baby calm down, this is nothing serious”

“nothing serious? we have talked about this earlier, i said i don’t want anyone kissing you in any form” you shouted, tears brimming your eyes.

the audacity jude had to just laugh at you and continue eating the ice cream made you furious.

you rushed to the bedroom, covering yourself in blankets, curling into a ball, sobbing your heart out. you thought that when jude heard you cry, he would come looking for you, but no, he stayed there, sitting on the couch, eating the last piece of his ice cream.

you ended up crying yourself to sleep. the next morning you woke up to an empty cold bed. you figured jude was sleeping on the couch.

the next few days went over with neither of you speaking to each other, because apparently in jude’s mind, he was in the right. jude could be a silly person sometimes, but this was just a whole different level of silliness that he had never shown yet.

finally jude came back to his senses and decided to write a full A4 page letter, apologising for his actions. he also placed a bouquet of flowers and candies beside it, in hopes to cheer you up. eventually he left for training, leaving you in the house alone.

when you woke up, you made a bee-line towards the kitchen to make breakfast, but instead of thinking about breakfast, big letter caught your eye.

tears rolled down your face while reading the letter due to the sincerity of it. you wiped your tears and waited for jude to come home.

after a good wait, you heard the familiar sound of the door unlocking. you raced to the door, and jumped into jude’s arms. his face had a tint of confusion painted on it, but it later turned into a big grin.

“whoa, i missed you too” jude whispered into your hair, letting you down.

you placed a kiss onto jude’s lips, and guided him to the kitchen, where you had prepared some pancakes for him.

after gobbling down the pancakes, you and jude popped down onto the couch and started watching your favourite show. however, the show was long forgotten, as you guys ended up just cuddling each other to sleep.

[moonstruckme]

I recently found ur page and omfg I spent hours yesterday reading all ur work!!!! What a lil fic of Sirius and reader but like pre relationship where she's in the hospital (u can pick reason) and she refuses to see anyone and just asks for Sirius

Thanks for requesting my love!

cw: hospital, mention of stitches

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 906 words

Sirius feels awkward and stiff as he pulls back the curtain, though for all he knows you’re too hopped up on pain meds to even know it’s him. Really, that’s the only reasonable explanation for the directions the nurse had just delivered: “She said she’ll only see Sirius right now.” 

He has no clue why you’d ask for him. He’s probably the least comforting of your roommates, and as soon as he catches sight of you, knees tented in front of your chest and hands clasped around your ankles, his worry for your choice deepens. 

Someone’s tried to clean you up, but they’ve done a shit job of it. There’s still blood crusted on your chin, and your face is blotchy, your cheeks smeared with dark gray like you’d wiped across them with your hands only to spread your makeup off to the sides. James had said you’d cried the whole car ride to A&E, but Sirius still wasn’t prepared to see you like this. His chest feels hollow and achy. 

“Hey,” you say, voice scratchy. If hearts have strings, you’re playing his like a fiddle. 

“Hey, doll.” He goes for a smile as he sits on the edge of your little cot, managing to sound halfway normal. “Come here often?” 

You start to grin, then stop like it hurts. Sirius stops, too. 

“Yeah, you know,” you say, “now and then.” 

“Don’t see why.” He makes a show of looking about him, at the papery blue curtain and beige-ish linoleum floors. “Place is sorta depressing.” 

You roll your eyes, and Sirius’ heart lightens to see you in a better humor. “Yeah, I think I’ve judged my hangout poorly. I’m dying to get out of here.” 

He’ll bet. You’ve been here hours longer than him. James had been the only one home with you when you’d tripped on the stairs and bitten through your lip, and Sirius and Remus had only found out when they’d gotten home and seen the note James left, his already scribbly handwriting worsened by haste and panic. By the time they’d arrived they’d missed most of the action (Sirius was secretly thankful for that) and James had filled them in before the nurse had come out to inform them that you’d gotten three stitches in your lip and summoned Sirius back. 

“I can understand that.” He gives you his best approximation of James’ easygoing grin. “You ready to go home then, gorgeous?” 

The shift is slight, but Sirius sees your bravado fade, a shyness entering your expression. “That’s actually why I wanted to see you,” you say.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t bother to hide his curiosity. “Why’s that?” 

“Because I know you’ll be honest with me.” 

He feels his eyebrows go up. “About what, doll?” 

You shrink a bit, knees drawing closer to your chest. Your voice is small when you ask, “Is it awful? I mean, do I look awful?” 

Ah. Sirius can see why you’d want him for this, but you’re wrong in your assumption. He’d absolutely lie to you if he needed to, just like Remus or James would in his place. But you’ve asked for him, so Sirius tries to do right by you. 

“You could never look awful, dollface. Be sensible.” He squints his eyes teasingly, reaching for your ankle and giving it a reprimanding little shake. “It’s just a couple of stitches, you haven’t been warped unrecognizable.” 

You frown, and it’s even more upsetting than usual. Your eyes look heart-breakingly insecure. “Are you sure?” you ask softly. 

“Yeah, I’m fucking sure.” Sirius scoffs like you’re unbelievable. “You said it yourself, babe, I wouldn’t lie to you.” He definitely would, but there’ll never be an occasion for that. He can’t imagine you genuinely looking bad. “I can clean you up a bit, though, if you’d like.” 

You blink. “Um, yeah. If you think it would help.” 

“Brilliant. Sit tight.” Sirius gets up and starts going through drawers, sifting through medical supplies for something he can use. 

“Fairly sure you’re not supposed to do that.” You sound like you’re trying not to smile. 

“Fairly certain my taxes pay for this place, and they’ve left my best-looking roommate with a dirty face.” He finds a box of mini-wipes, turning back to you. “Don’t tell James I’ve said that.” 

“Oh, I’m definitely tattling on you,” you tease, and Sirius is caught between feeling triumphant and worried that you look very near to grinning. He has no clue how easy it is to tear your stitches. 

“What, you want us to match? That’s cruel, sweetheart.” 

You roll your eyes. “He won’t punch you.” 

Sirius huffs a laugh, holding you still with a hand on your jaw as he wipes gently at your chin. “You haven’t known him as long as I have.” 

Your brows flick up as you meet his eyes, disbelieving. “Our James? You really think our James would hit you for saying he’s not the best looking roommate?” 

“Well, not if you’re in front of me,” he muses. He throws out the first wipe, ripping open another. “He already feels bad for you, so maybe that can work in my favor. If you are going to tell him, lean on me as we walk out, okay, doll? Give me a fighting chance.” 

The corner of your lips twist as you close your eyes and Sirius wipes sideways across your cheek. “Yeah, fair enough. I’ll do my best for you.”

[takes1]

p.2 bratty tsukishima x manager!reader enemies to lovers

warnings. nsfw. m!masturbation at the end. midterms mentioned. minors DNI content. misinterpretation of emotions. tsukki not knowing how to handle a crush. enemies to lovers. or maybe enemies with benefits, i haven't decided yet. manager!reader. tsukki being so incredibly horny. tsukki not understanding facial expressions. sexual frustration. male masturbation + implied previous. kiyoko being a friend. yachi being a friend. 1.7k words notes. 3 more parts planned! ask to be added to the taglist if you don't want to miss one! links. PART ONE HERE. PART THREE . PART FOUR. FINAL PART. masterlist for mha. my ao3. masterlist for haikyuu

Despite your iced latte being mostly just water by now, you still sucked it down in desperation to get every ounce of caffeine you could. Midterms were just around the corner and one of your most difficult classes involved writing a 10-page scientific paper.

You had the whole semester to do it, so the dread you felt now was the amalgamation of months' worth of opportunity that you could've and should've used to work on it.

Thankfully, you didn't have to churn the majority of this thing out alone.

"What the hell does ameliorate mean." Kiyoko asked, though her soft frustration was starting to sound more like a statement now.

Yachi took every opportunity she could to stop doing her work, including this one. For her, there was less pressure to do perfectly on her finals since she had another two years to get those top marks.

She scanned her laptop screen for a moment, lips perched on the lid of her strawberry refresher: "Ameliorate means... To... make something bad or unsatisfactory better."

Kiyoko muttered something about how it still didn't make sense. Of course it wouldn't- she was taking an organic chemistry course.

The plan as it stood now was to rot in this spot all day until hunger moved you, so you all made an event out of it by putting on something cute, grabbing some coffees and pastries from a cafe nearby, and settling into this local library.

It wasn't planned, but you all simultaneously chose to wear skirts and cute summer tops. The mutual reaction of humor helped ease the pain of having to study all day. Suffering together was preferable to suffering alone.

The chance finally came again to stretch your legs and find another vaguely relevant reference to add to your bibliography.

With a rewarding, careful stretch, you rose out of your chair and took your time walking up and down the aisles to find something to support the fifth theory you'd written about so far.

Midterms were one stressor, but you weren't afforded the privilege of having tunnel vision over it.

Qualifiers were just around the corner, and you had the Tokyo training camp to prepare a load of equipment and personnel logs for.

As you selected a thick novel from a shelf above your head, you let out a small sigh.

The front matter described a concept you could start to look into and fluff up to your liking for the paper. Your mind fell back to the team, and how you wanted to do well on these exams so you'd have less to worry about going to Tokyo.

The side of your face was growing warm, probably from the East-facing window to your left, so you raised the back of a cold hand to cool yourself down.

You were just deciding to take this book back when, in the process of dropping your hand, you caught a blur of blond hair and glasses in the corner of your eye.

Your stomach jolted, heart starting to race, and an uncontrollable surprise took over your features.

Tsukishima was sitting, leaned over a table on his elbows, his head twisted all the way to the side to look at you over his shoulder.

You quickly looked back to the shelf and sucked in a breath. God, that must've looked so lame- you regretted every millisecond of that reaction and prayed he wouldn't ever bring it up.

He hated you. You didn't want anything to do with him. There was no pleasant exchange to get out of saying hello, or even acknowledging each other. It's not like you were friends.

Why was he even here? You started to get worried, but realized that he did ride the same train back with you after practice in the evenings.

Now you were really remembering. He got off one stop before yours and always moved to create the most space possible between you. You usually didn't see him again until he got off. Even then, you didn't care enough to look for him anymore.

You glanced back to him, expecting to now have to speak to him after you'd exchanged a mutual acknowledgment of each other's presence.

He was staring. But... that wasn't exactly the right word for it.

He was distracted. You wondered if he knew who you were, because you'd never seen him stare at you for more than a few seconds.

His brow wasn't pinched like usual. It was relaxed- in fact, everything about him was relaxed. The way his head was held in his hand, the loose grasp on his pencil, the subtle part of his lips. The lazy, yet measured scan of his eyes.

There was a reddish tint at the tips of his ears and highest points of his cheeks. It was astoundingly easy to notice, since he was so fair-skinned.

A strong chill ran up your spine when he finally made eye contact with you. Even then, it took a glance down to the book clasped against your chest, then back up for him to really notice your gaze and stiffen right up.

That new side of him vanished in an instant. It was replaced with a brief, stone-cold glower before he turned back to his own midterm work.

On the stiff walk back to your table, you smoothed your skirt out and pulled on the edge a bit before sitting back down.

It took a minute of silent sitting to even begin to unpack what you felt.

"Do I look stupid?"

Yachi instantly piped up, "Of course not! You're very pretty!"

"You really shouldn't waste your breath asking," Kiyoko glanced up at you.

It was brief but it rested your immediate insecurities.

"Why?" Yachi, once again, wanted nothing more than to just hang out and talk.

Another surge of chills. It was sickening.

You put your head in your hands, elbows on the table. "Mm-mm, it's just-..." You thought to tell them, but held back at the last second, "I dunno."

Another big sigh and you were back to typing to take your mind off of it. You'd have plenty of time to see what this spun into once you were free from this academic prison. It was too confusing right now.

Kiyoko didn't read into it, but Yachi lingered until 1) it was obvious you simply didn't want to disclose and 2) an abnormally tall boy from school walked past your table. She watched him watch you on his way towards the exit.

Her eyes narrowed with keen intuition.

the keen intuition in question:

Kei felt himself practically melt against the closed door of his bedroom. Breathless from a difficult and quick walk home, he fumbled with the tie of his sweatpants and the lock on the door concurrently.

"Finally," He sighed with a desperate laugh, "Fuck..."

His bag hit the floor with a sharp and careless thump. He stepped over it and fell onto his back on his mattress, a long arm stretched toward his side table for some lotion.

It was useless trying to study after that. Library or home, it didn't matter unless he could fuck this one out.

This time he didn't have to stalk your Instagram to spark his imagination; it was already running rampant with filthy ideas of what he'd do to you in that short skirt.

An ignored, aching erection sprang out of his waistband as he pushed it down and out of the way.

Light grey sweatpants had (for the first time in his life) ended up being a shit idea. All he could worry about on the 20 minute walk back was if anyone could see the tip of his cock tucked up just under his shirt.

Every shirt was too short. Every pair of pants was too big in the middle.

His slippery hand was beautiful relief. He was quick to get himself lubricated, and quicker to pump in slow, twisting motions to the image of you reaching, reaching, reaching up to that book on your tippy toes.

All the worry in his tight brow washed away in crashing waves of steady-growing pleasure.

Soon he didn't care about the harrowing journey home, the threat of midterms, nor the growing dread of that training camp.

It was just you.

It felt like fate that he got the only chance anyone might ever have to see the curve of your ass just under the hem of your skirt. You were able to get that book all too quickly.

If everything were different, he would've gotten it for you. You would've thanked him, kissed him on the cheek- he would've pulled you in for a heated, raunchy kiss with a hand palming you closer. He would've savored the view of you spread on the table for him -homework long forgotten- and his massive hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. It was a library, after all.

He seethed and stalled for a moment--, "a-ahh- Mm..."

His cock twitched hard with the need to cum, but he stopped just soon enough.

An oversized hand was holding the base; he looked at his other dry one, then closed his eyes in an eager but fruitless attempt to visualize just how they'd look on your thighs. Fuck, anywhere at this point.

Just one touch, that's all he wanted. He never let himself get close enough to even consider it, but my god, the internal struggle he made to stay away was commendable.

His tight, lightly sweaty stomach flexed with effort as he slowed down again.

You were so quick to switch up when it came to him. He could tell he had a special place in your heart, the way your lips pursed into a small frown and your eyes narrowed when he tested you.

It was out-of-this-world cute from his vantage point. A smile might just kill him.

"Mmm, fu-ck," He croaked, mind circling back to today.

His chest swelled with a shaky inhale- he smirked at the thought of you finding out about his terrible secret, how you would punish him for his unprofessional behavior. You were so pretty when you got mad.

The breath caught in his throat. He wasn't even thinking about the skirt when he finally came all over his stomach. Just that pretty face of yours did it for him.

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