#or is it just the case that he's genuinely got a good heart all this while

[itspileofgoodthings]

I think the fundamental part of growing up re: Anne of Green Gables is that Gilbert Blythe is such a good idea but Lucy Maude didn’t spend enough time on him to make him a fully real person.

[firewoodfigs]

Regarding your fics, can you tell me if Roy actually has a crush on Riza in asir or is he just being his charming self for now?

Your latest update had me swooning...

Roy:

Meanwhile, Rebecca in the background:

[jonnywaistcoat]

I'm really glad to see that everyone seems to be having a good time with The Magnus Protocol, and my heart is very full with all the wonderful comments people are making, but I do need to flag something up.

For some of these episodes, a lot of folks are giving me credit for stuff I did not actually write. The cases for episodes 3 and 4 were both by guest writers, Graeme Patrick and Cole Weavers respectively, and they really deserve some love thrown their way.

That's not to minimise my own part: me and Alex certainly do editing work on them, and add in a few bits here and there to make sure everything cohesively fits in with the overall story and tone of the show, but if you enjoyed these episodes, then Graeme and Cole are the ones to thank for it.

And for that matter, Alex wrote episode 2 and deserves more of the accolades for how good that one was than I think he got (my edits just made it a bit... squishier).

Protocol is much more of a team effort than Archives was and so while, in a broad sense, you can still lay most of the blame for bad things happening to characters you love squarely at my feet, it's genuinely important to pay attention to the "written by" section of the credits this time around, 'cause often it's not gonna be my name there, and someone else deserves the thanks for giving you a horrible treat.

[abbotjack]

Asking Robby to walk you down the aisle after u said yes to Jack hOLD MY HAND SYDDDD 😭😭😭😭

The Handoff 𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

a/n : I fear I took your idea and turned it into a 4k word emotional spiral. I genuinely couldn’t help myself. like… Jack crying in uniform??? Robby soft-dad-coded and holding it together until he can’t??? the handoff?? the dress reveal??

summary : Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

content/warnings: emotional wedding fluff, quiet proposal energy, found family themes, Jack crying in uniform, Robby in full dad-mode, reader with no biological family, soft military references, subtle grief, emotional intimacy, and everyone in the ER being completely unprepared for Jack Abbot to have visible feelings.

word count : 4,149 (... hear me out)

You hadn’t expected Jack to propose.

Not because you didn’t think he wanted to. But because Jack Abbot didn’t really ask for things. He was a man of action. Not words. Never had been.

But with you? He always showed it.

Like brushing your shoulder on the way to a trauma room—not for luck, not for show, just to say I’m here.

It was how he peeled oranges for you. Always handed to you in a napkin, wedges split and cleaned of the white stringy parts—because you once mentioned you hated them. And he remembered.

It was how he left the porch light on when you got held over.

How he’d warm your side of the bed with a heating pad when your back ached.

He’d hook his pinky with yours in the hallway. Leave your favorite hoodie—his—folded on your pillow when he knew he’d miss you by a few hours.

Jack didn’t say “I love you” like other people. He said it like this. In gestures. In patterns. In choosing you, over and over, without fanfare.

No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just peeled oranges. Warm beds. Soft touches.

So when it finally happened—a proposal, of all things—it caught you off guard.

Not because you didn’t think he meant it. But because you’d never pictured it. Not from him. Not like this.

The trauma bay was quiet now. The kind of quiet that only happens after a win—after the adrenaline fades, the stats even out and the patient lives. You’d both been working the case for nearly forty minutes, side by side, barked orders and that intense, seamless rhythm you’d only ever found with him.

You saved a life tonight. Together.

And now the world outside the curtain was humming soft and far away.

You stood by the sink, scrubbing off the last of the blood—good blood, this time. He was leaning against the supply cabinet, gloves off. Something in his shoulders had dropped. His body loose in that way it never really was unless you were alone.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just watched you in that quiet way he always did when his guard was down—like he was trying to memorize you, just in case you weren’t there to catch him tomorrow.

You flicked water from your hands. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You gave him a look.

He hesitated.

Then, casually—as casually as only Jack could manage while asking you something that was about to gut you—

“I’d marry you.”

You froze. Not dramatically. Not visibly. Just enough that he caught the subtle change in your face, the way your mouth parted like you needed more air all of a sudden.

His eyes didn’t move. He didn’t smile. Didn’t joke.

“If you wanted,” he added after a beat, voice a little lower now. A little rougher. “I would.”

It didn’t sound like a performance. It sounded like a truth he’d been sitting on for months. One he only knew how to say in places like this—where the lighting was too bright and your hearts were still racing and nothing else existed but you two still breathing.

Your chest ached.

“Yeah,” you said. It came out quieter than you meant to. “I’d marry you too.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

And then he stepped toward you—not fast, not dramatic, just steady. Like he’d already decided that he was yours. Like this wasn’t new, just something the two of you had known without ever having to say it.

No ring. No big speech. No audience.

Just you. Him. The place where it all made sense.

“You’re it for me,” he murmured.

And you smiled too, because yeah—he didn’t say things often. But when he did?

They wrecked you.

Because he meant them. And he meant this.

You. Forever.

You didn’t tell anyone, not right away.

Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you didn’t have anyone to tell. Not in the way other people did.

There were no group texts. No parents to call. No siblings waiting on the other end of the line, ready to scream and cry and make it real. You’d built your life from the ground up—and for a long time, that had felt like enough. You’d learned how to move through the world quietly. Efficiently. Without needing to belong to anyone. Without needing to be someone’s daughter.

But then came residency.

And Robby.

He hadn’t swooped in. Hadn’t made it obvious. That wasn’t his style. But the first week of your intern year, when you’d gotten chewed out by a trauma surgeon in the middle of the ER, it was Robby who handed you a water, sat next to you in the stairwell, and said, “He’s an asshole. Don’t let it stick.”

After that, it just… happened. Slowly.

He checked your notes when you looked too tired to think. He drove you home once in a snowstorm and started keeping granola bars in his glovebox—just in case.

He noticed you never talked about home. Never mentioned your parents. Never took time off for holidays.

He never asked. But he was always there.

When you matched into the program full-time, he texted, Knew it.

When you pulled your first solo central line, he left a sticky note on your locker: Took you long enough, show-off.

When a shift gutted you so bad you couldn’t breathe, he sat beside you on the floor of the supply room and didn’t say a word.

You never called him a father figure. You didn’t need to.

He just was.

So when the proposal finally felt real—settled, certain—you knew who you had to tell first.

You found him three days later, camped at his usual spot at the nurse’s station—reading glasses sliding down his nose, his ridiculous “#1 Interrogator” mug tucked in one hand. He didn’t notice you at first. You just stood there, stomach buzzing, watching the way he tapped his pen against the margin like he was trying not to throw the whole file out a window.

“Hey,” you said, trying not to fidget.

He looked up. “You look like you’re about to tell me someone died.”

“No one died.”

He leaned back in the chair, eyebrows raised. “Alright. Hit me.”

You opened your mouth—then paused. Your heart was thudding like you’d just sprinted up from sub-level trauma.

Then, quiet: “Jack proposed.”

A beat.

Another.

Robby blinked. “Wait—what?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Three days ago.”

His mouth opened. Then shut again. Then opened.

“In the middle of a shift?” he asked finally, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

You smiled. “End of a code. We’d just saved a guy. He said, ‘I’d marry you. If you wanted.’”

Robby looked down, then laughed quietly. “Of course he did. That’s so him.”

“I said yes.”

“Obviously you did.”

You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure.

“I didn’t know who to tell. But… I wanted you to know first.”

That landed.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, his face soft in that way he rarely let it be. Like something behind his ribs had cracked open a little.

Then he let out a breath. Slow. Rough at the edges.

“He told me, you know,” he said. “A few weeks ago. That he was thinking about it.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Really?”

“Well—‘told me’ is generous,” he muttered. “He cornered me outside the supply closet and said something like, ‘I don’t know if she’d say yes, but I think I need to ask.’ Then grunted and walked away.”

You laughed, head tilting. “That sounds about right.”

“I figured it would happen eventually,” Robby said. “I just didn’t know it already had. This is the first I’m hearing that he actually went through with it.”

He looked down at his coffee, thumb brushing the rim. Then back up at you with something warm in his expression that made your throat go tight.

“I’m proud of you, kid. Really.”

Your throat tightened.

“I don’t really have… anyone,” you said. “Not like that. But you’ve always been—”

He waved a hand, cutting you off before you could get too sentimental. His voice was quiet when he said, “I know.”

You nodded. Tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

“You crying on me?” he teased gently.

“No,” you lied.

“Liar.”

He reached up and gave your arm a firm pat—one of those dad-move, no-nonsense gestures—but he kept his hand there for a second, steady and warm.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said. “The two of you. That’s gonna be something good.”

You smiled at the floor. Then at him.

“Hey, Robby?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

You opened your mouth—hesitated. The words were there. Right there on your tongue. But they felt too big, too final for a hallway and a half-empty cup of coffee.

You shook your head, smiling just a little. “Actually… never mind.”

His eyes softened instantly. No push. No questions.

Just, “Alright. Whenever you’re ready.”

And somehow, you knew—he already knew what you were going to ask. And when the time came, he’d say yes without hesitation.

It happened on a Wednesday. Late enough in the evening that most of the ER had emptied out, early enough that the halls still echoed with footsteps and intercom beeps and nurses joking in breakrooms. You’d just finished a back-to-back shift—one of those long, hazy doubles where time folds in on itself. Your ID badge was flipped around on its lanyard. You smelled like sweat, sanitizer, and twelve hours of recycled air.

You found Robby in the stairwell.

Not for any sentimental reason—that’s just where he always went to decompress. A quiet landing. One of the overhead lights had a faint flicker, and he was sitting on the fourth step, half reading something, half just existing. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows.

He looked tired in that familiar, permanent way. But settled. Like someone who wasn’t trying to be anywhere else.

“Hey,” you said, voice low.

He looked up instantly. “You good?”

You nodded. Walked down a few steps until you were standing just above him.

“I need to ask you something.”

He squinted. “You pregnant?”

You snorted. “No.”

“Did Jack do something stupid?”

“Also no.”

He closed the folder in his lap and gave you his full attention.

You hesitated. A long beat. “Okay, so—when I was younger, I used to lie.”

Robby blinked. “That’s where this is going?”

You ignored him.

“I’d make up stories about my family. At school. Whenever there was some essay or form or ‘bring your parents to career day’ crap—I’d just invent someone. A dad who was a firefighter. A mom who was a nurse. A grandma who sent birthday cards.”

Robby didn’t move. Just listened.

“And I got good at it. Lying. Not because I wanted to, but because it was easier than explaining why I didn’t have anybody. Why there was no one to call if something happened. Why I always stayed late. Why I never talked about holidays.”

You looked down at him now. Really looked at him.

“I didn’t make anything up this time.”

His brow furrowed, just slightly.

“Because I have someone now,” you said. “I do.”

He didn’t say anything. Not yet.

You took a breath that shook a little in your chest.

“And I’m getting married in a few months, and there’s this part I keep thinking about. The aisle. Walking down it. That moment.”

You cleared your throat.

“I don’t want it to be random. Or symbolic. Or just… for show.”

Another breath.

“I want it to be you.”

Robby blinked once.

Then again.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something. Closed. Then opened again.

“You want me to walk you?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled hard. Looked away for a second like he needed the extra space to catch up to his own heart.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re really trying to kill me.”

You smiled. “You can say no.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He looked up at you, and his voice cracked just slightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

You hadn’t expected to get emotional. Not really. But hearing it out loud—that he’d do it, that he meant it—it undid something small and knotted in your chest.

“You’re one of the best things that ever happened to me, you know that?” he said.

“I didn’t have a plan when you showed up that first year. Just thought, ‘this kid needs a break,’ and next thing I knew you were stealing my chair and bitching about suture kits like we’d been doing this for a decade.”

You laughed, throat thick. “That sounds about right.”

“I’m gonna need a suit now, huh?”

“You don’t have to wear a suit.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m going full emotional support tuxedo. I’m showing up with cufflinks. Maybe a cane.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

He stood then—slower than he used to, one hand on the railing—and looked at you with that same warmth he always tried to hide under sarcasm and caffeine.

“You did good, kid.”

You gave a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

The music started before you were ready.

It was quiet at first. Just the soft swell of strings rising behind the door. But your hands were shaking, your throat was tight, and everything felt too big all of a sudden.

Robby looked over, standing next to you in the little alcove just off the chapel doors, tie only mostly straight, boutonniere slightly crooked like he’d pinned it on in the car.

“You’re breathing like you’re about to code out,” he said gently.

You gave him a half-laugh, half-gasp. “I think I might.”

He tilted his head. “You okay?”

“No,” you whispered, eyes already burning. “I don’t know—maybe. Yes. I just—Jack’s out there. And everyone’s watching. What if I trip? Or ugly cry? Or completely blank and forget how to walk?”

Robby didn’t flinch. He just reached out and took your hand—steady and instinctive—his thumb brushing over your knuckles the way he had that night during your intern year, when you’d locked yourself in the on-call room and couldn’t stop shaking after your first failed intubation. He didn’t say anything then either. Just sat beside you on the floor and held your hand like this—anchoring, patient, there.

“Hey,” Robby said—steady, but quieter now. “You’re walking toward the only guy I’ve ever seen drop everything—without thinking—just because you looked a little off walking out of a shift.”

You blinked, chest already starting to tighten.

“I’ve watched him learn you,” Robby continued. “Slow. Quiet. Like he was memorizing every version of you without making it a thing. The tired version. The pissed-off version. The one who forgets to eat and pretends she’s fine.”

He let out a quiet laugh, still looking right at you.

“I’ve seen Jack do a thoracotomy with one hand and hold pressure with the other. I’ve seen him walk into scenes nobody else wanted, shirt soaked, pulse steady, like he already knew how it would end. He doesn’t rattle. Hell, I watched him take a punch from a drunk in triage and not even blink.”

His hand tightened around yours—just slightly.

“That’s how I know,” he said. “That this is it. Because Jack—the guy who’s walked into burning scenes with blood on his boots and didn’t even flinch—looked scared shitless the second he realized he couldn’t picture his life without you. Not because he didn’t think you’d say yes. But because he knew it meant something. That this wasn’t something he could compartmentalize or walk away from if it got hard. Loving you? That’s the one thing he can't afford to lose.”

Your eyes burned instantly. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good. Less pressure on me to be the first one.”

You gave him a teary smile. “You ready?”

Robby offered his arm. “Kid, I’ve been ready since the day you stopped listing ‘N/A’ under emergency contact.”

The doors creaked open.

You sucked in a breath.

And then—

The music swelled.

Not the dramatic kind—no orchestral swell, no overblown strings. Just the soft, deliberate rise of something warm and low and steady. Something that sounded like home.

The crowd stood. Rows of people from different pieces of your life, blurred behind the blur in your eyes. You couldn’t see any one of them clearly—not Dana, not Langdon, not Whitaker fidgeting with his tie—but you felt them. Their hush. Their stillness.

And at the far end of the aisle stood Jack—dressed in his Army blues.

Not a rented tux. Not a tailored suit.

His uniform.

Pressed. Precise. Quietly immaculate.

It wasn’t a performance. It wasn’t for show. It was him.

He hadn’t worn it to make a statement. He wore it because there were people in the pews who knew him from before—before the ER, before Pittsburgh, before you. Men and women who had bled beside him, saved lives beside him, watched him shoulder more than anyone should—and never once seen him like this.

Undone. Open.

There were people in his family who’d worn that uniform long before him. And people he’d served with who taught him what it meant to wear it well. Not for attention. Not for tradition. But because it meant something. A history. A duty. A vow he never stopped honoring—even long after the war ended.

And when you saw him standing there—dress blues crisp under the soft chapel light, shoulders squared, mouth tight, eyes full—you didn’t see someone dressed for a ceremony.

You saw him.

All of him. The past, the present, the parts that had been broken and rebuilt a dozen times over. The weight he’d never put down. The man he’d become when no one else was watching.

Jack didn’t flinch as the doors opened. He didn’t smile, didn’t wipe his eyes. He just stood there—steady, quiet, letting himself feel it.

Letting you see it.

And somehow, that meant more than anything he could’ve said.

The room stayed still, breath held around you.

Until, from somewhere near the front, Javadi’s whisper sliced through the quiet:

“Is he—oh my God, is Abbot crying?”

Mohan choked on a mint. Someone—maybe Santos—audibly gasped.

And halfway down the aisle—when your breath caught and your knees went just a little loose—Robby spoke, voice low and smug, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Well,” Robby muttered, voice low and smug, “remind me to collect $20 from Myrna next shift.”

You glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes forward, deadpan. “Nothing. Just—turns out you weren’t the only one betting on whether Jack would cry.”

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“She said he was carved from Army-grade stone and wouldn’t shed a tear if the hospital burned down with him inside. I disagreed.”

You gawked at him.

“She told me—and I quote—‘If Dr. Y/L/N ever changes her mind, tell her to step aside, because I will climb that man like a jungle gym.’”

You almost tripped. “Robby.”

“She’s got her sights set. Calls him ‘sergeant sweetheart’ when the nurses aren’t looking.”

You clamped a hand over your mouth, laughing through the tears already welling. And the altar still felt a mile away.

He finally glanced at you, face softening. “I said she didn’t stand a chance.”

You blinked fast.

“Because from the second he saw you?” Robby added, voice lower now. “That was it. He was done for.”

You had never felt so chosen. So sure. So completely loved by someone who once thought emotions were best left unsaid.

Robby must have felt the shift in your weight, because he pulled you in slightly closer. His hand—broad and warm—curved around your arm like it had a thousand times before. Steady. Grounding. Father-coded to the core.

“You got this,” he murmured. “Look at him.”

You did.

And Jack was still there—still crying. Not bothering to wipe his eyes. Not hiding it. Like he knew nothing else mattered more than this moment. Than you.

When you finally reached the end of the aisle, Jack stepped forward before the officiant could speak. Like instinct.

Robby didn’t move at first.

He just looked at you—long and hard, eyes bright.

Then looked at Jack.

Then back at you.

His hand lingered at the small of your back.

And his voice, when it came, was rougher than usual. “You good?”

You nodded, too full to speak.

He nodded back. “Alright.”

And then—quietly, like it was something he wasn’t ready to do but always meant to—he took your hand, and placed it gently into Jack’s.

Jack didn’t look away from you. His hand curled tight around yours like it was a lifeline.

Robby cleared his throat. Stepped back just a little. And you saw it—the tremble at the corner of his mouth. The way he blinked too many times in a row.

He wasn’t immune to it.

Not this time.

“You take care of her,” he said, voice thick. “You hear me?”

Jack—eyes glassy, jaw tight—just nodded. One firm, reverent nod.

“I do,” he said.

And for once, that wasn’t a promise.

It was a fact.

A vow already lived.

Robby stepped back.

A quiet shift. No words, no fuss. Just one last glance—full of something that lived between pride and grief—and then he stepped aside, slow and careful, like his body knew he had to let go before his heart was ready.

And then it was just you and Jack.

He stepped in just a little closer—like the space between you, however small, had finally become too much. His hand tightened around yours, his breath shallow, like holding it together had taken everything he had.

The moment he saw you—really saw you—something behind his eyes cracked wide open.

He didn’t smile. Not right away.

He didn’t say anything clever. Didn’t reach for you like someone confident or composed.

It was like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life—and still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tried to laugh, but it cracked—caught somewhere between joy and everything else swelling behind your ribs.

The dress fit like a memory and a dream at once. Sleek. Understated. A silhouette that didn’t beg for attention, but held it all the same. Clean lines. Long sleeves. A bodice tailored just enough to feel timeless. A low back. No shimmer. No lace. Just quiet, deliberate elegance.

Just you.

Jack took a breath—slow and shaky.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was speaking out loud.

You blinked fast, vision swimming.

“You’re not supposed to make me cry before we even say anything,” you managed, voice trembling.

He gave a small, broken laugh. “That makes two of us.”

You could feel the crowd behind you. Every attending. Every nurse. Every person who thought they knew Jack Abbot—stoic in trauma bays, voice sharp, pulse steady no matter what walked through the doors.

And now? They were seeing him like this.

Glass-eyed. Soft-spoken. Undone.

Jack looked at you again. Really looked.

“I knew I was gonna love you,” he said. “But I didn’t know it’d be like this.”

Your breath caught. “Like what?”

He smiled—slow, quiet, reverent.

“Like peace.”

You blinked so fast it almost turned into a sob. “God. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t,” you whispered, smiling through it.

Behind you, the music began to fade. The officiant cleared his throat.

Jack didn’t move. Didn’t look away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles like it had done a thousand times before—only this time, it meant something.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said softly. “Not in combat. Not in med school. Not even the first time I intubated someone on a moving Humvee.”

You laughed, choked and real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected. “That’s the important part.”

The officiant spoke then, calling for quiet.

But Jack leaned in one last time, voice so low it barely touched the air.

“Tell me when to breathe,” he said.

You smiled, heart wrecked and steady all at once.

“I’ve got you.”

And Jack Abbot—combat medic, ER attending, man who spent a lifetime holding everything together—closed his eyes and let himself believe you.

Because for once in his life, he didn’t have to be ready for the worst.

He just had to stand beside the best thing that ever happened to him.

And say yes.

[timmydraker]

Tim begins to distance himself from his family after Damian becomes Robin.

It was obvious in the way he ran off to rescue Bruce, but that was more of a physical thing at the end of the day. He was desperate and had lost any kind of safety net and support he had after Dick threatened Arkham and how badly he hurt Alfred with his instance that Bruce was alive.

Either way he was going to get Bruce back, if not because he felt like he was an aimless, nothing human being without Batman then there was that he wanted to be believed.

Then Dick handed over Robin to Damian who at that point genuinely despised Tim, though there was also a level of jealously in the young Wayne’s mind at the intelligence and analytical Tim.

It was then that Tim decided he would bring Bruce back and then do his own thing, outside of Robin and outside of Batman.

He clearly had done his job hadn’t he? Sure Bruce was dead, but Dick was acting as Batman and that Batman had a Robin, so his reasoning for being Robin was extinguished.

Tim brings Bruce back and the older man praises and thanks him for several days and then, like everything else, the attention moves away. It goes to him connecting with Damian on a vigilante level and catching up on the last several months of him being ‘dead’. It goes to Jason who, now that he’s lost his foster father has decided that maybe he could try a little harder after all.

It goes to everyone and anyone other than Tim and this time? That’s actually the plan.

Tim isn’t as good of a hacker as Barbara, but she’s basically a god at it so compared to others he might as well be master level, just not against her. This he uses to shift around peoples schedules so Alfred has no choice but to let him go to school on his own (Tim may have also invented an early morning ‘club’ that was totally legit and not at all a fabrication). He makes it so when Dick is over or Jason takes the rare opportunity to visit he had to work at WE or DI, something important he can’t neglect.

He never has to walk Ace or Titus because he’s busy with his team mates.

Team mates who think he’s busy helping out Batman.

Tim still does work as a hero, but it’s entirely through his businesses after a while. A few times he has no choice but to go out in a boring black suit with a full face mask and hoodie. It’s got nothing on it, no symbols or gadgets. Nothing to connect him to anyone.

He starts with the homeless, dishing out vaccines like candy without even doing a campaign to showcase it.

Then he changes Bruce’s rather naive approach to orphanages and makes it so every single child who is put through is given a small amount of funding. He makes it so kids have more chance to stay with siblings, makes sure everyone who even so much as enters the ground of a orphanage have a real background check and sure the adoption rate drops, but so does the missing kids and DV cases.

Tim steals over fifty million from people like Luther and Penguin and all kinds of corrupt rich assholes for the majority of the funding and not even a cent of it is traced back to Wayne or Drake businesses. Whiles he’s digging into Lex be manages to get enough evidence to put a sizeable dent in his reputation, even if Lex manages to smooch a fair bit of it back.

He’s manages to take out a large sized trafficking ring and helps get the victims into a real recovery home that he hand picks out security for.

Later, as in a few days afterward, he discovers a dog meat farm and everyone medical veterinary student suddenly finds themself free of student loans and debt and with multiple work opportunities available and volunteer work being down right pleased for.

Tim knows he’s being noticed but given that he basically lives in his office in the heart of the city, he isn’t there to hear his old teammates and ‘family’ talk about the mysterious Dread.

Dread who was named that after a report came out about a theory of an unknown hacker or ‘cyber vigilante’ who was stealing money and information from rich folk and giving it to the poor, giving all of the 1% dread that he would hit them next.

The exact quote was ‘Those with money deeper than their pockets dread the hackers next moves. And they should feel that dread as a warning for this Robin Hood like legend seems to be getting braver.’

Dick was sure the hacker would have been called Robin if he hadn’t chosen that name already, to which Barbara responded with grumbles and growl because she couldn’t find anything other than holes and traps left by the hacker. It was like they knew her every move before she even made it!

Tim, obvious to his growing reputation until it fully took off, hadn’t even considered that his actions would be framed a threat by Batman. He would say it was because he didn’t think Bruce would ever really target him like that, but in actuality it’s because he knew Bruce was one of the few good rich folk. Surely he would be on the side of a secret vigilante hacker trying to use horrible people to do good? He embraced Dread quickly and was happy he make the rich squirm and brought a sense of hope to people, it was just like Robin but instead of them being safe and given light they were given a peace of mind in a mix of revenge and justice.

What Tim doesn’t know is that Bruce is still too far into his whole image of black and white, good and evil, that he tends to forget there’s grey areas.

At least Jason is on the side of Dread, even if he still thinks the myth of a story is just that, a myth.

It’s when Tim blows up a bank when everyone has gone home for the night just so people will find the underground money ring that and he visits the manner to get a few things that he hears them talking about it.

By that point it’s been around two years since he dropped Robin and as usual Dick always greets him with a look of a desperate puppy, “Tim! Hi, you’re here. I haven’t seen you in months, how have you been?”

Tim smiles at Dick even if he hasn’t gotten over his anger at his oldest brother and moves to sit at the breakfast table with everyone (Alfred, Bruce, Jason and Damian).

“Good. Busy, we’ve had a lot of donations lately.”

Jason snorts, “No shit. Isn’t Wayne Enterprise one of the few ones not hit by Dread?”

Bruce grumbles and shakes his head, “I wouldn’t say that. They’ve managed to get into our system and completely changed the Jason Project.”

Jason grins and laughs happily, “you mean improved! Crime Ally is doing great now. Not the best, but still a fuck of a lot better.”

Smiling at the man who once beat him to an inch of his life, Tim takes a sip of his tea and casually says, “You’re welcome.”

The whole table goes quiet as Tim continues to casually sip his tea.

The silence carries for a total minute before Bruce puts down his cup and leans forward with a slight growl in his voice, “Explain.”

“Explain what?”

Bruce stands over his son even from halfway down the table and very obviously tries to calm himself with a deep breath, “What do you mean ‘you’re welcome’?”

Tim makes an ‘oh’ expression before cocking his head to the side in confusion, “I was the one who fixed the Jason Project? Wait, did you guys not realise I’m Dread?”

Damian shouts out a ‘what?!’ That makes Titus jump and Tim laughs under his breath, “What did you think I was doing?”

“Running the business! Not stealing from people and black mailing politicians!”

It’s Tim’s turn to growl now and he stands up himself with a glare at Bruce that is as close as any of them have gotten to the famed Bat-Glare, “Are you fucking kidding me? Like are you a Tully kidding me with that horse shit?”

Bruce looks stunned and Alfred doesn’t even tell him not to swear.

Tim slams his chair into the table.

“What the fuck else would I be doing, Bruce? I’m not Robin, that was taken from me, so what else was I gonna do? I finished my job, not only keeping you from killing anyone but bringing you back, so I had do pick something else. I’m not stealing from the rich, I’m stealing from selfish cunts who ruin peoples lives for no reason and giving it to people like Jason. So, don’t you fucking yell at me and don’t try to make me feel bad for this, not when I’ve done more in two years than you ever have and- don’t you fucking speak Dick, not when you were the one who took my place here away from me! Now, I have a trafficking ring I need to expose so good. Fucking. Day.”

Jason is the only one who follows him.

[cathnospam]

Content Warning: College MHA AU, Reader is….weird(ish), Bakugo is somewhat clueless

You don’t know why, but your boyfriend being a crash out is hot.

Maybe it’s the toxicity in you, maybe you’re a sadomasochist, whatever the case may be, but Bakugo getting riled up is probably the top 5 hottest things you’ve seen.

Nobody understands why you like it so much, Mina thinks you’ve been brainwashed, Kiri tries not to judge, but calls you weird, Denki thinks it’s scary and you might be in danger, and Sero finds it hilarious.

Even Deku, he was the first to notice how you smirk and get all giggly when Bakugo is cursing someone out on the field and straight up blasting his heart out when he’s sparring with the poor bastard he’s against.

“Are you smiling?”

“What?”

“You’re smiling, a lot. When Kacchan blasted that wall down unnecessarily you started to smile—“

“Don’t worry about it, Izuku.”

Everybody notices it, but him.

He does notice how much clingier you are after a fight, or after he finishes yelling at someone, or even when he’s mad you’re just there stealing glances and grinning . It’s not that big of a deal to him, but he doesn’t know WHY you do it.

He’s always like this. He’s always been a hot head, that was your first impression of him.

But being a relationship with him made you see in him a new light.

He’s yelled at you plenty of times before, he still does, but it’s not similar to how he does Kaminari or even Deku. It’s usually just passive aggressive comments, mixed with grumbling.

Today was no different he was already annoyed Todoroki got the highest score during the exams and he had to spar with Monoma so of course that plus his taunt really had Bakugo in a mood.

You loved it.

Seeing him blast through walls, his fangs more prominent when he yells, the way his veins pop out of his shoulders and neck. You’re so sick in the head for liking it.

You watched, looking as dazed as you usually are when you see your Blondie fight around. You nearly began to bite your lip until Bakugo caught you.

His brows furrowed for a split second, before dodging Monoma’s move. You had to straight up.

Later that evening Bakugo began to watch you with a thoughtful look. In the common area he walked past you before saying, “Meet me outside. Now.”

“Alright what the hell is your problem. You have been staring at me all day like a fucking piece of meat. You horny…..~”

“No you dick.” You slap his arm, sitting beside him on the bench, “You just looked really good today.”

“I always look good—“

“You look AIIGHT?….You just….I like how you look when you’re fighting. And yelling. And mad—“

“You’re a damn masochist.”

“No I’m not!” You scoff making him break into a chuckle, he figured you liked SOMETHING he was doing he just couldn’t put him finger on it. He smirks at you, “Is that why you like pissing me off huh?” He playfully states while he wraps his arm around your neck and nudges you forehead with his knuckles, “Always fucking annoying the shit out me? Like seeing me mad?”

You share a laugh with him and push him off, “Maybe!..SO!? Who cares I’m complimenting you you bastard.”

“Right…” Bakugo ponders, studying your face as you both sit on the bench outside, “You’re a weird ass, is this your way of telling me I should yell at you more?”

“…” You side eye him and he immediately starts pointing at you in fake disbelief, as if he were about to insult you, “I’m kidding! I don’t want you GENUINELY angry at me.”

The blonde smirks, throwing his arm over your shoulder, he couldn’t ever be actually angry at you. He does however like to know that his outburst don’t annoy you as much as he thought they did.

[muqingslover]

[ This is different than what I usually post but I had to get this out of my system. The new DMC show brought back so many memories and idc what the haters say it's PEAK.

Anyway, to the DMC lovers out there, please accept this humble offering ]

Being in a relationship with Dante. | some NSFW included.

⊹— He may be the best demon hunter but in a relationship? He's the BIGGEST loser. Dante is always throwing some lame pick-up line your way and believe me when I say he will not give up until one sticks. (Spoiler warning: The fact that it actually works only makes him want to do it again)

—⊹ Dating Dante is not for the faint hearted. You have to be ready for all kinds of beyond ridiculous situations and have a godly amount of adaptability.

⊹— He will ALWAYS answer the phone for you. Literally. It doesn't matter what he's doing or where he is he will pick up the second he sees your name on the screen.

"Babe? Oh yeah! I'm totally still up for dinner! By the way, can you add those pieces of chocolate again to— *Approaching yelling in the background* Just a sec! *Crashing sounds and gunshots* Whew, okay, anyway like I was saying—"

—⊹ Oh yeah, he loooooves using pet names and silly nicknames. His personal favorites are "Babe" and "My little luck charm".

⊹— He likes to give you "traditional" dating gifts because that's what he always saw others do so when he shows up with a big ass teddy bear and a box of chocolates (which by the way he definitely ate some before giving it to you) please tell him you love it.

—⊹ Bro is so competitive. Dante is NOT letting you win in card games or any other board games because he wants to show off his skills to you. Though, if you get genuinely upset he would feel bad and invite you to play video games with him because he fails miserably at them every time.

⊹— His hands grab your ass every time you hug him. Not even in a sexual way he just can't help it and he never fails to throw a "nice ass" right after.

—⊹ Missing jewelry, hat or belt from your closet? He's the culprit. This guy will wear anything as long as he believes he looks good in it. I pray for you if you guys are a similar size because then you will have full clothing pieces missing.

⊹— He is THE hype man. Dante kisses the ground you walk on and he supports your rights and rights (because you could never do any wrong ;)).

—⊹ Dante's favorite thing is to show you off in every opportunity he gets. And if he doesn't have the opportunity then he'll just do it anyway. He is constantly yapping about how incredibly hot his partner is, how good your cooking is, how cute you look when you're focused and the way you smell so damn good all the time like, man! You're a freaking gift from the gods! (someone save poor Lady she can't bear to listen to him any more)

⊹— Please also hype him back in return! He has the worst praise kink case I've ever seen. Each time he's praised he just doesn't know what to do with himself and despite the initial cocky attitude he is easy to overwhelm if you don't stop. The first time you praised him while patting his head or scratching his chin he got a hard-on and had to rush out with a poor excuse before you noticed it.

—⊹ There is nothing romantic about sharing a bed with him. It's an absolute nightmare. First of all, this guy is physically incapable of sleeping with his clothes on. He just can't do it. Dante used to sleep butt ass naked but then you convinced him to at least wear boxers. Next on the list of problems is the snoring— Like, it's so loud you thought there was a truck engine next to you instead of your boyfriend. Not to mention the fact he takes up all space on the bed and moves around SO MUCH while he's asleep.

Please invest in separate beds before you kill him.

⊹— Absolutely hates morning. Getting him out of bed is the hardest thing to do and that's saying a lot with the life you two lead. He will keep you trapped in bed with him by wrapping his strong arms around your waist only to when you get up he sloooowly slides off the mattress and onto floor like a worm hanging to you.

—⊹ Surprisingly, or not, very insecure. This man is not controlling in any way though, he is just very worried that he won't be able to protect you if something was to happen or that you will realize you made a mistake by being with him.

⊹— His favorite thing is to make you smile. I know a lot of people paint him as stupid but I genuinely think he just acts silly as a defense mechanism. It's a mask. With you, though? He will purposely act like a dork because he knows it makes you smile.

—⊹ To add to that, Dante does everything he can to keep your spirits up; Someone hurt your feelings? No need to fret, he’s already planning their downfall. Feeling under the weather? tickle monster time! Migraine? He is closing the curtains and cuddling you until it gets better!

⊹— The filter between his brain and mouth is naturally bad but with you, who he is truly comfortable with, it's just INEXISTENT. This may range from random, useless bullshit to out of pocket comments that should definitely not be said out loud.

—⊹ Physical contact is his thing. I mean, he NEEDS it and can be very high maintenance about it. Having his hands on you is not enough for Dante he has to be as close as physically possible and you need to be giving him some kind of attention in return.

⊹— Hugging you from behind when you're cook, snuggling while on the couch together, keeping a firm arm hooked around your waist while outside, constantly nuzzling his nose on your hair, kissing your neck at every chance he gets, pulling you into his lap as if it's his second nature ECT.

—⊹ Did I mention he adores your hair? In particular long hair because then he can fidget with it by twirling it around his finger or by being a dork and putting it between his lips and nose to make a mustache.

⊹— Your lips are like a drug to him. He will be saying "okay, okay I REALLY gotta bail now" and then stare at you for a solid two seconds then steal another kiss and another and another....oops, he's 30 minutes late already.

—⊹ Dante is a biter. God help you when you give him cuteness aggression (which is basically always) because he will chew on you like candy. Your skin is often red from teeth marks and he doesn't feel sorry about it at all.

⊹— Cannot cook to save his life but absolutely loves your food. Especially if you're good at baking! Man's scarfing down those sweet treats like it's his last meal on earth.

—⊹ He sings while he's showering and holds the bottle of shampoo to you like a microphone so you'll join him. Oh and yes, he is VERY tone-deaf.

⊹— No matter how many times he sees you naked he never gets tired of that blessed sight. He flirts with you like it's the first time he's seeing you and those naughty eyes speak for themselves.

—⊹ He has a high libido, especially in the beginning of the relationship where he's even more excitable than usual. Sex can be very clumsy and messy with him, but that's just what makes it so him.

⊹— If you're a breasty lady, he is reaaaaaally into you using your boobs to get him off. Dante also enjoys having your lips around his cock more than words could describe and a quickie in dark, tight spaces is part of the package with him.

—⊹ Bondage is a guilty pleasure of his. Dante prefers to be the one restrained and left at your mercy instead of the other way around because it's just very hot to him when you take control. You're also the only one he would trust to be this vulnerable with.

⊹— This guy is always late for EVERYTHING, but he shows up without a fail in the end. No matter how battered or tired he might be, not even if he was run over by a truck, he will definitely be there.

[reiderwriter]

Little Angel

Pairing: Spencer Reid × virgin!fem reader

Genre: SMUT, some fluff, a little tiny smidge of angst. MINORS DNI 18+

Summary: As the youngest and most innocent member of the BAU, they all take care of their little angel. When they find out just how innocent you are, though, one member takes his possession to the next level. You're his little angel, and he's determined to have you.

Warnings: loss of virginity, loss of innocence, degradation, pet names, oral sex, thigh riding, fingering, cum marking, love bites, Spencer is territorial and possessive, Dom! Spencer Reid, PinV sex, mentions breeding, but he pulls out.

A/N: We've reached Day 8 of kinktober! It's our second "long" fic, meaning there's a bit more plot to this, and the smut scene is longer too (WC is almost 7k!) I hope you love this one just as much as I did... The kinktober masterlist can be found here, and my regular masterlist is here too! If you want something specific, my requests are open ❤️

Your first three months with the BAU were a blur, and for good reason. Endless cases, back-to-back, interrupted only by the slight hint of a weekend or the ever possible death row interview. You were tired, stressed, and afraid to walk home alone at night, and absolutely satisfied. As far as you were concerned, it was all worth it to get these monsters off the streets, to help save their victims and to find out what made them tick. There was nothing else you'd rather be doing. 

The team had helped you settle in well, too. You'd joined the team after Alex Blake had left - she'd recommended you actually from the college seminars you'd taken with her. You were obviously lacking a bit of experience, so they took on two team members, and you and Kate Callahan had the great opportunity of both being the newbie. But you had a slight disadvantage of age, coming in as the youngest member of the team. You thought that might be why you'd settled in so well, in all honesty. 

Hotch and Rossi were both protective in a fatherly way. Hotch pushed you and Rossi encouraged you and that was everything you needed from them. A strong pat on the back at the end of a case and a "you did good, kid," and whatever hell they'd pushed you through, it was worth it. Morgan's tough love was brotherly, but he did a great job at getting you to relax on and off the case, reminding you to not take the work home. JJ and Kate were great mentors. It wasn't easy being women in the FBI, let alone the unit that specifically looked into some of the most misogynistic killings, rapes and abductions in the world. They both gave you tips about how to handle condescending officers, and JJ had held your hair back after you'd puked your guts up on a particularly harrowing day in the field. With Penelope, friendship was easy, and you loved talking to her about whatever hyperfixation you were on that week, loving that there was someone on your team that had filled their life with genuine joy in the face of so much horror. 

And Spencer. Honestly, you were beginning to think that you'd used Spencer as a human stuffed toy a bit too much. 

You don't know how it happened at first, just that after one of your first few cases, you'd been so elated to find a victim alive, safe but traumatised, that you'd thrown yourself into his arms the minute you got back to the precinct. 

"We did it, I thought she was going to be dead, Spencer but she isn't." Your head was pressed into his chest, you were almost surprised he even heard them, muffled as they were. If you weren't so elated, you'd have noticed the way he'd stiffened at your touch, panicking slightly before awkwardly wrapping his arms around you, too. But you pulled away before you could notice that he wasn't really used to any physical comfort, bouncing off to write up your case report. 

Spencer noticed, though. Noticed how the heat of your body made him feel comforted, the way his heart rate increased to 125 BPM from it's base rate and didn't fall back to normal for another half hour. He noticed that you smelt like jasmine and patchouli, and more importantly, he noticed that he didn't really care if you touched him, and that was new. 

It became a kind of ritual for you, finding him after a case and folding into his arms to celebrate. They were friendly hugs, after all, a sign that you'd been through hell together, and you'd made it through like avenging angels. They only lingered longer when the cases went badly. You turned to crying in his arms after you'd discovered the body of a dead street girl, Veronica, in pieces in the house of an unsub who'd committed suicide by cop moments earlier. 

"I told her she'd be safe if she talked to us, Reid. I told her we'd protect her, that I'd protect her." You were so hurt by that failure that he'd had to drive you home that night, holding your hand the entire way so you didn't feel so alone, left to fester in your guilt. 

The rest of the team had begun teasing you about the hugs, but you'd brushed them off. You hugged everyone else too, and you knew for a fact that Penelope hugged every member of the team, so there was nothing special going on between you and Spencer. No one had deigned to inform you of Spencer's germophobia and aversion to touch. 

"Gonna tell me what that's all about?" Morgan asked Spencer as you bounced away from a hug one day, leaving to remove your FBI vest. 

"What what's all about?" He replied coldly, turning away to remove his own vest, replacing it with his blazer. 

"What, you don't have a statistic for how many germs are passed between people during a hug, Kid, come on, you were practically smelling her hair." The older man's eyebrows raised in a question again, but Spencer continued to blow him off. 

"I hug people all the time, it's not a big deal." He shrugged. 

"It took you four years to return one of Penelope's hugs, and you still only do that on special occasions. That's not all the time." 

"Derek, just drop it. There's nothing going on, she just… She just does it sometimes." 

It was when you'd hugged him in the middle of the office, without a case to use as an excuse, that you noticed an underlying tension in the office. You were all celebrating, of course, Callahan had just announced her pregnancy, and you were all so happy for her. You'd heard the happy news and instantly turned and thrown yourself into Spencer's arms. Even you weren't sure why, not even questioning it until you saw the awkward glances on the other profilers' faces. You brushed it off by rushing to give each of them hugs, and running out in a mad flush, needing air, or water or something to get you out of what was looking more and more like an interrogation room. 

A few cases later, the entire team headed to O'Keefe's to celebrate. 

"To another case successfully solved," Morgan toasted, and you all joined him, lifting your glasses in triumph. 

"To the wonders of non-alcoholic beer," chimed in Kate, leaving you all laughing together. The booth was small, and as usual, you'd found yourself sat right in the arms of Spencer Reid. You hadn't intended it, honestly, having slightly avoided him recently, but you'd followed Penelope into her side of the circular table, and Reid had followed you. You were sat squished between them, your arms resting awkwardly on your lap between drinks. 

"Okay, a night of drinking is slightly boring without some games to spice things up, what do you say, hot chocolate?" Penelope said, addressing Morgan who was on her other side. 

"I'm all ears, baby girl. What were you thinking?" 

"How about twenty questions? We already know a lot about each other, let's see what we don't know?" Kate suggested, thriving off of the knowledge that as the sole sober member present, she'd hold all the cards tomorrow. 

"What, how is asking questions a game?" Reid questioned jokingly from beside you. "That's just an interrogation or a therapy session, there's no winner or loser."  

Already slightly buzzing from your drink, you turned to him and out your fingers in his lips, shushing him. 

"No time for logic in matters of the bottle, Spencer. Let's play." He pulled your fingers off him, but nodded, holding them in his grip still as you turned back to the table. 

"I'll start! JJ, are you and Will thinking of having more baby LaMontagne's?" Penelope jumped at the chance to probe her teammate, and you laughed at her enthusiasm. 

"There have been discussions, but I'll not confirm or deny yet." JJ said, taking a sip of her drink as she slyly avoided a direct answer. 

"I always forget why you were so good with the press, Miss No Answers. Okay, your turn to ask a question." 

"Okay, Morgan. Are you thinking of popping the question to Savannah anytime soon?" 

"Did she send you?" He laughed and took a drink. "If I do, she'll be the first to know." 

The game went back and forth like this for a few rounds before Penelope turned the spotlight back to you. 

"Okay, Y/N. You were a college student recently, I know you've got some wild stories. Where's the craziest place you've ever done it?" You knew Penelope didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. She was just an open person. 

But you shifted in your seat nonetheless, trying to figure out if you could answer or even if you would. Your tongue was a bit looser than you expected though, because before you could even finish thinking you just blurted it out. 

"Nowhere." 

The others blinked at you slightly before Penelope dived in with another question. 

"Is that Nowhere, Oaklahoma, or you're just not having sex in crazy places?" 

"No. I'm not… I'm not having sex. Period. Never have." You felt yourself shrink as the other members of the team awkwardly apologised for probing you so much. Really it wasn't that big of a deal, and it wasn't as if you were saving it for religious or moral reasons. But you'd not been the most popular teenager, and you'd started studying serial killers and sociopaths so early that you really hadn't wanted to get so intimate with someone else like that. 

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer's grip on his own drink had tightened ever so slightly, his heart race had picked up again, and suddenly the hand that was holding yours suddenly let you go, quietly dropping your fingers like they were glowing cinders, and he was dripping in gasoline, waiting to ignite. 

Lust. He felt sick with himself for the images that were suddenly flashing through his mind now that he knew you'd never been held in that way, trying not to fantasise about you underneath him, holding him, begging him, feeling all of him. He took another swig of his drink and politely excused himself to get another as he let himself catch some air, as the sudden realization that he wanted you - and had wanted you for quite some time now - finally hit him.

The next couple of weeks were normal, and you were thankful to have that discussion behind you. No one treated you differently, acted like you were more of a child than before, asked you how your dating life was or set you up on blind dates, which was really refreshing actually. You'd let some friends know previously, and that's all they'd done, surprised that you could live ignorant to wonders of sex without shrivelling up and dying. 

The only thing that was different was Spencer. And that wasn't really difference so much as growing more comfortable with each other. He'd rest his hand on the small of your back now in support sometimes, or have a hand slung over the back of your chair when sitting together. He was constantly at your side, especially if you were around male suspects or officers who'd taken a bit of a ballsy approach. 

You liked it, probably a bit too much. You gravitated towards him in a room filled with people, and found yourself hugging him more often, when you left a room, when you entered one, when he looked like he needed it. Which, recently, was all the time. A month went by with this increased comfort level, and soon you found yourself feeling wrong if his hands weren't on you. 

He stood close to you all the time, and you noticed the stares you were getting from everyone else. A few officers who'd approach you would apologise to him when they noticed him at your back, hand on your hip as he pulled you away. 

After one case, you could even swear that you felt more than him than you were expecting. He'd moved away slightly in between one of your hugs, but you'd pulled his arms back around you and stepped closer, pressing your back against his chest, letting your head rest on his arms. Something hard and long wedged up against your ass, and in a split second he was pulling away before you could ask him about it. He excused himself, and you felt your body burn up. It was Spencer, it was just Spencer and that wasn't because of you, it was some other reason. 

Spencer didn't know what he was doing. He grew more possessive over you by the day, and he'd honestly nearly bitten the head off an officer who asked him for your number. 

"Sorry, she doesn't have a phone." 

"But I saw her with one earlier. Look I get it she's FBI, and you guys are-" 

"Okay, so she's not interested."

"Hey, why don't you let her decide that wise guy?" 

"Oh sure, get angry I'm sure she'd love that. She's not interested, she has me." He couldn't help himself from getting in the officers face at that, and Morgan had to pull him back from the edge. 

"Wow, wow, hey, calm down." The officer stormed out, and he felt triumphant for only a second before Morgan rounded on him. 

"Whatever this thing you've got going on, Spencer, you need to get it out of your system as soon as possible." His voice was low and stern, throwing a glance over his shoulder to where you were sitting, staring confusedly through the glass at Spencer, whose eyes refused to move from your own. 

" I just wanted him to back off, she doesn't like him like that."

"No, you wanted him to back off because you've marked her like some animal marking its territory. She's not your prey, Spencer, she's our team member, now you're gonna have to get your act together and leave her alone, because we've got work to do." 

Sighing and throwing his hands through his hair again, he finally looked away from you and gathered his breath. He wanted to stop this too, this horrible perverted feeling of needing his hands on you, wanting to possess you day and night. To protect you. He just wasn't sure if he was strong enough to do that. 

The next time you all went to O'Keefe's he certainly tried. You expected him to follow you into the booth again - he didn't, sitting opposite you next to JJ. You expected him to talk to you or look at you for more than a second at a time - he didn't, avoiding most conversations entirely and keeping his eyes fixed on the bar. You certainly expected him to still be sat at the table when you returned from the bathroom, ready to slip into the seat beside him, force him to talk to you. Instead he was gone, and you scanned the rest of the bar trying to locate him. 

Something green and vile jumped you when you finally locked onto him, stood at the bar, surrounded by other women. Surrounded was maybe an exaggeration, as there were really only two of them, but they were practically draping themselves over him, and for some reason that set something alight inside of you. 

You watched them for a moment, how one of them trailed a hand up his arm as he shuddered away from their touch, the other pressing herself against the bar so her chest pushed up dramatically. The green bile in your throat carried your feet forwards, and before you knew it, you were clearing it from your throat to grab their attentions. 

"Spencer, there you are!" You brightened your tone specifically, as you locked eyes with his panicked ones. The two girls looked you up and down as you moved closer, brushing past them to climb up right into his lap on the barstool, pulling his arm around you as you pressed your ass into his crotch. 

"Are you going to introduce me to your new friends?" The smile didn't reach your eyes as you let your back rest against his chest comfortably, watching the women to see their reactions. The one touching him pulled her arm back instantly, and the other readjusted her dress before they both left silently, carrying their glasses back to wherever they came from. 

You watched them leave a little triumphantly before the green faded, and you realised what you had done. 

"Y/N…?" His voice was hesitant in your ear, and you shivered slightly before pushing off of him. 

"I'm so sorry, Spence, it just- it… looked like you were hard." You panicked again, pushing closer to him. "No, like you were in a hard situation, not that you were," your hand accidentally dropped to his crotch as you spoke your final words: "Hard."

He twitched beneath you as you finally looked down to where your hand was, as his mouth opened to say something. 

"Y/N…" was all you heard before you turned around, and fast walked to the entrance, picking your bag up quickly on the way, and then sprinted the second the cold air hit your face. 

You cursed yourself inwardly as you ran the three blocks more to your apartment, thankful that you were at least in walking (or apparently running) distance. What the hell had you been thinking? Practically sexually harassing one of your coworkers like that, grabbing his dick, albeit accidentally. 

You slammed your door shut behind you, leaning against it and sliding to the floor as you finally accepted that whatever this was with Reid, it wasn't friendship for you anymore. And you weren't sure if it had ever been. 

With your head between your legs, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, you started replaying each moment with him, each touch from the very first. How even the memory of a brush past you could excite a fire in your heart, a heat between your legs growing by the second. 

You wanted to crawl pathetically into bed and not think about him until the next morning at work,  but fate, or Doctor Spencer Reid, had other plans. 

The knock at your door was sudden and incessant, the banging starting loud, and staying consistent until you tentatively pulled it open. 

He was stood there, chest heaving, looking down at you, sweat coating his forehead. 

"Can I… Come in?" He asked, and you nodded, too stunned at his sudden appearance to tell if this was real or just your fantasy becoming a little too realistic. 

He thanked you for letting him inside, and you showed him inside, guiding him to he couch, where you took a seat opposite him. 

"I wanted to make sure you were okay, you left in a rush and…" He trailed off, eyes flicking down to your lips. His Adam's apple bobbed with his swallow, and you watched it yourself, trying to avoid meeting his eyes, as if you were a schoolgirl about to get in trouble with a disappointed teacher. 

"I'm okay." 

"Okay, that's great, that's… Great." His breaths caught up to him, and he took another deep breath and a swallow before continuing. "How about we continue that game from last time. Twenty questions?" 

You'd do anything to stop him walking out of that door, but you felt too shy to touch him again, even in the friendly ways you were used to, so you eagerly accepted. 

"Yes, that… That sounds fun, thank you." 

"Okay. Question one. Do you know why I'm here?" He asks as he shifts closer to you, still not touching, but at a proximity where it would be natural to accidentally brush against one another. 

"N-No. But I might have an idea." He nodded at your response before moving on to his next question. 

"Question two. Are you a virgin?" He didn't trip or stumble over the words, pushing them out slowly and delicately so as not to offend. 

"Yes." The lump in your throat was thick, almost as if he'd put something there that you couldn't help but choke on. 

"Question three. Do you want to remain a virgin?" 

You shook your head no, following it with your voice seconds later as he stood up from his seat, putting some distance between you. 

"Question four. Do you feel intoxicated or drunk right now?" He held himself still as you sat on the very edge of your chair, desperate to feel his hands on you now. 

"No, I only had one sip at the bar before…" He held up a hand to silence you, and you did. 

Question five. Answer me honestly. Do you like it when I touch you?" 

"Yes." Your breath was a whisper, but it was breathy, sounding almost pornographic in your neediness. 

"Question six. Do you like it when other people touch you?" 

"Do you?" His head snapped back to yours, and you froze under his gaze. "Not as much." You answered and relaxed again, pouting slightly at his lack of answer. 

"Question seven. Do you like me touching other people?" He took a step closer to you again with this question, but you continued pouting as you shook your head. 

"No. I don't." His lips quirked upwards before he could stop them, but he gathered himself together again. 

"Question eight. Do you want me to leave?" You met his eyes at that question, taking one good, hard, long look at him. You noted the tensed jaw, the clenched fists, his stiff body language, trailing your eyes over him before looking him directly in the eyes. 

"No." You let the word hang on your tongue, pulling it out a bit longer than was necessary as you watched him take in a shaky breath. 

"Question nine. Do you want me to come over there and kiss you?" 

"God, yes." He was on you in seconds, restraints gone, throwing himself back at you as his lips collided with your own. Virgin you may be, but you'd kissed men before, and it had been nothing like this. 

His hands trailed up to your hair, tipping your head back slightly so he could gain better access. He bit your lip and thrust his tongue into your mouth when you gasped, so eager to consume every part of you whole. 

You'd never felt like this before. 

He pulled away, and you tried desperately to chase his lips, even as your lungs begged you to stop. 

"Last question," he whispered in the space between you, holding the sides of your face at a distance so neither of you could be tempted to dive in for a second kiss, or a third, or fourth. "Do you want me to fuck you?" You whimpered at his words, nodding furiously as you tried to lunge at him again, but he held you firm. 

"I need you to say your answer, baby. I need to hear your consent, okay?" You nod again and open your mouth, eyes never leaving his lips as you moan out a definitive "yes."

Instead of letting your lips fall against his again, he lunges for you, grabbing your legs and hauling you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style all the way back to your bedroom. 

"Gonna do it right," he mutters to himself as he throws you down on the bed, pulling back to take off his jacket and unbutton the cuffs on his shirt, rolling the sleeves up meticulously. 

"I'm going to take care of you, Y/N, okay?" You nod at him and flush, suddenly feeling the strength of his need for you as he holds himself back. He puts his hands on you again, gently coaxing your legs apart, pushing your skirt up over your hips. Reflexively, you move your hands over yourself, covering your sensitive places with your hands. 

"Don't cover yourself." His voice is strong, deep, as he orders you, and you let your arms drop back to your side. He traces his hands up and down your legs, almost as if he were memorising every inch of your skin, how you felt under his hands. 

His hands make their way up to your panties, and you watch with baited breath as he moves you, pulling your hips up so he can let them fall down. The lace material tickles you as he pushes them past your thighs, over your knees and finally off your legs entirely, balling them up and putting them in his pocket. 

"I'm going to touch you now, okay?" He asks it like a question, but he doesn't wait for your answer, unable to hold himself back before diving straight between your legs, so desperate to taste you that he's deaf to everything else. 

His tongue connects with your sensitive area first, tracing up and down at a steady pace as his legs half-heartedly push your legs open. It's almost as if he's enjoying the pressure of your legs wrapped around him, suffocating between your thighs as he feels your pleasure build, and build. 

Eventually he pushes your hips further apart, letting himself push his face into even more of you, his tongue entering your hole as he begins fucking it in and out of you, fingers coming back up to your clit to keep up the pressure there. 

"Spencer, please, please, fuck." 

"I love it when you beg for me like a needy little slut," he whispers, holding your legs apart as he looked up at you, face slick with your arousal. Your mouth drops wide at his words, and he immediately begins to retract them. 

"I'm sorry, Y/N, if that was too far, I just got caught up -" 

"I liked it." You said, quieting him as you spread your legs a bit further apart, begging for him to continue. He smiled and dived right back in, bringing his other hand up under your dress, all the way to your chest as you kept your legs open yourself. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth, lapping up all the juices you were releasing as you moaned underneath him, bucking into his face at the memory of his degradation. 

You were a needy little slut, and you needed him to make you cum. He was more than happy to oblige. 

He kept you there for what felt like forever, drinking you in for as long as he could. You orgasmed twice before he finished, completely overstimulated by the way he was desperately fucking you with his mouth. 

He was obsessed with you, with your scent, your taste, with being the first ever person to ever touch you like this, to fuck you, to make you feel so good. Without him even realising, you're pushed to the brink for a second time, shuddering under the heat of his mouth as he drinks you in. 

He finally pulls his head up again, coming up for air as you're twitching under him. 

"Perfect, baby, so perfect for me." His lips fall down to your own, and suddenly you're tasting yourself on his tongue. It's hypnotising, and despite the pleasure you've just received, you need more, desperate to feel him on you again. 

When he pulls his mouth away, he replaces himself with his fingers, pushing them into your mouth. 

"Suck," he says and you listen, as he watches the way you lick yourself off of him. 

He unzips your dress with his free hand, carefully pulling your arms out of the sleeves and pushing your dress off your body. You trace your tongue around every ridge of his fingers, leaving no inch undiscovered. He moved you to pull the dress of, and you graciously followed, letting him do whatever he wanted to you. 

"Nice little slut, tasting herself on my fingers?" He whispered when you were finally bare, pulling his fingers from your mouth, letting the trail of spit hang between you as you moaned. 

He removed himself from over you, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. 

"Come here. Come and sit on my lap." 

You cautiously followed his directions. You'd thought that he'd fuck you then, after spending so long getting you ready, but apart from his tie, which he was in the middle of discarding as you crawled over to him, he hadn't derobed any further. 

"That's it baby, come and sit yourself down right here." He pat his thigh and you crawled over, lowering yourself down onto his clothed leg. 

"What now, Spencer?" You stuttered the words out, heart beating as you awaited his instructions. 

"Now, I want you to rock your hips back and forth. Just like this." He grabbed your hips and started moving you against his leg, pushing you down to grind into him. 

"Spencer, wait, I don't know-" 

"I do. I know you can do it, so please try. For me." You pulled you in for a kiss, and then removed his hands from you, leaving you to rock against his thigh. 

You were unsure of the movements at first, moving slowly as you dragged your aching cunt up and down the top of his pants, watching as you saw the wet patch you were making. You moaned with each movement, growing faster and more confident as you continued. 

"That's it baby, use me to get yourself off, okay? Let me see you." He whispered in your ears, pushing your sweat-slicked hair ou of your face, holding it up for you. 

"Spencer please," you don't even know what you're asking for as you beg him, feeling that familiar bubble in your stomach grow. 

"No, you can do it. You look so beautiful like this, Y/N, so desperate for my cock, huh?" You start trying to unbutton his shirt, desperate to see more of him, to feel more of his bare skin on your own. But he stops your hands and holds them against his chest. 

"You need to ask nicely first, before trying to undress me like a needy little whore." The words should sound violent, should humiliate you, but his voice is so soft you simply move faster, moaning and desperate to cum one more time. 

"Fuck, Spencer, I'm gonna… I'm gonna…" 

"No, you're not." Before you finish, he pulls you off his leg, hauling your body back onto the bed, and laying you back down on your back. You moan in disapproval, so frustrated with the lack of release that you feel tears prick the corners of your eyes. 

"Don't cry, baby. I'll give you what you want soon." He practically rips his clothes off, pulling his vest over his head, stumbling over each button and removing his belt and pants before climbing over to you. His cock finally free you take your first glance at it. 

You'd never entirely been sure how it was that the male appendage fit inside something as small as your pussy, and you were doubly unsure about how Spencer's was ever going to fit inside you. You stared at it wide eyed, as you took in the length, the girth, and the heat of it as he stroked it in one hands, pushing on top of you. 

He let go of it as soon as he was between your legs, letting it fall onto your stomach as he crawled between your legs. He trailed a finger over your lower abdomen just around where his cock was twitching against you as his other hand came up to stroke your hair. 

"You look worried, Y/N, what's wrong?" 

"Will it, um, will it fit?" You asked, knowing how cliché you sounded. 

"We've spent the last thirty-seven minutes loosening you up with foreplay. It should fit, but I can't promise it won't hurt."

"Right, if my hymen is still intact you have to…" 

"That's right. And then it's going to reach all the way in you to here," with each word, he stepped his fingers up from your clit to where the tip of his dick sat on your stomach, letting you come to terms with exactly how full you were about to be. 

"I'm going to fill you, and you're going to be mine, and I'm going to be yours. My sweet angel." He stroked your face, catching his thumb on your lips on the way down, tempted to thrust it into your mouth again, to see just how much of a whore you could be, given the chance. 

Instead, he lined himself up with your dripping core, and, making sure one last time that this is what you wanted, slowly pushed in. 

It was uncomfortable at first, having something so wholly alien inside of you, you weren't sure how to react. You wrapped your arms around him, digging your nails in, deep, as he pushed in further. 

"Y/N, I need to move more now, and it's going to hurt a little, you just have to trust me, okay?" He kissed the top of your head, but you were so lost in the sensations to answer. With one swift jerk of his hips, he pushed through your hymen, and fully sheathed himself inside of you. He pressed small kisses everywhere on your face, while whispering to you how beautiful you were. 

"You're doing so good for me angel, I'm going to take care of you. Going to make you feel so much better than this. You're so beautiful." His lips were distractingly sweet, as were his words, and soon you found yourself relaxing into him, the sharp pain of earlier fading to an electric buzz inside of you. 

You jerked your hips up to meet his, and with that, he knew you were ready. From his words, you'd assumed that he'd move slowly in you. But with one final lingering kiss to your lips, he lifted his chest up, pinned your legs tightly down, and started thrusting hard and fast. 

"Sorry, just couldn't help myself baby. Needed to see you looking ruined underneath me." Moans spilled out of your mouth with his every movement, and the orgasm you'd built up earlier hit you like a ton of bricks, blackness hazing over your eyes as they rolled back in your head. 

"Fuck, fuck, Spencer, don't stop!" You screamed at the top of your lungs, unable to control your pitch or volume as he slammed into you desperately. He was so turned on by the sight of you beneath him, so proud of having fucked away your virginity, to have given you your very first penetrative orgasm that he wouldn't have heard anything that came out of your mouth. 

His eyes were fixated at the place between you, where you joined, where he was entering you, defiling you, claiming you, using you, breeding you. 

He knew he wouldn't cum inside of you, not the first time, but it was tempting. Instead, he chose to move his lips back to your skin. He marked you with love bites and hickeys across your neck, chest and shoulders as you moaned with every roll of his hips, shuddering on his cock. He was close. And seeing you like this, displaying all the signs that you were his and his only, he finally lost it. 

Pulling his dick out of you, he stroked it through his release, spraying his seed over the parts of your skin he hadn't bruised with love. Your stomach, your breasts, hell, one spurt even landed dangerously close to your lips, he was everywhere. You. Were. His. 

He fell beside you, panting for a few moments as you finally cracked your eyes back open, realising what the two of you had just done. You wiped the cum from your face with a stray finger, staring at it for a second before licking it off your finger. 

"As hot as that was, I think we should get you cleaned up properly, angel." He spends forever cleaning you up, carrying you to the bathroom, washing your entire body with hot water and a fresh cloth, running you a hot bath to relax your muscles. You snuggle into his chest at some point in the bath, relaxing so much into him, that you drift off to sleep. 

You feel him carry you to bed, semi-conscious, tucking you in and climbing in next to you. He holds you through the night, the way he holds you after your bad cases. He holds you until he doesn't. 

You're blindsided by the cold bed the next morning. You knew he would be there, you'd felt him inside you and next to you, and you'd needed his warmth, but he was gone. You looked for him in every other part of your home, looked for a note or an explanation, but there wasn't one. 

Through tears, you got ready for work, ready to face him and make him answer why he was suddenly gone. You wanted him to apologise, especially since he'd marked you so badly the night before you looked like a car crash victim from the neck down. 

Dark lavender blossomed along your collar bones as you looked at yourself in the mirror, trailing a finger along every place that he touched the night before. 

"How could you be so stupid?" You cursed yourself. If you'd have listened to what he was saying last night, really listened, you'd have known he wasn't going to be here in the morning. He wanted to ruin you, to possess you, to take away your virginity, and he'd done just that. 

You almost wanted to keep the bruises on display going into work, to make him confront the pain he caused you by leaving. In the end, it was the inevitable stares from everyone else that convinced you otherwise. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction. 

You pushed through the doors to the bullpen and didn't bother putting your bag down before you started scanning the room for him. 

"Where's Spencer?" You practically shouted the words at Morgan, unable to hold back your anger. 

"Y/N, what's wrong?" 

"Where is he?" You demand, and there must be something in your eyes that speaks to your devastation because Morgan shuts up and just points to the top of the stairs, where Spencer is exiting Hotch's office without a care in the world. 

You don't realise that something is tears until you're beating a hand against his chest in frustration as they spill down your face. 

"Where were you?" You demand, sobbing into his chest, as he pulls your hands away. The entire office is watching your commotion, but you don't care, you're not letting him move you out of the way. 

"Y/N, I need you to sign this." His voice is calm, and you hate him for that. That he can stay so neutral when he's just broken your heart. 

"No, not until you tell me why you left." 

"Sign the papers, Y/N, trust me." He pulls your chin up so you can look him in the eye, and you catch a glimpse of the man who has been holding you, comforting you for the last four months. You snatch the pen from him and sign the papers, thrusting them back at him with a scowl. 

He smiles as he looks down at them, placing them back on his desk before pulling you in for a long, deep kiss. You're shocked at first, but you melt into it, pulling him closer so he can't leave again. 

"I'm sorry. I had to come into the office to declare our relationship, Morgan sometimes tells me I have a one track mind, and when I woke up this morning, the one thing I wanted to do was get it in writing that you were mine." 

Your push the tears out of his face, and attempt to pull him down for another kiss. You don't get the chance, as the sound of several throats clearing around you burst your bubble. 

"Public space, no canoodling." Rossi shouts down at you from the balcony, a soft smirk on his face. 

Penelope runs in from her office, and stares wide-eyed at the lack of space between the two of you. "You! And you! Security cameras….. You!"

"Now, I'm sure there's a story here, but from the state of our little angel's neck here, I'm sure I don't want to hear it." Derek laughs, smacking Spencer on the back in praise as he walks up the stairs to the meeting room. 

You slap a hand over your neck, trying to pull the turtleneck further up to hide the mark you evidently missed. 

"She's my angel, now." Spencer calls up to him. "I have the paperwork to prove it."  

[luvashli]

PRIVATE SHOPPING

Synopsis -> When Chrome Hearts employee Y/N meets global idol Ni-ki, a professional encounter turns into forbidden tension. Despite the rules, their undeniable connection pushes them to risk everything for a chance at something real.

PAIRING: idol!ni-ki x fem!chromeheartsemployee!reader

GENRE: oneshot, romance, forbidden love, Celebrity/Non-Celebrity Relationship, Workplace Drama

STARTED: 1/26/2025

STATUS: complete

WC: 2.9k

Note: haha i just wrote this for fun, after seeing all those videos of ni-ki in the chrome hearts store on tiktok. Enjoy :)

The quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the otherwise silent Chrome Hearts shop. You were used to the serene atmosphere, where the only sounds were the clinks of jewelry and the murmurs of clients admiring the pieces.

Today, however, the shop wasn’t open to the public. A private appointment had been scheduled for someone important—so important that the entire store had been rented out for the occasion.

You adjusted a display of necklaces for the third time that morning, your hands steady but your thoughts racing. Your manager had emphasized the importance of professionalism today, which you found slightly redundant. Being professional was second nature to you.

When the glass door finally swung open, the sound startled you out of your thoughts. You straightened instinctively, your gaze falling on the figure walking in.

He was taller than you’d expected, his dark hair slightly tousled and his oversized hoodie making him look effortlessly casual. You recognized him immediately—Ni-ki, the youngest member of one of the most famous idol groups in the world.

His fame wasn’t something you actively followed, but even you couldn’t avoid hearing his name. It was everywhere—on billboards, in magazines, and in playlists.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted politely, bowing slightly as he stepped further into the shop.

He looked at you, his eyes curious but guarded. “Afternoon,” he replied, his voice quieter than you’d imagined it would be. He pulled down his mask slightly, revealing a polite smile.

“Feel free to let me know if you need assistance,” you added, keeping your tone neutral.

He nodded, his attention already wandering to the displays around him.

For a while, you let him browse in peace, watching discreetly as he moved from one case to another. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a sharpness to the way he observed each piece of jewelry, as if he were studying it.

Finally, he paused by a display of rings. You stepped forward, maintaining a respectful distance. “Are you looking for something specific today?”

“What would you recommend for someone who already owns a lot of Chrome Hearts?”

The question caught you slightly off guard. “That depends on what you’re looking for,” you replied smoothly. “Are you interested in adding to your collection, or are you looking for something unique?”

“Both,” he said, leaning casually against the counter. “I’ve been collecting Chrome Hearts for years. It’s kind of an obsession at this point.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious despite yourself. “An obsession?”

He smiled, sensing your interest. “Yeah. I think I was fifteen when I got my first piece—a ring. It was a gift from a stylist on one of our first shoots. Ever since then, I’ve been hooked. I love the craftsmanship, the designs... everything about it feels timeless.”

You nodded, genuinely impressed. “You don’t hear that often. Most clients are more interested in trends.”

“I’m not really into trends,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “I like things that have meaning, things that last. That’s why I keep coming back to Chrome Hearts. Every piece feels like it has a story.”

You considered his words for a moment, then reached into a nearby display case. “If that’s the case, you might like this.”

You handed him a silver chain with an intricately designed cross pendant. “This piece is part of a limited collection. The design is inspired by vintage Chrome Hearts from the early 2000s. It’s subtle, but the detail makes it stand out.”

Ni-ki examined the necklace closely, his fingers brushing over the pendant. “This is perfect,” he said after a moment.

“I’m glad you like it,” you replied, stepping back slightly.

As he continued to look at the piece, he glanced up at you. “You know a lot about this brand,” he remarked.

“It’s part of the job,” you said simply.

He smirked. “Yeah, but you sound like you actually care. That’s rare.”

You didn’t respond immediately, unsure how to take the compliment. Instead, you focused on returning the other pieces to their proper places.

“So, what about you?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“What about me?”

“Do you have a favorite piece from the collection?”

You hesitated, not used to being the one answering questions. “I don’t own any Chrome Hearts,” you admitted.

“Really?” He looked genuinely surprised.

“It’s not exactly in my budget,” you said with a small shrug.

He chuckled softly. “Fair enough. But if you could pick one piece, what would it be?”

You thought for a moment before pointing to a sleek silver cuff bracelet in one of the displays. “That one. It’s simple but versatile.”

Ni-ki followed your gaze, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Maybe one day I’ll see you wearing it.”

You glanced at him, unsure how to respond. Before you could say anything, he placed the necklace and a few other items on the counter.

He looked up at you then, his gaze lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “How long have you been working here?”

“Long enough to know what fits our clients,” you answered, deflecting the question slightly.

He chuckled softly, slipping the ring onto his finger. “You’re good at this.”

“Thank you.”

There was a brief silence as he admired the fit of the ring, and you took the opportunity to step back, giving him space.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly, catching you off guard.

You hesitated. “It’s Y/N,” you said eventually, keeping your tone polite.

“Y/N,” he repeated, as if testing how it sounded. “I like it.”

You offered a polite smile but didn’t respond, returning to rearranging a nearby display.

Ni-ki continued browsing, occasionally asking for your opinion on a piece. As the minutes turned into an hour, you found yourself impressed by his genuine interest in the craftsmanship. He wasn’t just buying for the sake of it—he seemed to truly appreciate the designs.

Still, you kept a professional distance, even as he grew more conversational.

“You’re really serious about this, huh?” he said at one point, leaning against the counter as you placed a necklace back into its case.

“It’s my job,” you replied simply.

“And you’re good at it,” he said again, his tone sincere this time. “I mean it.”

“Thank you,” you said again, not letting his compliment fluster you.

He smiled at your calm demeanor, clearly amused by your lack of reaction. “You don’t get nervous around clients, do you?”

“Why would I?” you asked, meeting his gaze evenly.

His smile widened. “Most people do.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He laughed at that, the sound warm and genuine. “I can see that.”

The rest of the appointment went smoothly, though Ni-ki’s subtle attempts at small talk didn’t go unnoticed. By the time he’d chosen a ring and a necklace, the tension between professionalism and casual conversation hung in the air.

As he approached the door to leave, he turned back to you. “Thanks for your help, Y/N.”

“Of course,” you replied, bowing slightly.

“Have a good day, Mr. Nishimura,” you replied, your tone as professional as ever.

He paused by the door, looking back at you one last time. “See you around, Y/N.”

You didn’t respond, watching as the door closed behind him. Shaking your head, you returned to organizing the displays, telling yourself it was just another workday.

But deep down, you had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time you’d see him.

The Chrome Hearts event was in full swing, a buzzing culmination of celebrities, designers, and photographers mingling under the warm glow of chandeliers. You stood off to the side of the bustling fitting area, adjusting racks of jackets and accessories while trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

This wasn’t your first time working an event like this, but it was your first time with stakes this high. Chrome Hearts had pulled out all the stops, and ENHYPEN, one of the biggest names in the industry, was headlining the night.

You’d been assigned to assist with styling, specifically to help dress Riki Nishimura.

Your mind flashed back to your first encounter with him at the store. Despite his playful demeanor, he’d left an impression that was hard to shake. And now, here you were, preparing to see him again, knowing full well that professionalism was non-negotiable.

“Y/N, they’re here,” your manager said, motioning toward the private fitting area.

You turned just in time to see the group of seven walk in, their presence commanding the room instantly. Cameras flashed as they greeted the event organizers, each member exuding confidence in their own way.

Ni-ki trailed at the back, dressed casually in ripped jeans and a hoodie, but his sharp gaze scanned the room until it landed on you. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, followed by a small, knowing smirk.

You quickly looked away, busying yourself with the clothes rack in front of you.

“Y/N, you’ll be with Mr. Nishimura,” your manager reminded you, handing you the clipboard with his outfit details.

“Understood,” you replied, keeping your voice steady.

When Ni-ki stepped into the fitting area, you greeted him with a polite nod. “Good evening, Mr. Nishimura.”

“Y/N,” he said smoothly, his tone teasing. “Nice to see you again.”

You kept your expression neutral. “Let’s get started. Your outfit is over here.”

He followed you to the rack, where a carefully curated ensemble awaited—a tailored leather jacket, silver accessories, and sleek black boots. As you began arranging the pieces for him, he leaned against the wall, watching you with an intensity that made your skin tingle.

“You’re really good at this,” he said after a moment.

“Thank you,” you replied without looking up, focusing instead on adjusting the jacket’s cuffs.

“Have you been doing this for long?” he asked, his voice low and casual.

“Long enough,” you said curtly, stepping back to give him space to change.

He chuckled softly, after hearing nearly the same answers to his questions like the last time. “Still keeping it professional, huh?”

“It’s my job,” you reminded him, crossing your arms.

As he slipped into the jacket, his movements deliberate, you couldn’t help but notice how effortlessly the pieces fit him. He had a natural presence that made even the simplest outfits look like high fashion.

When he turned to face you, fully dressed, you adjusted the silver chain around his neck, your fingers brushing against his skin for the briefest moment. The contact sent a jolt through you, but you quickly pulled back, masking your reaction.

“Looks perfect,” you said, stepping away.

“Thanks to you,” he said, his voice quieter now. His gaze lingered on you, and for a moment, the air between you felt charged with something unspoken.

You turned away quickly, busying yourself with the clipboard. “You’re ready for the photos.”

As he joined the rest of the group, the atmosphere shifted. The other members greeted you briefly—Jay’s charismatic smile, Sunghoon’s quiet nod, Sunoo’s cheerful wave—but your focus remained on keeping everything running smoothly.

It wasn’t until the group dispersed for a break that Ni-ki found a moment to approach you again, this time in a quieter corner of the venue.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his tone different now—less playful, more serious.

You glanced up from the accessory case you were organizing. “Yes, Mr. Nishimura?”

“Drop the ‘Mr.,’” he said with a small smirk. “It’s just Ni-ki.”

You hesitated, your professionalism warring with the tension that seemed to grow every time he was near. “How can I help you, Mr. Nishimura?” You emphasize his last Name.

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was wondering if you’d let me have your number.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “That’s against the rules,” you said firmly, though your resolve wavered under his gaze.

He tilted his head, a sly smile playing on his lips. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

You stared at him, torn between the strict boundaries of your job and the undeniable pull of his presence. Finally, with a quick glance around to ensure no one was watching, you reached for a notepad on the counter.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you muttered, scribbling your number down and tearing off the piece of paper.

His fingers brushed yours as he took it, his smile softening. “I won’t,” he promised.

Before you could respond, your manager’s voice called you back to work, and the moment ended as quickly as it began.

As you walked away, you felt Ni-ki’s eyes on you, the forbidden tension between you lingering like an unspoken secret.

Weeks passed after the Chrome Hearts event, and though you tried to maintain a professional distance, everything had changed. The slip of paper with your number on it had been the beginning of a line you never thought you’d cross.

It started with late-night texts.

The first one came a day after the event:

[Unknown Number]: Is it weird that I can’t stop thinking about how you chose that bracelet?

You stared at the screen for longer than you wanted to admit before typing a response.

[You]: It’s weird that you’re texting me when this is technically against the rules.

He replied almost instantly.

[Ni-ki]: Rules are overrated. Especially for something that feels this… different.

And that was how it began.

Over time, the texts turned into calls, the playful teasing evolving into deeper conversations. Ni-ki wasn’t just a global idol with an obsession for Chrome Hearts; he was surprisingly down-to-earth, funny, and honest in a way that caught you off guard.

But as the weeks went on, keeping things secret grew harder.

The first time he showed up at the store unannounced, you nearly had a heart attack.

He arrived disguised in a plain hoodie and cap, his presence still unmistakable. “I was in the area,” he said with a grin, leaning casually against the counter.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, glancing nervously at your manager, who was busy in the back.

“And yet here I am,” he replied, his tone light but his gaze serious. “I couldn’t help it.”

Against your better judgment, you allowed him to linger, though every minute felt like a risk. When he left, he slipped a small silver ring onto the counter, one you’d once admired during your conversations.

“For you,” he said simply.

You stared at it, shaking your head. “Ni-ki, I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted softly. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

And just like that, the line blurred even further.

The turning point came during another Chrome Hearts event, this time at a private gala where the brand unveiled a new collection. You were there to assist again, your role similar to before, though now the tension between you and Ni-ki felt almost unbearable.

He arrived with the other members, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit adorned with silver accents. When his eyes found yours across the room, the connection was instant, as if the noise and chaos around you didn’t exist.

As the evening wore on, he found small excuses to be near you—a whispered question about his cufflinks, a fleeting brush of his hand against yours as you adjusted his collar. Every interaction sent your pulse racing, though you tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t enough for him.

Toward the end of the night, he cornered you in a quiet hallway outside the main ballroom. His expression was serious, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something more vulnerable.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, “this thing between us… I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t exist.”

You crossed your arms, trying to put up a wall you knew would crumble under his gaze. “We shouldn’t be doing this, Ni-ki. If anyone finds out—”

“I don’t care,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “I know it’s risky, but I can’t ignore how I feel. Can you?”

His words left you speechless. For weeks, you’d tried to convince yourself that it was just harmless flirting, that you could keep things professional despite the way your heart raced whenever he was near. But now, standing so close to him, the truth was impossible to deny.

“Ni-ki…” you began, your voice faltering.

“I’m not asking you to break every rule,” he said softly. “I just want a chance. A real chance.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. Part of you wanted to say no, to walk away before things got even more complicated. But the way he looked at you—as if you were the only person in the world who mattered—made it impossible.

Finally, you nodded, your resolve crumbling. “Okay,” you whispered.

His expression shifted into a mixture of relief and joy, and for the first time, he let his guard down completely.

From that moment on, everything changed.

The relationship that followed was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. You met in secret, stealing moments when his schedule allowed it. Late-night car rides, quiet dinners in hidden corners of the city, and whispered conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning.

But the secrecy only fueled the intensity. Every touch, every glance, every stolen kiss carried the weight of what was at stake.

And though the risk was always there, neither of you could walk away.

Because in the end, some rules were meant to be broken.

Masterlist

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[dollishmehrayan]

BATBOYS TOXIC TRAITS / RED FLAGS + GREEN FLAGS ── .✦

a/n: the thing is, they all aren’t like problematic when it comes to relationships but they do have some things and flaws which when heard sound “oh okay that’s fine” but may be like super annoying in a irl relationship also this was a request by anon (here)! (Tags: batboys x reader)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Chronic People-Pleaser: Will prioritize everyone’s needs over his own (or yours), leading to burnout… and you having to remind him you exist.

Flirty by Nature: He’s not trying to flirt… it just happens. That waitress? Nope, not on purpose, but yeah, you’ll roll your eyes a lot.

Hero Complex: He always has to “save” people, including you, even when you’re perfectly fine handling it yourself. “I got it, babe.” No, you don’t, Dick.

GREEN FLAGS:

Emotionally Intelligent: He can read your mood like a book and knows exactly how to make you smile (with pancakes shaped like hearts).

Physical Affection Expert: Hugs, cuddles, forehead kisses—you’re basically his personal teddy bear.

Supportive King: He’s your biggest cheerleader, hyping you up in the most genuine, heartfelt ways. “That’s my girl.”

JASON TODD ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Anger Issues: He’ll throw hands for you at the slightest provocation. Guy looks at you wrong? Jason’s already removing his jacket.

Emotionally Guarded: Good luck getting him to open up. He’s more likely to tell you his deepest fears after you’ve fallen asleep.

Reckless Behavior: He’ll drag you into the most insane situations and act like it’s no big deal. “What do you mean this is dangerous? It’s fine.”

GREEN FLAGS:

Loyal to a Fault: He’ll defend you with his life, no questions asked. “You mess with her, you mess with me.”

Soft Romantic: Beneath the tough exterior, he’s writing you sweet notes and remembering the little things, like how you take your coffee.

Protective (in a good way): He won’t smother you, but he’ll make sure you always feel safe, even if it’s just crossing the street.

TIM DRAKE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Workaholic: He’ll forget to eat, sleep, and sometimes text you back because “the case was just getting good!”

Overthinks Everything: Spends hours analyzing your last text to figure out if you were mad or just tired. “Was that period passive-aggressive?”

Terrible Self-Care: You’ll have to force him to drink water and go to bed like a mom with a rebellious child.

GREEN FLAGS:

Incredibly Thoughtful: He remembers every detail about you, from your favorite flower to that obscure hobby you mentioned once.

Adorably Awkward: His shy smiles and fumbling over words when you flirt back are endlessly endearing.

Problem Solver: He’ll find solutions to all your problems, from fixing your computer to making your bad day better with tea and soft music.

DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Insanely Jealous: He glares daggers at anyone who looks at you too long. “Why is he breathing near you?”

Judgmental: He might critique your taste in music, books, or anything else with his usual bluntness. “This… is what you listen to?”

Control Freak: He likes things done a certain way and will try to “help” you by micromanaging your life.

GREEN FLAGS:

Devoted Partner: Once he’s in, he’s all in. You’ll never doubt his commitment because he’s always showing up for you.

Loyal Beyond Measure: He’ll defend your honor to anyone, even Bruce. “She’s perfect, Father. You simply lack taste.”

Surprisingly Gentle: Despite his tough exterior, he has a soft side that only you get to see, like the way he pets animals—or you—so tenderly.

BRUCE WAYNE ── .✦

RED FLAGS:

Emotionally Repressed: He’s basically a human brick wall when it comes to expressing his feelings. “I’m… fine.” No, Bruce, you’re not.

Work Comes First: He’ll disappear into the Batcave for days unless you drag him out by the cape which becomes quickly annoying.

Overprotective: He’ll want to track your every move, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he worries too much. “It’s for your safety.”

GREEN FLAGS:

Quietly Romantic: He may not be overly expressive, but he’ll show love through subtle gestures—like a bouquet of your favorite flowers left on the table.

Ultimate Provider: He makes sure you never want for anything, whether it’s emotional support or physical comfort.

Unshakable Devotion: Once you’ve captured his heart, he’s yours forever. There’s no halfway with Bruce—he’s in it for the long haul.

[hittmeandtellmeyouremine]

puddin!reader being a crybaby on her period?

pairing: puddin!reader x older!rafe

warnings: mdni, lottie do not read, mainly fluff but suggestive content, ddlg themes, use of 'daddy'.

word count: 700+ words

a/n: cel finally sticking to just a blurb??? btw i fear this is just me on my period...

tags: @athaliahxoxo

rafe was met with cries bouncing off the walls as he came through the front door, dropping the bags in hand to look for you immediately.

"puddin'?" he calls out, making his way upstairs to find you on the floor of the bathroom sobbing. your legs were folded beneath you, head tilted up as the tears flowed down your cheeks.

"baby, what's wrong?" he asks, crouching down in front of you.

he grabbed your arm, looking over you with a worried expression and checking for any sort of injuries you could've had.

"you left me" you sob, throwing your arms around him.

your words caught him off guard but he wrapped his arms around you, hand rubbing your back gently.

"puddin', i asked you if you wanted to come and you told me no" he says softly.

"but you didn't say you wanted me to go with you" you wail, burying your face in his chest.

it was the second day of your menstrual cycle, which was arguable the worst. your flow was at its heaviest, cramps riddled your body with discomfort, and you were emotional as ever.

you had thrown a fit earlier about there not being any good snacks in the house; nothing chocolate, nothing sweet, nothing savory, nothing you wanted. the subtle complaints turned into cries, rafe finding you on the kitchen floor in tears over the matter.

so, like the good fath-... lover he was, he offered to go get you all the snacks your bleeding heart desired. he even sat with you at the breakfast bar while you made a list of everything you wanted him to pick up—which was damn near the entire store.

he asked if you wanted to come with, just in case you saw something that you didn't think of, but you declined. you actually told him you'd rather die than leave the house in your state—he widened his eyes and slowly nodded at that.

he also figured maybe you wanted your space from him because you usually did during this time. one minute you were all over him and the next his presence made you want to hurl. he concluded the latter had been long forgotten by this point.

"i'm sorry, puddin'" he soothes, hand brushing over your hair. "daddy shouldn't have left you all by yourself"

you nodded against his chest, continuing to sob into it. he knew you weren't really upset over that, not genuinely. your hormones were just so out of wack that any little thing was setting you off. it was best to just comfort you and let you get it out of your system.

"shh, it's okay. daddy's got you" he cooed, holding you close and littering kisses on your head until you finally calmed down.

"come on, let's get some food in you, yeah?" he asks, looking down at you.

you nod weakly. with that he helps you up from the floor, taking your hand in his and guiding you downstairs. he sets everything he purchased on the counter, pressing behind you as your eyes trail over the items.

rafe cooks your favorite, something you hadn't even thought of when making the list. rafe did though, because he knew you better than you knew yourself. you're pressed either into his side or against him the whole time he cooks.

when he finally finishes, he sits you on his lap and feeds it to you, knowing you wouldn't even bother touching the fork yourself. and since he knows you so well, he knew you would crave something sweet after.

he had gotten you an array of various sweets; ice cream, brownies, cakes, and candies. he gave you ice cream though, for now, mumbling something about making you brownies later in the night.

he watched you swirl your tongue around the cone, eyes glued to the living room television that was playing. his thoughts drift as he watches you, but he keeps them tucked away.

"that's my pretty girl, all better now?" he asks.

you give him a nod, settling back against his chest contently.

rafe didn't leave your side for the rest of the week. he fulfilled your every request and even when you briefly declared you wanted your space from him, he was never too far. he even canceled all his work meetings, saying he had "family things" to take care of.

anything to keep his puddin' happy.

-

[monstersholygrail]

So I currently have the flu and I just can’t stop imagining how funny it would be to have a Vampire bf look after you.

Specifically, Army Medic Vampire bf who was a medic during the First World War for Great Britain. He was by no means a professional of any kind. He honestly kind of sucked. But he did it because he had to.

Now he has you, his sick mortal lover, and he’s getting war flashbacks.

You lay on the bed, looking like you’ve been through war yourself. Your nose all red and your lips chapped. Body so achy it’s almost as if you were lifeless. Luckily he knows that’s not the case as you jerk forward and blow your nose, the sound akin to a cannon firing.

Army Medic Vampire bf lays with you on the bed, his cold body helping to cool down your fiery fever. He brushes his hand along your damp forehead and through your hair and you sigh in a brief relief.

“Ahh, this takes me back,” he says wistfully.

You curl your lip at him before wincing as any movement to your face aches. So you don’t even try and melt back into your boyfriend.

“To what?” You ask, nose so stuffed he can barely make out your question.

“To the sounds of my comrades dying,” he replies bluntly.

You gasp harshly and weakly try and smack at his chest but it hurts you more than it does him. And the action throws you into another one of your countless coughing fits.

Army Medic Vampire bf shushes you gently, bringing you into his arms. Making sure every inch of you is molded against him. He can feel the heat of your skin and worry swells inside of him.

“I’ve got you, my heart. Die easy knowing you were loved.”

You roll your eyes, your bf ever the dramatic one. But you don’t try and move away, his skin feeling way too good right now.

“Oh my god, I’m not dying,” You try and explain to him again for the umpteenth time. He stills against you, considering your words as if it’s the first time he’s heard them.

“Are you not? People perish from the flu all the time,” he asks, sounding genuine enough. He doesn’t go out in human civilization much anymore to know the difference. In his time people left this world due to much smaller things than the flu.

“Well not me,” you reply stubbornly.

A long silence falls over the two of you while you focus on trying to calm back down and he thinks over your words. You may make this claim but you can’t be certain. And if this sickness does not steal you from him then perhaps the next one will. He figures it’s a risk he can no longer take. He failed to safe people before but now he can ensure another sickness will never touch you.

“Hmm, well when you are better I shall turn you and make you forever mine. You’ll never have to suffer from this again,” he says reverently, his voice shockingly tender as his true worry for you shines through.

He squeezes you tightly in his arms, not daring to let you go. He’s lost many people in his human life and his vampiric one.

But the one person he refuses to lose is you.

[gf2bellamy]

obsessed with the idea of a nervous spencer trying to hide his new relationship with a member of his team (reader) during a case where they share a hotel room and bringing up like statistics of secret relationships or something like that and needing the reassurance that everythings fine [i’d like to request non freaky if possible, but it’s ultimately up to you :) ] have a good say!!

secret — spencer reid

pairing : spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think ? a/n: thank you for your request !! i absolutely loved this idea it's so cute i hope you like this !! <3

You collapsed onto the bed with a heavy sigh, your muscles aching from hours of travel and the stress of the case. The moment your body hit the soft mattress, you could feel your eyelids growing heavier, and exhaustion seemed to envelop you like a thick blanket.

You were so tired, you could have easily fallen asleep right there, still fully dressed. 

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Spencer's voice pulled you from your drowsy haze. His voice was soft, almost gentle, but you could hear the amusement in it. “You need to change out of your outside clothes.” 

You groaned, half-heartedly rolling over onto your back, your arm flopping across your eyes. “What for?” you mumbled, not even bothering to lift your head.

Spencer chuckled quietly as he dropped both your bags and his onto the floor with a soft thud. He leaned against the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning your tired form.

“Hotch will probably pull us out of bed in the middle of the night anyway,” you added with a hint of frustration in your tone. “Might as well be ready, right?” 

You cracked open an eye, and there he was—Spencer, standing there with that familiar, sweet smile that made your heart do a little flip. 

“Come on,” he said gently, offering his hand to you, his fingers extended toward you.

You hesitated for a moment, letting out a small sigh of frustration. But something about his smile, about the way he always knew how to make you feel just a little bit lighter, made it hard to resist. 

With a reluctant but trusting motion, you placed your hand in his, allowing him to gently pull you up.

Spencer bent down to grab one of the bags, rummaging through it for a moment before pulling out your favorite hoodie and a pair of soft sweatpants. "Here," he said gently, handing them to you.

His voice was soft, and his eyes sparkled with that quiet affection you’d come to know all too well. "Get changed," he added with a soft tone.

You nodded, too tired to protest, but you smiled softly as you took the clothes from him.

Spencer's kindness and thoughtfulness had always been one of the things that drew you to him.

"Thanks," you murmured. 

As you moved to slip into the clothes, you heard the soft sound of Spencer moving around, followed by the familiar swish of the bathroom door opening and closing.

When you got done changing you walked towards the bathroom leaning against the doorframe. Spencer stood in front of the mirror, his back turned to you as he brushed his teeth.

His curls were slightly messy. You couldn't help but smile at how effortlessly cute he looked in such an ordinary moment.

When Spencer turned to you, his brow raised in that familiar, playful way, you could tell he was about to ask what had you staring at him.

"What?" you teased, your smile soft and genuine. "Can't I admire my boyfriend?" The words slipped out with ease, the affection in your voice undeniable. 

You could see the color rise up his neck, creeping toward his cheeks, and a small, bashful smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

It was always so easy to make him blush, and it never failed to make your heart flutter. 

With a quiet chuckle, you turned away from him, walking toward the bed. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. He was so wonderfully endearing, and moments like this made everything else fade into the background. 

After a few moments, you heard the quiet rustle of him finishing in the bathroom. When you glanced up at him, you saw him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.

Now, he was the one staring at you, his gaze soft.

For a moment, the weight of the silence between you two seemed to stretch out.

"Do you think they know?" he asked suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes avoided yours as he spoke, staring at the floor as if there was something there he needed to focus on. 

"Who's 'they'?" you asked, your voice laced with confusion. You tilted your head, feeling a shift in the air. You pulled the blanket up, making space for him beside you. "And know what?" 

He hesitated before answering, his fingers twitching slightly as he shut the bathroom door behind him. "The team," he finally muttered, lowering his gaze even more. "About us." 

He sat beside you, but there was a certain distance in the way he sat—fidgeting, picking at the blanket between you two. You watched him carefully, your curiosity piqued.

You sat up, turning your body fully toward him, narrowing your eyes as you tried to figure out what he was feeling. "Spence," you said softly, trying to catch his gaze. "What are you worried about?" 

He sighed deeply, his eyes now locked on his hands, which had become absorbed in the folds of the blanket. “I just… I don’t know." His voice was shaky now, as if trying to force out a thought that wasn’t easy to say. "It’s not uncommon for people in our line of work to keep things like this secret. But... I mean, statistically speaking, workplace relationships tend to end up in complications, and... and with our jobs being so stressful, we have to maintain a certain level of professionalism and—" 

You watched him ramble, his words rushing out as if he couldn’t stop them, his mind running in a thousand directions at once.

You could see it—the way his brow furrowed, and his lips moved quickly, barely taking a breath between sentences.

His eyes remained fixed on the blanket, his thoughts clearly all over the place. 

You scooted a bit closer, your body naturally gravitating toward his as you reached out to gently place your hand on his, stopping him from fiddling with the blanket. His hands immediately stilled under yours, the restless motion ceasing.

He exhaled softly, his shoulders slumping as if he'd finally realized how much he'd been overthinking. "Sorry," he mumbled, his voice filled with a mix of apology and frustration. 

You shook your head, your thumb brushing across the back of his hand as you gave him a soft, comforting smile. "Don’t apologize," you said quietly, your voice warm and understanding. You could see the way his mind was still spinning. You brushed his hair out of his face, your fingers lingering on his cheek for more than just a second.

“Spence,” you called his name softly, practically asking him to meet your gaze.

His hazel eyes were filled with the familiar vulnerability you knew so well, and you couldn’t help but soften at the sight. 

“You know they’re not just our team, right?” you continued, your voice filled with care. “We practically spend our entire day with them. They’re like family.” You studied his face, trying to convey the depth of your feelings. "So what if they find out?" 

Spencer blinked, his eyes searching yours as if weighing your words. You watched him closely, waiting for him to process it.

You could feel the tension in him, the doubt still lingering.

You smiled softly, knowing you had to push this a little further, to make him see things from your perspective. “The worst thing that could happen would be Garcia and Derek annoying us all day,” you teased lightly, a playful note creeping into your voice. 

At that, Spencer let out a quiet chuckle, his lips curving up into a small, amused smile. You watched as the tension in his shoulders slowly eased. 

“I can already hear Garcia asking us a thousand questions,” he muttered, half-laughing at the image in his head. “Derek would be all over it, too—probably making terrible jokes about us.”

You grinned, teasing him lightly. “I can already hear Garcia asking if we’ve picked out the wedding colors yet. And Derek? He’ll probably be calling us ‘lovebirds’ for the next week.”

Spencer chuckled, his shoulders shaking slightly as he imagined the teasing they'd get from their teammates. “Yeah, and Morgan will act like he’s our unofficial wedding planner,” he said, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance. “He’d probably try to get us to elope in Vegas or something.”

You burst out laughing at the thought of Derek’s over-the-top antics. “Honestly, that sounds like something he’d suggest." You smiled playfully at him.

He looked down at you , his expression turning slightly serious.

His eyes warm and fond, but there was still a hint of uncertainty lingering in his gaze. “I just don’t want things to get weird, you know? Between us, or with the team.”

You softened, your heart going out to him. You reached up, gently cupping his cheek to get him to look at you, a reassuring smile on your lips. “Spencer, we’ve been through a lot together, and if anyone’s going to understand, it’s them. We’re a team, and they’ll support us—no matter what. I promise.”

 Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against your lips.

Spencer blinked in surprise, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush, and he turned to you with a soft smile that made your heart flutter. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice sincere as he gazed at you with warmth in his eyes. 

You smiled back, reaching over to gently pat his hand. “Anytime,” you said.

“How about we sleep now?” you added, a slightly tired look in your eyes.

Spencer nodded without hesitation, giving you a small, relieved smile as he stood up to turn off the nightlight.

You scooted over, making space for him, and before long, he was lying beside you, pulling you gently into his chest. 

The warmth of his body surrounded you, and you rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

 "Good night," Spencer murmured softly, his voice barely more than a breath.

You smiled, your eyes fluttering shut as you snuggled closer, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt. “Good night, Spence,” you whispered back, your voice soft and content. 

[awordsmith]

paint a picture 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in which you and Spencer go separate ways after university until a deadly case forces you to find your way back to each other.

katvalentine

who? spencer reid x known!reader when? s8 genre: angst (thriller) content warnings: mentions of attempted murder and the loss of a friend, second chance romance, read with scary care!! word count: 9k a/n: not how i planned to write this out–but i couldn't be happier–also i know i'm super late with the valentines themes–studying for midterms has taken toll–but i think i'm going to ace every exam with soaring colors, so plus(?)–okay let me stop rambling... enjoy!!

Your Converse hit the pavement as you ignored the bustling of the other students that sounded around you. In contrast to everyone else, you were running toward the rain rather than hiding from it. You didn’t have a choice–it was either that or failing your psychology class.

It wasn’t as if you were completely behind, you’d attended every class–and you’d taken notes…mostly. Okay, barely–but with all your other courses, trying to maintain your part-time job on weekends, and constantly visiting the UNEP for Aspiring Young Center, Psychology had been the least of your worries. You had barely had any time to sleep–let alone to yourself.

The class was only once a week and though it was online–it’d been the class you’d seemed to forget most about. You’d gotten your hands on some of the notes from other students, but they all seemed useless when the midterm exam was next week. You had no time to study–that was what had you so freaked. 

It had slipped your mind–somehow–that it was going to be half your grade. In the sight of other courses: sociology, criminology, comm, English, and history, you’d completely forgotten about one of the most important classes you were taking this semester. Gosh, why couldn’t it just be summer already? More than that, why did you have to take on so many classes? Sure you wanted to graduate early, but you were in your sophomore year, you should have been enjoying it.

Instead, you were getting soaked in rainwater in an attempt to leave a good impression on your new tutor. You were running late, as per usual. It had been a bad habit you’d picked up your freshman year when you realized parking wasn’t as easy as you’d thought it would be. You were normally late to classes, always running down one hall or the next. The university’s library was like a second home to you. You could generally be found in one of the desks near the elevator most nights. You preferred the tables behind the elevators the best. Preferably one closest to the corner.

Each table had two desks connected and two seats for each desk. You kept your backpack in the seat next to you and did well for warding off creeps mindlessly sitting down. The tables in the corners also proved well for when your headphones died. They were just far enough away that you couldn’t hear the elevator's constant dinging. The limited space also kept a multitude of people walking back and forth between the tables; yeah, sure you probably just got annoyed quickly, but you couldn’t help how you were. You were how you were and you liked it.

“Excuse me,” you squeaked, nearly colliding with a girl coming through the double doors with an umbrella. You huffed and removed the hood of your jacket, trying to smooth down your hair. It was pulled back into a ponytail, but hairs were now sticking up–you could feel it. You removed the hair tie and slipped it onto your hand, running your hands through your semi-wet locks.

You wanted to use the bathroom first, but you didn’t want to leave the poor guy hanging, it was Valentines' Day, after all, he probably took on this job in pity and had some hot girlfriend angry at him because of it. You felt bad–genuinely, it had your heart aching. Though you had no interest in dating yourself, you could wager the benefits it brought many others. 

You ignored the elevator and headed up the stairs, when you reached the top you were out of breath. You hated staircases in high school and you hated them now. Picking back up some of your dignity, you glanced around the area, trying to scope out the tutor you were meeting.

He had great reviews, and apparently, he already had 1 PhD and was working on his second. He was young, around your age, and you wondered if he was a genius, that was the only likely explanation. Or maybe he really was just that good Well, you’d see for yourself in a few minutes. You caught sight of wild brown curls and a large brown and orange sweater vest.

He was sitting at the very end of the row, you recognized the large window panes that sat to the side of each table. You smiled slightly, it was just how you preferred it a quiet study night. You hadn’t mentioned anything about liking the ends, it was entirely possible he liked it that way too, where most of the noise disappeared, and the world along with it.

As you approached the kid, you thought this surely couldn’t be him. He looked…well…smaller. The photo online was just his face, but as you rounded the table, your nose scrunched up.

Sure, people took off their glasses for a multitude of reasons, including taking a photo, but you never thought it could make such a difference to a person's appearance. “...Dr. Ried?” You stuttered out, setting your tote bag in the seat next to you.

When Spencer looked up, he had to fix his glasses. He wasn’t good at keeping eye contact, so he focussed on the necklace around your neck, “uh, yeah, —?”

You smiled and nodded, sighing out as you sat in the seat across from him, “It is you–sorry I’m late, I was–” you were in the middle of your living room in your underwear having a mini concert with the tv and your hairbrush, but you said, “working on a few theories, you know how you can get lost in your head sometimes.”

Spencer brightened slightly, his mind racing with the different things he wanted to say, theories were one of his favorite topics, he could go on and on, talking about his favorite and his least favorite, ones that had a high chance of being debunked in the future and ones that have already been debunked, but he forced his mouth closed before he said any of that. “Yeah, theories are fun,” it hurt him–physically–not to say more. But, Spencer was trying out his professionalism, and a professional would not geek out over the mention of theories. 

You nodded and started pulling your notebook out of your bag, Spencer had a psycho-analysis textbook out in front of him as he had said he would in his text. “Let’s start with chapter 45, that’s the first one that’s going to pop up on the test.” Spencer stated, watching your hands flip through page after page, “That’s a lot of notes.”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, trying to subtly fan yourself, dim lighting from lamps under every table gave the small area a glow, “sorry,” you began pulling out a few writing utensils, “I know this is so last minute and you probably had plans tonight, but I really appreciate you doing this for me.” You tried meeting his eyes, but he seemed to want to keep his distance from you, which struck you as odd seeing as how there wasn’t much of an age gap.

“No, don’t worry–” he waved his hands in front of him, his eyes having an almost paranoid feeling to them, “I,” he looked away, “I didn’t have any plans tonight. You’re fine, so don’t worry,” he let his hands fall into his lap.

Your eyes widened slightly and a subtle realization came over you that this guy wasn’t small–he was slumping in his seat, which is why he looked to be small at first glance. His posture was all wrong and it ticked you a little. One of your eyes twitched, but you hummed to calm yourself down. It didn’t really bother you, but the way he was acting–you just couldn’t help it.

“Alright,” you smoothed out the page and flipped it around to show Dr. Reid.

Spencer ran his eyes along the page, there sure were a lot of dashes and marks, he admired your penmanship for a moment before turning and meeting your gaze for the first time, “a lot of notes, yes, but most of them are useless.” He winced. He didn’t mean to say it like that, he probably should have used another word–useless just felt so…gray. “I mean, that’s not what I mean, I just meant that–” he huffed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair taking his glasses off momentarily to rub his eyes.

His features weren’t lost on you. His jaw was sharp, his neck thick, he could be a male model if he wanted to, he had the build for it. He was skinny and he was awkward in his skin, but with the right training, his self-confidence could be raised immensely. Spencer blinked, noting your stare and suddenly he felt nervous again. It wasn’t that you intimidated him–though with the way he was acting, it probably didn’t seem that way.

You were more than pretty, you stood out. Maybe not to everyone, but Spencer had learned long ago that beauty was in the eye of the beholder, and to Spencer, you were. You looked like you belonged in a Renaissance painting or behind the glass at a thrift store, something not for sale; something priceless. Something you see once in a museum and go home thinking about, never to see it again, but can’t help remembering years later.

Spencer cleared his throat, understanding, he too was now staring. “Right, so–chapter forty-five, what, what do you remember most about it?”

You glanced at your notes, running a finger along a highlighted part, “Proximity, the mere exposure effect, basically anything to do with how we feel about another person.”

Spencer nodded and ran his eyes over your notes. It wasn’t highlighted, but he thought it should be. “See here,” he flipped the notebook back around, “this isn’t highlighted, but this is,” he pointed to another point, “can you tell me why?”

You looked over the two bullet points, an embarrassed smile washing over you. You everted your eyes toward the floor and scratched one of your cheeks with a finger, “I liked how it read.”

Spencer felt his heart flutter and his cheeks flush red at the admission, it was cute. It was more than cute it was adorable. But that was completely unprofessional, even if this was just a side job he’d taken on because he needed some quick cash. “Well, I suggest making another set of notes, I can do it for you if you’d like.”

You nodded and Spencer felt the need to ask another–rather important–question, “Do you normally read over your notes once you write them?”

You made a face, your lips pressed together to suppress a smile. The truth was you did but with psychology…. “I normally do during study sessions,  it helps because I’m really bad at remembering things,” you played with a tiny lock of wet hair, murmuring, “and I’m always late.”

Spencer snorted but tried covering it up with a cough. Your lips quirked upward and your eyes narrowed slightly. He, in turn, did his best to avoid your gaze. “Wow,” you nodded, “so that’s how it is.” 

Spencer’s eyes widened, “I didn’t,” he didn’t mean to be rude, this wasn’t how he normally acted, especially around girls. If anything, he’d always had a mutual understanding with the opposite sex, he would not reach for something he could not see, but you–you seemed… vivid…

“I’m just messing with you, Spencer–” you gasped internally and paused externally. You didn’t mean to address him by that name. Not only was it probably rude, but now he probably thought you did it on purpose or something–ughhh, this blows! And I was starting to like him, if he goes all Mr. Superior on me I should get permission to smack some sense into him. After all, he isn’t that much older–is he?

Spencer was confused as to why you were giving him the death glare. He had thought you and himself were getting along just fine–up until you used his first name at least. He wasn’t one of your professors and even if he were, some professors were alright with first name basis–Spencer had never taught a class before, sure he’d sat in on a few, but he was never a guest speaker, of course, that was definitely something he sought to change that after publishing a few more of his essays and articles, he was ambitious, as one with his skill was.

In any case, Spencer didn’t find it weird, but perhaps you did, and because he had laughed at something you’d said earlier, you were expecting him to laugh at you now. Spencer could explain the typical functions of why the corners of his mouth quirked upward. He could give a basic rundown of how muscles worked, it was settled in the back of his mind, ready to be spouted–but what he couldn’t tell you was why he couldn’t control it.

For normal people, he would bring in the psychology of the matter, chapter forty-five–ironically. Something one person said made the other person laugh, but that idea wouldn’t work in this situation. No, because you hadn’t said anything particularly funny. Then why else did people smile? In simpler terms, because they were happy, but why was Spencer happy? He didn’t know, he just didn’t know. He was staring at you and your childish glare and he could not figure out for the life of him why in the hell he was so damn happy.

“I see that,” your eyes holding a mischievous glint, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in his face. He looked shocked like he had no idea what was going on, “fine,” you deflated back into your chair, “if you want to laugh, get it over with,” a few seconds later, a few coughs came from Spencer, you stuck your tongue out at him, it was quick and unexpected, but it made you smile. What would you consider this then? You thought, reward theory of attraction? But I haven’t been rewarded with anything…

Spencer scoffed at the idiotic notion, that he shouldn’t be sitting here analyzing you simply because you made him smile–simply because he made you smile. He was your tutor and that was it. That should’ve been it, but as the night went on, the further your personalities complimented each other. You both knew it–it was the psychology of it all; ironic how it was the exact chapter you’d gone over first.

And as the evening faded into midnight, you both found your souls intertwining with the other. Unable to control it; unwilling to want to.

Cold wind blew through the loose fragments of your hair as you leaned on your arms against the open window on the trolley, the sun hitting your face just right. It made you sleepy, you wanted to sleep, but you couldn’t. In a few moments, you’d be pulling the line and getting off. You yawned are rubbed your eyes, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. It was midday, you were meeting your friend for lunch, and your tote bag sat in the seat next to you.

“It’s so cute, thank you!” You gushed.

“Yeah, I–I saw you eyeing it that day we went to the mall,” Spencer ran a nervous hand through his hair.

Your face didn’t have enough room for the grin spreading across your face, “thank you, Spencer, this really is the best birthday ever.”

He shrugged all nonchalantly, but you could see it in his eyes, it warmed your heart to know how special you were to him, “it was nothing.”

“To you,” you reached for his hand across the table, “but it’s everything to me,” you paused, unable to decide which eye to focus on, you kept flitting back and forth between both of them and eventually the silence grew. You snatched your hands back, feeling nervousness flutter throughout your body. You averted your eyes and smiled at the ground, “Thank you…I love it.”

A smile now overtook your face, you wondered where he was now. You hoped he was doing alright, you’d seen him on television before, on the news. He was living the dream he’d told you about when you were still in university. He’d become exactly what he’d wanted, he’d done it. You were proud of him. You always had been.

The trolley slowed down, you recognized this turn. With a sigh, you sat upward and pulled your bag over your shoulder, waiting for the drop-off to appear. When it came into view, you tugged at the tight string above you, getting ready to stand. The trolley wasn’t packed, which was normal for after lunch hours. The next rush would be around five, so as long as you left before or after–you wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

A few others stood with you when the trolley came to a complete stop. The group filed off the cart in a line and when your sneakers met concrete, you took off down the sidewalk, heading for the café you typically met your friend at. You pulled your phone out and checked the time when a new message came through. You smiled as you came to the same crosswalk you always did. Behind you, couple turned on the right corner with their dog and a mother and daughter stood at the other end of the crosswalk. The February breeze blew calmly around you, and the daylight seemed to dim slightly as you waited near the pole. 

Eventually, the lights switched and the sign across from you brightened. You held onto your bag as you moved, you weren’t wearing a sweater–before leaving the house, you’d decided your white long sleeve would do just fine–you were severely regretting that decision as the wind picked up. You don’t know why it was so cold, Spring was nearly here–at least it should have been.

The little girl skipped past you, her pigtails swaying to and fro. You admired the scene, wishing you could photograph it. Your job typically had you photographing crime scenes, it would have been a nice addition to the mini gallery you’d started in your home. It was one just for you, warmer than your day to day work. You’d majored in film and photography and minored in criminology, of course, your passion for both came from starkly different backgrounds, but they complimented eachother when it came to your job–your real job.

You didn’t talk much about your work, but you took to writing a few papers, only two had been published so far, and you’d received a letter last week, asking you to speak in a criminology-based class because of them–you weren’t doing too bad in the money department, but–you came up to the café–you still could not drive. 

It was a minor thing, but it held you back instrumentally. You narrowed your eyes at the thoughts plaguing your mind, how idiotic–your friend would tease you in her own way, you shook your head and smiled, whatever, you thought. You held out a hand to push one of the doors open, but paused. You swear someone had called your name–you’e head swivled and–was that–a crash sounded throughout your head and some external force sent you flying backward.

As soon as Spencer walked through the doors of the BAU, he was snatched away by Hotch, everyone was on the jet already. Of course, it had to be the one time he’d thought he could let himself be a little late.

“Do we know what it is?’ Spencer asked, taking the file Emily held out into his palms.

“We don’t want to jump the gun and say a terrorist attack–”

“But that’s what it looks like,” Dereck nodded as Spencer’s eyes roved over the report, “what’s this?” He questioned, taking a closer look at the singular photo in the back.

“It’s a photo from the CCTV camera of the café that was hit–”

“The woman in the photo looks to be around early to mid 20’s” Emily stated, “we don’t know how badly she was injured or much of anything else.”

Spencer ran a finger along the woman's frame. “The first responding officers will tell us everything they remember when we land; JJ, Rossi head to the hospital and check on our possibly only survivor, see if you can get her statement, Morgan, Reid, you go to the crime scene, see what you can figure out, Prentis, you’re with me at the station–and Penelope?”

“Yes, Sir?” Garcia’s meek voice rang through the speakers of the large flatscreen plante on the wall in front of them, her face could be seen: she was huddled up in a blanket, but her makeup was as fresh as always.

“See if you can access the CCTV inside the café before the blast and others around the shop.”

She nodded, “I will call you as soon as I come up with something.” She clicked a button and the line went dead. Spencer’s heart was racing. Terrorist attacks were not common–if they occurred they would typicically mean something–terrroriste were likely to attack bigger buildings with a lot of power, the white house, for instance, and the Twin Towers were a good example of this, not just because of the towers. bin Laden weaponized Flight 11 because it was an American Airlines plane–it was a message, a symbol.

But this…this was a small family-owned café in a small shopping center, there was a bank just a few buildings over, why not target that? It just didn’t make any sense in Spencer’s mind. The woman in the photo–he hoped she was doing better than he thought she was–he couldn’t place it, but something about her felt…familiar.

He sighed and set the photo down, shutting the yellow folder.

You sat forward, pain slicing through your head like a blade. You groaned and raised a hand to your temple, only to find IVs connected to your skin. “What the hell happened?” They were freaky and they sent a shiver up your spine. You pulled each IV out steadily, there were three.

You watched them, waiting for one to begin bleeding, but none of them did, and a sigh of relief escaped your throat. You glanced around the room after rubbing your eyes, trying to figure out where you were.

“The hell…” You murmured, pushing yourself off the bed, okay, you were in a hospital? What else? There was a silver tray beside your bed, and a glass of water next to it. It looked like it had been sitting there for a while, though and you made a face.

You hated hospital food, it made you gag. You steadied yourself with the bed railing, You balanced your weight and walked to the door, taking one last look around the room before pulling the it open and stumbling forward.

Nurses noticed you immediately and rushed to your side. As they attempted to coax you back into the room, you couldn’t help but look up, the awkward fluorescent lights had you heaving, you felt sick in all the wrong ways. A nurse held up a medical-grade puke bag just in time.

“Ugh,” you wiped your mouth, reaching for the wall, that’s disgusting. Suddenly, your lips felt too big for you face–you tasted metal–you didn’t dare touch it. You turned to walk back into the room–that’s when you noticed the two guys in all black standing at each end of the hall. They looked like guards. You were weary, but you’d notice that earpiece anywhere. They were CIA officers. What were was your job doing here?

More importantly, what the hell happened? The last thing you remembered– “AH–” another sharp pain shot through your head and you sat back down, “someone,” you breathed, allowing the nurses to help you back into bed, “someone tell me–”

“–you need to rest now,” one of the nurses–the one with the most authority, you assumed–voiced.

“No, someone needs to tell me what the fuck is going on–” you sat back up and pushed her away, feeling blood rush to your head, “why is the CIA here–”

“Case Officer — —?” You glanced up, a blonde woman stepped through the door, her hair pulled into a neat, slick-back ponytail.

“Who are you?” You narrowed your eyes.

“My name is Jennifer Jareau, I’m with the Federal Beuro of Investigation–this is my partner SSA David Rossi–”

“FBI?” You raised a brow, “God,” you held your head, grimacing, “what happened?” You tried processing what you could remember, but you couldn’t. It was in your brain somewhere, you felt it–it just wasn’t popping up in any of the search engines you typically used. You huffed, giving up for the time being.

“Can you tell me…what you remember–”

“Nothing,” you shook your head, almost angry, “I can’t remember anything,” you scoffed and held your head in your both hands, covering your eyes. You wanted to sob, but were too embarrassed to do so.

“Alright, that’s alright,” Jennifer nodded.

But it wasn’t alright and you wanted to tell her so, but her partner, Rossi or whatever, cut in, “—... do you remember anything from before the blast?”

“Before the?” Your eyebrows scrunched together, but you paused. “That’s right,” you nodded, feeling a faint memory ghost over you, “there was a–there was a dog–” you said, though you weren’t sure why. “It was a little girl. A dog with a little girl–you were so sure of it, but something still felt off, you bit your cheek and shook your head, letting out an exasperated groan, “No–I don’t know.”

“It’s alright, I understand this can be frustrating. You were in a bad accident, there was a bomb, and you were caught in it. You hit your head pretty bad–”

“Pretty bad?” You scoffed, “You call this ‘pretty bad’? I can’t remember what I ate for breakfast or what song I listened to in the shower this morning–and this is ‘pretty bad’?” Jennifer turned her head, a frown taking up residence on her face. This was crazy–you needed to call your friend. She’d make you feel ten times better, “I need a phone, I need to call —.”

You tried standing, but Jennifer stopped you, “Here, use mine.” She slipped it out of her pocket and toward you.

You watched it for a second before taking it, still asking, “Where’s my phone?”

As you dialed —’s number, Jennifer said, “It should be with your things, I’ll check with the nursing staff.”

You held the phone up to your ear as she left the room, catching her partner's eye. You frowned when the line went to voicemail and called again, maybe her phone was dead? Maybe she had it on ‘do not disturb’? “No answer?”

You shook your head, and sighed, “voicemail.”

“What’s —’s last name, I’ll try to find her for you.”

“—,” you shook your head, calling back again, “it just doesn’t make any sense why she wouldn’t be answering, she was–” you paused, you don’t know why you said that.

Rossi raised a brow, “She was what?’

You frowned, “I don’t know,” a scowl replaced your frown, “what’s new?”

“Hey, don’t get discouraged.” Is what he said, but Rossi had a bad feeling about this whole thing. He typically kept his hard opinions to himself, especially ones that began with, “This is going to suck, but…”, and yet that’s what he was feeling now. That this was going to really suck.

“So we’ve ruled out a terrorist attack, there’ve been no phone calls, no letters, no demands. What else could this be?”

“A one-off?”

Spencer glanced around the room as Hotch and Morgan listed off ideas. JJ and Rossi had come back from seeing the survivor, they’d said it was strange, that almost the entirety of her memory concerning the blast was gone. As if it’d never happened in the first place, but that was to be expected considering the blow she’d taken to the head.

She was just lucky people saw her in the street before she was run over. The bomb had been so strong, that she’d ended up in the middle of the street, Spencer couldn’t watch the video after the first time, it had just looked so painful, and that was the eery part. She was missing parts of her memory, but she had no broken bones, the most damage she’d taken was psychological.

Her blood was fine, she had a few scratches on her arms and forehead, and her lip was pretty busted, but other than that, she was–again–perfectly fine. Which kept tugging at something in Spencer. “Was she able to remember anything? Anything at all?” Spencer heard himself asking, his arms uncrossing.

JJ shook her head, “No, nothing. She said she couldn’t even remember what she’d eaten for breakfast this morning.”

“No, but…” Rossi paused, folding his arms, Hotch and the rest of the team glanced in his direction, “She did…she did ask about a friend.”

“Yeah, she didn’t pick up any of the calls, though,” JJ waved her phone in the air and set it on the table in front of her.

“Yeah, but she also said something about her that seemed,” he shook head and waved an arm sound, “recent…”

“I don’t remember that.” JJ frowned.

“You were gone, talking to the nurses.”

“What did she say?” Hotch raised a brow, his voice growing colder by the hour.

“She said, ‘It doesn’t make any sense why she wouldn’t answer the phone, she was…’” The team waited for him to finish, but he huffed instead, “That’s it, she couldn’t remember the rest.” Spencer blew our air, rolling his neck back and forth as he thought of what the woman, — might have wanted to say.

“—...” Spencer mumbled. He recalled a time when he knew someone with that same name, he wondered where she was now. Probably married to some handsome bodybuilder who could crush Spencer with two fingers.

He puffed out his cheeks, he didn’t know why he always seemed to think about her in times like this; he looked out the window, allowing the moon to mesmerize his mind. He wanted to run far, far away. Always on midnights like this.

Spencer leaned back against the wall behind him and closed his eyes, trying to picture himself in her point of view. He was walking toward the shop–she wasn’t on her phone and she didn't have a map, nor was she looking around, so she probably knew the area well. Okay, so he knew he was going to this café, he was…he was…meeting someone.

Spencer peddled back to when JJ had mentioned the little girl and the dog. He tried to place them together somewhere in the picture he’d created for himself. Was she distracted by it? She did turn her head as if someone had called out for her.

“What do you go for us Garcia?”

Spencer’s eyes popped open and he glanced at the laptop in front of Hotch, “oh, not much,” she shook her head, “but I was able to get footage of the surrounding area, and check this out,” she clicked some button and CCTV footage came up on the screen. The quality wasn’t great–it probably hand’t been replaced in a quite a while.

The team gathered around Hotch, watching and analyzing the film. There. Spencer recognized her immediately, but not as a victim on this case. His stomach dropped and he thought he might throw up.

“There’s our victim, but look, look at the relaxed way she’s acting.” Hotch analyzed.

“So…what?” 

“It’s normal to her, she’s not worried, she’s not being pressured, I think she meeting someone at that café,” Spencer stated, rubbing the nape of his neck, “other than the footage, Rossi’s quote– “it doesn’t make any sense because she was–” end quote, could she have been about to say, ‘waiting for me?’ or ‘inside?’.

Rossi closed his eyes as Hotch gave the order to speed up the process of figuring out the identities of all the casualties caught in the blast and cross-check them with your friend's name. “Wait Sir, there’s one more thing I think you should know.”

“What is it, Garcia?”

“Okay, you know how we debunked the theory that this was a terrorist attack?”

He nodded, “Yes.” 

Spencer held his breath, wondering what idea Garcia was about to plant into their heads. “Well, if we go back to the original footage we recovered in the beginning, we can say for sure —’s attention was pulled away from opening those doors. It was the millisecond that saved her life. Why did she look away, what caught her attention? Sir, I’m not an agent and I haven’t taken the classes you all have, but if that was me, I would say someone called her name.”

“Someone purposefully kept her from walking in?” Hotch rubbed his temple, eyes narrowing.

“This wasn’t an attack on the government,” Hotch shook his head, glancing at his team.

And it clicked for Spencer, “someone targeted —, but not because she works for the CIA–it was personal.”

“We need to figure out who it was — saw in that video.”

Spencer grimaced, he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not yet. He had a job to do and he knew going to that hospital would just complicate things for him. He kept the fact that he knew the victim to himself. But she wasn’t just a victim–he detested thinking of her that manner–but if he wanted to catch the son of a bitch who did this to her, he’d have to stay away for just a bit longer.

“Thank you,” you smiled at the flowers, “it was really sweet of you to come all the way down here.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” —’s lisp sounded throughout the room, but you ignored it. He was sweet–you’d only met him a few times when working cases together, but he was the nicest person you’d ever met. Everyone loved him and no one made fun of his speech impediment. You were glad because you’d probably bite their heads off for it.

“Have you heard anything?” — frowned and shook his head, “No, I haven’t. I’m really sorry. I mean, this is just crazy.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, folding your hands in your lap, “tell me about it.”

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” he shook his head.

“No, no, you’re fine.” You smiled again, “I just…I just hope she’s alright. There must be some news?” You looked over — as if that blonde woman, Jennifer, might pop up. She didn’t.

“I promise, as soon as I hear anything, you’ll be the first to know.” He smiled, fixing his glasses that didn’t quite sit right on his face.

Your heart swelled, you were so grateful. You weren’t on speaking terms with your parents, you hadn’t seen your cousins since your grandmother’s funeral, and — was the only friend you had unless you counted your team, but you weren’t really close with them either. You preferred to keep to yourself. It was hard for you to get close to anyone after him because in the back of your mind was always that question, that what if?

“Do you want some coffee? Some water? I can go ask the nurse…”

“Yes, please,” you nodded, “that, that would be nice.”

— left the room and you were once again left in the comfort of your silence. Your mind drifted to Spencer. It hadn’t clicked when Jennifer had first introduced herself. She’d been back only once more to see if you’d remembered anything, you hadn’t, of course. No more than the little girl and the dog. — had just arrived this morning, so Jennifer missed him, but he wouldn’t have been able to provide much information anyway, he maybe could’ve helped with figuring out the bomb equipment and things like that, he worked in the EOD, but all of that slipped your mind as you called up almost every memory you had with Spencer.

When you were alone earlier today after Jennifer had left and before — had arrived, you’d pulled out your phone and went through the screenshots you’d taken of some of the cases Spencer had been on, and sure enough–there he was standing next to Ms. Jennifer Jareau. They worked together, which meant Spencer was likely also working on this case–your case.

You shivered–hating the thought that you now had a case, that you were now considered a victim in some people’s eyes. You were the one photographing other victims–how could you have become one yourself? You closed your eyes and leaned back into the hospital bed, for what it was worth–they had comfortable beds–they could upgrade their blankets though. You smiled, thinking about the time Spencer had hurt his leg ans had to stay in this dreaded place for a few nights. The two of you shared your weariness of hospitals, he’d probably complain about the food and the lack of warmthness the blankets provided. 

Though he was no doubt working , you hadn’t seen him, and Jennifer hadn’t said anything about it. You wondered if she even knew–if he’d told any of his team members about you. It stung you knowing the likelihood of it was low.

There was no way he didn’t recognize you. At least, that’s what you hoped, but he had to, right? After all, you’d been through, granted that all happened years ago–but still–he was everything. You had to mean something….right? You couldn’t just have been an experience, you had to be more than a memory. You just had to.

But he hadn’t been to visit you. And that hurt you the most. It floated around in you mind even as — walked back into the room and flashed you a tooth-gapped smile.

“You okay?” He asked, standing near your bed–near this morning’s silver tray that still hadn’t been touched.

“Yeah,” you reached for the cup of water, “just fine, thanks.”

“Reid,” Spencer bounced his right leg up and down and tapped the fingers of his left hand on the table in front of him, “Reid,” he wondered how you were doing, he’d just sifted through your text messages. He felt dirty. He didn’t have any right to read your private thoughts or those of the people you shared them with. He scolded himself, it wasn’t like he’d read your diary or anything. “Dammit, Reid!” Hotch huffed. Spencer glanced upward, stopping his tapping and leg shaking, “I need you to focus, what–what’s on your mind. Do you need to talk, it is your mom?”

Spencer tried acting unbothered and shook his head, sighing, “No, I’m fine.” He covered his mouth with a hand, feeling his throat run dry. You didn’t like hospitals, you never had, he remembered it starkly, and yet you still visited him every day when he’d injured his leg. That was years ago, but man–he chuckled–it felt like yesterday. Anytime he thought about you he felt young again. He didn’t know what it was–perhaps that was just what you represented, Spencer’s youth.

No, he shook his head, it was more than that. He sighed and ran another hand along the documents, and I threw it all away. An eyebrow shot up and Spencer’s eyes darted over a text message in particular. He picked it up and stood. “What?” Hotch met him at the board as he tacked it on and stood back, “what do you see?”

Spencer held back a scoff, “I don’t know why I didn’t see it before,” probably because he wasn’t in the right headspace, “look at this, she says, ‘it was nice meeting you today, thank you again for your help.’ He sends an entire paragraph. This was only a few months ago.”

“So,” Hotch shrugged and shook his head, waiting for an explanation, though a few ideas popped into his own head. Spencer waved his hand and walked back over to the pile of text messages blown up on printer paper, “Look at these, ‘it was nice working with you again, you’re really close with —,’ she says, ‘yeah, it was, and yeah! she’s my best friend,’ he tacked it on the board, this one says, ‘Sorry for your loss, I heard about your grandmother.’

“Get to the point Reid,” Hotch frowned, grouchy as always, Spencer thought.

“These are all by the same person, and I’m pretty sure there are multiple like these–but the thing is, all of his messages are long, like paragraph-length, and all of hers are single-sentence responses.” He shook his head, “after her initial message, she only responds, and they’re always short. And the way they sound–it’s so…I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t notice it because that’s just how she is,” Spencer bit his lip–ignoring the painful squeeze in his heart– “It’s not her fault, but I think he’s reading into everything. I mean, Hotch–just look at some of the things he’s saying in these messages–” Spencer went back to the table and pulled out more from the same contact.

He looked back at Hotch, waiting for his nod of approval, and finally, Hotch gave it to him, along with a, “Have Garcia run a background check on this person. Whoever he is, he’s worth questioning. I’ll call Morgan when we have an ID.” Spencer nodded and got to dialing Garcia’s number right as he grabbed his jacket. It was time. He needed to see you.

It was getting later, afternoon turned into evening in the blink of an eye. But you supposed that was to be expected, February had become March, and you were only here for a few days, yes–but it felt like an eternity. Some of the memories were coming back to you, you recalled being in front of the crosswalk, the little girl was with her mother on the other side, not with a puppy. The dog you’d mentioned to Agent Jereau had been behind you, a couple were the ones walking it.

There was still no news, about  —, the waiting had slowly begun to agitate you. Jennifer hadn’t come back, but — was still here, you frowned as you glanced at him from the corner of your eye, “You know, you don’t have to stay here all night, you must have work tomorrow. They're not gonna let you off easy if you’re late, you know.”

— shook his head, throwing you a smile, “I’ll be fine, have any of your memories from The Incident come back?” — called it “The Incident” rather than the bombing or the blast, which you found odd at first, excused it as him being considerate. “That…” he lowered his gaze, “I’m sorry,” he shook his head.

You snorted a bit, “why, it’s not your fault.”

He frowned, looking dead serious for a second. It unnerved you, but then he looked away and an innocent smile took over his features again, “I know, I just feel bad.”

“Well, don’t,” you shook your head, thinking to reach out and touch his arm, but shivers flew up your spine and suddenly you were wondering if there were nurses near your room, and if so, how many? It had been silent for a while, no more bustling back and forth. You frowned at your thoughts, this was crazy. — wasn’t hurting you, if anything, he was trying to be nice. He was the only one to come to the hospital when there was still so much work to be done. —  must’ve been busy because you hadn’t worked with him in a while, yet he was still taking time out of his busy schedule to see if you were alright. That was more than you could say for someone.  Spencer hadn’t even come to see if you were alright, you knew a few years had passed since the last time you had spoken, but still–couldn’t he just check up on you once? Wasn’t he at all worried or curious as to how you were doing?

The rest of his team had been to see you at some point within the week, though none of them mentioned him. You hadn’t wanted to ask because you’d thought it would be awkward and it was his private life, what right did you have? So, you had left it alone. Now, though you blew out air and asked, “Hey, —?”

“Yeah?” He looked at you expectantly, it scared you. You couldn’t place the reason as to why–but his eyes, there was something…less about them. You wanted to jump out of your own skin and run away–your mouth dropped. You remembered. You remembered why you didn’t walk into the café. But it couldn’t be. You must have your thoughts confused and–no you didn’t You knew exactly what you heard and saw.

You avoided his eyes and faked a cough, “could you… could you get the nurse, I think I need some more water.”

— didn’t move for a second and in that moment, you thought, he knows. You were so sure he knew that you knew that you had remembered. “Sure,” his tone wasn’t cold, but it didn’t have any of the warmness it had mere moments ago. He breezed out of the room, leaving the door cracked.

You breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone, feeling like you were going to die of stress, you stood and stretched. You weren’t in the worst shape, but you had been sitting around for the past three days, you picked up your phone and scrolled threw your messages with —, your best friend. You thought to call her if only to keep your hopes up. They died when you heard the ring of a cell phone nearby.

There was no way, you thought, believing it must be a coincidence, but then what did Spencer say that one time? That there were never any happy accidents or coincidences? That everything always had a reason, whether it was likely or not.

You turned toward the area where — had been sitting, his brown jacket was tossed over the back of the chair. Hesitantly, you pulled it open and rummaged through the pockets, eventually pulling out what you were terrified of finding: —’s phone.

“I couldn’t find any of the nurses,” your blood ran cold as you heard the sound of a door clicking shut, his tone deafening as you felt his presence grow closer, “but you seem all better now.”

Spencer didn’t know whether he should stop by the hospital cafeteria or at a fast food place. Of course, since Garcia seemed to have developed a 6th sense, she could tell something was up–that or Hotch had let something slide, it would be just like him to do something like that.

So, he finally admitted to knowing you and consulted Garcia on his dilemma. She–without hesitation–of course, scolded him for being so narrowminded. If she hated hospitals, she probably hated the food as well, and so, Spencer made a pitstop–but then he thought about it being your first reunion in years and he couldn’t very well just bring you anything.

So, perhaps he had been overthinking everything on the way to the hospital and made more than one stop to gather up the things he remembered you liking back in university. Only when he was stepping out of the car–trying not to trip over mere air as he grabbed the plastic bags–did he realize that maybe he didn’t know everything about you anymore…

He glanced over the items in his hands, sure you may have liked this once upon a time–back when you were together, back when you were something more. But then again–you’d never labeled your relationship. You just were. You were more…to him. 

More than soulmates. He shook his head, standing here hesitating would get him nowhere. The car door shut with a thud and Spencer winced slightly before coming to his senses and grabbing at any sort of courage he could reach.

He ignored the staff, he knew he looked silly. With his black puffer jacket on, his satchel crossed over his body, his hair messy, and his arms full, one holding a bear with a get well soon-card–something he’d found at one of the shops near the place he bought your favorite fast food–he hoped it was still your favorite. He’d even bought a blanket, now that they knew the bombing was a personal attack on you–Spencer planned on spending every second keeping you safe–plus the blankets the hospital provided never kept anyone warm.

Though, he did have to admit he was pretty freaked out. When he hung up the phone with Garcia, she had said she would get back to him after she called Hotch and he was right–who knew? He internally patted himself on the back. That guy on your phone looked pretty good for it. More than good–he’d been fired from his job, where all of your interactions had occurred, which, he and Hotch discussed over the phone, must have been the trigger.

Spencer only knew two things about this guy, his name and that he was obsessed with you. Spencer felt his blood boil at the thought that someone you had been so nice to–was the one who had done these horrible things to you in his sick, fucked up ‘name of love’. Sure, Spencer hadn’t spoken to you–hadn’t seen you in ages–but that didn’t mean he didn’t care. Spencer would always care, and right now, he was feeling the brunt of his conviction. He’d make sure that guy didn’t get past the first-floor elevator, he would never let him see you again.

Spencer realized his grip on the bags had tightened, he took a breath and slightly released them. He both wanted to be with you during this time and out hunting down that guy. You were on the second floor and each second that ticked by was killing him. He didn’t know if you’d be happy to see him. JJ had said you remembered most things about yourself, and you remembered your friends, so there was no way you didn’t remember Spencer.

He knew you two didn’t leave things off on a good note, but he hoped that this was fate. He hated thinking someone close to you had to die for you to meet again, but here you were just five feet away. He paused in front of your hospital door, running through the first words he would say–it was quiet, though–extremely quiet, and there were no nurses around–he tilted his head as he spun around, just now noticing the missing presence.

Spencer shivered, feeling the yellow-dimmed fluorescent lights heighten his paranoia. He didn’t too much like hospitals either. He startled and his head swiveled back to your room when he heard a scream, followed by a crash. He froze, but then his adrenaline kicked in and he dropped everything, to throw open the door.

He had you on the floor, hands around your throat, and you were struggling to breathe. It felt like the room was closing in on you, you saw a flash of white and then you closed your eyes, coming to only seconds later as relief pulled you upward. Someone had tackled him–as you sat forward, hunched over, struggling to find your breath again. The room was spinning, it was both dark blue and gray–you could make out the door that was now ajar.

It felt like hours had gone by, you blinked, but could only hold one eye open at a time. A giant red button took over your view and all you could think was that you needed to get to that damned button. You began crawling toward it while the others were distracted.

You didn’t know who that person was, you hadn’t gotten a good look, but to be fair, you could barely see anything in that moment. You reached out an arm, still on your hands and knees. It took everything in you not to collapse right there. When the pads of your fingertips glazed over the button you felt a sigh of relief escape your lungs. You pressed it–an alarm sounded right after. Mission accomplished, but you couldn’t rest just yet. You had to get out of here, the room was too stuffy, where was your breath going? Why couldn’t you feel it anymore?

Hot tears streamed down your cheeks as you felt your movements slowing. Your chest shuddered with the weight of everything and you slumped against something hard.

You were breathing as best as you could, but every breath felt like a sword to your lungs. Someone said something or …something–you didn’t know and you didn’t care to.

Your vision was blurry, there were tears in your eyes, and someone moved toward you. You couldn’t tell who it was–you tried speaking, but only wheezing came. You felt something soft and cold press against your lips and all at once, you felt your spirit lifting. Your eyes shot open and you weren’t sure if you were dreaming or recalling a memory from a past life.

No, you had to be dreaming, because you knew this person. Years ago you knew everything about him and he knew everything about you, but you’d never been with him like this–though you had imagined it on some nights when he'd fall asleep across from you and you couldn’t help the urge to study his facial features. Tracing up every curve, trying to encode it into your brain as if you’d be tested on how long his neck was or what shape his mouth formed when he wasn’t speaking.

His shyness brought something out of you, a side to yourself you would have never known existed if you hadn’t met him. If you’d never met Spencer…that’s what it felt like now, because the Spencer you once knew never looked so heartbroken. You smiled as best you could, his face was so close to yours, his breath breathing air into your mouth.

You reached out and wiped one of the tears that escaped his eyes. Thank you, your gaze seemed to try conveying. You hoped he understood how thankful you were to see his face one last time, right before everything went black.

She had found him.

And he had given her up. 

Once more, she found him.

And he would never let her go again.

a/n: again sorry for the super late valentines day post!!

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

fangirling and finances 𓂂 𓇼˚｡ •

Summary: offical merch is expensive. the men who sell it are rich. doesn't mean i won't go in a rant about it.

✿ ln x desi!reader ✦

✿ fluff + humour ✦

masterlist ☾☼

monaco glistened in the mediterranean sunlight, a playground for the global elite. y/n, though, had another purpose. no need for the designer stores; she was tracking lando norris. she gripped her phone, praying she could take a photo if she managed to get close enough. her wardrobe? a much-worn "lando 4" t-shirt, a copy she'd bought from a street stall back home in india. official f1 merchandise prices would make her cry – genuinely, who could possibly afford those prices? seeing a known face by the casino square, y/n's heart leaped. it was him! taking a deep breath, she walked over, attempting to look as casual as possible. "mr. norris, may i have an autograph?" lando grinned, always the professional, and autographed her phone case. as he returned it to her, his eyes fell on her t-shirt. "cool shirt," he said, "but why not get the official merch? the quality is so much better." that was it. the floodgates opened. "are you kidding me? official merch is highway robbery! i could practically fund a small road trip around europe with the cost of one of your official hoodies!" lando blinked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. road trips? he was more used to private jets. "uh-huh," he said, clearly not understanding the financial reality of budget travel. y/n was going strong. "see, a good official t-shirt will cost you about 80 euros, okay? that's, like, 7,200 rupees! i can buy at least five of these fake shirts for that kind of money, and they're not half bad! or, let's look at it this way, that's enough for, like, 140 big mac meals in india! imagine the food coma!" lando stared at her, confusion and fascination warring in his gaze. big macs? he lived in michelin-star restaurants. but she was so vivid, so evocative with her words; the sheer incredulity of her comparisons swept him up in their wake. "right," he answered slowly, "big macs. got it." y/n, unaware of his millionaire thinking, was only just beginning. "and those caps? don't even get me started! 40 euros for a cap? that's 3,600 rupees! i could buy a good pair of running shoes for that! shoes i could use to run away from those ridiculous prices!" lando, however, was undergoing some weird phenomenon. it was akin to "cuteness aggression," but rather than having the urge to squeeze a puppy, he simply wanted to continue hearing her. her furrowed brow, the frantic maths on her phone, the very universality of her money troubles – it was all oddly charming. casually, he suggested, "so, if money did not matter, what pieces would you most want?" y/n, without hesitation, recited her fantasy wishlist: a team polo, windbreaker, the limited-edition monaco hat, even the official team backpack. she listed the prices both in euros and rupees, not even catching lando's discreetly opening eyes at the sum. "and where are you staying?" he inquired, attempting to be casual. "how long are you in monaco?" y/n, still enthralled by her merchandise fever, replied eagerly, sharing information about her budget hotel and the last few days of her journey. lando listened intently, taking it in. "i'll… uh… i'll see what i can do with those prices," he replied with a small smile, well aware he wasn't going to negotiate with the official merchandise vendor. the next morning, an unassuming van arrived outside of y/n's hotel. a delivery man appeared, holding an enormous, unorthodox-looking package. on the inside, wrapped in tissues, were every item y/n had listed. the monaco cap, team polo, windbreaker, even the backpack. in a side pocket was stuck a tiny note, scribbled in pen: "look at the prices… adjusted ;) - lando." y/n gazed at the box contents, her mouth agape. she couldn't believe it. lando had actually… he'd listened to her rant! she messaged her friends immediately, telling them the tale in wide-eyed wonder, exaggerating the details just a little for dramatic effect. the question now was: what next? would this be an isolated act of kindness, or the start of something bigger? she had no clue, but she couldn't help grinning. this was certainly a vacation to remember.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

tf, why do i like this? dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

(Trigger warning: allusions to non-con, mentions of overstepping/ignoring boundaries. Nothing explicit or detailed but I still want to put warnings just in case it's triggering to anyone. Putting it under a read more to be extra careful. I just needed to vent a bit because this has deeply upset and infuriated me)

Made the mistake of opening my Twitter tab (I try to stay away as much as possible b/c I am wary of Valleydream Bloom spoilers) and the first thing I saw was a screenrecording of a café interaction where Sylus explicitly says that he isn't into choking. Which doesn't surprise me personally since, you know... this exists

He very clearly does not play about this shit. And rightfully so. His boundary just got crossed, and he doesn't tolerate that even from the person that he has longed for in his dreams. Which, again, rightfully so. No one has the right to overstep a person's boundaries no matter who they are to that person.

I figured that Sylus not being into being choked was common knowledge. Like yes, Sylus has kinks. And he is into BDSM. But that doesn't mean that he likes everything under that umbrella nor that he doesn't have explicit boundaries or limits, which some (mostly Booktok) seems to believe is the case with anyone being into BDSM or being kinky in general when that couldn't be further from the truth.

Anyway, boy was I wrong in my assumption. The reaction this "revelation" has garnered from a number of people is both surprising and disturbing tbh. It's one thing to be surprised but to say shit like "He's lying" or "Maybe he doesn't like it right now but I can change his mind" is just wild and frankly disgusting. On a number of levels.

First off... calling Sylus a liar. You know, the same man who literally never lies. Not even once throughout his relationship with MC. One of his core traits with her is that he is always genuine with her. He may evade certain topics like telling her explicitly about their past but he doesn't lie about it. He doesn't pretend they don't have a past together or that MCs visions aren't real. He has never lied to her and I highly doubt he ever will. It's not in his character. Never has been. And no one who cares about or understands his character would claim differently.

But most of all it just baffles and upsets me how quick and eager some are to dismiss Sylus' boundaries – Sylus, who is fundamentally a character all about autonomy and agency and consent. Who is celebrated for respecting MC's. And yet when it comes to his own? A lot of people like to act like he doesn't have them or that they can be tweaked. And I'm not just talking about the comments on this specific post, but in general I've seen kind of a lot of people adamant about controlling Sylus, or that claim that he would do literally everything MC would want. Even if it makes him uncomfortable. Which would be OOC for both characters.

Another reason why this is so upsetting to me and that I've talked about before is that Sylus is a character who's agency was forcefully – brutally – stripped away from him at a young age and for literal millennia. He has spent a good portion of his existence sealed away or locked up. That's a major reason why having autonomy agency and control is so important to him, and why he sets such clear boundaries for himself. Which MC would never cross because she loves and respects him as much as he does her.

And actually, I think this part about being treated brutally in the past is a major reason why Sylus is very cautious about being touched in certain vulnerable areas (neck, chest, head). He is just so used to being attacked and treated in a violent manner. Which breaks my heart.

Anyway, vent over. I just needed to do make this post for my own sake.