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Summary: Spencer does NOT want to go to physical therapy, but the pretty physical therapist might make it not so bad.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x PT fem!reader

Category: fluff, angst

Warnings/Includes: injury, suggestive content (16+), alcohol consumption, insecurities, rejection, use of Y/N

Word count: 11.6k

a/n: i went through pt with a huugggeeee crush on my physical therapist ,, wish they were single :(((

main masterlist part two

After Spencer Reid is shot in the thigh during a case, the last thing he wants is to endure the grueling process of physical therapy. The thought of being touched, poked, and prodded by a stranger, let alone being intensely monitored, fills him with dread. Convinced that he can handle the recovery on his own, Spencer drafts a fake doctor’s note claiming he’s fit to perform his own therapy. Unfortunately for him, neither Hotch nor his orthopedic surgeon finds the attempt amusing. Despite his protests, Spencer is left with no choice but to attend physical therapy sessions, which also means being grounded from fieldwork and unable to join his team on cases. 

—

The atmosphere in the room was thick with a tension that only Spencer Reid seemed oblivious to as he sat at his desk, meticulously writing out what could have passed as an official-looking note. His expression was one of deep concentration, brow furrowed in that familiar way as he carefully crafted each word, determined to convince anyone who might read it that he, Dr. Spencer Reid, was fully capable of managing his own recovery. 

"To whom it may concern, Dr. Spencer Reid is fully capable of performing his own physical therapy regimen. As a medical professional and an expert in several fields, he does not require the services of an external physical therapist. Please excuse him from any mandated sessions."

He read over the note once more, satisfied with his work, before folding it neatly and tucking it into an envelope. It was the perfect plan, he thought after all, who knew his body better than he did? He could research the most effective exercises, monitor his own progress, and avoid the discomfort of being intensely scrutinized by someone else. The thought of a stranger's hands on him, manipulating his body and injured leg, made his stomach turn. Spencer was resolute—he could handle this on his own.

But just as he was about to place the envelope on Hotch's desk, ready to hand it over with the casual nonchalance of a doctor delivering a prescription, the door to the office swung open. Aaron Hotchner stepped in, his usual stoic expression firmly in place. He caught sight of the envelope in Spencer's hand and the somewhat guilty look on the younger agent's face.

"Reid," Hotch said, his voice even but with a hint of curiosity, "what's that?"

Spencer hesitated for a moment, knowing full well that Hotch wouldn't be easily convinced by his little stunt. But he decided to try anyway. "It's, um, a note. From me. For me. You see, I don't think I need to go to physical therapy. I’ve written a statement explaining that I can handle my own recovery. It’s all very professional."

Hotch's brow arched slightly as he reached out, taking the envelope from Spencer's hand. He opened it and quickly scanned the contents, his expression unreadable. After a long moment, he looked up, meeting Spencer's eyes with a look that was both stern and almost amused.

"Spencer, you can't write your own doctor's notes. And even if you could, this isn’t a joke. Physical therapy is a necessary part of your recovery, and it’s not something you can just skip or handle on your own."

"But, Hotch—" Spencer began, his voice tinged with frustration. "I know what needs to be done. I don’t need someone else to tell me how to stretch or exercise. I can do the research, follow the protocols—"

"That’s not the point," Hotch interrupted, his tone firm. "Physical therapy isn’t just about the exercises. It’s about having a trained professional guide you through the process, ensure you’re doing it correctly, and adjust your treatment as needed. It’s about having someone to push you when you’re too tired or in too much pain to push yourself. You’re not invincible, Spencer."

Spencer opened his mouth to argue, but the look in Hotch’s eyes stopped him. There was no room for negotiation. 

"And," Hotch continued, "I know your orthopedic surgeon would agree. I spoke with them earlier today. They were very clear that you need to attend every session if you want to make a full recovery. This isn’t optional."

Spencer felt the weight of Hotch’s words settling over him, heavy and unavoidable. He hated the idea of being in a clinical setting, of being vulnerable in front of someone else, of having to admit that he needed help. But he also knew that Hotch was right. Skipping therapy wasn’t just about avoiding discomfort—it was about jeopardizing his recovery and potentially his career.

"But if I go to therapy, I won’t be able to fly with the team," Spencer said, his voice quieter now, the frustration giving way to a sense of helplessness.

Hotch’s expression softened, just a little. "I know. And I know how hard that is for you. But your health comes first. You’ll still be a part of the team, but you need to take care of yourself. We can handle things in the field until you’re ready to come back."

Spencer nodded, though the idea of being left behind still gnawed at him. He could already imagine the isolation, the endless hours of exercises and stretches, the frustration of not being able to work cases with his team. But there was no getting around it. This was his reality now.

"Alright," Spencer finally said, his voice resigned. "I’ll go to the therapy sessions."

"Good," Hotch replied, placing a hand on Spencer’s shoulder in a rare gesture of support. "It’s the right decision. And remember, we’re all here for you, no matter what."

Spencer gave a small nod, appreciating the sentiment even as the prospect of therapy loomed over him like a dark cloud. He watched as Hotch left the office, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The room seemed quieter now, and Spencer sat there for a moment, the now-crumpled note still in his hand.

The first session was scheduled for tomorrow morning, and Spencer could already feel the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He wasn’t ready for this—not physically, not mentally. But it was happening, whether he liked it or not. And as much as he wished he could write himself out of it, this was one situation where even Spencer Reid had to admit that he couldn’t do it all on his own.

—

The morning sunlight streamed through the curtains as Spencer reluctantly eyed the outfit his surgeon recommended. Loose-fitting clothes were manageable, but the shorts—revealing his pale, scarred leg—were far from his usual style. They made him feel vulnerable, a stark contrast to the comfort of his usual slacks and cardigans. With a resigned sigh, he slipped into the shorts and a loose t-shirt, feeling exposed.

Crutching out of his apartment, every step reminded him of his injury, amplifying his discomfort. The short drive to the physical therapy center only heightened his anxiety; the building felt more like a fortress than a place of healing.

Once inside, the overly cheerful receptionist bombarded him with questions, each interaction grating on his nerves. Finally, he was led to a private room—a sterile, clinical space that made him feel even more on edge. As he gingerly lowered himself onto the padded table, his leg throbbing slightly, Spencer’s mind raced with thoughts of the upcoming session, dreading the inevitable discomfort and the loss of control. The door would open soon, and a stranger would take charge, leaving him with no escape.

At last, a small knock echoed through the room before the door creaked open, revealing a young woman who couldn’t have been older than her mid-20s. Spencer’s breath caught for a moment—she was gorgeous, even in her casual athletic wear, her presence both striking and unexpectedly comforting.

“Hello, Spencer Reid?” you asked with a warm smile that seemed to light up the room. “I’m Dr. Y/L, but you can call me Y/N.”

"Hi, yes, I'm Spencer. Nice to meet you," he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of politeness and underlying nervousness.

"Nice to meet you too, Spencer," you replied with a warm smile as you settled in front of the computer, pulling up his chart. "Let's see... you got shot in the thigh, ouch. How did that happen, if you don't mind me asking?"

Spencer shifted slightly, the memory still fresh. "Uh, no, that's fine. I was chasing an unsub. I work for the FBI."

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Oh wow! That's cool... and painful. I'm sorry about that."

He gave a small shrug, trying to downplay the severity. "It comes with the job."

"I suppose it does," you said, nodding thoughtfully. "Anyway, let's get some basic info about how you're doing since surgery."

Together, you went through the routine baseline questions, Spencer answering each one with careful honesty. His responses were detailed, though you could sense a certain reluctance in his tone, as if he was holding back from fully engaging in the process.

"And finally, Spencer... what is your mobility like? Can you bend your knee?" you asked, glancing up from the computer to observe his reaction.

"Uh, a little," he replied, his discomfort becoming more evident as your attention shifted to his exposed leg.

"Can you show me, please?" you asked gently, trying to ease the tension.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, then slowly bent his knee, his movements tentative. Your eyes followed the motion, taking note of the stiffness and the clear effort it required.

"Okay, good… now, how far can you bend your other knee? In fact, do you mind if I measure? That way, we can compare later down the line to see the progress you're making," you explained, keeping your tone encouraging and professional.

"Mhm, fine," he murmured, giving a small nod of consent.

You moved closer with a measuring tool in hand, your focus entirely on ensuring accuracy. Spencer, on the other hand, felt his cheeks flush slightly under your scrutiny. The vulnerability of the situation, coupled with the physical closeness, made him acutely aware of every small movement. 

"Alright," you said after taking the measurements, offering him a reassuring smile. "We'll track these numbers as we go, and you'll be able to see just how much progress you're making. It might not feel like it now, but you'll get there."

Spencer nodded again, his nerves calming slightly at your supportive demeanor. Despite his initial reluctance, he was starting to see that this process, uncomfortable as it was, might just be what he needed.

"Okay, for today, we don't have to push you too far," you began, your tone gentle yet encouraging. "We'll just start with some easy movements to get a baseline for where you're at. How does that sound?"

"That's fine," Spencer replied, his voice steady, though there was still a hint of tension beneath the surface.

Together, you guided him through a series of basic movements, carefully observing how his injured leg compared to his non-injured one. Spencer followed your instructions with quiet focus, doing his best to move as much as he could without aggravating the injury. As you made your way down the list, you noted the differences in flexibility and strength, mentally preparing a plan for his recovery.

When you reached the last item on your list, you looked up from your notes. "Alright, Spencer, I'd like you to try flexing your quad. This is important because you'll need to be able to engage those muscles when you're ready to start walking again."

"I know," Spencer said, his tone tinged with resignation and a touch of impatience, as if he was more than aware of what was expected of him but still not entirely comfortable with the process.

You nodded, acknowledging his understanding. "Oh, okay, yes, well..." you hesitated for a moment, wanting to ensure his comfort. "Can I put my hand on your leg, Spencer? It'll help me gauge the muscle engagement."

Spencer looked at you for a brief moment, the vulnerability in his eyes evident. But he gave a small nod, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, that's fine."

You placed your hand gently on his leg, just above the injured area, making sure your touch was as light and non-intrusive as possible. "Alright, go ahead and flex for me."

Spencer did as you asked, and you could feel the slight tremor in the muscle as it tried to respond. It was clear that the road ahead would be challenging, but this was a crucial first step. 

"Good job, Spencer," you said softly, your voice filled with genuine encouragement. "This is the start, and we'll take it one step at a time. You'll get there, I promise."

"Thanks," Spencer muttered, his tone clipped but not intentionally rude. He was struggling to keep his frustration in check—not with you, but with the entire process. The vulnerability, the slowness of his progress, it all grated on him. But he couldn’t help but notice how kind and patient you were, never once letting his mood affect your demeanor.

You offered him a gentle smile, recognizing the weariness in his voice. "Alright, what do you say we call it a day?"

"Sounds good," Spencer replied, a bit of relief seeping into his tone. The session had been necessary, he knew that, but it was exhausting in more ways than one.

You helped him settle back into a comfortable position, gathering your notes and preparing to leave. "You did well today, Spencer. It's not easy, but you're making progress, even if it doesn't feel like it right now."

He gave a small nod, appreciating your words even if he didn’t fully believe them yet. As he watched you head for the door, he couldn’t help but feel a small sense of gratitude. 

—

The next day, as Spencer made his way into the office, he immediately spotted Aaron Hotchner across the bullpen. Hotch was engaged in a conversation with another agent, but the moment he noticed Spencer, a subtle, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Spencer felt a mild irritation bubble up within him; he could already sense what was coming.

As he approached his desk, Hotch walked over, his expression that infuriating blend of concern and amusement. "Morning, Reid," Hotch greeted, his voice carrying that signature calm authority. "How did your first physical therapy session go?"

Spencer’s eyes narrowed slightly, detecting the faint smugness in Hotch’s tone. "It was… fine," he replied, trying to keep his voice even, though his annoyance was evident. He could tell Hotch was fishing for details, and it was clear that Hotch knew exactly how uncomfortable the whole experience had been for him.

Hotch raised an eyebrow, his smirk growing just a bit. "Just fine? No major complaints?"

Spencer resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No major complaints," he echoed, though the look on his face said otherwise.

Hotch nodded, clearly enjoying this a little too much. "Good. Just remember, Reid, it's important to follow through with these sessions. They'll make all the difference in your recovery."

"Yes, I’m aware," Spencer replied, his tone a touch sharper than he intended. He knew Hotch was right, but that didn’t make the process any less frustrating.

Hotch chuckled softly, not unkindly, and gave Spencer a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Hang in there, Spencer. You'll be back to chasing down unsubs in no time."

As Hotch walked away, Spencer let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. He knew Hotch meant well, but that didn’t stop him from being mildly annoyed at the subtle smugness in his boss’s demeanor. It seemed that, for now, Spencer would just have to endure the teasing—along with everything else this recovery was throwing at him.

—

At his next physical therapy session, Spencer walked in with a bit less tension in his shoulders, though he was still undeniably on edge. The familiarity of the setting, coupled with the fact that he knew what to expect, made things slightly easier. But the apprehension hadn’t fully dissipated. There was still the uncomfortable vulnerability that came with each session, the persistent reminder of his injury.

However, without the overwhelming cloud of nerves and frustration that had dominated his first visit, Spencer found himself noticing something different. As you greeted him with that same warm smile, guiding him through the initial check-in process, he couldn’t help but take in just how pretty you were. The realization caught him off guard, stirring a new wave of anxiety that he hadn’t anticipated. 

It wasn’t just your appearance—though that alone was enough to make his pulse quicken—but the way you carried yourself, the gentle confidence in your movements, and the patient way you spoke to him, even when he was less than cooperative. It was disarming, to say the least.

As the session progressed, and you asked him to move through the exercises, Spencer felt his heart rate increase—not just from the physical effort, but from the proximity, the way your hands occasionally brushed against his skin as you guided him. He tried to focus on the mechanics, on the steps you were instructing him through, but his mind kept drifting to the fact that you were so close, your attention entirely on him.

When you gently placed your hand on his leg to help him flex his quad, Spencer’s breath hitched slightly, the warmth of your touch sending a jolt through him. He knew it was purely professional, that you were just doing your job, but it didn’t stop the nervous flutter in his stomach.

“Doing okay, Spencer?” you asked, your voice soft as you glanced up at him, concern flickering in your eyes. You could sense the shift in his demeanor, though you weren’t sure what had caused it.

“Uh, yeah,” he stammered, his voice a little unsteady. “I’m fine.”

You smiled, giving his leg a light pat before continuing with the session. “You’re doing great.”

Spencer nodded, trying to steady his breathing. But the truth was, having your hands and eyes on him, especially now that he was fully aware of how attractive you were, was even more nerve-wracking than the physical exercises themselves. He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, worried that his unease was obvious.

As the session came to a close, Spencer felt a mix of relief and lingering nerves. He knew he’d be back, but the thought of facing these sessions with you—someone who was not only skilled and kind but also strikingly beautiful—added a new layer of complexity to an already difficult process.

—

As the weeks passed, a sense of familiarity began to settle between you and Spencer. It was inevitable, really—spending an hour together every week, working through the same routines, sharing small talk to fill the silence. The initial awkwardness had started to fade, replaced by a growing ease in each other's company. 

Spencer was still nervous around you, but it was a different kind of nervousness now. His crush had developed into something undeniable, and though it made his heart race whenever your hands brushed against him or you smiled in that particular way, he had learned to manage it. He even found himself engaging in playful conversation, something that had felt impossible during those first few sessions.

Today, as you guided him through another set of exercises, the conversation flowed naturally, the rapport between you evident.

“So, Spencer, any big plans this weekend?” you asked, your tone light and casual as you adjusted his leg for the next stretch.

Spencer, who had been concentrating on following your instructions, looked up with a faint smirk. “Yeah, I thought I might go skydiving,” he replied, deadpan, though his eyes twinkled with mischief.

You raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the playful tone. “Hmm, sounds thrilling—and very safe,” you responded, matching his sarcasm.

He chuckled softly, a sound that was becoming more frequent as he grew more comfortable with you. “Yeah, I figured, why not? Might as well add another injury to the list, right?”

“Perfect plan,” you teased, giving his leg a gentle pat as you moved to the next exercise. “Just make sure to tell your orthopedic surgeon first. I’m sure they’ll love the idea.”

Spencer laughed, the tension in his body easing further with each passing moment. “I’m sure they’ll have a lot to say about it. But really, I’ll probably just catch up on some reading. Nothing too exciting.”

“Well, that sounds more like the Spencer I’ve come to know,” you said with a smile. “Anything interesting you’re reading?”

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should share, but your genuine curiosity encouraged him to open up. “Actually, I’ve been revisiting some classic science fiction—Isaac Asimov’s *Foundation* series. It’s been a while, and I forgot how much I enjoyed it.”

You nodded, impressed. “That’s a great choice. I’ve always admired Asimov’s ability to weave complex ideas into his stories. You’ll have to let me know what you think when you finish.”

“I will,” Spencer promised, feeling a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of the session. These moments of connection, however small, were becoming something he looked forward to—a bright spot in what had been a difficult and frustrating process.

As the session wrapped up, Spencer found himself lingering a little longer than usual, reluctant to leave the comfortable rhythm you had developed together. 

—

During one of your sessions, as you guided Spencer through another set of stretches, the conversation drifted into more personal territory. Spencer, his curiosity getting the better of him, asked, "How old are you?"

You couldn’t help but tease him a little, raising an eyebrow playfully. "Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a lady her age?"

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly, and he immediately started to apologize, stumbling over his words. "Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to— I just thought you looked so young."

You laughed, deciding to let him off the hook. "Why, thank you!" you said, exaggerating your response by pretending to flip your hair over your shoulder. "But I was just teasing, Spencer. I’m no lady," you added with a wink, enjoying the way it made him chuckle.

He relaxed a bit, his laughter easing the moment. "Well, now I’m even more curious."

"Alright, alright," you conceded with a grin. "I’m 26."

Spencer nodded, processing the information with a slight smile. "You’re younger than I thought… but somehow, that makes sense."

"Yeah? And how old did you think I was?" you asked, genuinely curious, your eyes fixed on him as you waited for his response.

Spencer shrugged, his expression thoughtful but with a hint of mischief. "I don’t know, maybe 50?"

You stared at him for a moment, deadpan, before replying with a sarcastic sweetness, "That’s so sweet of you, Spencer. Now tell me, am I supposed to push my thumb directly into your wound or just squeeze around it?"

His eyes widened in mock horror as he quickly backpedaled. "Neither! I’m sorry!" he laughed, holding up his hands in surrender. "You don’t look 50!"

"Yeah, well, you’re going to after I’m done with you," you shot back, a grin spreading across your face as you leaned in, pretending to consider where to apply pressure.

Spencer laughed, the tension melting away as the playful banter flowed between you. 

—

During another session, you glanced over at Spencer, who was carefully stretching his leg. "Okay, Spencer," you began, your tone encouraging, "let’s see if we can get a little more range of motion in your knee today. How’s it feeling?"

Spencer shrugged slightly. "Stiff, but manageable," he replied. "I’m trying not to overthink it."

You nodded in approval, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Good strategy. Just remember, slow and steady wins the race."

He met your gaze, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "I’ll keep that in mind… though I’ve never been very good at pacing myself."

—

Today you greeted him with a warm smile. "How’s the leg holding up today? Ready for some more fun?" you asked, your tone light and encouraging.

Spencer met your gaze with a playful grin, the tension from previous sessions now mostly replaced with a sense of friendship. "If by ‘fun’ you mean more quad exercises, then I can hardly contain my excitement," he quipped, a hint of sarcasm lacing his words.

You couldn’t help but laugh at his response, enjoying the banter that had developed between the two of you. "Don’t worry, I’ll make it as enjoyable as possible," you teased back, a mischievous glint in your eye. "We can always spice it up with some trivia."

At that, Spencer’s expression brightened even more. "Trivia? Now you’re speaking my language," he replied, clearly intrigued. "Just don’t go easy on me."

You raised an eyebrow, a playful challenge in your voice as you responded, "Wouldn’t dream of it. Get ready, Spencer. I hope you’ve been studying."

—

"Alright," you began, today there was a hint of mischief in your voice as you glanced at him . "Let’s see if we can get a little more flexibility out of that knee today. I know it’s your favorite part."

Spencer’s lips curled into a grin, his eyes lighting up with amusement. "You’re really starting to understand my love for torture," he quipped, his tone laced with sarcasm, though there was a softness in his expression that suggested he didn’t mind the challenge as much as he pretended to.

You couldn’t help but laugh, playing along with a mock-serious look. "Well, if it helps, I think I’m getting better at dishing it out. But seriously, you’re doing great," you added, your voice turning more sincere as you looked at him, hoping to convey how much progress he had truly made.

Spencer tilted his head, the teasing glint in his eyes growing stronger. "Flattery will get you everywhere," he remarked, clearly enjoying the banter.

With a playful wink, you replied, "I’ll keep that in mind."

—

“Okay, Spencer, this one’s going to be a bit tougher. Ready?” you asked, glancing at him with a hint of challenge in your eyes during this session.

Spencer raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint smirk. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really,” you replied, your smirk matching his. “But I promise, if you make it through this, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

Spencer’s other eyebrow joined the first, his interest piqued. “A bribe? How very professional of you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and teasing. “Hey, whatever works. Besides, I know your weakness for good coffee.”

He chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. “You’ve been paying attention. I might just have to hold you to that offer.”

“Deal,” you said with a playful wink, moving closer to guide him through the tougher exercises. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got, Dr. Reid.”

—

As Spencer walked into the therapy room for his session, he was greeted with a warm smile and a familiar, teasing tone. "How’s my favorite patient doing today?" you asked, your voice light and welcoming.

Spencer couldn’t help but return the smile, a playful glint in his eye as he replied, "Favorite? I’ll try not to let it go to my head."

You grinned, the banter between you both becoming second nature by now. "You’re lucky you’ve got that charm. Otherwise, I might make you do extra reps."

"I’ll remember that next time I’m tempted to be difficult," Spencer quipped, his tone just as playful, though there was a genuine warmth beneath it.

"Good plan," you said with a nod, before your expression softened slightly. "But seriously, you’re making great progress. Pretty soon, you’ll be back to chasing down unsubs."

Spencer’s smile grew a bit wider, the teasing still evident in his voice as he responded, "And I’ll be sure to tell them all about my excellent physical therapist."

A soft chuckle escaped you, and you met his gaze, your voice gentle as you said, "I’ll be waiting to hear that story."

—

While the team was out on a case, Spencer and Penelope found themselves working together in her Bat Cave, the hum of computers and the click of keys filling the otherwise quiet space. It was a rare moment of calm in their usually hectic lives, and Spencer appreciated the company, even if the work they were doing was still demanding.

“How’s Kevin?” Spencer asked, breaking the silence as he glanced over at Penelope.

Penelope paused for a moment, her fingers hesitating over the keyboard before she responded. “He’s… fine. We haven’t been on a date in a while.”

“Oh, why’s that?” Spencer inquired, his curiosity piqued.

“I’m not sure. We’re both busy, it’s not a big deal,” Penelope replied, her tone making it clear she didn’t want to delve too deeply into the subject. It was unlike her to brush off a topic so quickly, but Spencer respected her boundaries and decided not to press further.

Instead, Penelope shifted the focus, a mischievous glint in her eye as she asked, “How is your love life, Boy Wonder?”

Spencer snorted at the question, shaking his head. “Non-existent.”

Penelope’s eyes sparkled with a mix of sympathy and determination. “Do you want me to set you up with someone? I have single friends!”

“No, thank you, I’m okay,” Spencer replied quickly, his voice firm but kind. The last thing he needed was to be thrust into a blind date arranged by Penelope, well-meaning as she was.

Penelope pouted slightly but didn’t push the issue. “Okay… but think about it!” she added, her tone playful, though there was a hint of genuine concern behind it.

Spencer just smiled, appreciating her efforts but knowing that his mind was already occupied with someone else—someone who made him look forward to his weekly therapy sessions in a way he hadn’t expected. But that was something he wasn’t quite ready to share, not yet.

—

“Ow!” Spencer winced as a sharp pain shot through his leg, catching both of you off guard.

“Oh, shoot. I’m sorry, Spencer. I didn’t mean to push too far. Are you okay?” Your voice was filled with concern as you immediately eased the pressure, your hands hovering just above his leg, ready to help if needed.

Spencer forced a small, embarrassed smile, trying to downplay the discomfort. “Yeah, hah, I’m fine,” he said, though his flushed cheeks told a different story.

You offered him a reassuring smile, sensing his unease. “It’s okay if we need to take a break.”

“Okay… maybe a little one,” he admitted, feeling a bit sheepish but grateful for the pause.

“For sure,” you said with a nod, standing up. “I’ll go get you some water.”

“Thanks,” Spencer replied, watching as you left the room. He let out a slow breath, trying to shake off the lingering discomfort.

When you returned, Spencer couldn’t help but notice how stunning you looked today—though, in truth, he thought you looked gorgeous every day. But something about today caught his attention more than usual. Your pants were form-fitting, hugging your figure in a way that made it hard for him to focus on anything else. And your top… well, it clung to your body like a second skin, accentuating every curve, every roll, and, in this chilly room, every… bump. The air conditioning was doing its job a little too well.

Spencer quickly averted his gaze, feeling his face heat up, and hoped you hadn’t noticed the direction of his thoughts. He took the water you offered with a grateful nod, trying to distract himself from the sudden rush of awareness that had flooded his senses.

“Here you go,” you said, handing him the bottle with a warm smile. “Take your time, okay? We’ll go at your pace.”

“Thanks,” Spencer murmured, taking a sip of the cool water, though it did little to calm the warmth in his cheeks. He was still focused on recovering, but now there was an added layer of distraction—one that made the idea of these sessions both thrilling and terrifying.

“Hey, are you sure you’re okay, doctor?” you asked, noticing the bright flush on Spencer’s face. Your concern was evident, your eyes searching his for any sign of discomfort beyond what he’d already admitted.

“Yes, doctor,” Spencer teased back with a small, sheepish grin. “Why?”

“Your face is really red,” you pointed out gently. “You can tell me if we need to be done for the day.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I promise,” he insisted, though the blush on his cheeks only deepened as he realized you’d noticed. He quickly tried to redirect the conversation. 

“Okay,” you said, still watching him carefully. “Let’s just rest for a bit. Can I sit?” You gestured to the patient bed where Spencer was currently resting.

“Yeah, of course,” he replied, starting to scoot over to make room, but you plopped yourself down on the opposite end anyway, your casual movement making him relax a bit.

“So, um, do you have any fun plans for the weekend?” Spencer asked, eager to keep the conversation going and to steer it away from his embarrassment.

“Yeah, actually! I’m going to a new club with some friends,” you responded with a bright smile, clearly looking forward to it.

“Nice,” Spencer said, though internally, he had no idea what going to a club entailed. It wasn’t exactly his scene. Still, he was trying to be polite and keep the conversation light. “Will your boyfriend be going?”

Your brow furrowed slightly in confusion, but there was a playful glint in your eyes. “Who told you I have a boyfriend?”

Spencer felt his heart skip a beat, a pang of regret hitting him as he fumbled for words. “Uh, I just, um, assumed…”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Well, no, he’s not going. He’s not allowed in.”

“Oh,” Spencer said, confusion and curiosity in his voice. “Why?”

“They frown upon bringing dogs into clubs,” you replied with a grin, your eyes twinkling with amusement.

Spencer blinked, processing your words, before a wide smile spread across his face. “You had me there for a second.”

“Good,” you teased back, your laughter light and infectious. “I’m single, Spencer. Just me and my dog.”

Spencer’s heart, which had momentarily broken at the thought of you having a boyfriend, slowly pieced itself back together. The relief he felt was palpable, though he tried not to show it too much. “Well, your dog sounds like great company.”

“He is,” you agreed, still smiling as you settled more comfortably on the bed. “But it’s nice to have human company too.”

Spencer nodded, his own smile lingering as the tension between you two melted away, replaced by an easy, comfortable rapport that made him feel just a bit braver. “I’ll, um, have to think of something fun to do this weekend too.”

“Well,” you said, giving him a playful nudge with your foot, “if you need ideas, you know where to find me.”

—

Spencer had spent the weekend mentally preparing himself, trying to muster up the courage to take a step outside his comfort zone and maybe even visit the club you had mentioned. But as the days passed, the idea of loud music, crowded spaces, and unfamiliar social dynamics became more daunting than exciting. In the end, he stayed home, retreating to the familiar comfort of his books and routine. 

However, something had shifted in him after your last conversation. The way you had laughed, the playful teasing about your “boyfriend,” and the easy, comfortable rapport between you—it all made Spencer feel like maybe, just maybe, his attraction to you wasn’t as one-sided as he had feared. That small spark of hope ignited something in him, and by the time his next session rolled around, he was determined to push the boundaries of your interactions, just a little.

As soon as he walked into the room, he could tell there was a different energy in the air. You greeted him with your usual warm smile, but there was something in your eyes, a glint that made his heart race just a bit faster.

“Hey, Spencer,” you said, your voice bright as you guided him to the usual spot. “How was your weekend? Did you end up finding something fun to do?”

Spencer hesitated for a split second, then decided to go for it. “Well, I thought about going to that club you mentioned,” he began, watching your reaction carefully.

“Oh really?” you asked, clearly intrigued. “What happened? Did you chicken out?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “But I figured if I was going to do something that bold, I’d need a good reason. Maybe some company?”

Spencer's confidence had been steadily growing throughout the session, especially after the playful banter you shared earlier. But when you leaned in just a bit closer, your eyes sparkling with that familiar mischief, and said, “Company, huh? I’m sure you could find someone to go with you,” he felt a sudden drop in his stomach. 

He tried to keep the conversation going, hoping he hadn’t misread the situation entirely. “Yeah? Do you know anyone?” he asked, forcing a smile to mask the uncertainty creeping in.

You tilted your head, a teasing grin on your lips as you replied, “I can’t say I do, but if I find someone who screams ‘Spencer Reid,’ I’ll send them your way.” You finished with a wink before turning your attention back to the session.

Spencer’s heart sank. Had he completely misjudged the situation? Maybe his earlier confidence had been misplaced, and the connection he thought was there was just friendly banter after all. As you continued guiding him through the exercises, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of defeat, the playful atmosphere from earlier now tinged with doubt.

Later in the session, you left the room to grab one of the measuring tools you needed, leaving Spencer alone with his thoughts. He leaned back on the patient bed, staring at the ceiling and trying to shake off the disappointment gnawing at him.

That’s when he heard voices in the hallway, one of them unmistakably yours. He wasn’t the type to eavesdrop, but curiosity—and maybe a bit of desperation—got the better of him. He strained to listen, his heart beating faster as he realized you were talking about him.

“You think he was going to ask you out?” said another female voice.

“I don’t know, it seemed like it,” you replied, your tone carrying a hint of uncertainty. Spencer’s heart skipped a beat. Had he been that obvious?

“Isn’t that good? I thought you said he was cute and funny,” the other voice continued, sounding encouraging.

There was a brief pause before you responded, your voice a bit softer. “He’s my patient, it doesn’t matter. That can’t happen.”

Spencer’s heart sank further. So that was it. The connection he felt was real, but there was an undeniable barrier between you two—one that you weren’t willing to cross.

“You’re right. Just be nice,” the other voice advised.

“I always am,” you replied, your tone resigned but still kind.

A moment later, the door to the room opened, and you reentered with the measuring tool in hand. Your expression was as warm and professional as ever, but Spencer couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment that had settled in his chest. He forced a smile, trying to act as if he hadn’t overheard anything, though the knowledge weighed heavily on him.

The rest of the session continued, but the lightheartedness from earlier was replaced by a quieter, more subdued atmosphere. Spencer kept up the conversation as best he could, but there was a lingering sadness beneath his words. It wasn’t just about his injury anymore—it was about the realization that, no matter how much he might want it, there were some lines that simply couldn’t be crossed.

—

“Hey, Penelope?” Spencer’s voice carried a hint of hesitance as he approached her workstation, trying to muster up the courage for what he was about to ask.

Penelope swiveled her chair around, her bright eyes instantly lighting up at the sight of him. “Yes, my love?” she replied, her usual affectionate tone bringing a small smile to Spencer’s face.

“Do you still have a friend you could set me up with?” Spencer asked, his voice steady despite the nervous flutter in his chest. He wasn’t sure what had pushed him to ask, but after the recent disappointment, he figured it might be worth a shot.

Penelope’s reaction was immediate. Her eyes widened, and she leaned forward, her hands clasped together in excitement. “Are you serious? You’re being for real? You’re not just messing with me?”

Spencer couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head at her enthusiasm. “I’m being very serious.”

A squeal of delight escaped Penelope as she practically bounced in her seat. “Yes! I have the perfect friend for you! Oh em gee!!!” she exclaimed, her excitement palpable.

Spencer chuckled, feeling some of his earlier doubts melt away in the face of Penelope’s infectious energy. Maybe this wasn’t what he had originally hoped for, but seeing her so happy about helping him made him feel like he was making the right choice. 

“Tell me everything!” Penelope demanded, her fingers already flying across her keyboard as she began to plan out every detail. “What are you looking for? What should I tell her about you? Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”

Spencer smiled, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. It wasn’t the path he had initially imagined, but maybe this new direction would lead to something just as fulfilling. “I trust your judgment, Penelope,” he said with a grin. “Just… make sure she’s okay with a guy who’s a little bit of a nerd, and on crutches.”

Penelope beamed, her heart bursting with joy at the prospect of playing matchmaker for her dear friend. “Spencer Reid, you’re in the best hands. She’s going to love you.”

—

The night of Spencer's blind date had arrived, and his nerves were running rampant. Despite trusting Penelope’s judgment, he couldn't shake the anxiety gnawing at him. She had insisted that he fully embrace the blind date experience, right down to not even knowing the woman’s name. All she had told him was that he should look for a woman in a red dress.

Sitting at the table in the cozy, dimly lit restaurant, Spencer tried to steady his breathing, his fingers drumming nervously against the tablecloth. The uncertainty was overwhelming, and he found himself glancing at the door every few seconds, half-expecting to make a quick exit if things went south.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly, and with every passing moment, his heart beat faster. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of deep red fabric. He turned, his breath hitching as he saw the back of a woman at the host's stand, her figure silhouetted perfectly in the elegant red dress. Even from behind, she looked stunning, and for a brief moment, Spencer felt a flicker of excitement, his nerves momentarily forgotten.

But as she turned to scan the room, her eyes searching for him, Spencer’s heart nearly stopped. It was you.

All the blood seemed to drain from his face as he sat there, frozen in place. His mind raced, trying to process what was happening. Of all the people in the world, Penelope had set him up with you—his physical therapist, the woman he had been crushing on for weeks.

You spotted him almost instantly, your eyes widening in surprise, and for a moment, you looked just as shocked as he felt. But then your expression softened, and a small, tentative smile tugged at the corners of your lips.

Spencer swallowed hard, his anxiety now mixing with a sense of disbelief. He hadn’t expected this at all. What were the chances? He could barely keep his thoughts straight as you walked toward him, your movements graceful and confident, though there was a hint of nervousness in your eyes that mirrored his own.

“Spencer?” you said softly as you reached the table, your voice laced with surprise and something else—something warm, perhaps even hopeful.

He managed to nod, still struggling to find his voice. “Y-Yes… it’s me,” he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest. “I didn’t… I had no idea…”

You chuckled softly, the sound doing wonders to ease the tension between you. “Neither did I,” you admitted, settling into the seat across from him. There was a playful glint in your eye as you added, “I guess you work in the BAU at the FBI, huh?”

Spencer nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “I do. How do you know Penelope?”

“We do wine and painting together every month,” you explained with a fond smile, recalling the origins of your friendship. “After a few classes, we started sitting together, and the rest is history.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and he let out a small laugh. “I can’t believe you’re my blind date.”

“And you’re mine,” you replied, matching his smile with one of your own.

Spencer hesitated for a moment before asking, “Is that okay? I know I’m your patient…”

You tilted your head slightly, considering his words before replying with a hint of teasing in your voice. “Well, technically, I’m not supposed to see my patients outside of PT… but I’ll make an exception for tonight.”

“Right, tonight,” Spencer echoed, relief and excitement coursing through him. He could hardly believe how the evening had unfolded, but there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

The two of you shared a moment of quiet understanding, the reality of the situation settling in. Despite the unexpected turn of events, the chemistry between you was undeniable, and the restrictions that had once seemed so daunting now felt less significant in the warm glow of the restaurant's soft lighting.

As the evening progressed and the initial surprise wore off, the conversation between you and Spencer flowed effortlessly. There was a natural rhythm to your interactions, a playfulness that neither of you could resist indulging in.

“So, Spencer,” you began, taking a sip of your wine and meeting his gaze over the candlelit table, “what’s it like being a genius? Do you just know everything, or do you still get surprised sometimes?”

Spencer chuckled, a light blush creeping onto his cheeks. “I wouldn’t say I know everything,” he replied, his tone modest but with a teasing glint in his eye. “I get surprised plenty—like tonight, for example.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “Surprised in a good way, I hope?”

“Very good,” Spencer admitted, his eyes flickering to yours, the warmth in his gaze making your heart skip a beat. “I mean, how often does someone get set up on a blind date with someone they already know—and like?”

Spencer’s blush deepened, the pink tint spreading across his cheeks as he looked at you with wide eyes. "Oh, you like me, do you?" you teased, your voice light and playful, but with a hint of something more beneath the surface.

"Was that not obvious?" Spencer stammered, his blush deepening further, and you couldn’t help but smile at how endearing he was.

"It was plenty obvious, Doctor. Don’t worry," you reassured him, leaning in just slightly to close the distance between you.

Spencer let out a small, relieved laugh. "Oh goodie! I was worried I wasn’t making a fool out of myself."

"You weren’t," you said softly, your smile growing as you watched him. There was something so genuine about Spencer, something that made it easy to be honest with him. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Absolutely," Spencer replied, a playful glint in his eye as he leaned in closer, mimicking your earlier movement. "I might tell everyone I know, but you can still tell me."

You giggled at his response, the sound light and full of warmth. "Amazing," you said, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don’t have to touch you as much as I do during our sessions... I just really like how your legs look in those shorts."

Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment, he seemed completely caught off guard. His mouth opened as if to respond, but no words came out. Finally, he managed to stammer, "You… you what?"

"I like how your legs look," you repeated, your tone playful yet sincere. "And those shorts you wear? They make it hard to keep things strictly professional."

Spencer’s blush, which had just started to fade, flared up again in full force. He let out a nervous laugh, running a hand through his hair. "I had no idea… I mean, I didn’t think—"

"You’re cute when you’re flustered," you interrupted gently, reaching out to place a hand over his. The gesture was simple, but it sent a jolt of warmth through both of you. "And just so you know, you’re definitely not making a fool out of yourself. In fact, I’m really glad Penelope set this up."

Spencer looked down at your hand on his, then back up at you, his eyes filled with gratitude and affection. "Me too," he said softly, his voice carrying a sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. "More than you know."

—

As the waiter poured the wine, the atmosphere between you and Spencer lightened even more, the earlier nerves melting away with each sip. You couldn’t help but giggle as you watched Spencer take a tentative sip from his glass, his expression one of cautious appreciation.

"How’s the wine, Doctor?" you teased, raising your glass to him with a playful grin.

Spencer chuckled, swirling the wine in his glass like he was trying to remember some long-forgotten etiquette. "I think it’s good," he said, though his tone was more curious than certain. "I’m not exactly a connoisseur, but I think I could get used to this."

"Oh, I bet you could," you teased, your eyes sparkling with mischief. "And who knows, maybe by the end of the night, you’ll be an expert."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at his lips. "Are you planning on getting me drunk?"

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice as you replied, "Maybe just tipsy enough to loosen you up, Doctor. You’re pretty cute when you’re not overthinking everything."

He laughed, a sound that was becoming more frequent as the evening went on. "Is that so? Well, in that case, maybe I should order another bottle."

"Oh, I see how it is," you giggled, raising your glass to take another sip. "Trying to get me drunk so I’ll spill all my secrets?"

Spencer leaned in closer, his voice low and teasing. "I don’t need wine for that. You already admitted you like how my legs look in those shorts."

You laughed, the sound bubbly and warm, and you playfully nudged him with your foot under the table. "Guilty as charged. But don’t get too cocky, Doctor Reid. I’ve got plenty more secrets I haven’t shared yet."

Spencer’s eyes twinkled with intrigue, and he leaned back in his chair, giving you an appreciative once-over. "Now that’s something I’d like to hear more about," he said, his tone flirtatious but with a genuine interest that made your heart flutter.

You smirked, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Oh, you’ll have to earn those secrets, Spencer. I don’t just give them away."

"Challenge accepted," Spencer replied, his grin widening as he clinked his glass against yours. "But I warn you, I’m pretty good at uncovering secrets."

"Is that so?" you quipped, raising an eyebrow. "Maybe I’ll have to keep you on your toes, then."

"I think I’d like that," Spencer said, his voice softening as he held your gaze, the playful banter giving way to something a bit more serious, but no less exciting.

The wine continued to flow, and with it, the conversation grew flirtier, the two of you slipping into a comfortable rhythm that was as intoxicating as the wine itself. The night felt like a blur of laughter, teasing words, and shared glances, each one charged with a growing connection that neither of you could deny.

As the glasses emptied and the night wore on, Spencer couldn’t help but feel like this was the start of something new—something wonderful. And by the way you were looking at him, your smile bright and your eyes full of promise, he had a feeling you were thinking the same thing.

—

You held the door open for Spencer as you both exited the restaurant, then hailed a cab with practiced ease. Spencer couldn’t help but notice the way you held the door open for him once more, a small gesture that felt both kind and distant at the same time.

“One stop or two?” the cab driver asked, his voice breaking through the quiet night air.

“Two,” you responded, offering Spencer an apologetic smile that made his heart sink just a little.

As the cab pulled away from the curb, Spencer started to get the sense that this night—this connection—was slipping away, becoming nothing more than a fleeting exchange.

“This isn’t going to continue, is it?” Spencer asked, his voice tinged with the disappointment he was trying to keep at bay.

You sighed softly, placing your hand gently on his, your expression filled with genuine regret. “Spencer,” you began, your voice tender but firm, “I’m your physical therapist. You’re my patient.”

“But we like each other,” Spencer pressed, his heart pounding with the desperate hope that maybe, somehow, you could make this work.

“So much,” you agreed, your eyes softening as you met his gaze. “But I can’t cross that boundary.”

“We already did,” he argued, his tone filled with frustration and a touch of disbelief. “We’re more than just patient and therapist.”

You nodded, your expression pained. “We’re friends, and we had a meal together,” you said gently. “But I’m sorry, Spencer. I can’t let it go beyond that.”

As the cab pulled up outside Spencer’s building, he gave you a look that was filled with hurt, disappointment, and a sense of finality. “Maybe Penelope isn’t as good of a matchmaker as I thought,” he muttered, his voice heavy with emotion. Then, without waiting for a response, he slammed the door to the cab shut, the sound echoing in the night as he moved away.

You watched him go, a heavy weight settling in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him—far from it. But the lines had been drawn, and you knew you couldn’t cross them, no matter how much you wished you could. As the cab pulled away, you couldn’t help but wonder what might have been, even as you tried to convince yourself that you had done the right thing.

—

“Spencer, baby!” Penelope’s voice rang out the moment he stepped into the office the next morning. She rushed over to him, her eyes wide with excitement and anticipation. “How was your date? Did you love her? I know you did!”

Spencer’s expression was flat, his usual warmth replaced by a cool detachment. “I did not,” he replied, his tone clipped and final.

Penelope’s face fell instantly, the excitement draining from her features as she looked at him in shock. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “But… what happened? I thought it was going to be perfect.”

Spencer sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to find the right words. “It wasn’t what I expected, Penelope. I… we had a nice time, but she made it clear that it couldn’t go anywhere.”

“But… but why?” Penelope stammered, clearly upset. “I thought she was perfect for you! I mean, I was so sure…”

“She was,” Spencer admitted, his voice softening. “She’s great, really. But she’s my physical therapist, and she didn’t want to cross that boundary.”

Penelope’s shoulders slumped, guilt and sadness flooding her eyes. “Oh, Spencer… I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I just thought… I just wanted you to be happy.”

Spencer gave her a small, sad smile, trying to ease the tension. “I know, Penelope. And I appreciate it. You were trying to help, and I’m grateful for that.”

Penelope nodded, tears welling up in her eyes as she reached out to hug him. “I’m really sorry, Spencer. I never wanted to make things harder for you.”

Spencer hugged her back, his voice gentle as he reassured her. “It’s okay. You didn’t know, and it’s not your fault. I’m glad you care enough to try.”

Penelope pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I just… I just want you to find someone who makes you happy.”

“I know,” Spencer said, giving her another small smile. “And I will. Just… not this time.”

Penelope nodded, her heart heavy with the weight of unintended consequences. She wanted so badly to make things right for him, but now she could only hope that time would help heal the disappointment she had inadvertently caused.

—

“Y/N, you have a new patient today,” your supervisor informed you as you glanced up from the paperwork on your desk.

“What about Spencer Reid?” you asked, trying to keep your voice casual, though the question carried more weight than you intended.

“He’s seeing a different therapist,” your supervisor replied, flipping through the schedule without much thought.

“Oh…” The single syllable lingered in the air, heavy with disappointment. You hesitated for a moment before asking, “Can I ask why?”

Your supervisor looked up, her expression indifferent as she explained, “Something about your schedule not fitting his anymore.”

You nodded slowly, trying to process the news. “Okay, that’s—” you paused, swallowing the lump in your throat, “that’s fine.”

But as you turned back to your paperwork, the reality of the situation sank in. It wasn’t just about schedules or convenience; this was the consequence of the boundary you had enforced, the one that was meant to protect both of you. Yet, knowing that Spencer was now in someone else’s care left a hollow ache in your chest that you hadn’t anticipated.

The rest of the day felt a little off-kilter, your thoughts drifting back to Spencer more often than you’d like to admit. You couldn’t help but wonder how he was doing, whether he was okay, and if he understood why things had to be this way. It was the right decision, you reminded yourself, even if it didn’t feel like it.

—

“Penny, he dropped me,” you said, your voice heavy with disappointment as you leaned against the doorframe of Penelope’s kitchen. “He’s not even my patient anymore.”

Penelope’s eyes widened in surprise, but then a grin spread across her face. “That’s great! You can date now!”

You sighed, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple, Penny. He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Penelope’s expression softened, and she gave you a sympathetic look. “He’ll come around. He just feels rejected, that’s all. You could go explain yourself, you know.”

“I don’t even have his number,” you admitted, feeling a pang of helplessness. It wasn’t like you could just show up at his door and expect him to listen. The lines between patient and therapist had already been blurred, and now they were more complicated than ever.

“Uhh, don’t be silly, missy. I do,” Penelope said with a playful smirk, pulling out her phone and waving it in the air like it was the answer to all your problems.

You blinked, surprised by her quick solution. “You’d really give it to me?”

“Of course!” Penelope replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief and a hint of determination. “Spencer’s my friend, and so are you. If there’s a chance you two can work this out, I’m all for it.”

You hesitated for a moment, weighing the risks, but the thought of not reaching out to Spencer gnawed at you. Maybe Penelope was right; maybe you needed to explain yourself, to let him know how you really felt.

“Okay,” you said finally, your resolve strengthening. “Give me his number.”

Penelope’s grin widened as she quickly typed on her phone and handed it over to you. “Go get him, girl.”

You nodded, feeling a mixture of nerves and hope as you took the phone from her. “Thanks, Penny. I’ll try.”

—

Later that night, as you sat in the comfort of your apartment, the familiar hum of city life just outside your window, you finally mustered up the courage to dial the number Penelope had given you. Your heart pounded in your chest, each ring feeling like an eternity until you heard his voice on the other end.

“Spencer Reid, who is calling?”

“Hey… it’s Y/N. Your ex-therapist,” you said, your voice softer than you intended, trying to gauge his reaction.

There was a brief pause before he responded, “Oh.”

The single word carried a weight that made your stomach churn with anxiety. You took a deep breath, pushing forward despite the tension. “Yeah, I hope it’s okay I got your number from Penny.”

“Why?” Spencer’s voice was guarded, and you could tell he was still hurting.

“I wanted to talk to you. Can we meet up?” you asked, trying to keep your tone hopeful, though the uncertainty gnawed at you.

“When?” he asked, his voice giving nothing away.

“Tomorrow? You could come over?” you suggested, hoping the familiar, private setting might make things a bit easier.

“Fine. Send me your address,” Spencer replied, his tone clipped but not completely closed off.

“Okay, see you—” you started to say, but the line went dead before you could finish. You stared at your phone, a mixture of relief and nervous anticipation swirling in your chest.

He was coming over. You had a chance to explain, to make things right. But now that the call was over, the reality of what tomorrow might bring settled in. You just hoped that when the time came, you’d find the right words to say.

—

Spencer knocked with perfect punctuality, 6 pm sharp, just as you were adjusting the final details in your apartment. The soft sound of the knock sent a flutter through your chest, a mixture of nerves and anticipation.

You opened the door to find him standing there, his expression unreadable, but his eyes softened as he took you in. “Hi,” you breathed, a bit of your earlier confidence wavering under his gaze.

“Hi, Y/N,” he replied, his voice low and calm, though you could tell he was just as unsure as you were. Your beauty, as always, took him by surprise, rendering him momentarily speechless.

“Please, come in,” you said, stepping aside to let him enter.

Spencer stepped into your apartment, his eyes immediately scanning the space. The warm, inviting atmosphere of your home greeted him, filled with soft light from the setting sun filtering through the windows. The room was decorated with personal touches—lush green plants, carefully selected books lining the wooden shelves, and artwork that gave the space a cozy, lived-in feel. It was a reflection of you, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for how things had turned out.

“Can I pour you some wine? I found the one from the restaurant,” you offered, trying to break the tension and bring back a little of the familiarity you both shared that night.

“Sure, thank you,” Spencer replied, his tone polite but still holding a touch of reserve.

You moved to the kitchen area, retrieving the bottle of wine and two glasses. As you poured, you could feel Spencer’s eyes on you, but you didn’t dare look up just yet. There was so much unsaid between you, so much that needed to be addressed, and you weren’t sure where to start.

Handing him a glass, you finally met his gaze. “I’m really glad you came,” you said softly, your sincerity clear.

Spencer took the glass from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending a jolt of electricity through both of you. “I wasn’t sure if I should,” he admitted, his eyes searching yours for some kind of reassurance.

“I know,” you replied, taking a small sip of your wine to steady yourself. “But I’m glad you did. We need to talk, Spencer. I need to explain.”

He nodded slowly, his expression softening just a bit. “Yeah… we do.”

You gestured toward the comfortable seating area, and the two of you moved to sit down, the warmth of the room offering a bit of comfort as you prepared to finally have the conversation that had been hanging over you both.

Spencer settled onto the couch, his posture stiff as he tried to maintain a semblance of calm. The warmth of your apartment contrasted with the tension between you, and he took a slow sip of his wine, waiting for you to speak.

You sat across from him, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched for the right words. After a moment of silence, you decided to just be honest. “I’m sorry I rejected you,” you began, your voice soft but steady. “That was wrong of me.”

Spencer’s gaze flickered with surprise, but he remained silent, letting you continue.

“There are things we could have done,” you went on, feeling a weight lift slightly as you spoke. “Ways we could have moved around the rules, ways to handle it more delicately. But instead, I stiffed you and hurt you. I didn’t give us a chance to figure it out. And for that, I’m truly sorry.”

Spencer’s grip tightened slightly around his glass, his expression a mixture of emotions—confusion, hurt, and perhaps a bit of understanding. “It wasn’t just about the rules, was it?” he asked quietly, his eyes searching yours.

You shook your head, feeling a lump form in your throat. “No, it wasn’t. I was scared, Spencer. Scared of crossing a line, of losing my job, of making a mistake that couldn’t be undone. But in trying to protect myself, I ended up hurting you… and that’s something I never wanted to do.”

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “I understand why you were scared,” he admitted, his voice softening. “But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I know,” you whispered, feeling tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “And I can’t take back what I did. But I want you to know that I care about you, Spencer. I really do. And if there’s any way we can move forward—whether that’s as friends or something more—I’m willing to try.”

Spencer looked down at his glass, his mind clearly racing as he processed your words. After what felt like an eternity, he finally looked back up at you, his expression gentler than before.

“I care about you too,” he said quietly. “And I want to move forward. But I need to know that we’re both on the same page, that this isn’t just something we’re doing because of… circumstances.”

You nodded, feeling a sense of relief that he was willing to talk about it. “I agree. I don’t want to force anything. But I also don’t want to walk away from something that could be real, just because it’s complicated.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile. “I guess we’re both pretty good at making things complicated, huh?”

You chuckled softly, the tension between you easing just a bit. “Yeah, we are. But maybe… maybe we can figure it out together?”

Spencer took another sip of his wine, his smile growing a little more confident. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice warm and genuine.

And with those simple words, the gap that had formed between you began to close, replaced by the possibility of something new—a fresh start, built on honesty, understanding, and the connection you both knew was there all along.

Spencer’s tentative smile grew into something more playful as he leaned back slightly, the tension between you all but dissolved. “Does that mean free, private physical therapy sessions?” he teased, his tone light, though there was a spark of mischief in his eyes.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound easing the last remnants of anxiety you had been holding onto. Leaning forward, you matched his playful tone, raising an eyebrow as you replied, “Only if you don’t wear any shorts.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and then he laughed—a deep, genuine sound that filled the room with warmth. “I’ll have to consider that,” he quipped, the playful banter between you rekindling that familiar connection.

“Well, take your time,” you said with a grin, feeling the ease and comfort return between you. “But just so you know, I’m a lot stricter when it comes to private sessions.”

“Is that so?” Spencer leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper. “Maybe I’m up for the challenge.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, the flirtation now fully out in the open. “Well, Doctor Reid, I’ll be sure to make it worth your while,” you replied, your tone equally soft and playful.

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other, the air between you charged with excitement and anticipation. The conversation had started with apologies and uncertainty, but now, sitting here together, it felt like the beginning of something new—something you were both more than ready to explore.

“Looks like we’ve got a lot to figure out,” Spencer said softly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yeah,” you agreed, a warm smile spreading across your face. “But I think we’re off to a pretty good start.”

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tag list <333 @spencerreidsreads @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @dirtytissuebox @yokaimoon @reggieswriter @loumouse @mentallyunwellsposts @time-himself @chaneladdicted @kathrynlakestone @furrybouquettrash @hearts4spensco @gilwm @khxna @charismatic-writer @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @noelliece @dreamsarebig

[theostrophywife]

little dove.

pairing: tom riddle x reader.

song inspiration: if u think i'm pretty by artemas.

author's note: can't believe this is my first tom fic, but please know that this man awakens the feral, unhinged side of me. let me slytherin to your chamber of secrets and ride that basilisk tommy 😏

This was a stupid, idiotic, and terrible idea. 

Unfortunately for you, those were the conditions in which Harry and Ron worked best under. In your defense, you tried to talk them out of the prank, but the boys were determined to leave their mark. You suppose you could’ve told Hermione, but you didn’t want to interrupt her date with Draco. When it came to talking sense into their thick skulls, you were completely and utterly alone. 

After much argument, you finally accepted that you weren’t going to get anywhere with Harry and Ron. The only thing you could do was supervise their reckless pursuits and minimize the damage as much as possible. So here you were, sneaking into the dungeons under the cover of darkness. 

“This will be the best seventh year prank yet,” Ron whispered as he trailed close behind. “Fred and George are going to be so jealous.” 

“If we don’t die from the cold first,” Harry quipped sarcastically, slightly shivering underneath the invisibility cloak draped over the three of you. “The Slytherins really take the whole cold-blooded thing quite literally, don’t they?” 

You huffed in response, trying your best to muffle your steps. “Can we please focus on not getting caught? We need to be in and out of the dungeons before the prefects start their patrols.” 

The boys nodded as you inched further into the serpent’s nest. Luckily, the corridor that housed Professor Snape’s office was empty. You held your breath as you began to unravel the wards protecting the entrance. You had to give it to him, Snape was incredibly thorough when it came to his security measures. Good thing you were an expert on unlocking charms. 

With a final flick of your wand, the door gave way and creaked open. Ron and Harry wore matching grins as the three of you spilled into the office. Closing the door behind you, Harry’s green eyes crinkled with mischief. 

“Let’s get started.” 

Surprisingly, Harry and Ron’s half-arsed plan was actually coming together. The three of you worked in silence, the boys handing you paints and supplies at the snap of your fingers. After a few more strokes, you flicked your paintbrush over the wall and cocked your head to examine your work. Nearly every single surface of Professor Snape’s office was covered in your illustrations—technically vandalism according to wizarding law. 

The drawings, imbued with the same magic that powered the moving portraits, depicted caricatures of Professor Snape, all of which scurried like rats along the walls, hurtling globs of paint at one another. The head of Slytherin house was going to have a fit when he saw what you’d done to his office. You almost wished you could be there in the morning to witness the look on Snape’s face when he uncovered your masterpiece.

“Bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he packed up the paints and brushes. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Y/N.” 

Harry chuckled and nudged your shoulder. “See? You do have a taste for trouble, after all.” 

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Now help me clean up so we can go.” 

As you carefully wiped the office of any trace of the three of you, Harry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. You looked up, ready to scold him for idling, but fell silent when you saw the panicked expression on his face. 

“What is it?” you asked quietly. 

Harry held up his hand and slowly opened the door, peeking out into the darkness. A muffled clicking that sounded an awful lot like footsteps echoed from the corridor. “Do you hear that?” 

Ron cursed lowly. “The prefects must’ve started their rounds early.” 

You peered over Harry’s shoulder and felt the color drain from your face. “It’s not the prefects,” you said, swallowing thickly. “It’s the Head Boy.” 

Both the boys swore under their breaths. You steeled yourself, knowing that panic was not going to get you anywhere. As quietly as possible, you retrieved Harry’s cloak and beckoned the boys underneath it. 

“We’re so fucked,” Ron mumbled. 

“No, we’re not,” you chided sternly. “Get under the cloak and don’t make a sound.” 

Harry scooted in beside you, clutching the invisible fabric over his shoulders. “Do you have a plan?” 

You nodded. “Run like hell and don’t get caught.” 

“That’s a bloody terrible plan!” said Ron. 

With a glare, you tugged the redhead underneath the cloak. “Then please, let us hear your brilliant idea, Ronald.” Ron stayed quiet, his freckled face etched with fear. “That’s what I thought. Now stay close and for Merlin’s sake, try not to stomp around like a damned erumpent.”

Stupid. 

Idiotic. 

Terrible. 

Every ounce of apprehension you felt earlier that night came rushing back as the three of you cowered in the darkness. It was pitch-black in the corridor, but you didn’t dare cast lumos for fear of getting caught. Thankfully, a small light up ahead provided you with a vague sense of direction. You remembered passing the lit emerald sconce on the way down. All you had to do was get back to the entrance without running into the head boy. 

The glimmer of hope became clearer and clearer as you neared the stairs that would lead you out of the dungeons. You were so close. Barely a few metres away from freedom. 

Just as you thought you were safe, Ron knocked into a table, sending one of the snake sculptures guarding the alcove to the common room tumbling. The marble cracked against the concrete, breaking into a million pieces just like your hope of escaping. 

“Run!” you huffed, urging the boys to go on. 

A solid plan if you hadn’t been nearly blind in the dark. You could hear the shuffling of footsteps beside you. Three sets belonging to you, Harry, and Ron, while an unknown fourth inched closer and closer. Whoever it was wasn’t running, but they were definitely in pursuit. 

You stumbled through the dark, nearly tripping over your own feet. From up ahead, you could hear Harry and Ron urging you on. As you broke into a sprint, paints and brushes came spilling out of your satchel. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve abandoned your art supplies, but leaving them behind would fully incriminate the three of you. In the time it took to pick up the damning evidence, you stopped hearing your friend’s voices. 

It would’ve worried you, but in all honesty, you were relieved. If you could no longer hear the boys, then that meant they made it safely out of the serpent’s nest. A feat in itself given their track record. Those two couldn’t be inconspicuous if they tried. Without the need to worry for them, you were confident that you’d be able to slip out undetected. 

In hindsight, you were perhaps a tad bit overconfident. You were great at sneaking around, but apparently not good enough to slip the head boy’s notice. As soon as you started to creep past the dormitories, you ran into a wall that hadn’t been there before. 

Except it wasn’t a wall. 

It was a strong, firm chest. A chest that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle. 

Leave it to your terrible luck to run straight into the arms of the scariest boy in the castle. 

Determined not to cower, you lifted your chin defiantly and faced Tom head on. “Head Boy,” you greeted in acknowledgment. 

Emerald eyes unflinchingly surveyed you, that intense green stare sweeping from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. Beneath the faint glow of the Black Lake pouring in through the stained glass windows, you could’ve easily mistaken Tom Riddle for an angel. He looked like an illustration straight out of the Sistine Chapel. Beautiful, intricate, perfect. 

Yet utterly terrifying. 

Danger prickled at your skin as Tom’s lips curved into a sinister smirk. “My, my, what do we have here? A little dove out of her cage.” 

You bristled as he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his voice a seductive caress. It was low, husky, and a little rough around the edges. Just like its speaker. Tom plucked a paintbrush out of your satchel and examined it between his fingers. “I saw what you did to Snape’s office. Quite artistic, aren’t you?” 

A part of you considered denying it, but it would’ve been a futile attempt. There was paint splattered all over your skirt and flecks of it were already drying on your skin. Tom had quite literally caught you red handed. The only thing you could do was to own up to it and face whatever consequences came as a result of your foolish actions. 

“Are you going to turn me in to the headmaster?” 

Tom shook his head, his brown wavy hair falling over one eye. “Not until I catch your two helpers.” 

Panic seized your body. It may be too late for you, but Tom hadn’t seen either Harry or Ron. There was a chance they could come out of this unscathed. 

“I was alone,” you declared with your chin held high. “There was no one else with me.” 

Anger contorted Tom’s handsome features. Those emerald eyes lit up in flames as he backed you into a wall, bracketing each side of your head with his arms as he leaned down. You tried not to cower under the intensity of his stare, but gods was it hard. Tom towered a good foot over you and as if that weren’t intimidating enough, he also blocked every possibility of escape with his body. 

“Don’t lie to me, little dove,” Tom growled, tilting your chin up with one hand. “I heard three sets of footsteps running through the corridor.” 

You swallowed thickly, praying to Merlin to grant you the ability to flawlessly lie your arse off. “I swear, it was just me. No one else. I did it all by myself.” 

Tom hummed as if unconvinced. “Well, you’re certainly on your own now. Your idiotic friends left you down in the dungeons all alone. Don’t you know that dangerous things lurk in the dark around here, Y/N?” 

“Like I said, I was alone.” 

“So it appears,” Tom said, flashing you a smile that told you he was the most dangerous thing lurking in the dungeons. “Poor little dove wandering the serpent’s nest all on her own. Hasn’t anyone told you that us Slytherins have teeth?” 

“Why?” In an idiotic surge of courage, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could pull them back in. “Do you plan on biting me, Tom?” 

Tom grabbed your jaw roughly, making you whimper in surprise. “Insolent girl. You’ll learn your lesson soon enough.” 

Without warning, he grabbed you by the elbow and started dragging you down the corridor. At first, you were certain that Tom was taking you to Dumbledore’s office, but as the minutes ticked by, you realized that you were going in the opposite direction. If anything, he was leading you right into the heart of the dungeons. 

Tom’s grip tightened to the point of pain as he guided you up a set of twin staircases, practically flying up the steps on the right side, which you assumed led to the dormitories. It had a similar layout to the Gryffindor common room, except instead of leading into the towers, the narrow hallway opened into an intricate maze in the lower levels of the castle. 

Nestled into the underbelly of Hogwarts was a large, dark room that was surrounded by more stained glass walls that looked out into the Black Lake. A school of fish swam by as Tom ushered you through the door, which he promptly locked behind him with a series of complicated spells you had no hope of deciphering. 

You were trapped. Alone in a room. With Tom Riddle.

Upon closer inspection, you surmised that this had to be his private suite. It was twice as large as your dorm back in the towers and extremely private. A luxury that only the Head Boy and Head Girl enjoyed. 

“You’ve been very bad, little dove,” Tom reprimanded. "You deserve to be punished, but I’ll tell you what. Give up the names of your accomplices and I might find it in my heart to go easy on you.” 

His drawling voice echoed in the bedroom as he leaned back against his desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. The look he leveled at you is enough to awaken your fear. Plus another emotion that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. 

Merlin, Tom was sizing you up like he was the lion and you were the helpless deer frolicking through the meadow. You steeled yourself and doubled down on your lies. 

“There was no one else, Tom.” 

He smirked as though you’d given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. Tom stopped twirling his wand, tucking it away in his back pocket as he stalked over to you. “Very well, then. I suppose you’ll just have to endure their punishments too.” 

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. It occurred to you that while you had your wand, you were completely and utterly defenseless against Tom. It should’ve scared you shitless, but instead you felt a strange sort of thrill as he came closer. “What…what sort of punishment?” 

A smirk curved at his lips as he fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back to meet his gaze. “I think you know, babydoll.” 

Heat ignited in your veins as your tongue darted out to sweep across your bottom lip. “This is crazy,” you whispered. “Shouldn’t you be telling Dumbledore? Snape? Someone in charge?” 

“I’m the one in charge,” Tom growled as he shoved you against his bookshelf. Your back hit solid wood, disturbing the neatly organized tomes behind you. “You snuck into my dungeons, under my watch, and defaced my home. I will dole out your punishment as I see fit.” 

“And if I refuse?” You asked, hoping that you emulated the bravery that your house was infamous for.

Tom pressed his body against yours, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between you as he flashed you a feral smile. “It’s laughable that you still think you have a choice.” 

“I could scream bloody murder. Wake the entire castle up and alert everyone that you're holding a fellow student against her will."

“You could,” Tom mused as amusement flickered in his eyes. “But we both know you won’t.” 

“What makes you so sure?” 

“You’d never risk such a scandalous act to go on your record. First vandalizing Professor Snape’s office, then sneaking into the Head Boy’s dorm after curfew? You’re on a downward spiral, aren’t you, little dove?” 

“I didn’t sneak into your dorm. You dragged me in here.” 

“Please,” Tom said with a scoff. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t want to be here. I’ve been watching you, you know. The perfect little Gryffindor good girl. You think you have everyone fooled, but not me.” You groaned as he pinned your hips in place, sliding his thigh between your legs. 

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me in class? Bending over in that tiny little skirt of yours hoping I’ll glance your way? Leaving the buttons to your blouse undone so you can give me a view of that lacy red bra? Biting your lip when you’re thinking dirty thoughts about me in class?” 

You flushed at his spot on assessment. Tom might be right on the mark, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. Not when your pride was on the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Dirty little liar.” Tom whispered against the shell of your ear. “You know, your mental shields are impressive, but it’s like you can’t help yourself when I’m around. You’re practically broadcasting your filthy fantasies every time we’re in the same room.” 

Fuck. 

This was bad. 

This was really fucking bad.

How many times had you sat in class staring at Tom while thinking the filthiest, dirtiest thoughts about him? Tom bending you over a desk. Tom slipping his fingers under your skirt. Tom making you scream with his head between your thighs.

All this time, he had complete access to those dirty daydreams.

“That’s right, doll. You may be a powerful occlumens, but you’re no match for my legilimency.” He chuckled darkly, caressing your jaw. 

A heavy pressure weighed down the constraints of your defenses as Tom poked around in your mind, teasing and taunting as a lover would. The act of him prodding around in your subconscious was oddly sensual, mixing pain and pleasure together as he waited for you to yield. 

There’s no use hiding now, Tom whispered into your subconscious. I’ve already seen inside your mind, doll. And your thoughts are just as fucking filthy as mine. 

Glimpses of your deepest, darkest fantasies flashed through your mind. The images were a never ending rolodex of filth and smut. Tom fucking you like his perfect little slut. Tom panting above you as he spread your legs. Tom working you with his fingers until you were a sobbing, whimpering mess. 

He was right. You were shameless. 

But so was he. A new image of you on your knees while Tom unbuckled his belt, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you stared up expectantly took center stage. Since it was from his point of view, you could only assume that he was showing you one of his fantasies. It was oddly satisfying. Tom was basking in the depravity with you, sharing his equally fucked up thoughts. 

“Tom…” you breathed, leaning into his touch as he continued to pin you against the wooden bookshelf. 

“Not Tom,” he grunted gruffly. “You’ll address me properly from now on, little dove.” 

This was so fucked up and yet so hot at the same time. You were so turned on you could hardly speak. “Yes, sir.” 

“That’s better, doll.” Tom declared with a smirk. “Now that I’ve been inside of your head, I plan on being inside you in every other way as well. Starting with that pretty little mouth of yours. On your knees, little dove.” 

A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as you knelt onto the floor. The concrete nipped at your knees, but you welcomed the pain. It kept you centered as your body buzzed with anticipation. You watched as Tom unbuckled his belt, deft fingers slowly sliding his boxers down as he gripped himself with one hand. 

With a smirk, Tom brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, looking down at you with lust blown eyes. “Open wide, babydoll.” 

Tom pumped himself slowly. The sight of his cock made your mouth water, your head spinning and dizzy with desire as you tried to calculate how you were going to take all of him. The tip of his cock glistened with precum as he rubbed over it. Tom was thick, long, and absolutely delicious. You groaned as he rubbed his head over your lips, the salty taste of his arousal resting on your tongue. 

“I won’t ask again,” Tom warned. “Be a good girl and open your mouth. I’ll make you regret it if you don’t.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

A satisfied smile graced his handsome face before he shoved his way in. Your lips parted for him, opening your mouth wider as you accommodated his size. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

You nodded obediently, eyes filling with tears as you took Tom all the way back. He fisted your hair in one hand and rocked against your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. A garbled sound crawled out of your chest, but it was soon silenced with Tom’s impatient thrusts. 

“Fuck,” Tom cursed. “So wet and warm. Such a perfect little throat. What a pity that I’m about to ruin it.” 

Ruin was an understatement. Tom fucked your throat with precise thrusts, angling deeper and deeper and groaning as you gagged on his cock. He was so deep that you could feel him bruising your tonsils. The more he abused your throat, the wetter your pussy got. You were practically soaked as you moaned on his cock, sucking your cheeks in and bobbing your head up and down to take more of him. 

“Such pretty noises,” Tom said, his fingers curling through your hair to the point of pain. He tugged at your scalp, forcing you to meet his eyes as you sucked him off. “If your mouth feels this good around my cock, then I can’t even imagine what your cunt will feel like.” 

You groaned in pleasure, making Tom’s eye roll back from the vibrations. Controlled, compulsive, and perfectly composed Tom Riddle was fading before you, replaced by a man driven only by his base desires. He was an animal lost to lust and so were you. 

Tom squeezed your throat, groaning when he felt himself moving beneath his grip. “Your throat was made to be fucked, doll. You like that, don’t you? You love it when I’m rough.” 

You struggled to nod in acknowledgement, saliva sloppily collecting in the corner of your mouth as you continued to let him use you for his own pleasure. Tom chuckled at your pathetic attempt to respond. “Don’t bother answering, little dove. You won’t be able to speak when I’m done with you anyways.” 

The filth flowing effortlessly from his mouth made you clench your thighs together. Tom threw his head back, those pretty curls tousled and plastered against his sweat soaked skin. A moan tore through his chest as he got closer and closer, fucking into your mouth with reckless abandon. He chased after his orgasm, shuddering as he spurted hot ribbons down your throat. 

“Fuck. You see what you do to me? Swallow, doll. Every single fucking drop.” 

The fantasies that you’ve been harboring for the past few years finally came to fruition, but none of it came close to reality. Tom was a fucking god. A masterpiece coming undone above you. You’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. All the artwork in the world would’ve paled in comparison to witnessing Tom Riddle at his most vulnerable. 

In awe and wonder, you looked up at him with mascara streaked eyes, tears and saliva staining your face. Tom hauled you to your feet and claimed you with his mouth. The taste of him was still on your lips, but Tom didn’t seem to mind as he parted your lips with his tongue. The kiss was neither sweet nor innocent. It was dark and dangerous and there was an edge of possessiveness in the way he demanded your submission. Almost like he was marking his territory. 

Tongues, teeth, and lips met with a clash as Tom carried you over to his desk. His books and journals clattered to the ground as his teeth grazed the column of your throat. The taste of him was intoxicating and you licked, sucked, and nipped at every inch of skin he allowed access to. You gasped into his mouth as Tom parted your legs, not bothering to warn you as he palmed your soaked panties. 

Your core clenched as he slipped a finger inside of your pussy. A squelching sound filled the room as Tom added another digit, pumping you full and fucking you with his middle and pointer fingers as you begged for more. He knew exactly what he was doing. Tom studied you like one of his books, with meticulous precision and alarming intensity, pouring all of his efforts and attention into making your body sing. 

It wasn’t long before that familiar warmth singed your veins, your moans growing louder and more desperate as you clawed at Tom’s back. You were so, so close. You were practically riding his hand as he brought you closer to the precipice. Just when you were about to come, Tom pulled away and denied you the orgasm. 

“Don’t be mistaken, doll. This is still a punishment.” Tom said as you whined from the loss. He silenced your complaints by bending you over his desk. 

“Tom, please—“ You clawed at the wood as he lined up and filled you with one sharp thrust. “Oh my fucking gods.” 

Tom gripped your hips, the slap of his skin against yours echoing in the room as he fucked you from behind. He was relentless, thrusting in and out and arching your back while he railed the absolute life out of you. It wasn’t long before you were getting close again. The sharp angles of his thrusts had him hitting all the right spots, making your knees weak and your pussy sensitive from the roughness of his actions. Sensing that you were close, he rutted into you, letting that tension uncoil before ripping the orgasm away from you once more. You whined, fresh tears soaking your cheeks as you chased after that high. 

“Like I said, this is still a punishment,” Tom taunted, slowing his thrusts to a snail’s pace. “That’s two orgasms I’ve taken from you, which leaves you with two more. Four for every wall you defaced. It should be twelve, given that you had help, but I’m in a forgiving mood. I think I’ll just spank the other eight out of you instead.” 

With your head bowed, you wiped the tears off of your cheeks and braced yourself. You knew that he was telling the truth. To Tom, this was mercy. You should’ve found it sadistic, but you fucking loved it. Maybe you were a masochist. Whatever the case may be, it seemed like the two of you were a match made in heaven. 

“I’ll be good,” you whispered hoarsely. Your throat was still raw and sore from earlier. “I’ll happily take the punishment. I promise I’ll be good, sir.” 

Tom chuckled darkly, relishing in your submission. His hand came down with a hard smack against your right ass cheek, making you jolt from the contact. Before you could recover, he repeated the action on the left. 

“That’s two,” Tom said proudly. “Can you count out the rest, babydoll?” 

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip every time his large hand came down on your ass. His rings bit into the soft flesh of your skin, but it was a delicious sort of pain. One that you could easily become addicted to. 

Three. Tom tugged at your hair. 

Four. Teeth nipped at your shoulder. 

Five. Fingers curled around your throat. 

Six. Hips slammed against you. 

Seven. Lips trailed down your spine.

Eight. Moans echoed in your ears. 

When Tom slipped his fingers down to your clit, your eyes rolled back so hard that you saw fucking heaven. “It’s not a punishment if you’re enjoying yourself so much, little dove. I can feel you creaming my cock. You look so innocent, but you’re just a filthy fucking slut for me, aren’t you?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“So. Fucking. Perfect.” 

Tom emphasized each word with a thrust and worked your clit faster and faster, bringing you to the edge. This time, he didn’t pull back. Tom let the orgasm build until it threatened to wipe you out entirely. White hot heat coursed through your veins as stars exploded behind your eyes. You whimpered through the intensity of the orgasm. After being denied four times, the pleasure ripped through your body so fiercely that you nearly blacked out. 

“Fuck, let me fill you up,” Tom growled. “Take it, doll. I want you dripping with my cum.” 

“Yes, yes, oh gods. Please cum inside of me, sir.” 

Tom released a guttural grunt, gripping your hips in place as he filled you to the brim. Nothing in the world compared to the sensation of Tom filling you with his warm, wet cum. You glanced behind you and found him staring intently as he slipped out of you, stuffing his cum back into your pussy as it dripped down your folds. You bit your lip, utterly aroused by how fucking sexy this man was. 

His gaze met yours, a proud smile curving against his lips as he swept you off your feet and into his arms. “I think I’ll keep you, little dove.” 

[submalevolentgrace]

Hi! I'm very interested in attempting to write a disabled character (not for this blog, I assure, for an book I'm writing) in which the story doesn't fetishize/objectify her prosthetic limb. I'm in many writing circles and have been for a long while, but I've never seen this issue brought to light which I realise is a very important one. I have much to change in my thought process, and thank you for bringing this issue to attention.

I'm curious, and I apologise if this has been asked before, but what sort of design could you see for a functional prosthetic that doesn't go for a plainly aesthetic appearance, or is soully to please others? I do note that you said prosthetics are generally... not that helpful. So is there a way that it could be? Or do you think it would always generally be better to not use a prosthetic, as its mostly for aesthetic purposes, as you said?

I apologise if this ask is too outright or anything, and I don't mean to intrude. Thank you for your time and have a beautiful day!

okay, i want to answer this as in depth as possible, because whenever i talk about having a prosthesis, someone will always tag some variation of "#writing reference" and i do wonder what message they're taking away, and i want to get as much of my experience out as possible to maybe help shape how this is all portrayed in the future. and yeah… this is gonna be one of those rambly smg posts that the expand feature was invented for, so i'll start with the very abridged TL;DR:

if you're writing a character with an upper limb prosthesis; don't. arm amputees are unicorn level rare even compared to leg amputees, and i've never interacted with or even heard of an upper limb amputee that regularly uses a prosthesis, let alone relies on one. fiction has lied to you for the sake of cool aesthetics, don't repeat the cycle. more in depth writing advice including nuance and "but i waaaant to" will follow.

that said, grab your donning parachute and let's get started...

context for everyone involved: i am an upper limb amputee that rants a lot about how prostheses suck, i lost my right hand roughly five years ago at roughly the age of 30 after a very rough decline in health… it was pretty rough. this question is being asked in the context of a previous rant post of mine, and i checked that the ask is about an upper limb prosthesis in particular.

the situation regarding the usefulness of lower limb prostheses is totally different; i am definitely no expert, but by all accounts, prosthetic legs are incredibly useful for many people. getting a good leg can be absolutely life changing and more or less necessary for day to day life for some; mostly because infrastructure and society is just so fucking hostile to wheelchair users. being able to walk - at the cost of pressure sores and rashes and increased residual limb pain - is a preferable option to many people than being unable to fit through a doorway or in a bathroom stall or find out that the key to unlock the only elevator is in the admin office up three flights of stairs (true story).

but upper limb prostheses… see, the thing is, hands are incredibly complex organs that rely on a lot of immediate haptic feedback to work at all. hand dexterity is all about control, you need fine granular movements of the digits yes, but you also need the subtle sensations of pressure and proprioception in order to adjust your movements on the fly. i speak from experience, in the years leading up to the full loss of my hand, i was slowly losing function of it, usually swinging between numbness that made it clumsy at best, or screaming overstimulation from moving it at all resulting in unpredictable spasms… and let me tell you, a half working hand is infuriating to try and deal with. you can never know if you have a good grip on something or if it's slipping because of the wrong amount of pressure, and there's only so many smashed bottles of pickles on the floor before you give up using it all together… so amputation wasn't a great loss there, i had time to adapt.

a prosthetic hand of any kind has all of those issues and more. they're heavy and bulky, the cosmetic faux fingers or gripping claw have crude movement at best, and there's zero feedback (put a pin in this). 100% of the time you're using a prosthetic hand you have to keep your eyes on the grip and visually guesstimate whether or not the thing you're carrying is held tight enough but not too tight, that is if your "heavy duty" prosthesis can even support the weight without the servos disengaging or the wrist attachment socket just busting loose. i dropped a whippersnipper on my foot last week when my socket couldn't take the weight and i think that was the final straw in me desperately trying to prove to myself that there is a single task my prosthesis actually helps with.

this is usually where fully two handed people start talking about bleeding edge DARPA tech, and how we just need to invest more,research more, develop more. better tech, more tech, neural integration, more more more. okay i promise the writing advice is coming! for starters on tech, my experience is already with a mid-to-high end ottobock terminal device: i've got a myoelectric nerve-signal operated proportional control heavy duty greifer; about the only upgrade left for me to get would be a rotating wrist joint if i could coflex. it's not military, it's not "rockclimber that owns a prosthetic company", but it's quality tech. it still fucking sucks. secondly, that high level military tech exists primary for PR purposes so they can say they treat their discarded casualties well, "we can rebuild him, we have the technology" style. every war vet i've read about or heard from that's been gifted that high level tech also abandons it for the same reasons; it's imprecise, there's no feedback (or the haptic interface has to be fully recalibrated every time they put it on), but mostly they're more capable without one.

okay, the transhumanist ableds say (i should know, i used to be one), what if we did more ~research and development~ and got that neural feedback working? then we could have fireproof superhumanly strong robot arms to fix up everyone! here's where i take out that pin we put up before and i tell you that a class of prosthetic arms/hands already exists that has perfect proportional control, fine motor control, and physics perfect pressure feedback piped directly into the patients' existing sensory systems! they're called body-powered prostheses, and they were invented in like the 1600s. you strap a whole bunch of stuff to your arm and shoulders shoulders, and control the operation of the terminal device and elbow through cable tension by flexing your shoulders. they do take a considerable amount of training to operate - though hell i spent 18 months training to use my myo - but based on everything i've read, body-powered prostheses are the best option if you're an upper limb amputee and absolutely need a second hand for some reason.

but they don't look cool and futuristic, and according to my prosthetist, most people give up on using them too. we all give up on our prostheses, no matter the type. my rehab OT was impressed i lasted the 18 months of my training. towards the end, they even asked if the clinic director could drop in to one of my sessions to see my progress; he expressed genuine amazement at me casually using my bulky robot claw to use a brush and dustpan, and made an offhanded (hah) comment about what someone can achieve "if they stick it out to the end", implying it was somewhat of a rarity for me to have done so. several years on, and yesterday i wedged the dustpan between my ankles to sweep up into it, awkward but exponentially less effort than putting my dusty robot arm on. which, by the way, is a whole thing. look up some videos, they're all awful to don. i don't actually know the official technical name of what my clinic calls a "parachute" but it's a bitch to use! have you ever tried to pull back with your arm whilst also pushing it forwards at the same time, and simultaneously lean in to and away from an external force pulling on you? that's how you get a myo socket on.

bare with me, i promise writing advice is coming, and i promise it's more than the tl;dr. but. remember when i said a half working hand is infuriating to deal with? any prosthesis, from fancy myo tech to pirate-era body powered, will only ever be half as good as a working hand, and being juuuust within capability to do something but not quite able to is maddening! but you know what works way better than a half working hand? no hand at all. using whatever residual/vestigial limb you have - whatever "stump" you have, i hate that word - is pretty much always better than trying to use a prosthesis. i can use the inside of my elbow to grip and carry things, i can use the nub of my arm to apply pressure to hold things, open doors, use a computer mouse, turn on taps and lights, if i put a glove over it i can use it to prep for cooking. i have full proprioception and pressure feedback with skin contact, i don't think i've ever dropped and broken anything from my elbow, unlike countless things slipped from my greifer - which, by the way, absolutely will start clenching as tight as it can if i get even slightly too sweaty around the electrodes, which has both broken things i'm holding and also injured me, because surprise surprise but servo operated robot claws have pinch points on them right near the "emergency disengage" lever for some reason!

but i am exponentially more capable without it on than with it. no, i'm not fully independent, i rely on housemates and loved ones to help me out with some tasks that simply just need two handed dexterity, but none of those tasks are things a prosthesis makes me able to do anyway. i used to imagine my prosthesis would be like a bra; a bit awkward and uncomfortable, but i'd wear it throughout the day because it's helpful and take it off in the evening to decompress. in reality it's actually exactly like a bra: an absolute bitch to put on one handed, unbearably uncomfortable because it never sits right, ugly af unless you're a millionaire, and absolutely useless except for the fact that i get gawked at and judged by strangers if i leave the house without it on.

and if you really want to discover how far "no hand is better than a half working hand" goes, brace yourself, and look up the patient's stories (not medical system stories) of people that have had hand transplants. the first man to receive one hated it, he was promised a return to normal function, and what he got was a nightmare worse than being one handed; he wanted it removed again but the doctors refused because it would undermine their grand achievement of the first hand transplant. the doctors and society wanted him to be fixed, they wanted him to be normal, they wanted him to be abled. they failed. they made him less able to do things, denied his autonomy, and left him with someone else's hand slowly rotting on him, prioritising the idea of "scientific progress" and "two hands good" over the physical health, mental health, and ability to function of this man.

he's not alone; every story from the patients' perspective about hand transplants that i've read goes this way, including a woman who was born quad limb different and was promised hands would improve her life, pressured into a double hand transplant, only to find herself after the surgery essentially experiencing disability for the first time ever, because she had lived her whole life getting by just fine with her 'underdeveloped' limbs, but half working hands are worse than useless. you can try to find these stories yourself, but i'm not going looking for sources on any of these cases, because if you look back through enough of my posts you'll get a glimpse of the horrors and abuses that i too was put through by doctors who prioritised trying to "fix" me at any cost, rather than providing me the best quality of life, and in turn traumatised me and left me more broken than any loss of limb on its own could. dear goddess, i promise the writing advice is coming.

so. why do upper limb prostheses exist at all? if they're so terrible and useless, what is their function? i want to borrow something someone else left in the tags of a previous rant here, from someone who i believe works in prosthetics and/or rehab, cleaned up and anonymised at their request:

"upper limb functions are wildly more complex than: 1) bear weight static, and 2) bear weight moving. but every single upper limb amputee i know has a fancy expensive prosthetic just gathering dust in the closet because there is literally nothing it can do like a few years of adjustment and if needed non-dominant hand retraining can't do. the existence of forquarter prosthetics to begin with is just kind of silly and useless and entirely to make OTHER people feel comfortable, especially considering they universally are UNcomfortable for the amputee. i hate the notion that as soon as you get the amputation the prosthetic is The Thing That Will Fix You And Make You Feel Normal again because it universally isn't! but every forequarter person i know had like this ideal of Being Fixed By Magic Prosthetic that they were then obviously wildly disappointed by and had to do yet another grieving process with, versus if the dominant narrative were just one of: yeah. it'll take time, there is no magic fix."

and i think that really nails down what the actual purpose of upper limb prostheses is: they're not for the user, they're for the sake of other people. and not just their comfort when looking at our bodies, although based on the pressure for both amputees and people born limb different to get functionless cosmetic plastic hands, there is a lot of that. but it's not just that.

i fully believe that the reason prosthetic hands exists is to comfort the fears of the two handed. "don't worry", they say, "we can fix you again. you don't have to fear becoming Disabled, you don't have to worry about adapting or your life changing. we can make you Normal™ again."

you would not believe the number of people that have approached me to shower me with pity, to tell me how horrific my life is, how they can't imagine it. people have told me, apropos of nothing, that they'd kill themselves if they lost a hand. indirectly, that my life isn't worth living. unless, of course, i happen to be wearing my cool as fuck looking robot prosthesis! then they tell me how wonderful it is, how lucky i am, how glad they are that we have the technology to fix me. that's what a prosthetic hand says, what all the happy fishing photos on limbs4life posters at the rehab clinic say: don't worry, we can fix you. that's what the bleeding edge DARPA flexi-whatever fully articulated neuro-feedback hands say: don't worry if you get IED'd while hunting civilians for us to drone bomb, if you get hurt, we will fix you, we will fix the fuck out of you, we will motherfucking adam jensen you into a cool as fuck cyborg that your son will idolise; come on boys, don't you wanna enlist just for the chance at being as cool as this? join the bomb squad for a ticket to the upgrade lottery.

and so we arrive at fiction. as much as his dialogue options protest, adam jensen loves his robot arms, they punch through walls, turn into fucking swords! they make him the most special man in the world. what would he do without them? learn to cope? grieve? practice acceptance? take up poetry? just, be disabled? there's no power fantasy for ableds in that.

in fact, can you think of a single fictional character that's an upper limb amputee that's, well, just an amputee? they all have robot arms. not realistic prostheses, not medical devices; robot arms. sleek or bulky, top of the line or broken down self built, steampunk or nanomachines or magitech automail; they're never without them. never just an amputee. never born limb different either! there's always that element of tragedy to overcome, always suffering and misery porn, always focus on the pain and the helplessness without the absolutely vital robot arm that makes them Normal and Whole. the closest amputee example i can think of is furiosa from mad max, who iirc fucking punches max in the face with her residual limb like a motherfucking badass! i can barely lean on mine wrong and she punches a guy! but she still apparently needs a dieselpunk robot hand to drive a truck, something you can do one handed so easily most drivers don't even notice they're doing it! please don't, by the way

and so many disabled fans love to point to robot armed characters as disability representation; the winter soldier, luke skywalker, edward elric, misty knight, that genderswapped furry girl from ratchet and clank, jet cowboybebop, finn the human, and yes, adam jensen…. these are all characters that someone disabled i know has told me they love because they "represent disabled bodies"…. and i know nobody wants to hear this, because i've been screamed at for saying it before, but… they do not. they are not disabled, functionally or within fiction. they are either perfectly able bodied Normal people with chrome paint on an arm, or tortured misery porn we are supposed to pity and feel lucky we're not them. sometimes both!

also you ever notice how it's basically always arms? lower limb amputations are orders of magnitude more common than upper, my prosthetist said i was probably only the 4th or 5th upper limb she'd worked with in her career, with literally hundreds of lower limb fits. but fiction doesn't seem to reflect that, huh? or any other part of the reality of disability. it's always cool as fuck robot arms, never cool as fuck wheelchairs or crutches or dialysis machines or colostomy bags. a fair few "i was blind but now i can see with Robot Eyes and also infrared and xray" around, which again, plays into that "we can fix you and make you cooler" propaganda.

by the way, up above when i was describing body powered arms, if you wondered to yourself why i went with a myoelectric one instead when i clearly believe body powered is better… yeah. i am not immune to propaganda! i too wanted to be cool as fuck. i spent years with deteriorating function in my hand for reasons that are still unknown, was misdiagnosed and medically neglected to the point that removing my hand seemed to be the only option left to offer some relief, and even that was a clusterfuck that left me worse than ever… of course i wanted to believe in the power and prestige of a cool robot arm that fiction promised me.

but fiction promises fantastical lies. and so.

we get to the writing advice portion of the novella that is this post. you asked for advice on how to write a disabled character with an upper limb prosthesis. you've read the tl;dr, you've read everything above i assume, you know i don't want you to do it. the obvious twist is that it's been writing advice all along, me trying to share my perspective on what it's like being an amp with a robot arm and how shitty it is, implying how almost any fully realised and realistic character that's missing an upper limb would give up on a prosthesis at all. you can already tell that every value judgement in me says "don't give her a prosthesis, no matter how functional or cool you make it. don't try to make the tech better to justify it, just let her be one armed, one handed. just let her be disabled, but not helpless. let her show off her elbow or underarm carry strength. let her love interest appreciate how soft and squishy her residual limb is in a moment of tenderness. let her natural disabled body be respected and valued."

but that's a personal value judgement from me, and you are the author of your own work. i know it's trite to say, but you are! even the act of deferring to someone with lived experience in the hope of doing a better job at representation is a value judgement, a good choice in my opinion, but one you needn't necessarily take. maybe you do want to write a character that has a cool as fuck unrealistic robot arm as a power fantasy, or a comfort blanket… i did.

i've been slowly writing my own probably terrible scifi epic for over a decade now, and when my arm was giving me hell back then, i'd take great comfort in this fantasy of my protagonist with her chunky robot arm, the terrible traumatic suffering of her loss, overcoming, the power and ability her advanced prosthesis gives her over others, that she alone has access to, because others are not willing to make the sacrifices required. inspiration porn. awful stuff to me now, but empowering to me then. as i grew and gained direct experience, i slowly reimagined her, rewrote her, ship of theseus'd her into an entirely new character; a reflection of me now, bitter at the whole thing, spiteful that her natural flesh arm evokes fear and distrust, but unwilling to suffer the pain and frustration of her unnatural prosthesis just to make others comfortable and respect her as "whole", however artificial that whole is. and as with the ship of theseus being two ships, once i realised the transformation, i re-added the old protagonist back in whole cloth as a separate character; proud of her robot arm and its power, but in new context, as a foil and antagonist, an in-universe military prosthesis propaganda figure to reflect how i now feel characters like her exist to us, the readers.

i'm not just sharing that as egotistical self promotion, but to highlight that, even if i sit here begging you all up and down not to write characters with robot arms for how bad and unrealistic they are; there's still something genuine and true that their inclusion can say. the great thing about the story that you're writing is that only you can write it, as they say. but i whole heartedly believe that to write to your best, you have to be aware of what you're writing and why. as tempting as it is to feel these characters form naturally in us and therefore we're averse to changing traits about them that feel organic and self evident; as authors we have omnipotent control over the text, every trait and detail is a reflection on us, so we'd sure as hell better understand why we're choosing to write a character with this trait. because anything you write without being aware of intent will take on its own meaning in the space between.

and on that note, if i don't say this, i'm leaving it to be inferred: i definitely don't want to appear to come down on the side of saying "you cannot write an amputee unless you are one", because we are rarer than single young bisexual unicorns! and it would be a tragedy if anyone read through all this and then turned away in fear, deciding to never write an amputee character (with or without robot arm) because they feel they can't do it justice… believe me, no matter what anyone says, some hack writer somewhere is going to keep writing adam jensens and winter soldiers. don't let them be the only voices in fiction! just try to do your best.

so my ultimate advice on the topic of writing a character with a prosthetic limb is to ask yourself one question in two different frameworks, and meditate on what you feel the answer is:

why does she have a prosthesis?

from a doylelist perspective as the kids say, as an author with omnipotent control, why are you choosing to write about this topic? why are you choosing to give this trait to this character? what does it say about how you view ability and disability, what makes a person normal, and what our society values? will you let her be in her natural body? or will you give her a prosthesis, force her to wear it by authorial fiat, or author her a meaningful reason to choose to? if yes, be sure you know; why did you give her a prosthesis?

and from a wastonian perspective, diegetically, inside the story, why does she choose to wear a prosthesis? what does it say about her inner character, and how she interacts with the world? how does she feel about doing it, is she prideful and loves the attention she gets, or does she resent whatever necessitates its use? how do people in this world view ability and disability, what does this society value? and above all, whatever the answer to these questions, whether or not she uses a prosthesis or is badass without one, how does she deal with the eternal freezing cold that every amputee ever feels constantly in their residual limb and why does nobody make a heat pack that fits over a nub without drafty gaps???

i can't outright tell you how to write a good upper limb amputee, but if you at least know why you're writing one and for what purpose, you're on track to write the best character that you can. that's the best advice i can give… other than, like, this whole rambly mess.

and, as a reward for reading this far, please have a very blurry cryptid photo of my cat doing his old man sit:

[nobodyinfart]

Is your love as unrequited as you think? Or does the team hide more than you think?

Maybe you’re just a lower rank soldier or just lack the confidence,, but you don’t believe that a love with the main characters of the task force would be possible, even in your daydreams as a hopeless romantic.

Johnny’s achievements are nothing to be humble about, being the youngest candidate to pass the selections process and being deemed a demolitions expert are ever praiseworthy. His cheeky demeanour makes even the quietest soldiers crack a smile, and lights up the base unlike any other. Maybe that’s why you code him as Sunshine in your journals,, scrawling affirmations of adoration between the margins. Coded lines of love decorated your many notebooks, all sealed within the depths of your cabinet to never see the light of day. Of course, you’d know it’s too selfish of you to ever confess, since there is no possible chance. Maybe you would change your mind if you ever caught a glance of how Soap casts his first look at you to see if you laughed at one of his corny jokes. Definitely making notes on what kind of jokes make you smile the brightest, obviously.

Although understated, Gaz is obviously brawns and beauty. Like, was it really necessary for him to have the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen? You can barely focus, line of sight often slipping down to his lips before moving them back up just to feign ignorance. You saw him as an aspiration at first, viewing his top place on the SAS selection rankings to be a goal to achieve. It wasn’t long for that awe to morph into something more affectionate. Dangerous territory, too dangerous that you decide to bury yourself in your training. Trying to snap yourself out of that lovesick daze, you push yourself to your own limits in the process. Using that pain to distract yourself, you definitely don’t notice Gaz’s worried gaze when you head towards the training grounds once again, his concern evident when he realises your hands are still bruised from the previous day. He’ll have to sneak some ointment into your gym bag again, somehow.

Ghost, who doesn’t know him? The stoic Lieutenant in the task force, prime of his trade in ambush and stealth. It’s tough to even get familiar with him, let alone be in a relationship with the lieutenant. Respecting his quiet demeanour, you have always kept your distance as a form of respect; never pushing more than what you know he can handle. A secret is that you always keep his tea bags in stock, replenishing when stocks go low. Simon hides a secret of his own; sometimes gripping the standard military knife you normally practise with to gauge your hand size,, just for an accurate daydream of how your hands would fit in his own. Would your fingers lace with his just as well as he imagines? Don’t tell anyone, but Simon has been staring at you long enough for Soap to notice, who knew Ghost could be so distracted?

Honestly, Price is the one you have to be the most cautious about. Out of everyone in the force, he is the most observant thanks to his expertise in the military field. Rugged and charming, it is not hard at all for Price to get your attention. His gravely chuckle lets a fire in your stomach, you desperately wishing to be the cause of it someday. Yet, a love between a Captain and his subordinate remains unfeasible on all sorts of levels, especially one as devoted to his job as John Price. Even if your love is impossible, you always try to make his life easier; doing paperwork with both speed and detail. Often, his heart softens when he sees a light peeking from under the door of your office, hoping for an opportunity to get to know the angel who files their reports perfectly. No matter how much he shouldn’t, he sincerely hopes to find a chance to make himself a stable placement in your life soon enough.

[tongue-like-a-razor]

There Are Limits

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x F!Reader

Summary: Maverick's new female friend brings out your spiteful nature. And seeing you with a new man is harder on Maverick than he'd like to admit.

CW: age gap, student/instructor dynamic, swearing, drinking, and did someone say bring on the angst?? Because you know I can deliver..

WC: 4000+

This is Part 5 in the There Are Rules universe.

“Captain?”

Maverick looks up when you step into his office. He’s sitting on the edge of his desk and there’s a woman standing between his legs, so close, she might as well be in his lap. When you enter, she steps away half-heartedly, looking slightly annoyed that her conversation with Maverick has been cut short.

Maverick’s cheeky grin falters when he sees you, and he clears his throat as he hops off his desk.

“Lieutenant,” he says. “How can I help you?”

You stare at him in shock, not sure how to react. The last several weeks haven’t been easy; in fact, you and Maverick have barely spoken since your mutual decision to terminate your romantic relationship. But seeing him with another woman is a whole new level of difficult.

“Lieutenant?” he says, lifting his eyebrows worriedly. He doesn’t bother to introduce his companion, with whom he is obviously very familiar.

You swallow around the lump in your throat and exhale slowly. Maverick isn’t the only expert in self-regulation. It’s a skill that’s proven quite useful, if not invaluable, during your tenure in the navy. And, although it’s always come naturally to you, recent events have seen that you receive plenty of practice. “Sir,” you say promptly, saluting Maverick in an entirely professional manner, as if you’ve never even had his tongue down your throat. “It’s about next week’s squadron dinner,” you say.

It's true that you meant to speak about the dinner – about how you were planning on skipping it to avoid an ever vigilant Cyclone who's been watching both you and Maverick like a hawk. Moreover, the less you see of Maverick these days, the better.

But the scene before you has severely shifted the trajectory of your plans. And the next thing that comes out of your mouth is hideously unrehearsed. “I was wondering if we were allowed a plus one,” you blurt out, your eyes darting pointedly between Maverick and his female friend.

Maverick stares at you mutely, as though it’s taking him a minute to process your request. “You want to bring a date?” he then asks, his eyes widening and subsequently narrowing in a matter of milliseconds.

You feel like you might sweat right through your uniform with the way he’s staring you down, but you stand your ground defiantly. “If I may,” you respond unemotionally; the way you’d address any other superior.

Maverick nods slowly, glancing at the woman who’s currently rifling through some papers on his desk. You ignore how comfortable she seems in his office, like she’s been here plenty of times before. “I don’t see that being a problem,” he says. “Who’s the lucky…?” His voice trails off and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Should be fun,” he finishes, giving you a wide, artificial-looking grin.

You smile back at him. “I agree.”

…

“Boyfriend,” Maverick says, his eyebrows shooting upward for a moment before he checks himself and pulls at the collar of his jacket as if it’s suddenly an uncomfortable fit.

You try not to acknowledge his reaction and instead introduce your date to some of your squadron mates. You’re not sure why Sam has decided to put a label on your relationship at this exact moment, but you’re not going to argue semantics in front of the one person you wouldn’t mind buying into this spectacle.

“It’s new,” you hear Sam blurt out, presumably cowering under the scrutiny of Maverick’s gaze.

You make a point not to look Maverick in the eye because you’re still upset about walking in on him last week when he was clearly otherwise engaged. But when Sam walks ahead, busy conversing with the other aviators, you feel a finger brush gently over the back of your hand. You pull both hands behind your back and square your shoulders to face your instructor.

Maverick is watching you solemnly. “This is good,” he whispers, although the tilt of his eyebrows says otherwise.

You can’t express how much it hurts to hear him referring to this situation as good, and yet, you nod, grinning rigidly. “It is,” you say, pausing to give him an opportunity to come clean about his own blossoming relationship.

But Maverick does nothing of the sort. Maverick is as unreadable as ever.

You’re about to walk away when the woman you’d seen in Maverick’s office appears from behind him. She nudges him on the shoulder to get his attention and shoots him a brilliant smile.

Maverick gives her a polite nod before turning back to you. “Lieutenant,” he says. “I’d like to introduce you to an old friend of mine.”

The woman beams at you and holds out her hand. “I’m Charlie,” she says.

You shake her hand and return her smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlie,” you say. “Are you an instructor at Top Gun as well?”

She chuckles, throwing Maverick a flirty glance. “Not for a while,” she responds, looking back at you. “Not since this one made me rethink that particular career choice.”

Maverick drops his head with a laugh. “Sorry about that, by the way,” he says.

Charlie shakes her head. “Don’t be,” she replies. “It all worked out.”

Maverick nods, looking at her affectionately. “Charlie went on to bigger and better things. And by bigger, I mean she went on to design rockets.”

“Wow,” you say, both impressed and jealous of the woman who seems to hold a special place in Maverick’s heart.

“And look at how far you’ve come,” Charlie says to Maverick.

Maverick grimaces. “I’m right back where I started,” he remarks. “Full circle.”

“You’re right back where you’re meant to be,” she says earnestly. “And I’m proud of you.”

Maverick shifts his weight uncomfortably, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. “We better grab a seat before Cyclone has an aneurysm,” he says.

You turn to see Cyclone watching the three of you with an irked expression from the table reserved for your group at the restaurant. He shakes his head ominously as you make your way toward the others. When the three of you arrive at the table, he mutters, “How gracious of you to join us.”

Maverick glances at him with a slight smirk but doesn’t say a word while Charlie lets out a small chuckle, taking her place beside Maverick at the table.

You lower yourself into the seat next to Sam, right across from Maverick and Charlie. Cyclone is sitting to Maverick’s right, aggressively perusing the menu.

“I hear the fish tacos are good here,” Maverick notes when Cyclone lays his menu down on the table in frustration.

Cyclone gives him a sour look. “Not a fish person,” he responds tartly.

You stifle a laugh, exchanging glances with Charlie, who is also snickering.

“There are non-fish tacos as well,” Maverick points out.

Cyclone nods grumpily. “Yes, I saw the entire section devoted to the various tacos they serve. I can read.”

Maverick bites the side of his lip to contain a grin. “Enchiladas,” he continues quietly, as if to himself. “Quesadillas, chiles rellenos…”

“I want a burger,” Cyclone declares, flipping through the menu anew.

Maverick shoots you an amused glance. “Let’s start with drinks,” he suggests, sliding a draft beer menu in front of his superior.

“Good idea.” Cyclone sighs theatrically, rolling his shoulders to loosen some tension.

“Hey, d’you want to share a couple of dishes?” Sam offers, tapping you on the arm to get your attention.

You glance over at him quickly, having almost forgotten he was there. “Sure.” You nod enthusiastically, even though it’s the last thing you would ever think to do.

Once all the drinks and food arrive, and you and Sam awkwardly try to allocate your respective shares of the dinner, Charlie pipes in. “How long have you two been together?” she asks, gesturing at you and Sam.

“It’s new,” Sam, the self-proclaimed boyfriend who has yet to work up the nerve to even kiss you, reiterates quickly while you chew on a quesadilla.

You wipe your mouth with a napkin before confirming, “Not long.”

Maverick’s eyes rest on you for a split second before he returns his attention to the ceviche in his bowl.

Meanwhile, Cyclone regards you with a dubious expression. “Where did you meet?” he asks gruffly.

“Through some friends,” Sam responds excitedly, as though it’s the most fascinating fact of the evening.

You take another bite of quesadilla and avoid looking directly at any of the three people sitting before you.

But Maverick cuts the silence short. “Is it serious?” he asks, and both you and Cyclone shoot him threatening glances. Charlie looks up from her plate, trying to interpret yours and Cyclone’s abrupt reactions.

Sam, meanwhile, is smiling blissfully to himself as he pokes at the contents of his fajita before rolling it up. “I’d say it has some potential of getting there,” he says.

You nearly choke on a pepper upon seeing Maverick’s expression transform from mild amusement to unequivocal displeasure. His jaw muscles contract as he forcefully stabs at his dinner with a fork.

Sam clears his throat nervously and speaks in a noticeably higher pitch, “Of course, I can’t predict the future.”

You roll your eyes and put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s none of his business, anyway,” you say.

To Maverick’s left, you see Charlie’s jaw drop slightly in her shock at your informal – bordering on impolite – addition to the conversation with your superior officer.

Cyclone chuckles quietly, finally appeased by your interaction with Maverick. “At last, something we can all agree on.”

Maverick smiles politely. “I was just making small talk,” he says, laying his fork down without finishing his meal.

Cyclone gives him a flat look and leans forward to address his friend. “Charlie, how long are you in town?”

While Charlie and Cyclone engage in conversation, Maverick catches your gaze inquisitively, as if he’s trying to figure you out. His eyes are so penetrating, you feel like he can see right through you. He must know that your relationship with Sam isn’t even close to being serious. He must know that you’re probably going to break it off that very evening. He must know you only brought him because you were hurt and you wanted to hurt him back. Because Maverick has reconnected with someone of significance and is involved in something meaningful.

You tear your gaze away from him irritably. You’re about done letting Maverick stir up your emotions without so much as saying a word. You’re about done caring for a man who’s done nothing but cause you pain.

You rise from your seat and excuse yourself, heading for the bathroom near the back of the restaurant. No sooner do you break through the door, than you collapse onto the nearest sink and break down. You don’t even care that your mascara is leaving streaks down your cheeks, or that the tears are clouding your vision. You don’t even care that your hands are gripping the basin so tightly that your fingers are cramping.

You glance up at your reflection in the mirror; pathetic. How did you let yourself fall this far? This hard? This fast? You run the tap and dab some cool water on your skin, patting at the trails of makeup that your crying spell has left behind.

You take a deep breath, staring at your glistening face with a scowl, preparing yourself for the remainder of the evening. But just as you make your way for the door, it opens, and Maverick enters.

You jerk back in surprise, despite his history of showing up in places he isn’t supposed to be.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

You panic. He knows. He knows that you ran away to cry. And this makes you furious. “I’m fine,” you respond curtly. “You shouldn’t be in here,” you add, gesturing to the door behind him.

He pulls his eyebrows together like he isn’t quite convinced. “You’re not okay,” he says.

You grit your teeth in anger. He can’t just ignore you for weeks and then try to comfort you like he gives a shit about your feelings. “Why are you here, Maverick?”

Maverick presses his lips into a thin line and breathes out steadily. “I was worried about you.”

You scoff resentfully. “Don’t be.”

Maverick sighs and lowers his head. “I can’t help it.”

You attempt to keep your voice even despite all the shaking your body is doing. “You better go, Captain,” you say spitefully. “Before Cyclone finds us. Or Charlie.”

He watches you soberly. “You asked me to stay,” he reminds you.

You stare wistfully into his eyes. He’s right, of course. You’re the reason he’s still here. Your relationship with him has been strained but civil since the incident on the carrier. There has been a mutual effort to avoid unnecessary encounters, and an unspoken understanding that, while romance is out of the question, it will take some time for both of you to move on completely. Obviously, you did not expect him to move on by moving in on someone new. Or old, in the case of Charlie, because the two of them go way back, apparently.

You struggle to remember why you’d wanted this – wanted him to stay despite knowing that nothing would ever come of it. In the moment, you were desperate not to lose him. But watching him carry on as though nothing ever happened between the two of you is absolute torture. You’d rather not witness just how little you actually meant to him.

You shrug. “Error in judgement, I guess,” you respond coldly, echoing his words from the night Cyclone had caught the two of you in the parking lot of the Hard Deck.

Maverick nods. “Been there,” he says pensively before turning to walk out. Just before he does, however, he glances back at you and adds, “I’ll wait out here until you’re ready.”

“Don’t,” you say.

Maverick meets your gaze with a weary look. “I’m not leaving.”

“What’s Cyclone going to think when the two of us come back together from the bathroom?”

Maverick shrugs. “I have no control over what Cyclone thinks.”

“What’s Charlie going to think?”

Maverick pauses in the doorway. “What’s Sam going to think?”

You roll your eyes. “He won’t even notice.”

Maverick watches you quietly for a moment, then says. “I doubt that very much.”

You lick your lips as a fresh round of tears threatens to obscure your eyesight. The fact that Sam isn’t here to check on you but Maverick is has not escaped you. “Go, please,” you whisper.

Maverick wavers slightly on the spot and, after a brief interval, holds his hand out to you. You glance down at it hesitantly as your stomach flips violently at the though of touching him again. Clearly, you’re angry with him, but the part of you that loves him always wins.

Slowly, you step forward and place your hand in his. He pulls you in the moment you make contact, wrapping his arms around you as he releases the door to the bathroom. He lets his face drop, pressing his mouth to the top of your head.

After a prolonged – mostly silent – embrace, you detach yourself from his arms and give him a nod. “I’m ready,” you say.

Maverick nods back without a word and then opens the door for you.

…

It’s past midnight when you hear the knocking, followed by some irregular footsteps and a string of quiet – but still audible – curse words. After a moment of hesitation, you unlock the door.

“Captain?”

Maverick is standing in the corridor before you, although calling it ‘standing’ might be a bit of a stretch. He’s not exactly stable on his feet.

You glance up and down the hallway to make sure that no one has seen him. “What are you doing here?”

Maverick is watching you with a squared jaw, as though he means to keep the purpose of his visit to himself. He breathes his frustration out through his nose before veering right into the doorframe.

“Sir!” you exclaim, grabbing a hold of his arm like you might have any chance of keeping him upright were he to topple over.

“Sir?” he murmurs, and you could smell the liquor on his breath. He catches your gaze now that you’re closer and, in another moment, his eyes begin to slip down your face before they finally close. “I told you,” he says, his mouth twitching as he grimaces. He pushes past you into the room.

You quickly close the door behind him, hoping nobody heard the commotion. Praying he’ll have the sense to keep his voice down.

But Maverick, it seems, isn’t nearly as concerned as you are about disturbing your neighbors. He rounds on you with a resentful expression and shakes his head. “I knew this would happen.”

You blink at him in confusion. “What?” you say. “What happened?”

“You happened,” Maverick says defeatedly. He takes a step toward you, his eyes flitting between yours as if he’s checking to see if you can relate.

But it’s a weekday and you had just drifted off to sleep when he’d started drumming on your door, so you’re not exactly following. You furrow your eyebrows. “I happened to what?” you ask.

Maverick watches you miserably, taking a step back now, as though he can’t decide which is worse: being closer or farther away from the source of all his troubles. “You two make a fine pair,” he manages to say, but not without a break in his voice.

You purse your lips, looking away from him. You’re not going to comfort a man who’s standing in his own way. After all, it was his decision not to be with you. Besides, Maverick brought his own date to the dinner, so you aren’t feeling overly sympathetic.

Maverick tears his gaze away from you and smacks a hand over his face. “What am I doing here, Lieutenant?”

It’s a fair question, to be sure; one you wouldn’t mind knowing the answer to, yourself. But you’re more immediately concerned about the consequences of Maverick’s unsanctioned visit to your quarters than the reasons behind it. “Maverick, it’s the middle of the night,” you say, shocked at how firm you sound despite the tremor travelling through you.

Maverick’s eyebrows converge and he shifts his jaw as his eyes well up with tears. “Yeah,” he whispers, nodding slowly.

“And you’re drunk,” you add when he takes a step toward you again.

“I am,” he admits, still in a whisper.

You ignore the stutter of your heart as he nears. “You can’t be here,” you warn.

He watches you wretchedly, giving his head a subtle shake. “I can’t,” he agrees.

You can hardly breathe when he finally stops before you, his soft eyes trailing down your face. His hand is coasting up the side of your neck before you even know what’s happening, and by the time his fingertips are hovering at the nape of your neck, you’re so lost in his gaze, it’s a miracle you’re still standing. Unsurprisingly, you aren’t in the state of mind to respond.

“I lied,” he says with a slight rasp despite the effort he’s exerting to steady his voice. “I think he’s terrible for you.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Sam,” he says. “He’s not the one.”

You pride yourself on your patience and understanding, even in trying circumstances; you’re not an unreasonable person by any means. But even you have limits. And, tonight, Maverick is testing every last one. “Are you the one?”

Maverick stares at you, his eyes swimming. Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, I’m not.”

You breathe out forcefully, astonished at his audacity. There is only so much you can let this man get away with. “Then, respectfully, shut the fuck up,” you hiss, pushing past him aggressively. You whip around sharply and point at the door. “Get out.”

…

The following afternoon in the briefing room, Maverick reviews the morning's flight footage with barely a look in your direction. He doesn’t even comment on the impulsive maneuver you pulled that left your partner confused and resulted in an uncoordinated hustle to regain momentum, costing your team valuable seconds that could have ended in tragedy were it a real dogfight.

Once the briefing is finished and the room begins to clear out, Maverick approaches your desk. “Can I have a minute, Lieutenant?” he asks in a subdued sort of tone.

You glance up at him grudgingly but don’t respond until the last of the pilots have left the room. “Is it about the Cobra Climb?” you ask monotonously.

“What?” He quirks his head in confusion before briefly closing his eyes and shaking his head. “No,” he says, and then adds, more emphatically, “No.” He lets out a heavy sigh and lifts a leg over the chair in front of your desk, sitting on it backwards to face you. “I want to apologize to you.”

You groan. “Not again.”

Maverick steals a glance at the door, ensuring that the two of you are still alone, and then he lays a hand over yours on the desk. “I’m sorry about last night. Showing up at your place – less than sober.” Maverick lowers his gaze with a disappointed frown. “I – I had no right. I have no right,” he says, looking back up at you. His eyes flit between yours imploringly, burdened with all the guilt he carries.

“Stop,” you say assertively, pulling your hand out from under his grasp. You can’t listen to another word. This entire relationship has been a series of failures in self-control, each one a ‘mistake’ in Maverick’s eyes for which he subsequently has taken full responsibility. You rise from your seat and gather your things mutely.

“Y/N,” he says hoarsely, standing up after you.

You shake your head. “I don’t need another apology, sir,” you say bitterly. “I just need some space.”

Maverick nods. “Of course,” he says. “And I’ve been denying you that – and I apologize –”

“I said, stop!” you exclaim, shooting him a threatening look.

Maverick trails you as you make your way to the door – the exact opposite of your request. You rush out of the briefing room, and he follows, not far behind. Thankfully, there’s no one in the hallway because he’s behaving irrationally, to say the least. He reaches for your arm and pulls you around to face him.

You gulp, staggering the moment you meet his gaze, the aching in his eyes undermining your determination.

“Let me finish,” he pleads in a whisper.

You exhale sharply. “Finish, then.”

Maverick slowly lets his hand fall away from your arm now that you’re no longer a flight risk and, this alone, hurts, because you want him to hold you forever. Even when you’re fuming, even when you’re yelling, even when you hate him.

“Seeing you,” he says slowly, evenly, as though he’s trying to compose himself as he’s talking. He takes a breath and tries again. “With another man –”

“Come on.” You scoff, even though your heart is already buzzing at the thrill of making Maverick jealous. “You can’t expect me to not date –”

“I don’t expect that,” he says. “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

You think about the way you felt seeing him with Charlie and you’re instantly sorry for causing him that much pain, regardless of whether it was intentional or not.

“I was angry,” he says quietly. “At myself, mostly…” he trails off, moving his head to the side and lowering his gaze. “But also at you. And I blamed you for the way you make me feel.” He pulls his bottom lip under his teeth and grimaces. “But that’s not your fault,” he whispers shakily. “That’s on me.”

You bite into your lip to keep it steady. You wish you could look away because the devastation on his face is undoing you, but you aren’t strong enough. You take a step back and take a shuddering breath. “Please don’t look at me like that,” you say, your voice unsteady. You can barely get a grasp on his words because you’re too absorbed in his eyes.

Maverick’s eyebrows lift inward, as if your request has him concerned – or confused. “Like what?”

You roll your eyes – as if he doesn’t know like what. “Like that!” you respond as he takes a step toward you in alarm. “Just stop!” You sigh in frustration, unable to articulate your thoughts because his eyes are still commanding all of your attention.

“Where am I supposed to look?” he asks, agitated.

“It’s the way you’re looking at me,” you explain angrily.

“Are you listening to what I’m saying?” he asks urgently. “I need you to hear me.”

You shut your eyes and shake your head. “Enough, Maverick!” you exclaim.

Maverick stills immediately, watching you uneasily.

“You’ve been tiptoeing around me, treating me like I’m injured or in need of assistance –”

“I’m not –”

“You are and I’m tired of it. Why didn’t you call me out on the Cobra Climb?”

Maverick stares at you like you’re unhinged. “You want me to reprimand you?”

You let out a heavy sigh. “If you’re going to be my instructor – just my instructor – then instruct me. It was an idiot move and I shouldn’t have done it.”

“You were distracted –”

“You’re making excuses for me! Why?”

“Don’t question my teaching methods,” Maverick says in a low voice.

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re afraid of confrontation so you’ve been avoiding me. You didn’t even think to give me a heads up about Charlie!”

Maverick narrows his eyes. “What about Charlie?”

“Whatever,” you grumble. “Just don’t stand here and proclaim that my bringing a date to the squadron dinner somehow threw you for a loop.”

Maverick studies you silently so you boldly meet his gaze. His jaw is set but there’s a tenderness in his eyes that nearly draws you in.

“Stop coddling me,” you say firmly.

You watch his Adam’s apple rise then fall as he gulps down whatever retort he decides to keep to himself. His jaw muscles contract once more as his eyes settle over your face.

You tear your gaze away. “And quit looking at me like you…” You sigh, unsure how to describe the inimitable combination of exasperation and affection you see in his eyes.

“Like what?” he asks, his voice rising in volume. You can tell that he’s becoming increasingly defensive as your blows continue.

You’re annoyed that he’s annoyed and you blurt the words out before you can stop yourself. “Like you’re in love with me or –”

“I CAN’T LOOK AT YOU ANY OTHER WAY!” he roars.

You freeze. Stunned by the volume of his voice. Stunned by the emphatic delivery. Stunned at his words.

He turns away in a huff, placing one hand on his hip while the other is balled up into a fist at his mouth.

“This was your idea,” you say quietly as he slowly turns back to look at you. You aren’t the one who refuses to even try, and he needs to acknowledge that.

“I know,” he whispers, his eyes brimming with tears.

You clench your teeth to keep your mouth from trembling. “Then stop,” you implore.

He shakes his head, pulling his lips into a rigid line. “I don’t know how.”

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[luveline]

grumpy!joel and sunshine!reader? like he is very gruff and short with people until his girl comes around and tess is like wow are you soft now?

tysm for ur request! disclaimer: I am not an expert in tlou I just think Joel is very fit and also scary ♥︎ tess and joel are roommates here (and also no hate on tess at all I tried to make her a realist rather than a pessimist but she may sound a little jaded) idk lol pls enjoy! fem!reader 

Joel's asleep when you come around. Tess is stirring her drink, small spoon bouncing against the sides of her mug with a metallic tap-tap-tap as your familiar knock raps the door. She doesn't bother yelling, just opens the door to let you in. 

"Hello," you say, though you wince when you spot Joel dozing on the couch. You drop your voice to a whisper. "Nice shiner, Tess." 

"Thanks." She steps aside to give you free reign, rolling her eyes when you toe off your shoes. 

You're not right in the head, in Tess' opinion. You're too soft for this life, and your continued survival feels like luck and nothing more. You know how she feels about you, and you know what she thinks: that to be vulnerable is to kill yourself. You don't feel the same. 

Joel's flat on his back. You push him against the cushions of the couch to make room, perching at his hip with a small sigh. He couldn't have been with Tess when she got hurt, his face clean of contusions. No speckled bruising, no scabbing cuts. 

You place your hand over the solid plane of his stomach and lean forward just a touch. You could kiss him. 

"Joel," you murmur, hand sliding to his waist. His jeans are rough under your palm. "Wake up. I have good news." 

He never wakes gently. His eyes scrunch, his lips tug down into a scowl. When he sees you, it takes a good long second for his agitation to fade into a more neutral expression. 

"Hey," you say, smiling. 

He doesn't smile back. "Where have you been?" he asks succinctly, voice rough with the lingering dregs of sleep. 

"Why should I tell you?"

He almost pushes you off of the couch as he sits up and swings his legs to the side. His shoes touch the floor, and of course he sleeps with his shoes on, he's ready for everything.

"Don't play games." 

You hum in delight at his dark tone and stand up before he can grab you, shivering at the feeling of his fingertips scratching your thighs. You backtrack through the room for your bag thrown haphazardly by the door. You pick it up, excited and scared at once, and scrabble to procure your promised 'good news'. 

"I wasn't far." 

"Your definition of far isn't one I trust," he says. 

"She's a big girl, Joel," Tess says, sipping her drink. She winces at the taste but isn't deterred. "She can take care of herself." 

And if you can't, who cares? You shouldn't be anybody else's problem, and to your credit you aren't. You take care of yourself. You take care of Joel, too, whenever you can, which is why you've brought him the book you found. 

"Here, handsome," you say, holding it out with little ceremony. 

Joel stands up to take it. He stares at the cover in silence. 

"It's a shame they can't include a snippet on every page," you lament. "Like when they used to put perfume samples straight on the paper. I don't know what half of those songs sound like. Which is weird, right? The biggest Billboard hits and I can't remember them." 

"And this is for…" 

"Your codes. Your radio codes?" Your beaming smile starts to shutter. Maybe it isn't useful after all.

Joel knows better than to ask what you want for it. You never ask for anything, ever. You give and you give and at first he'd thought you were stupid, just plain dumb. Generosity is a myth and everybody has their motives. He'd been suspicious of your angle, rejecting you, talking down on you, practically spitting at you to get lost. And you'd listened, for the most part, but then he'd see you in line after shifts for cards, around dark corners talking to dirty FEDRA officers, and you'd always impossibly feel his gaze and pin him with a smile. You've eroded his reluctance over time, and now you're here, sprightly and pretty in his too-big apartment filling every inch with light. 

He reaches across the gap and takes your hand. He squeezes, savouring the warmth of your smaller hand. You have delicate fingers compared to his, and they look smaller still enveloped in his grasp. 

"I'll make you something to eat," he says. 

You nod once, a pop of movement. "Thank you." 

You're not the one who should be saying it but you're the only one who's willing to. Thank you has become synonymous with I owe you. 

Tess lets her gaze flick between your two bodies, clearly startled. Joel drops your hand and it's too late, far too late, she's already gearing up to make fun. 

"Is this how it's gonna be now?" she asks. 

Joel huffs quietly. Tess talks with a brittle kind of love, the familiarity of knowing someone for a long time softening what would otherwise be ridicule. She thinks, without malice, that you and Joel are a bad idea.  

"Hasn't it been like this for a while?" you ask, turning to face her, your usual sunshine attitude worsened by Joel's affection. 

"You're fucking up my guy." 

"Don't get stiffed so often and you won't need a bodyguard," you say lightly. 

Joel snorts, tossing your catalogue of songs on the counter. He doesn't know if they have anything worth eating here, but he's gonna damn well try and find something. 

"You're soft," Tess says to Joel, quick and quipping as she dumps what's left of her drink into the sink. "I'm going out." 

Not much changes when she goes. You come to stand beside him at the counter, your elbow brushing his arm. He doesn't move away. 

Joel doesn't understand why you stick around. Doesn't know what it is that makes you so sweet on him. The first time you met, outside the old meat market on the edge of curfew, he'd been standing watch as Tess made a deal. You'd slunk up on him from the right, and said, "You look unhappy," with your usual softness. 

He'd turned to you in wonder. Wonder in the very worst sense of the word; what could possibly possess you to approach him? Agitation struck like the powdery head of a match against its box, fuck off on the tip of his tongue, and you'd said, "You ever hear that Bill Withers song? 'Ain't no sunshine without rain?'" 

He'd thought you were a wannabe member of the resistance, and that fuck off had rolled right out of his mouth with ease. Your smile hardly wavered. 

"It's 'when she's gone,'" he says now.

You look up at him, he looks down at you. His thick brows relax, and his brown eyes calm. It suits him, and you'd tell him, but you're confused. 

"Huh?" 

"That Bill Withers song. It's 'ain't no sunshine when she's gone,'" he corrects you, the you from the past. He's trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. 

"Oh," you say. Your eyelashes kiss in the corners as you smile. "Right. What am I thinking of?" 

"How should I know?" He doesn't sound mad, smiling at you very briefly.

"I don't know, I thought you knew everything." 

That's not true. He can't know everything, because he doesn't have a clue in the world what he did to deserve meeting you. 

—

please forgive any inaccuracies, I only played the game a little when I was much younger, and so this was made of my watching the first episode twice and some help from people / the wiki!! it's just for fun lol so I hope you enjoyed <3<3<3

[decolonize-the-everything]

Reality:

Dropped from the bill were DFL provisions that would have turned over prosecutions involving deadly force to the attorney general’s office and restored voting rights to some felons.

[...]Reform activists, meanwhile, took a more skeptical eye. Civil rights lawyer, activist and former Minneapolis mayoral candidate Nekima Levy Armstrong called the bill “watered-down legislation” and “a slap in the face, especially to Black residents in the state of Minnesota.” Activists weren’t the only ones disheartened. Andy Skoogman, executive director of the Minnesota Chiefs of Police Association, told the Minneapolis Star Tribune that he wanted to see greater changes to arbitration as well. And Julia Decker, police director for the ACLU of Minnesota, told the Star Tribune that she was disappointed the bill didn’t require an independent prosecutor like the attorney general to handle cases like Floyd’s.

From July 2024

Ball said the metal cubes recovered by Adusumilli are typically found in Israeli-made weapons such as certain types of Spike missiles fired from drones. He said the doctors’ accounts of tiny entry wounds are also consistent with glide bombs and tank rounds fitted with fragmentation sleeves such as the M329 APAM shell, which is designed to penetrate buildings, and the M339 round which its manufacturer, Elbit Systems of Haifa, describes as “highly lethal against dismounted infantry”.

From 2 days ago, August 6 2024.

The same man that won't divest from Israel also came out of military retirement in 2001 specifically to support the false "War on terror" that Palestinian children are now being killed in the name of.

You know, the one that was actually about oil?

But I guess most sites would be forced to censor most of those pictures huh?

Doesn't exactly make the same "cute, cuddly grandpa" impression that the pictures of little girls hugging him do.

anyway.

Our new VP is making his living off of providing weapons manufacturers and arms dealers a home in his state. He's worse than Biden and Trump or Kamala if you ask me.

He's personally making money off of every ounce of blood dropped

[ravenna-reid]

Admirer from the past...

TW: blood, mention of dead bodies and stalking/obsessive behaviour

An expert crime fighter. One of the youngest CEOs. A skilled detective. As good as the Bat. Maybe even better than him.

Tim often found himself conversing with police officers and other detectives that were actually qualified unlike him. Discussing the crime scene, the criminal, the victim, and the next course of action. They all respected Tim and were willing to work together.

One night Tim found himself standing amongst the chaos of the press, the solemn faces of detectives and officers and a name written in blood covering the footpath along with other gory things... The crimson letters painting the cement were a confronting display.

It was the works of a new villain, one that had only just started doing such things two weeks ago. He was one of the most psychotic men Tim had ever dealt with. And it seemed he had a nasty obsession with some poor girl, given he was constantly leaving dead bodies and flowers strewn across Gotham City dedicated to her.

Honestly, the situation twisted Tim's stomach, making him all the more adamant on finding this fucked up guy in hopes of sparing his target the fear and trauma.

Tim kept to himself as he tried to analyse the scene, picking up clues and taking his own samples. That was until the screech of tires on the road caught his attention. Turning to look over his shoulder, he saw another well known detective pull up beside the crime scene and hastily get out of his car. And with him a woman. Tim quickly let his eyes glance over you. You wore a fitted suit, golden hoops and your hair thrown up into a french twist. Throwing your trench coat over your shoulders, you hurriedly followed the detective with an unimpressed look on your face.

"If you haven't even caught the assailant yet, why am I here Harry?" You asked before you fell into step with your co-worker and friend. He was almost like an older brother to you.

"Because, I need your input. Your analysis. This guy is a fucking nut and we have no idea how to predict what he's gonna do next."

Intelligence and class seemed to drip off of you, and Tim was immediately smitten interested in you. He even found himself wondering if you were seeing the man you had arrived with.

Surely not, he was old enough to be your father.

You and Harry ducked under the police tape, your hands in your pockets and eyes trained on the gruesome scene. Black roses coated in thick blood decorated the ground around your boots. You instantly grimaced.

Harry made his way over to the group and greeted Tim first.

"Red Robin." He said with a nod.

"Detective." Tim said back, eyes still trained on you.

You turned in a circle to take it all in before nearing the group. "So, do we have anything on this guy?"

"Red Robin managed to hack into one of the shops security systems. The one across the street. With the footage he retrieved, we can see this sick bastard commit the crime, but his face is obscured."

You were watching Red Robin as the officer spoke, a little taken aback to see a vigilante standing in front of you. Let alone one of the bats.

"Can I see the footage?" You asked, eyes gazing back at his.

Tim swallowed hard. Your eye contact was unwavering, and he could feel a blush begin to creep onto his face.

"Miss, are you even a detective or-"

"Of course." Tim cut the officer off, handing you the tablet that sat atop a police car.

"It's fine," Harry said with the wave of his hand, "She's with me. She knows what she's doing."

Tim watched you analyse the footage. The man was wearing a cap, and some sort of odd make-up was smeared across his face. It might have even be blood you thought. You attentively watched the criminals behaviour. His mannerisms. The odd tick in his left shoulder. The limp in his right leg.

"Anything?" Tim asked.

His voice was like wine and you couldn't help but breathe in his cologne. You might come along to see these crime scenes more often.

"There's something." You admit with the furrow of your brows. "The way he moves. I can't put my finger on it though..."

Tim observed the badge clipped to the collar of your shirt. Although he could read what your occupation was, your coat was covering your name.

"Forensic psychologist?"

What a stupid moment to be making small talk. He began to chastise himself and his lack of charisma, but you didn't seem to mind, much to his relief.

"Mhm. Know what that is?" You teased, anticipating the Red Robin's response.

Tim smirked. "No actually, never heard of it."

You gave a light laugh and Tim felt he had to keep the conversation going.

"Are you new at this?" He asked. "I haven't seen you before."

"Not really," you replied with a soft smile. "It's my second year."

"Yeah, and she beats everyone in the game." Harry called out with a chuckle. You tried to hide your blush, but your humility mixed with your attempt to hide your reaction made Tim like you even more.

But the longer you watched the footage it suddenly dawned on you. The puzzles snapped together in your head and left you a little shocked. Tim immediately took note of the change in your demeanour.

"What is it?"

You held onto the tablet tightly. "I think I know who this is. The twitch. The limp. The hunched form and what he's doing..."

"Holy shit..." Harry said as the others all gawked at the writing on the ground.

Tim ignored them, focusing his full attention onto you.

"Back when I was just a psychologist. This guy came to me, I'm sure of it." You looked back up at Tim now, but before either of you could say anything, Harry called your name.

"You better get over here."

You and Red Robin joined the group, and as you looked down at the name on the footpath, your soul immediately dropped down to your feet.

"What's wrong?" Tim asked, looking up at Harry then at you. But now that you had moved, the name on your badge was revealed to Tim.

Everyone suddenly turned to look at you. And all you could do was stare down at the red letters before you.

"That's my name."

Continue to Part Two here

[thamvosinterior]

Modern Design Trends in 2023

It's not simple to choose the ideal corporate office interior design in Dubai or lifestyle interiors. This is due to the fact that new designs, fashions, and themes constantly change and become increasingly popular. Among other things, new trends in interior design for 2023 include tactile design, eco-friendly materials, earthy tones, calming colour schemes, and classic effects. You can get the best guidance in this respect from a reputable interior design firm in Dubai.

Textured Furniture

One of the most important elements of interior design is furniture. Although unique wallpaper, glass-paneled windows and doors, and fascinating tile patterns are all popular choices, the newest vogue is textured furniture. When choosing metal or wood furniture, consult a Dubai office fit-out professional to make sure the texture complements the decor and increases the aesthetic of the room.

Read More:

[reyadawn]

Workin' From Home - A Jolly Karlsson One Shot

*image not mine, credit goes to owner*

Summary: Jolly is hard at work in his office trying to record guitar segments but his first time pregnant wife won't stop sending distracting text messages. He finally snaps...

Pairings: Joakim "Jolly" Karlsson x pregnant reader

Warnings: 🔞+, language, kissing, choking, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, basically pure unadulterated filth sprinkled with humor 🤷‍♀️🤣😭

Word Count: ???

Enjoy! 🤣✌️

*****************************************

Jolly had been holed up in his office for the better part of the day. He was in the process of trying to record some requested guitar segments for a demo he and Noah were working on. Whether it made it to the album or not didn't necessarily matter. It still needed to be done regardless.

The coffee table in the darkly shrouded office was littered with Monster energy drinks, a half opened bag of Doritos, solo red cups all half full and Jolly's laptop. The screen's light was the only thing that illuminated his handsome features. Decked entirely in all black - skinny jeans with a massive hole in the left knee exposing his umarred skin and black t-shirt that showcased the tattoo sleeve and fingers of his left arm. His signature dark hair was pulled back into a messy bun.

BZZZZ

Jolly rolled his eyes for what felt like the thousandth time in the past hour before pulling his cellphone from the tight confines of his jeans' pocket. The face iluminated instantly, his skin taking on an even more ethreal glow.

Gumman: ...I need those expert fingers knuckle deep inside my tight little cunt while your thumb rubs my clit until I cum all over you...🥵

Jolly had mistakenly reached for a solo cup to take a drink when he read the message, choking on a half swallow and almost doubling over into a coughing fit.

Jesus fucking Christ, this woman was going to kill him. Literally. Jolly's fingers quickly typed a response once he got his breathing under control.

I'm still working, karaste. Give me a few.

******************************************

I frowned disappointingly at Jolly's response and sighed, rubbing my very swollen belly, my thighs pressing together to try and ease the ache I felt for him. All I could think about was getting railed. Day in, day out. Didn't matter where, I needed Jolly's thick cock like I needed fucking water after running a damn marathon. Pretty sure if I didn't stop having him bruise my cervix constantly, he was liable to get fucked into a coma but this last leg of pregnancy hormones was brutal. Didnt help our daughter was so active now, she was practically brusing my insides.

I bit my lip, firing back another text.

Please, handsome...I'm going to wither and die because you won't fucking feed me! Now, get your sexy Sweedish ass in here and fuck me until I can't walk! 😒

All of a sudden I heard a loud bout of laughter come from the opposite end of the house and I smirked, hope burning in my chest until his next message came through.

I will service you in a little bit, karaste, I promise but I really need to get this done for Noah ❤️

I sighed, tossing my phone angrily on the nightstand, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and stood to strip out of everything I had on. My leggings and oversized Bad Omens t-shirt I stole from Jolly's side of the closet landed in a soft heap on the floor. I snatched my phone off the table, taking a few unabashed nude shots as best as I was able before sending them all to him at once.

******************************************

Jolly's phone buzzed again, causing him to let out a string of cuss words in Sweedish. Opening his wife's text message, he halted his movements, cock instantly growing hard at what he saw.

"Fucking little minx...alright, karaste. If you want to be a brat, I'll treat you like a damn brat", Jolly said to himself, running his tongue over his teeth before slamming the lid of the laptop, standing and throwing the office door open.

******************************************

I retreated from the bathroom, now clad in just my t-shirt and was halfway to the bed when Jolly rounded the door frame and stopped. I halted, staring at him in shock as I took in his pissed off demeanor. Lean but muscular arms crossed over his wide chest, feet slightly parted and a look on his face that read I was about to get fucked until I blacked out or yelled at...afterall, I had been a brat most of the day.

"So, you felt like being a fucking brat all day, is that it? Just couldn't be a good girl and be patient even for a few minutes so I could finish my work? You just had to keep pushing me, sweet karaste", Jolly said darkly, eyes nrrowing. I swallowed nervously. These were all rhetorical questions, right?

"It's not my fault you think Noah is more important than this tight pussy you've been getting. Perhaps he would do the job more credibly", I snapped before realizing my mistake. My eyes widened and I tried retreating for the bathroom again but being this far along had me moving like molasses. Jolly reached me in three strides, hand shooting out to wrap around my throat and back me up against the wall.

I stared up at Jolly in shock and before I could say anything, his lips crashed to mine in a uncerimonious kiss that was teeth, tongues, and saliva. He pulled away, a sinnister smile gracing his gorgeous features. I was currently crying between my legs, my thick arousal dripping like a faucet that wasn't quite turned off all the way. My clit throbbed almost painfully and my cunt clenched around nothing, causing me to whimper.

"Please, Jolly", I whispered, begging him.

"For what, sweet girl? Use your words", Jolly replied, his voice laced with venom. I whimpered again, my bottom lip trembling. He tipped his head back and laughed as his free hand went right between my legs, despite my large belly and sank two thick fingers inside my soaked cunt to his knuckles. I closed my eyes, letting out a moan of want and pleasure and it had Jolly moaning right along with me.

"Goddamn, sweet girl...you really did need some care...here, let me help you some more", he whispered, bringing his lips to my ear. His tongue extended, the tip licking the shell delicately before he applied pressure to my swollen clit with his thumb and started fucking me with his fingers. Curling them against the spongy part inside me as he furiously rubbed my clit had me seeing stars as my walls clamped down around his fingers and my thighs caged around his hand. I couldnt hold back the scream, my orgasm hitting me like a MAC truck.

Jolly suddenly pulled out of me, bringing his fingers to his lips to suck the juices from them and I cried out at the loss. With his hand still around my throat, he moved me from the wall to bend over his dresser. The height was perfect and he placed me in such a way that my stomach didnt touch anything.

There were no warnings, no preliminaries, no nothing as Jolly grabbed my hips and thrust his cock inside me until he bottomed out. I cried out, arching my back. One of Jolly's hands left my hip to wrap, once again, around my throat as his cock shuttled in and out of my dripping cunt. My thighs were soaked, legs were shaking as Jolly pulled my back to his front, continuing to relentlessly fuck his cock inside me. Each thrust had him hitting my cervix, my eyes rolling back and my breathing becoming labored.

"You gonna' cum again for me, karaste? Huh? This what you want...to be a brat and have me take you like this? Come on, baby...give me all you got", Jolly said harshly, snapping his hips so hard insie me he stopped, cock pulsing, coming deep as he roared out his release and triggered my own. My fingers gripped the wood as I opened my mouth on a silent scream, the coil snapping.

Once we were able to catch our breath, Jolly slowly pulled his cock free of my body and carefully helped me to the bed so I could stretch out on my side. He then disappeared into the bathroom and returned momets later with a damp wash cloth and helped me clean up. He then crawled into bed behind me, wrapping his arm around my belly protectively before planting a soft kiss to my hair. We were both asleep in minutes...

❤️❤️❤️

@anangelinthepit @amourtoken @bloodylullaby @bluestdai @collidewiththesavannah @concreteangel92 @english-fucker @exitwoundsx @fadingintothegrey @flowery-mess @concreteemo @iamamatus @iluvmewwwww75 @kaliforniahigh @lilhobgobbler @lovexsleepyhead @millie-aubs @philomenie @sacredthefran @starsomens @somewhere-diamond @somebodyllelse @tikosblogg @thisbicc @xcllnt @xxrainstorm @xmads-omensx @yarasdead @jilliemiw86 ❤️❤️

[cordeliawhohung]

Soft Spot - Part 2

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader - part thirteen of "soft spot"

taglist | playlist | dissection links

it's hard to clear your mind with so much smoke

warnings: soft and fluffy, domestic simon, slight anxiety, shitty cliffhanger

wc: 3k

The music that poured through your window was different than usual.

Normally your downstairs neighbor would play previously recorded songs through whatever stereo system they had set up in their room, but this sounded more vibrant. Their taste in music was good, so you never had much to complain about, and oftentimes you found yourself opening your window just to have a bit of background noise. What made this time so different was that, for once, it was live music. A guitar. By the sounds of it, they hadn’t been playing for very long, but you weren’t one to judge someone trying to learn. Though their plucking wasn’t good, they had a few strummed chords down pretty well, and by the sounds of it, they had found a progression they really enjoyed. 

Those repetitive chords, along with Boo’s purring, accompanied you as you worked in the nursery. It had taken you a while to get the damn cat to calm down enough that he would stop attacking the clothes while you folded them, and he had properly curled up by your feet. While your son’s due date grew closer, he still made no signs that he was showing up anytime soon, which was both intimidating and comforting at the same time. You tried not to think too much about the prospect of giving birth those days, as you found all it really did was raise your anxiety about the whole predicament. Instead, you did your best to distract yourself with little tasks. Simon was a good help too, whenever he wasn't busy ogling at your swollen stomach, anyway. 

You busied yourself with laundry that morning while you attempted to hum along with whatever tune your neighbor had composed. This laundry was different than any other you had done before as the clothes were significantly smaller than you were used to. You didn’t feel comfortable putting your son in unwashed clothes, as you didn’t even want to think about what sort of infections he could get had there been something on the fabric, and since he was about to show up any day, you figured you’d get that out of the way before your hands were too full otherwise. 

That morning, you had washed roughly seven blankets, a handful of fitted sheets, and about half the world's stock of infant onesies. Most of them were thanks to Johnny, naturally, as he was really the only family you and Simon had. One of them had the words “I’m da bomb,” written on the front, which Simon informed you was extra ironic as Johnny was the demolitions expert. The onesie that had really gotten you was the one that said “World’s greatest nephew.” You cried upon seeing it — damn pregnancy hormones — even though Simon said it was tacky. 

The most useful thing you had been gifted was a whole stack of diapers that had a wide age range, and would certainly last your son at least a year. Most of them had been from the office, actually. Or, at least that’s what they claimed. You had a sneaking suspicion it was actually from someone higher up the chain as an attempt at an apology for Sallow’s behavior on your last day. You did your best not to think about that instance too much, yet it always managed to wiggle into your brain somehow. His biting words, that look on his face as if he had won. Part of you wondered what ended up happening to him. Another part didn’t really care. 

“Sure you don’t wanna take a break?” Simon spoke up from the doorway. 

Halfway through folding a onesie with construction trucks on it, you looked up from your work. Simon was just about as restless as you were since going on leave, and unfortunately for you that meant he spent most of his time checking in on you as if you were a feral old lady. Chuckling, you turned your attention back to folding. 

“It’s laundry, not hard manual labor,” you quipped. 

“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” he countered. 

“There’s a difference between relaxing and bed rest, and I think bed rest would make me go insane right about now,” you sighed as you tossed yet another folded onesie into the pile with the others. 

“You’ve been fussin’ over the nursery since this morning,” Simon said. 

“Is it not still morning?”

“It’s one, sweetheart.” 

Blinking away your surprise, you looked at all the clothes that surrounded you. Your nursing chair was quite comfortable, even in your changed state, and it was quite easy to pile clothes and other items high in the hampers as you worked mindlessly. Normally it wouldn’t have taken you so long to do laundry, even with the large amount of clothes you sorted through. Perhaps you had the lethargy of pregnancy to thank for that. 

“Oh,” you said simply. 

Chuckling, Simon crossed the distance of the room and took your busy hands in his as he knelt in front of you. His hands seemed softer those days, and void of cuts and bruises. It wasn’t just the paternal leave that did that, as you two had only been off of work for maybe two weeks at that point. He hadn’t been deployed on a mission ever since he found out you were pregnant. Perhaps you had John to thank for that. You made a mental note to send him a nice box of cigars. 

“Have you eaten?” Simon asked. 

“Not since breakfast,” you answered. 

A simple squeeze of your hands was all that was needed to prompt you up, with Simon’s assistance of course. He always asked questions like that. If you had eaten or drank any water. Said you would need to keep prepared in case you went into labor. Said you would need to keep as much of your energy as you could. Not even ten minutes later, the two of you sat next to one another, eating quickly slapped together sandwiches while you sunk into the couch in the living room. 

Music continued to pour through the open windows, yet it sounded like your neighbor had given up on practicing for the time being. Time moved at a snail’s pace ever since you went on leave, and the music only seemed to exacerbate that. You lived in a limbo — a place frozen in time where the only thing you seemed to do was prepare for something that felt like would never come. 

Once you finished eating, you leaned back into the couch with a heavy sigh. Every atom that made up your body buzzed with restlessness. Your feet began to tap against the floor, knees shaking with the force, and your gaze turned to the window. Fat clouds hung in the sky, but it didn’t smell like rain. If anything, you could nearly make out the scent of the tulips your next door neighbor had growing on her balcony. 

Simon reached over and snatched your plate from your lap, drawing your attention back over to him. He looked at you with a raised brow as he caught sight of your bouncing legs, and you quickly ceased your movement with a huff. Chuckling, he stood up from his spot before wandering off into the kitchen to take care of the mess, and you groaned as you looked up at the ceiling. 

“I’m going crazy,” you whined. 

“That’s what relaxin’ is, sweetheart,” Simon quipped. 

“It’s bullshit is what it is,” you countered. “Sitting around, just waiting for this kid to come like we’ve got some welcoming party set up. I wanna… do something.” 

Simon paused as he came back into the living room, shoulder leaning against the doorway. “Wanna go for a walk?” 

“What, like I’m a dog?” you teased.

He shrugged. “Your words, not mine.” 

A heavy sigh passed your lips as you rolled your head to the side. You hated the stares. You hated the comments and the lingering eyes and the quiet cooing you received while out in public. More often than not you were looked at like a walking enigma rather than a human being. Rather than a mother. Is that what it meant to become a mom? You’d just turn into some spectacle? Is that all you had ever been from the start? 

“Sure,” you finally responded, “could walk around the park or something.” 

That was that. The lift made heading to the bottom floor an easy feat, and once you were settled in the passenger's seat of Simon's car, the two of you were headed off to the nearest park. A gentle breeze toyed with the clouds in the sky and the budding leaves on the trees, and its aroma was intoxicating. Usually there was more rain in the spring time, but you were glad that you had been spared from it that day. 

You weren’t the only people who figured it was a good day to go for a walk. Plenty of other citizens filled the park as children bounced around on playground sets and adults settled down for impromptu picnics. Their laughter filled the air with ease, and its sound felt warm on your ears. It wouldn’t be much longer until you heard that sound more often. Or, at least you hoped you did. You were sure there would be plenty of screaming well beforehand. 

Simon helped you out of the car, face still shrouded with his mask, and the two of you quickly set off on the paved path that weaved throughout the grass and trees. Shadows dotted the land around you as thick clouds traversed far overhead, yet for the most part the sun warmed your skin as you walked. It was awkward walking and carrying around so much extra weight, yet you had gotten fairly good at pushing through despite it. With Simon’s hand in yours, you hardly thought too much about the weight anyways as you were more concerned with the feeling of his skin against yours. 

“So,” you spoke up once the two of you had walked a fair ways down the path, “the mask. Still plan on wearing it once you’re officially done with work?” 

“Maybe,” he pondered.

“Seriously?” 

He shrugged. “It’s so ingrained with me that the tyke’ll probably come out wearin’ one.” 

Your chuckle shook your body so much you felt your son protest inside of you with a swift fit of kicks. He had grown less active as of late, but as far as you knew, that was pretty normal. Still, you wish he had picked up energy a bit more. By the sounds of it, if he didn’t arrive by next week, your doctor planned on inducing you, which was a whole nightmare on its own. 

“As long as he’s got a better sense of humor than you, I think we’ll manage,” you teased. 

“My sense of humor is fine.”

“Uh huh.” 

A fit of giggles snagged your attention as a small group of kids swerved around you and Simon. A bright yellow football spun out in front of the two of you as they kicked it among themselves, making sure to use a flourish of kicks to show off. It seemed as if their game had gone out of bounds, and they elbowed one another as they fought to get it back towards the field. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of them and their stubby legs kicking the ball as they ran as hard as they could. 

It was strange to think you’d have to care for someone like that. Sure, your son would start off small, but everyone always said they grew up fast. It was times like that when things seemed to move faster than normal. Everything always seemed like it stood still until you turned around and saw how far you had come, yet something about that moment made things feel like the opposite. Everything else passed by you so quickly, and you were stuck with your feet in the ground. 

Fucking pregnancy hormones. 

Before you could get lost any further in your mind, you gave Simon’s hand a full squeeze, as if demanding his attention. He hummed in response, eyes carefully flickering to you before landing back on the path before you. 

“We still have to decide on a name,” you reminded him. 

“If we had it Johnny’s way, we’d name it after him,” Simon humored. 

A smile pulled at your lips as you remembered his comments. You’re naming him after Uncle Johnny, aye? 

“I’m not naming our son John. That’s such an old man's name,” you countered. “I’m pretty sure anyone with that name isn’t ever born. They just sorta sprout into existence as a full grown man.”

“We could always name him Arlo,” Simon said, the grin evident in his voice. 

“You’re a fucking dick for that one,” you hissed quietly enough that the kids around you couldn’t hear. 

Simon’s grin erupted into a chuckle, and you bathed in the way the warm vibration of it washed over you. Simon always felt like home to you. Patched up and barely holding together by the seams at first, yet his foundation was the only one you had come across that wasn’t cold and dead. His laughter always reminded you of that — that you were safe and warm with him — even though he tried to hold it back more often than not. 

“We’ll figure it out eventually I suppose,” you sighed. 

Even with the steady breeze, the heat of the sun ate away at your skin like a beast. While it felt nice at first, being out in nature and airing yourself out, you could feel your skin perspire uncomfortably, forcing your clothes to stick to your body like a cage. You wiggled your hand out of Simon’s grasp as you wiped your sticky hand on your pants. Being sweaty was always uncomfortable, but it was twice as irritating when you were so far along. 

“Wanna take a breather?” Simon prompted. 

You looked up at him with narrow eyes. How he managed through the thick heat in that dark mask of his was beyond you, and in some sort of way you were a little jealous. Though, you supposed he had earned that right. You were sure he had gone through environments much warmer than London with clothes significantly thicker than his civvies. 

“Sure,” you said eventually, giving in. 

A few paces ahead sat an unsuspecting bench. It was one of the annoying metal ones that had no curve for comfort, yet you knew Simon was right. A breather would do you some good, and you shouldn’t push yourself anyway. The moment you lowered yourself onto the bench, you leaned all your weight back with a sigh. However, Simon stayed standing, despite the fact there was plenty of room for him to sit with you. 

“I’ve got some water in the car, if you need it,” he offered. 

“Might be a good idea,” you nodded. 

Simon paused as he glanced around as if assessing the area for threats. You weren’t quite sure what threats there were to be found in London, but you were certain you would have been fine in a park in broad daylight. Simon seemed to come to that same conclusion, and he quickly waved a finger at you as he took a step back. 

“Stay put.” 

After giving him a half-assed fake salute, you watched as he strolled back down the pavement towards the car until he was well out of view. Another sigh left your throat as you allowed your eyes to rest and soak in what little nature surrounded you. Birds sang to one another in the trees, but the crashing harmony of the seagull’s call created an aura of dissonance. It was some sort of external struggle you weren’t allowed to be a part of. 

At that moment, everything happened at once. The cars driving along the street. Children screaming and giggling. Clouds rolling overhead without a care in the world. A bee flying towards a dandelion. You could smell the sunshine warm the earth with an enticing aroma. Everything existed all at once, all together, with you right in the middle of it. It was perfect. Everything humming in tune with one another. Weaving together to hold you tight. 

It stopped when you smelled the smoke. 

That nauseating aroma was strong enough to nearly make you hurl right there in the center of the park, yet you managed to hold it together. It took a sharp breath and a thick swallow to do it, but you refused to embarrass yourself that way. You hated being vulnerable in front of others. As your eyes flickered back open you could make out the faint sound of rustling grass. It was leisurely. Soft. Like someone couldn’t bother to pick their feet up fully as they walked. 

Your mistake was simple. You looked up. You looked up and you locked eyes with the man who walked by, and you swore that in that moment you would fall apart. And you wanted to. Wanted to crumble into dust so that he would never lay eyes on you again. Yet you were forced to witness the way his lips curled into a smile around his cigarette as if he had any right to be friendly towards you, and you wanted to scream. You wanted to scream further still as he changed course and made a beeline straight to you. 

“Holy shit,” he muttered. 

You hated his voice. Hated the way words rolled off of his tongue. You wished his tongue would turn to stone, or worse, so that he would never have to poison anyone with his words ever again. His chuckle came as a terrible scratch against your eardrums, and you tried your best not to grimace, but you couldn’t even do that much. 

He exhaled his last lungful of smoke before he took the butt out of his mouth and tossed it onto the pavement. The sole of his boot crushed it like it was nothing but a bug underneath his weight, and while you could hear its contents smearing on the ground, you still couldn’t look away from his face. A desert-like dryness plagued your mouth, and you tried your hardest to get your tongue to move, but every time you swallowed it felt like pins were stuck in your throat. 

Years. So many years and still, you were nothing but a scared little girl. 

“What?” he questioned facetiously. “You’re not gonna say hi to your dad?”

[sweetkpopmusings]

changbin coworker headcanons <3

a/n: i hate that it took me SO. LONG. to upload another coworker headcanons post :-((( i'm currently suffering in the office so thinking about giggly coworker!changbin is my saving grace <3 pics not mine~

content: fluff, nonidol!au | wc: 0.9k | warnings: none really! some mentions of food | pairing: coworker!changbin x gn!reader | requests: open

it’s honestly hard to remember a time at work when you and changbin weren’t friends

changbin was always known for being good-natured, friendly, and an absolute joy to be around, which you were informed of on your first day

needless to say, people were quite jealous when you became the favorite of the most well-liked person in the office

changbin would argue that you’re the most liked though because he likes you so much, with all his heart, forever and ever 

he tells you this like every day :,-( just the cutest

speaking of changbin being cute

he is determined to turn any bad day around asap

like the second he sees the hint of a frown on your face, he is going full y/n-deserves-the-best-day-ever mode

he’ll do anything from impromptu girl group dance performances every time he walks by your desk to reading dozens of dad jokes off a random website to absolutely CHEESIN’ at you until you smile back

also totally is on his rich kid behavior when it comes to buying you snacks, drinks, trinkets, or anything else he thinks you need to get through the workday

any time you offer to pay him back he looks like he’s going to cry because “i just want to treat you!! you are my friend!! i can only survive the hours of the workday because you’re here!! the least i could do is buy you this thing!!”

“this thing” is like a five course meal on a wednesday but whatever you say changbin <33

even though he feels it’s his daily responsibility to make sure you’re working in a stress-free environment, good luck doing anything in peace

his voice is on max volume 97% of the time

and the other 3% his voice is on bass boosted whisper

if you sit next to him in a meeting, he WILL get you in trouble for disrupting the presentation

if you’re not talking to him, he’d whisper “y/n!!! why are you ignoring me???” and then your boss would call you both out for being disruptive and you’re sitting there like ???? i’ve been completely silent 

before you can say anything to defend yourself, changbin is apologizing and saying “we’ll never do it again” which is a total lie lmao

he doesn't care though. he sits next to you every time and will throw a fit if you run away

you’re his buddy so it's mandatory in his mind to sit with each other at all times

changbin also gets jealous of other coworkers hanging out with you

like someone asks you how your weekend went and he is in a tiff because "i can't believe you're replacing me with them!!!!!!” and you  barely remember their name but you spend 30 minutes cheering changbin up so he stops pouting and does his work

somehow you’ve become a changbin babysitter because really he’s just a goofy little kid

sometimes coworkers will ask you for tips on working with changbin

whenever he’s collaborating with others, he ends up (unintentionally) derailing brainstorms or group meetings by telling a story or making jokes that are the slightest bit related to the conversation at hand

and people love his charm but they also need to do their work

which is why, after you pass one one successful trick, people come to you ALL the time for advice

you’re now known as the changbin expert

changbin finds this out at a company party and while he confronts you for “exposing seo changbin trade secrets” he actually is SO endeared by the fact you’re known for knowing him so well

he shares this with all of his friends because he wants to brag yet again about how you’re the coolest person ever and therefore he is the luckiest person ever

while a lot of the time with changbin is all fun and games, he knows when to take a step back and bring you calm energy or serious moral support

it may not be his default state to refrain from giggling and dancing, changbin cares deeply about your wellbeing and will switch up his vibe according to your mood/needs

absolutely the BEST listener whenever you need to rant

like he books out a (soundproof) conference room so you can talk trash about a project or a person

and the whole time he is agreeing with you wholeheartedly 

if you ask, he’ll offer you solutions, but he’s also willing to simply be a shoulder to cry on or someone to listen to whatever’s weighing on your mind

obviously, you thank him for it every time, and he reassures you that it’s just him doing his job

when you remind him of what his actual job is, he says he got promoted to “y/n’s emotional support coworker”

you laugh so hard at this that it becomes an inside joke between the two of you

for his birthday, you get him a nameplate for his desk with that job title, and he loves it so much he nearly cries :-( he shows it off to everyone for weeks and places it prominently on his desk to remind everyone who your #1 fan is :’-)

no one tells you this, but the truth is that, before you started working there, changbin never had the zoomies as often as he does now

for as much as he is known to be your support system, meeting you reinvigorated his presence in the workplace, and seeing you in the morning is enough to turn his mood completely around

that’s why, even on his worst days, changbin wants nothing more than to make you smile even if it means he has to scramble at the end of the day to finish the report that was due the next morning lol because you, without having to try, are changbin’s sunshine <3

[contemplatingoutlander]

Finally, The New York Times Editorial Board says Trump is unfit to hold the Office of the President of the United States!

This is a "gift🎁link" so you can read the entire, HISTORIC editorial by The New York Times Editorial Board stating in no uncertain terms that Donald Trump is unfit for office.

Below are some excerpts from the five subsections of the editorial: I Moral Fitness, II. Principled Leadership, III. Character, IV. A President's Words, and V. Rule of Law

I. MORAL FITNESS MATTERS

Presidents are confronted daily with challenges that require not just strength and conviction but also honesty, humility, selflessness, fortitude and the perspective that comes from sound moral judgment. If Mr. Trump has these qualities, Americans have never seen them in action on behalf of the nation’s interests. His words and actions demonstrate a disregard for basic right and wrong and a clear lack of moral fitness for the responsibilities of the presidency.

He lies blatantly and maliciously, embraces racists, abuses women and has a schoolyard bully’s instinct to target society’s most vulnerable. He has delighted in coarsening and polarizing the town square with ever more divisive and incendiary language. Mr. Trump is a man who craves validation and vindication, so much that he would prefer a hostile leader’s lies to his own intelligence agencies’ truths and would shake down a vulnerable ally for short-term political advantage. His handling of everything from routine affairs to major crises was undermined by his blundering combination of impulsiveness, insecurity and unstudied certainty. [...] The Supreme Court, with its ruling on July 1 granting presidents “absolute immunity” for official acts, has removed an obstacle to Mr. Trump’s worst impulses: the threat of legal consequences. What remains is his own sense of right and wrong. Our country’s future is too precious to rely on such a broken moral compass. [color emphasis added]

Below the cut are excerpts from the other four subsections.

II. PRINCIPLED LEADERSHIP MATTERS

Republican presidents and presidential candidates have used their leadership at critical moments to set a tone for society to live up to. Mr. Reagan faced down totalitarianism in the 1980s.... George H.W. Bush signed the Americans With Disabilities Act.... George W. Bush, for all his failures after Sept. 11, did not stoke hate against or demonize Muslims or Islam.

As a candidate during the 2008 race, Mr. McCain spoke out when his fellow conservatives spread lies about his opponent, Barack Obama. Mr. Romney was willing to sacrifice his standing and influence in the party he once represented as a presidential nominee, by boldly calling out Mr. Trump’s failings and voting for his removal from office. These acts of leadership are what it means to put country first, to think beyond oneself. Mr. Trump has demonstrated contempt for these American ideals. He admires autocrats, from Viktor Orban to Vladimir Putin to Kim Jong-un. He believes in the strongman model of power — a leader who makes things happen by demanding it, compelling agreement through force of will or personality. In reality, a strongman rules through fear and the unprincipled use of political might for self-serving ends, imposing poorly conceived policies that smother innovation, entrepreneurship, ideas and hope. During his four years in office, Mr. Trump tried to govern the United States as a strongman would, issuing orders or making decrees on Twitter. He announced sudden changes in policy — on who can serve in the military, on trade policy, on how the United States deals with North Korea or Russia — without consulting experts on his staff about how these changes would affect America. Indeed, nowhere did he put his political or personal interests above the national interest more tragically than during the pandemic, when he faked his way through a crisis by touting conspiracy theories and pseudoscience while ignoring the advice of his own experts and resisting basic safety measures that would have saved lives. [...] A second Trump administration would be different. He intends to fill his administration with sycophants, those who have shown themselves willing to obey Mr. Trump’s demands or those who lack the strength to stand up to him. He wants to remove those who would be obstacles to his agenda, by enacting an order to make it easier to fire civil servants and replace them with those more loyal to him. This means not only that Americans would lose the benefit of their expertise but also that America would be governed in a climate of fear, in which government employees must serve the interests of the president rather than the public.... Another term under Mr. Trump’s leadership would risk doing permanent damage to our government. [color/ emphasis added]

III. CHARACTER MATTERS

Character is the quality that gives a leader credibility, authority and influence. During the 2016 campaign, Mr. Trump’s petty attacks on his opponents and their families led many Republicans to conclude that he lacked such character. Other Republicans, including those who supported the former president’s policies in office, say they can no longer in good conscience back him for the presidency. “It’s a job that requires the kind of character he just doesn’t have,” Paul Ryan, a former Republican House speaker, said of Mr. Trump in May.

Those who know Mr. Trump’s character best — the people he appointed to serve in the most important positions of his White House — have expressed grave doubts about his fitness for office.His former chief of staff John Kelly, a retired four-star Marine Corps general, described Mr. Trump as “a person who admires autocrats and murderous dictators. A person that has nothing but contempt for our democratic institutions, our Constitution and the rule of law.” Bill Barr, whom Mr. Trump appointed as attorney general, said of him, “He will always put his own interest and gratifying his own ego ahead of everything else, including the country’s interest.” James Mattis, a retired four-star Marine general who served as defense secretary, said, “Donald Trump is the first president in my lifetime who does not try to unite the American people — does not even pretend to try.” Mike Pence, Mr. Trump’s vice president, has disavowed him. No other vice president in modern American history has done this. “I believe that anyone who puts themselves over the Constitution should never be president of the United States,” Mr. Pence has said. “And anyone who asked someone else to put them over the Constitution should never be president of the United States again.” [...] It may be tempting for Americans to believe that a second Trump presidency would be much like the first, with the rest of government steeled to protect the country and resist his worst impulses. But the strongman needs others to be weak, and Mr. Trump is surrounding himself with yes men. The American public has a right to demand more from their president and those who would serve under him. [color/ emphasis added]

IV. A PRESIDENT’S WORDS MATTER

When America saw white nationalists and neo-Nazis march through the streets of Charlottesville, Va., in 2017 and activists were rallying against racism, Mr. Trump spoke of “very fine people on both sides.” When he was pressed about the white supremacist Proud Boys during a 2020 debate, Mr. Trump told them to “stand back and stand by,” a request that, records show, they took literally in deciding to storm Congress. This winter, the former president urged Iowans to vote for him and score a victory over their fellow Americans — “all of the liars, cheaters, thugs, perverts, frauds, crooks, freaks, creeps.” And in a Veterans Day speech in New Hampshire, he used the word “vermin,” a term he has deployed to describe both immigrants and political opponents.

What a president says reflects on the United States and the kind of society we aspire to be. In 2022 this board raised an urgent alarm about the rising threat of political violence in the United States and what Americans could do to stop it. At the time... the Republican Party was in the middle of a fight for control, between Trumpists and those who were ready to move on from his destructive leadership. This struggle within the party has consequences for all Americans. “A healthy democracy requires both political parties to be fully committed to the rule of law and not to entertain or even tacitly encourage violence or violent speech,” we wrote. A large faction of one party in our country fails that test, and that faction, Mr. Trump’s MAGA extremists, now control the party and its levers of power. There are many reasons his conquest of the Republican Party is bad for American democracy, but one of the most significant is that those extremists have often embraced violent speech or the belief in using violence to achieve their political goals. This belief led to the Jan. 6 attack on the Capitol, and it has resulted in a rising number of threats against judges, elected officials and prosecutors. This threat cannot be separated from Mr. Trump’s use of language to encourage violence, to dehumanize groups of people and to spread lies. A study by researchers at the University of California, Davis, released in October 2022, came to the conclusion that MAGA Republicans (as opposed to those who identified themselves as traditional Republicans) “are more likely to hold extreme and racist beliefs, to endorse political violence, to see such violence as likely to occur and to predict that they will be armed under circumstances in which they consider political violence to be justified.” The Republican Party had an opportunity to renounce Trumpism; it has submitted to it. Republican leaders have had many opportunities to repudiate his violent discourse and make clear that it should have no place in political life; they failed to. [...] But with his nomination by his party all but assured, Mr. Trump has become even more reckless in employing extreme and violent speech, such as his references to executing generals who raise questions about his actions. He has argued, before the Supreme Court, that he should have the right to assassinate a political rival and face no consequences. [color/ emphasis added]

V. THE RULE OF LAW MATTERS

The danger from these foundational failings — of morals and character, of principled leadership and rhetorical excess — is never clearer than in Mr. Trump’s disregard for rule of law, his willingness to do long-term damage to the integrity of America’s systems for short-term personal gain. As we’ve noted, Mr. Trump’s disregard for democracy was most evident in his attempts to overturn the results of the 2020 election and to encourage violence to stop the peaceful transfer of power. What stood in his way were the many patriotic Americans, at every level of government, who rejected his efforts to bully them into complying with his demands to change election results. Instead, they followed the rules and followed the law. This respect for the rule of law, not the rule of men, is what has allowed American democracy to survive for more than 200 years.

In the four years since losing the election, Mr. Trump has become only more determined to subvert the rule of law, because his whole theory of Trumpism boils down to doing whatever he wants without consequence. Americans are seeing this unfold as Mr. Trump attempts to fight off numerous criminal charges. Not content to work within the law to defend himself, he is instead turning to sympathetic judges — including two Supreme Court justices with apparent conflicts over the 2020 election and Jan. 6-related litigation. The playbook: delay federal prosecution until he can win election and end those legal cases. His vision of government is one that does what he wants, rather than a government that operates according to the rule of law as prescribed by the Constitution, the courts and Congress. [...] So much in the past two decades has tested these norms in our society.... We need a recommitment to the rule of law and the values of fair play. This election is a moment for Americans to decide whether we will keep striving for those ideals. Mr. Trump rejects them. If he is re-elected, America will face a new and precarious future, one that it may not be prepared for. It is a future in which intelligence agencies would be judged not according to whether they preserved national security but by whether they served Mr. Trump’s political agenda. It means that prosecutors and law enforcement officials would be judged not according to whether they follow the law to keep Americans safe but by whether they obey his demands to “go after” political enemies. It means that public servants would be judged not according to their dedication or skill but by whether they show sufficient loyalty to him and his MAGA agenda. Even if Mr. Trump’s vague policy agenda would not be fulfilled, he could rule by fear. The lesson of other countries shows that when a bureaucracy is politicized or pressured, the best public servants will run for the exits. This is what has already happened in Mr. Trump’s Republican Party, with principled leaders and officials retiring, quitting or facing ouster. In a second term, he intends to do that to the whole of government. [color/ emphasis added]

[nyarlathotep-thecrawlingchaos]

Well fuck, I guess this is gonna be three parts instead of two

It was an accident I swear I'm sorry 😭😭

Just kinda want it to develop naturally instead of forcing it

Soooooooooo

Oooh that smile 😌🫠

Well, here we go.

Blacksmith's Daughter

Part 2 of 3 (I'm POSITIVE this time I swear)

Part 1 here

OPLA!Shanks X AFAB!Reader

Wordcount: 4.3k

Hurt/comfort, fluffy as goddeng cotton candy, I guess slow-burn now too? Idfk

Trigger Warnings: mentions of death of loved one, trauma

Tag requests: @zzbloody-animezz

Perfectly harmless.

You very highly doubted that claim was true.

"Well," he said, tilting his head a little closer, "mostly harmless."

Still, almost as if to prove it, Shanks released his hold around your waist, his hand resting at your lower back a moment before slipping away to hold the cell door open for you. You stumbled just a little on your first steps out of the cell, your legs trembling, stiff and weakened in equal measure from three days and two nights stuck with the very limited range of movement that your bindings had allowed.

"Easy, now," said Shanks lightly, briefly slipping his arm around your back to steady you by your waist. "You haven't been on your feet in days, you can take a minute to get your footing. We're not in any rush."

"R...right," you said, uncertainly. You swallowed as he helped guide you over to the brig officer's desk, where you sat heavily in the chair, stretching your legs out for a moment. "I still don't really want to stay here too long. Three days has been more than enough." You leaned forward, pulling your swords across the desk and resting your forehead on one of of the black leather sheaths, laying your hand over the hilt. "Don't want to keep the crew waiting, either."

"Ah, they'll be busy a while," he said dismissively, pulling himself uo to sit on the desk. "There's a good bit of cargo to transfer." He nodded down at the swords. "Yours, I take it?'

You nodded, lifting your head. "I didn't even know if they were brought on the ship or not," you said. "My father made them for me." He had made them just over ten years ago, given them to you on your fourteenth birthday.

"Well, he was damned skilled. They're beautiful. May I?" He gestured a hand toward them. "If you don't mind."

"Go ahead," you said. You lifted one of the cutlasses and drew to from its scabbard, handing it over. His hand brushed across yours as he took the blade, clearly intentionally if the small smirk that briefly curved the corner of his lips was any indication. You watched him flip it deftly in one hand, holding it upright, his eyes scanning slowly down the edge of the blade.

"And well cared for. Sharp as a razor," he commented, impressed. He turning it sideways, flipping it around once more and nodding. "He teach you anything about smithing?"

You shook your head. "Not much," you said. "My brother was his apprentice. He taught me maintenance mostly. He instructed me in a few different weapon types, but swords were always my favorite." You took the weapon back when he handed it off to you, slipping the blade back into its scabbard. "And his."

"Experienced thief, weapons expert...." He leaned back a bit, smiling as he shook his head. "Yeah, you'll fit right in, sweetheart."

The way he was looking at you, the way his eyes burned into yours, had your face growing a little warm again as you turned your own gaze away, swallowing nervously. It wasn't as if no one had ever flirted with you before; you were honestly pretty used to it, ever since you had ended up living in the streets, used to crude comments and catcalling.

And yet here sat an incredibly notorious pirate captain, being incredibly respectful about it, all but making you swoon every time he lowered his voice or so much as touched your hand.

You stood from the chair, picking up your swords and setting to strapping them to your belt at either side of your hips, glancing down at the Marine cadet still bound in the corner of the room as his eyes passed between you and Shanks. You had never been around any pirates before now, but you had encountered your fair share of Marines, as many of them had been customers at your father's smithy.

Many of them had been self-righteous prats, and all the Marines aboard this ship had treated you like scum they had dragged in on the bottom of their boots.

"I think I will fit in fairly well," you finally said, quietly.

"Now that's the spirit!" His enthusiasm was honestly infectious, and you couldn't help but smile a little as he slipped off of the desk. "There's a fair chance you'll end up with a bounty on your head once word of your escape reaches Marineford, anyway. Between that and breaking into a base in a major city." He still sounded particularly amused about that as he rest his hand over the small of your back, stepping over the Marine cadet as if he weren't even there. "I'm eager to find out how you managed it. Oh, no, not yet," he added when you opened your mouth to respond. "I'm sure the whole crew's going to want to hear that tale."

Well, it was quite a tale. You were honestly surprised you had made it as far as you had before getting caught.

Before everything went to hell in a handbasket.

You lifted a hand to shield your eyes as you emerged onto the bustling deck of the ship; the mid-afternoon sun was blinding after days of only seeing it through one small, rounded window in the brig. The Red Hair crew was working quickly and steadily on robbing the Marine ship completely blind, right before their eyes—the entire crew of around fifty Marines was tied up on the deck, bound at their hands and feet, the captain and his officers situated at the center mast to give them the best possible view of the entire debacle.

Shanks called and motioned for his own officers to line up at the starboard side of the caravel, and took his time in introducing you to each of them individually. He glanced back occasionally at the Marines' captain and mates with a smirk, clearly reveling in their growing annoyance.

"Our newest thief has two years experience," he dragged on loudly, pacing slowly between you and his officers—many of whom were cracking up themselves, well aware that the whole spectacle was being orchestrated for the sole purpose of riling up the captive Marines, "and was arrested for—if you can believe it—breaking into a Marine base in a major port city in Arabasta with only one accomplice, and getting so far as to open their treasury vault before being captured."

And he paused for effect at that, waiting as the crew began to break into laughter, as you struggled to keep a straight face yourself, glancing toward the infuriated Marine captain, who had told you before shoving you into the brig a few days ago that he would personally see to it that you never saw the light of day again. For once in your life you were seeing karma in real time—and it was a positively beautiful sight to behold.

"And I'm sure we're all dying to know," Shanks went on, ceasing his pacing and stopping just in front of you, grinning, "how the hell she managed it."

He had given you more than enough time to go over the details in your head. A lot of your success had been pure dumb luck, for sure, but you drew up your resolve to relay it.

"Overheard a few cadets in a tavern talking about how the vaults were never heavily guarded...and the roof access was never locked." His eyebrows shot up toward the bright red fringe of his hair as you spoke. His officers glanced between each other. "A couple days later we climbed the back wall of the base. Knocked out a couple Marines at the top floor, stole their uniforms, and made our way down."

"Bullshit." All eyes shifted onto the Marine captain when he spoke up, glaring daggers at you. "That base is constructed out of sandstone. Five stories of completely smooth stone. There's no way anyone could climb the walls."

"Tell your comrades at the base to check the back wall for holes," you said coldly, your eyes lingering on his. "We used climbing spikes."

The man's teeth gritted together in a visible scowl. You turned your head back toward the snickering pirates, in time to see Shanks mumble something to Benn, who rolled his eyes and scoffed.

Then you heard the Marine captain behind you again, speaking in a low growl. "Disrespectful wench." You turned your head in time to watch him spit at the heel of your boot.

"Disrespectful?" Though the rest of his crew continued to chuckle, Shanks wasn't laughing as he put himself between you and the oposing captain, his forearm resting over the hilt of his saber at his hip. "I get the impression you haven't done much to earn anyone's respect," he said. "That being said, respectfully, captain...."

And with that, he placed the heel of his sandal against the man's shoulder and shoved him over. With the Marine's hands and feet bound, there was nothing he could do to right himself—nothing except glare daggers at Shanks as he crouched down in front of him.

"Don't interupt." Shanks gave him a smile and a rather hard clap on the shoulder before straightening back out and turning to face his own crew. "Now—"

"Goddamned pirates," he spat. Shanks looked back over his shoulder at the man. "A thief's a thief," he said viciously, glaring daggers at you from where he lay on the deck floor. "The whore'll rob you lot blind same as she tried with us."

There was scattered chuckling around the Marines as Shanks stared down at the captain for a long, tense moment. You saw something shift in his eyes, the warmth and humor leaving them.

"Whore?" he repeated lightly, raising his eyebrows. His eyes swept around the rest of the Marines, before he turned to you, taking a couple steps closer. He brushed a few strands of hair behind your ear, offering you a warm smile. "I take it," he said slowly, quietly, "this is how you were being treated for the past three days, sweetheart?"

You swallowed, glancing over toward the Marines, whose laughter had quickly subsided. "More or less, yes," you affirmed.

"Hmm." He nodded, his hand drifting down to your shoulder, lifting the torn strap of your black tank top—torn when you had been flung into the cell in the brig by a couple cadets, while the captain stood watch and told you then that you'd never see the light of day again. His eyes shifted over to the Marines again, and he spoke aloud. "Change of plans, men. We take everything from this ship that isn't nailed down...and then we sink her."

The protest from the Marines was immediate, loud and desperate—some begging to be spared, others calling you several other colorful names and shouting claims that you were lying. Even you found yourself staring wide-eyed at the red-haired captain, at the knowledge that he would sink an entire ship just because of how the crew had treated you.

You were beginning to understand the reason for his bounty.

Shanks ignored the Marines entirely—it seemed his mind was made up. "I think we're just about done here." Your eyes remained wide as he turned his head back to meet your gaze, his expression softening into a smile again, his hand resting at your lower back. "What say we get you over to our ship and..." He glanced down at your shoulder briefly, at the broken strap of your shirt hanging down, "maybe find you something to change into."

You nodded, tugging unconsciously at the broken strap to pull the neck of your shirt up. "I...suppose that would be..."

"There's no need to worry, love" He clearly noticed your unease—there was no doubt it was written all over your face. He curled his arm around your back, leaning in a bit so he didn't have to raise his voice over the mounting protest of the Marines behind both of you. "You're part of my crew now, and we always look out for each other." He glanced over at the metal clink of a lighter igniting at his other side, and grinned at his first mate. "Isn't that right, Benn?"

Hi first mate quirked an eyebrow, taking a puff from his cigarette. "What am I agreeing to?"

"Ah, don't worry about it," Shanks laughed. "Anyway—I'll trust you to handle preparations here." He nodded back toward the Marines as the three of you stopped at the starboard railing around the deck, and he leaned forward against it, his eyes scanning over his ship floating only a few feet away, over the rest of the crew getting the supplies they had taken from the Marines organized. "Half a keg of powder should do the trick, we'll bring the rest with us."

"Right," said Benn, stubbing out the cigarette he had just lit on the railing and tucking it behind his ear.

"After you've—"

There was a light metallic clink right behind you—and all three of you heard it, glancing over your shoulders.

In the same instant you drew one of your swords and spun around, leveling it with the Marine officer's throat, Benn had his rifle pointed at the man's forehead. The officer dropped the flintlock pistol he had pointed at Shank's back, his eyes widened in shock, shaking as he slowly raised his hands.

Shanks turned around and leaned back, hanging his elbow over the edge of of the railing and glancing at you with a quick nod of approval. Then he turned his eyes on the Marine, giving a small chuckle and cooking his head to the side a bit.

"Now that wasn't a very smart decision, was it?" he said, grinning. "You could have just snuck by and sent out a distress call. Did you?" he added, lifting his eyebrows.

"I—I—no, I—I just—I—"

"Check," said Shanks, cutting his eyes toward Benn.

Benn gave a short nod, shouldered his rifle, and headed off toward the quarterdeck in quick strides.

The Marine remained standing there, shaking and stammering, his eyes darting between your blade and Shanks as the red-haired captain rolled his gaze back over to you. "Quite a set of reflexes you've got, sweetheart. You said your father trained you?"

You glanced at him only briefly before training your eyes back onto the Marine, and nodded. "We didn't live in a great area," you said. "He wanted to make sure I could defend myself."

"I would have to say he succeeded," he chuckled, shaking his head a little. He leaned back a bit further, placing the toe of his sandal over the Marine's pistol and sliding it across the deck, stooping down to pick it up. "What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?"

"Well," you said, watching as he turned the pistol over in his hands, and then casually reach behind him and drop it overboard. Benn was heading back down the stairs from the quarterdeck with a coil of rope hanging from one shoulder. He seemed to be in no hurry, so clearly no distress signal had been sent off. You went on, "He rigged this for me, in case I ever get disarmed."

You shifted your weight onto one foot, and hit the back of your right boot heel on the deck, and a three inch blade shot out from a slot in the front of the sole.

The Marine drew in a sharp breath, and Benn stopped a few feet away, speaking one word that clearly echoed his captain's wide-eyed expression.

"Shit."

Shank's brief look of shock quickly faded into an almost childlike excitement.

"God, that is brilliant," he laughed, crouching down and tilting his head to examine the blade. "How's it work?"

"Some sort of spring-loaded trigger mechanism," you said. You knocked your heel down again and the blade retracted. You smirked a little yourself as Shanks straightened back out—his enthusiasm truly was contagious. "My father called them 'Ball-Busters.'"

That cracked him up immediately—he leaned his shoulder into the railing, laughing, while Benn gave a scoff and shook his head. "I'd say that's pretty goddamned accurate," the first mate said. "I got it from here," he added, pulling his rifle down from his shoulder and shoving it against the Marine's shoulder as you pulled your cutlass away and slipped the blade back into its scabbard. "Alright, over there with the other assholes," he said, nudging him with the barrel. "We're as sick of being here as you are of having us here."

You watched Benn usher the officer over toward the main mast, feeling oddly as if you were stuck in the middle of some strange dream you might wake up from at any minute—wake up back in the dark and dingy cell below the deck, down in the brig, getting dragged out to be shoved into an even darker cell in Impel Down for the rest of your days.

"Oh, you are just a treat." So lost in that thought were you that you jumped a little when Shanks wrapped an arm around your back again. "Come on, love. Let's get you changed and cleaned up." He pulled himself up onto the railing and stepped into a sturdy plank laid out between his own ship and the Marines', offering you his hand. You took it and he helped pull you up as well, his fingers lacing through yours as he gave you another charming smile. "I'd say you've more than earned it."

Your eyes remained locked for a long, tense moment, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand, your heart racing a little faster—until a particularly strong wave rocked both of the ships and made you stumble a little. He chuckled lightly, before leading you across the plank and onto the main deck of his own ship.

You felt more than a little out of your element a few minutes later, lingering near the door of the captain's quarters with your arms crossed over your stomach while Shanks rifled through a wardrobe against the wall. You were still a little apprehensive, your mind still lingering on the man's decision to sink the Marines' vessel solely on your behalf, but there was a charm about him that was almost intoxicating, and it was drawing you in quickly.

"Don't really have anything that's going to fit you properly," he said, pulling one shirt out and frowning at it before hanging it back up. "But there might be...something...."

You swallowed, glancing around the cabin—at the table to your left that was covered in maps, a desk in the corner with a closed logbook, a four-poster bed in another corner with a pair of floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the port side of the ship. It still all felt uncanny enough to be a dream.

"No...other women on the crew, I take it?" you said slowly.

"No," he affirmed, still pushing aside hangers and frowning. "Not as if it's intentional, it just...turned out that way, I suppose?" He said it with an air of genuine surprise himself that almost made you chuckle. "Seems most women aren't interested in sailing around with a ship full of—ah, this should do," he interjected, pulling out a white shirt on a metal hanger that seemed at least a little smaller than the others. "Probably haven't worn it since I was a teenager," he said, looking it up and down.

He gave the shirt an appraising nod, and then tossed it to you before crossing the room to take a seat at the desk. He noded once more toward the corner by the wardrobe where there stood a fold-out changing screen.

"You'll have to forgive me if I'm a little averse to leaving a stranger alone in my personal quarters. But..." He lifted his hand, smiling, before covering his eyes with it. "I promise I won't peek. Pirate's honor."

You did chuckle a little at that. It wasn't as though you weren't used to changing in less than totally private conditions—you had been living on the streets for just over two years. You crossed the room yourself, ducking behind the divider screen and pulling it out.

"Nor do I wish to be on the recieving end of the Ball-Buster," he added, and you laughed aloud at that.

"I've never actually used it," you said, hanging the shirt over the top edge of the screen and pulling your tank top over your head. "Not as more than a threat a couple times. The sight of it usually gets the point across."

"I can't fathom any circumstance where it wouldn't," he laughed. You heard him sigh after a moment, while you pulled down the hanger and unbuttoned the shirt he had given you. "Out of curiosity," he said finally, "why exactly were you being shipped to Impel Down?" You paused, your eyes flickering up to the changing screen, in the direction of his sillhouette—and noting that from his shadow alone you could tell he still had his hand over his eyes. "That's a privilege normally reserved for pirates and revolutionaries rather than petty local thieves."

"I, uh...." You swallowed, pulling your arms through the sleeves of the shirt. You hadn't been completely clear on every detail, but it seemed now was as good a time as any—even if it was painful to recall. "I...killed two Marines before I was apprehended."

"Did you?" he said lightly.

"Mmm." You set to buttoning the shirt, slowly, glancing toward his silhouette again. "I didn't...really mean to. After...I guess after my brother took a bullet for me, I just sort of...reacted. I don't even really remember much of it. Just—him falling, then them taking my swords and locking me in a storage closet before carting me off to the ship."

You truthfully weren't even sure how long you had remained at the base before being taken to the docks—locked in the dark, your arms wrapped around your knees, wondering if you were ever going to see daylight again, hoping it was all just some awful nightmare you might wake up from.

"That's...." You heard him sigh heavily. "That's a lot." You gave a small hum in agreement, looking down at the shirt, and sighing yourself—it fit you like a nightgown, the hem drooping nearly down to your knees. You shook your head and set to unbuttoning it again.

"I suppose the Marines had a good reason for treating me like trash," you allowed, rolling the hem of the shirt up and tying it in a knot at your midriff. You fastened a few of the buttons above the knot, and set to rolling up the sleeves. "I did kill a couple of their comrades."

"And they killed your brother," he pointed out.

You frowned to yourself, swallowing back a lump forming in your throat at his quiet, understanding tone. You glanced up again when you heard him shift, and watched his shadow stand and cross the room through the screen as you rolled up the other sleeve to just above your elbow. You pulled the screen back just as he reached it, your eyes meeting his the moment you did. The sympathy in his dark eyes was almost enough to break you in an instant. You glanced down at his hand when it came to rest on your shoulder for just a moment before your eyes snapped back to his.

"That doesn't—" He shook his head. "Nothing excuses fifty plus grown men treating a young woman like something a dog dragged in. Particularly not after what you went through." Your gaze fell away from his at that, down to the floor. "I'm assuming from what you've said—and forgive me if I'm wrong—that you'd never..." He paused, seeming to search for the correct words. "You'd never been forced to defend yourself before?"

You shook your head. You had practiced with your swords for years, sparred with both your father and your brother regularly, but you had never been in a situation where you had to truly fight for your life. You had definitely never killed anyone before. You barely recalled the details even now, and you honestly didn't want to remember them at all.

"Oh, sweetheart..." He let out a slow sigh, and wrapped his arm around your shoulders. You closed your eyes as he rest his hand lightly over your head, as a little tension you hadn't even been aware of released from your shoulders. Your head fell forward, resting against his chest, and you closed your eyes as he lowered his head over yours. "Just so we're clear...you don't have to stay here," he said gently, his thumb brushing across the crown of your hair. "You're not a prisoner, you're a guest. You can take a few days to decide. Or longer. But if you do..."

He moved his hand to your cheek, lifting your head gingerly until your eyes met his.

"This crew is like a family." He lowered his forehead to yours, his hand drifting down to your shoulder again as he offered you a warm smile. "And you'll be welcome to stay as long as wish. Alright?"

You swallowed, and nodded.

Lowered your head again, your breath shaking as it left your lungs, and you rest your forehead against his chest again, your eyes closing tightly. You weren't used to this—this degree of kindness, of compassion from much of anyone, much less a stranger...but something in his eyes, in the warmth of his touch, told you that he was being completely sincere.

"Th...thank you," you whispered—you couldn't think of anything else to say than that, nothing that could wholly express the emotion swelling in your chest.

He just chuckled lightly, wrapping his arm around your shoulders again.

"You're welcome, love."

[0and0its0doctor0]

Unsub kisses

Aaron Hotchner x Fem! Reader

Summary: Aaron has to go undercover and winds up making out with the unsub making you extremely jealous. Warnings: none Word count: 719

You frowned as you looked at Aaron. He looked incredibly attractive in his jeans that hugged his ass and the tight t-shirt that showed off his biceps. Your eyes traced the veins in his arms all the way down to his hands and your mouth went dry. “I still don’t think this is a good idea.” You muttered as you taped the small microphone to Aaron’s chest. When he scoffed you ripped a piece of tape off his chest hair causing him to wince and look down at you. “Look I know it’s not ideal but I’m the only one that fits the unsubs type. I’ll be fine.” He tried to reassure you. Once you tugged his shirt back down and straightened it out to make sure you couldn't tell he was wired he tugged you into a hug and kissed the top of your head. “Nothing will happen.” He whispered in your ear so you nodded and pulled away. 

It didn’t take long for the female unsub to latch onto Aaron. Damn she was gorgeous. And he was heavily flirting back with the woman. You felt a fire start to burn in your chest and with every reciprocated touch you were getting more jealous. You bit your lip hard enough to draw blood. Everyone watched as Aaron and the unsub moved to the back alley where the team was waiting in vans. When the two started kissing you felt like you were going to throw up. He hadn’t even kissed you like that yet. Finally everyone swarmed in and arrested the unsub. You took one look at Aaron before rolling your eyes. “What’s her problem?” he asked Spencer as you walked away in a huff.

Spencer turned to his boss and pulled a napkin out of his pocket. “Well I’m no expert in relationships but you have another woman's lipstick all over your face. I’m assuming you don’t kiss your significant other like that. I think she is jealous.” Spencer tried explaining. Aaron frowned as he watched you talking to Emily and JJ. He did his best to wipe his face clean but noticed you were purposely avoiding direct eye contact. When he tried to hold your hand you pulled it out of his grasp and walked in the opposite direction. He tried to walk after you but he got stopped by a group of police officers that wanted all the juicy details of the hot girl. You didn’t look abc as you left the crime scene and headed back to your apartment. Alone. 

Your heart felt heavy. Were you good enough for Aaron Hotchner? You stared at yourself in the mirror, fingers tracing over curves and scars. That was the first time since high school you cried yourself to sleep. The following morning you debated calling out but you knew you had to tackle the mountain of paperwork waiting for you. So that was how you found yourself walking into the bullpen with a fake smile plastered across your face. You must have not been hiding it very well because you got sympathetic looks from everyone. You sighed and frowned as you sat at your little desk.

Hours passed with Aaron staring at you mostly the entire time. He couldn’t take it anymore and stomped over to your desk, grabbed your arm, stood you up and kissed you like his life depended on it. At first you were confused then you melted into it. The team around you clapped and cheered. When he pulled away your cheeks were bright red. “I'm sorry about last night. I love you. Only you.” He punctuated each word in ‘I Love You’ with a kiss. He didn’t care that he was in front of the entire bullpen or his team at the moment. He only wanted to focus on you. Thankfully you kissed him back deeply making sure to get your own lipstick all over his face. “I just… she was so pretty and I can’t amount to that.” You frowned and sighed looking up at him. “Yeah she was also a serial killer. I would prefer it if you didn’t become one of those.” Aaron said with a chuckle. A giggle and a nod from you had him kissing you one more time before he walked back into his office.