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bloomeng · 5 months ago

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This is my official Batfam Magical Girl AU Masterpost (everyone clapped)

(image updated: 9/21/24)

I’m going to do a brief overview and then go into more details for those interested.

Bruce being from old money (and apparently being connected to Camelot) inherited a mysterious mineral with unknown properties. In its raw form it’s very unassuming, but when cut like gemstones and added to accessories it can be harnessed into a tool. By altering the mineral into a wearable item it allows the magic within to be channeled. The magic of the mineral connects with its wielder to create an outfit and (typically) a weapon. These outfits do not grant the wearer special abilities outside of the transformation and the weapon, but when worn the wearer is granted (what is basically) hammerspace and a nearly impenetrable outfit. The uniform granted is not something they can alter the appearance of but will change gradually overtime to reflect how the wielder has grown.

This mineral will henceforth be known as Arcanium. It operates on Kryptonite logic in that it’s— allegedly— super rare but also shows up whenever the plot needs it. (I’m aware it shares a name with a card game, but I wanted my Kryptonite spoof)

Martha Wayne unknowingly started the cycle by turning— what she thought was a rare gemstone— into a brooch. She died shortly after having it made and Alfred held onto it in her memory. Like canon Bruce goes on his journey of self-exploration to train. When he comes back he enacts his plan the way he does in Batman: Year One, where he goes out in basically just make-up, and it goes poorly. He wanders his manor trying to formulate a strategy and is drawn to his parent’s room and finds his mother’s brooch. Cue the first magical girl transformation. From there he alters the brooch to fit his bat aesthetic and the Batman Brooch is born.

Dick comes into his life the same way as canon. Bruce takes him in as a ward, Dick tries to track down Zucco on his own, etc. Bruce decides to use the other raw sample of Arcanium to turn into a second magical artifact. He lets Dick pick the theme, and thus the Robin Pendant is born. The rest is history.

(Before I continue I want to warn that I’m making shit up as I go, so some of this is subject to change as I move forward.)

The Robin Pendant is passed down from Robin to Robin. Each Robin got their own unique look while using it. Following canon, Dick and Bruce have their falling out and Dick gives up the Robin Pendant in a moment of anger. In this au I think Dick, not having the pendant to fall back on, tries to lead a vigilante-free life, but of course falls back into it. During a fight he somehow manages to stumble across Arcanium in its raw form. Recognizing it he takes it with him. Like Nightwing: Year One he has his conversation with Superman and decides to become his own hero. Using his knowledge of Arcanium from his years with Bruce he creates his own magical artifact and becomes Nightwing.

This is a good place to interject that I’m not changing any of their hero names. I was asked about it a couple times due to the caption, “Red Bow & Sailor Nightwing” on my Dick and Jason designs. It was just a silly caption, because I didn’t want to simply state “Jason and Dick Magical Girl au.” But being serious, I don’t really see a reason to change their names, with the exception of maybe Red Hood, seeing as I didn’t give him a red hood. My au operates on Sailor Moon logic where despite the lack of masks no one recognizes them, and it’s just vaguely explained by magic. I think it would be funny if Bruce chose to wear a mask anyway because he’s that paranoid, but we’ll see when I actually design him. Anyway point is Red Hood is lacking a red hood, maybe he secretly has a red hood on his jacket or maybe he really does go by Red Bow, I’ll leave that up to interpretation.

Arcanium does not just accidentally appear. At the end of the day it’s still a mineral and it’s not sentient, but the magic has an element of “the wand chooses the user.” It’s not so much a “chosen one thing,” so much as the magic can sense intention. It doesn’t care about the morality of the user, the magic is more seeking a symbiotic connection. (Meaning yes rogues can in fact wield artifacts.) Simply put, it wants a host that will be able to wield it. In its raw form the magic is dormant but it seeks to be… not dormant, so when it finds those who actually have the potential to create an artifact and use it, it reveals itself. It was not a coincidence that Martha had the inclination to have the brooch made, it was not a coincidence that Bruce was drawn to his parent’s room, and it was not a coincidence that Dick found Arcanium in the alleyway.

Each of the Bats have their origin moments with their own magical artifacts. I don’t have the whole timeline down, but I will say there was a lot of drama between Tim and Damian, because Tim was forced to hand over the pendant. Even though he technically relinquished it, emotionally the connection wasn’t severed. No one was sure if the transition would work, but Arcanium responds to whoever needs it more and therefore who will use it more. Like canon, Tim is having an awful time during that era. On top of all of it he’s had his title stripped from him and he can’t even argue because if it wasn’t the right move the pendant wouldn’t have responded to Damian. Dick tries to comfort him by telling him that Arcanium will appear for him when he’s ready, but Tim is furious and impatient. So like a well-adjusted person he decides he’s going to engineer his own magical artifact artificially. It goes as well as his attempt to clone Kon does. It’s not until Tim starts to get back on his feet that Arcanium presents itself to him. My thinking is that while Arcanium finds its users when they need it most, Tim’s case is abnormal. His acquisition of the pendant was unconventional from the start since he showed up and demanded to take on the Robin role. Arcanium is drawn to individuals who will actually use its properties. Tim tends to rely more on his own detective work, which renders the pendant’s properties pretty moot. Especially when he’s going off the deep end, he becomes a hermit meaning a) he wouldn’t really need/use Arcanium’s properties and b) he inadvertently limited his own chances of stumbling across it “in the wild.”

In a similar vein I believe Barbara’s journey is abnormal in that she forged her own Batgirl artifact that operates a little differently than the others, seeing as she made it without Bruce’s influence. After the accident she shelved it, maybe she passed it down to Cass, but eventually she gets it back. She created the Oracle identity without it, and for a long time the Batgirl artifact is something she avoids using, until she gets the idea to combine it with her computer to create a magic computer… sort of. She gets a uniform that is basically connected to the computer.

Going back to Damian needing the Robin Pendant more, its reaction to his acquisition was unique. As I mentioned previously the suits typically provide a weapon, well Damian is the exception. Unlike all the other Robin’s Damian didn’t need more weapons in his life, what he needed was guidance. For the first time the pendant granted Damian a magical animal guardian, which is how he gets Alfred the Cat in this au. Despite being an animal lover Damian is extremely pissed at this development. He wanted dual swords or a scarier animal at least. He can’t formally communicate with Alfred the Cat but he understands him intrinsically, though Alfred the Cat seems to be able to understand human speech somewhat. Only Damian seems to be able to truly understand Alfred the Cat. (Cue the antics of his siblings trying to figure out what the cat means or trying to control him in any capacity.) Besides being an animal, Alfred the Cat is also unique in that he doesn’t dissipate when Damian isn’t in uniform the way that the weapons do. Like the weapons he can be summoned by the pendant, but he seems to have existed prior to the pendant’s creation. (I’m toying with the idea that while in uniform, the cat would also get some sort of uniform.)

Before I get into Duke and his abnormalities, I want to address the Speedsters in this au. It’ll make sense after.

So the Flash. I want to say I don’t know if I will get around to creating full designs for them. I do have plans for Bart and maybe Wally, but I have determined how I want their mechanics to operate in the context of the au. Not all the heroes in this au are “magical girls,” in fact I’ve made the executive decision that you have to be human to wield an artifact. Arcanium may have magic in it, but it doesn’t grant its user magical abilities beyond the uniform itself. The speedsters retain their canon origins, hit by lighting blah blah blah, only with one key difference: they had Arcanium on them when they were hit. Instead of engineering an artifact Arcanium fused with their bodies granting them powers. I want to keep the magic transformation aspect (because it’s not a magical girl au without it), so instead of using a physical artifact as a channel for their powers, it’s instead the act of transforming that serves as a gateway to their speed abilities.

To me it was always important to maintain Batman’s identity of not having super powers and having to rely on engineering, which is why the Batfam have to physically build their artifacts. In a similar way I wanted to retain the integrity of the Flash’s identity of being meta but also still human. Which brings me back to Duke. I know in canon that Duke inherited his abilities, but for the sake of the au I’ve decide that he either had an accident when he was young in which traces of Arcanium fused with him or his parents had it in them and he inherited it from them, but regardless it’s less potent, but operates similar to the Speedsters. For years he couldn’t fully transform or use his powers and it wasn’t until— with Bruce’s guidance— he was able to create an artifact that allowed him to channel his abilities and transform. Even though he is a meta I wanted him to still have some of those Batfam qualities in there.

But what about the Superfam? They’re not human so how do their transformations work? The answer is simple: They’re not “magical girls.” At least not real ones, they’re faking. They’re not human (Kon and Jon are technically half human but they still get their abilities from their Kryptonian DNA), and thus cannot forge a connection with Arcanium. Truthfully I’m about to get silly— even sillier than this au already is— but I have decided that Clark is a fake artifact wielder. I like the idea that Batman has been operating longer than Superman has, so when Clark decided to become a hero in his own right his only example of how to style himself was from the bat themed vigilante, who might as well be a cryptid, operating out of Gotham. Only blurry pictures of him existed, so Clark designed his outfit based on his Kryptonian origins and Batman’s aesthetics. He had no idea about the existence of Arcanium or how it worked. This is also why Kon’s design looks so much like his canon outfit with a few magical girl elements (and definitely not because I think the lines in his canon suit already lend themselves well to a magical girl aesthetic and didn’t want to change much). Later when he gets to know Batman more he learns about the transformations, to which he panics and invents his own transformation using Kryptonian tech (ex: MAWS’s transformation). For years Bruce goes crazy trying to figure out Arcanium’s effects on aliens and if it grants them abilities on top of the ones they’re born with, and if Clark has plans to use it as a weapon, and how he managed to forge the connection in the first place— Clark comes clean as a fake once they reveal their identities to each other.

Side tangent but I find it hilarious that Green Lanterns are— by technicality— already “magical girls,” considering they’re granted magical accessories that give them powers and transform their clothing. Hal is very clear with the JL that he is nothing like Batman and constantly feels the need to assert that he is not a magical artifact wielder. The non-human members of the team still lump them together anyway.

Things I haven’t figured out:

- what each of the batfam’s weapons are

- what each of the magical artifacts are

- what to refer to magical artifact wielders as

Stepping outside the canon(?) lore of the au for a minute, obviously I’m redesigning DC characters using inspiration from a genre, because that’s what “magical girl” is. It’s a genre. This is why I refer to it in quotes and don’t call them magical boys, because I am always referring to it as a genre, which isn’t a gendered thing. However, in universe they wouldn’t call themselves magical anything, the same way the characters of Sailor Moon don’t refer to themselves as magical girls, but rather Sailor Scouts. As of right now I’m sort of just referring to them as artifact wielders, but I feel like Bruce would come up with a better name. On a similar note, throughout this whole thing I’ve been referring to Arcanium in it’s wearable state as an artifact. I don’t know if that’s the best term, but I can’t think of anything better for the generalized form of Arcanium outside of it’s raw state. For now I guess it will be “artifacts” and “artifact wielders.”

- how the wonderfam fits into this

I really can’t think of a reason why Wonder Woman would be a “magical girl” in this au. She was born with abilities, she’s not human, and I can’t see her altering her uniform to match the aesthetic. A transformation would just be a waste of time for her. I could to see maybe Cassie or Donna wanting to match with their respective teams, and perhaps maybe that’s why they would alter their uniforms? All I know is I want see Tim, Kon, Bart and Cassie as a matching “magical girl set.”

Fin… for now.

[I’m just going to put this here preemptively, because I’ve gotten messages about turning my au into fics or tiktok skits. You’re free to use this lore HOWEVER you MUST credit me not just for the designs but for the creation of the lore. I’ve put a lot of time and thought into this and I love that people love it, so I just ask for recognition. If you want to make something that’s inspired by my designs or loosely based on my au, just a simple credit for the inspiration is fine. You’re free to change things this is just how my own au operates. Regardless I would prefer to be tagged so that people can find me but also because I’d love to see other’s work.]

Current designs:

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cupidkenji · 10 months ago

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killshot, baby

Pairing: Aaron Hotch x Doctor!Fem!reader Cw: Fluff (for real this time), LONGING (this is literally 9k words of pure yearning idek how I did that), mentions of blood, Hotch gets shot, Jack being adorable, Jack gets injured too :(, no explicit age gap, this is just rlly cute idk it's sweet I love Hotch so much I need him Summary: When you get hired as the BAU's stand-by medic, the team leader ends up being the hardest part of your job. Disclaimer: Reader is chubby! She's always fat coded, but like usual she's not described here. Just know a chubby person was imagined when writing this <3 WC: 9k (Hotch is the love of my life I could go on about him forever) This is definitely not medically accurate, please just enjoy for the sake of the story. I LOVE HOTCH I WANNA SMOOCH HIM

As weird as it was, band aids were the thing you remembered most from your childhood. You grew up as a canvas for any sort of scrape, cut, or bruise. Any wound that made your parents feel mildly worried to utterly terrified were ones that decorated your body frequently. You never tried to assign any meaning to why you became a doctor, simply crediting it as your call to the profession - to people. If you had to, though, your consistently bruised adolescent body is the best root cause you could think of. It seemed only right that the kid who couldn’t keep her skin in tact would grow to love helping others. You liked to think that’s how you kept your head an average size. Your bosses and co-workers had raved about your abilities no matter the job you took, and after a while you had to start prioritizing keeping your humility. You had started as just a kid with bruises.

You tended to ground yourself with those same memories in times like this. For as long as you’d worked in the hospital, you held some disdain for agents. You saw many federal ones, being so close to the HQ for divisions like Behavioral Analysis, but some locals swung by too. You’d had far too many experiences of them being snappy, demanding, and usually inconsiderate to the team of people trying to save someone. You understood the individuals you were committed to helping often got there by doing monstrous things, but demanding to talk to someone when they were bleeding out and half-conscious always forced your tongue between your teeth in an effort to stay respectful. Especially now, pushing a stretcher with 3 other workers while trying to shake off the feds trailing after him. You recognized them, Agents Rossi and Hotchner, if you remembered correctly.

“We’ll need to talk to him immediately.” The man - Rossi, you assumed, seeing as he was going gray and had less of a charge fueling his steps - spoke quickly as the two men followed your team.

“Be here when he’s out of surgery.” You didn’t bother to look back, trying to convey your annoyance and praying they got the hint.

“He’s killed three women and has another one hostage. We don’t have time.” The other one piped up, easily keeping pace with you.

Abandoning your previous strategy, you let your team push the man into the operating room, shutting the door behind them and whipping around to face the duo. “I understand that, sir, believe me.” You were more elevated than you would have liked, years of unease unfortunately slipping through your efforts to withhold them. “But whatever happened when you found him left him barely breathing. You can’t speak to a corpse. You’ll have your time when he’s stable. Go do your job and let me do mine.” You tensed your calves planning to turn around, but quickly felt the guilt catch up to you. “I’ll call you if he wakes up.”

“If?”

You sighed. You hated profilers. “I’ll call you.”

“Call the headquarters.” He was scribbling down a number on the back of a hospital business card. “Ask for Agent Hotch. We’ll be waiting.” You nodded your head once, taking the card from his hands. He started walking away as he thanked you. “We appreciate it.” Sure.

–

The surgery to save the man had been a trip and half. One of the bullets had internally ricocheted, and the other two were lodged next to crucial arteries. You praised your mother for giving you steady hands as you inched them out of him. It took you and your team six hours and fifteen minutes to get his heartbeat steady, you estimated he’d be knocked out all night. You should call, you thought. You had no idea how late these people worked but they were more than likely expecting to talk tonight and you didn’t know if that’d be possible. You fished the card out of your pocket, his handwriting was impressively neat for how fast he’d written the number. You heard the line ring twice before someone picked up.

“This is Penelope Garcia with the Behavioral Analysis Unit, who am I speaking to?”

“Uh- I’m Dr. L/n down at Quantico Med. I’m looking for Agent Hotch?” Your words tilted up at the end of your sentence. The casual nature of his shortened name left a weird feeling in your mouth after you said it. “I have an update on a patient he was asking after.”

“Is this about an unsub?”

“A what?” She lacked professionalism. You wondered briefly if he had just given you the phone number of an employee.

“I’m sorry-” she laughed slightly. “Is this about a suspect? Hotch told me someone might be calling.”

“Um - yeah it’s about a suspect. He was brought in earlier. Is Agent Hotch there? I’m sorry ma’am but I've been in an operating room for the past 6 hours and I want to go home.” You hoped she’d respect your honesty, you really didn’t have the patience to explain yourself to someone new.

She chuckled. “I got you honey, I’ll page you over.” The line went dead for a second before the ringing resumed. Please be quick, you prayed, get me out of this fucking hospital.

“Hotchner.” His voice was rougher over the phone. You guessed the long hours started to weigh on him by this time of night. You always felt it the most around this time, too.

“Hi, sir. This is Dr. L/n from the hospital. We managed to stabilize your guy, but it’s unlikely he’ll be up before tomorrow. I know it was assumed he’d be awake tonight but it took longer to operate than expected.” Your guys put 3 bullets in him, so sorry for the inconvenience. “I’ll be here all day tomorrow. You can come by at any time and I’ll let you in.”

“Are you positive we can’t talk to him tonight? I understand the situation is difficult but this case is extremely time sensitive. I’m sure that’s not lost on you.” You cursed the man for not being more condescending in his delivery. Thinking of the poor person either trapped or dead right now due to the guy you just saved made you sick.

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I can wake him up.” A quarter dose of adrenaline works wonders. “Be here in fifteen minutes. You won’t have much time to talk to him.”

“Thank you.” He hung up. You put your head in your hands. Just a little kid with bruises.

–

The layout of the BAU made you envious of the workers here. You’re sure they’d dealt with atrocities beyond what the average person could stomach, but you also worked within the belly of the beast and man were those hospital hallways claustrophobic. The daylight shone beautifully through the large windows, and you asked yourself if you’d be able to cope with all the paperwork in exchange for a feel like this. There weren’t any front desks, nowhere to sign in, so you sat in one of the chairs by the door and waited to see if something would happen. You had been specifically requested to visit the building , a note signed ‘Strauss’ being left with the hospital secretary. You didn’t like being called on by a stranger, it made you nervous beyond belief. You’re sure anyone walking by assumed you were being charged with something. Sweating like a sinner in church.

“Dr. L/n?” A woman was standing near you, having completely avoided your eyesight until now. “I’m the board supervisor, Erin Strauss. Thank you for coming.” The woman was nice enough, but she seemed rigid, clearly confident in her authority. She led you to her office and gestured to the chair facing her desk.

“I’ll cut right to the chase.” She smoothed her pencil skirt as she sat down. “The BAU is seeking a stand-by medic and I’d like to offer you the position. You’re revered highly by your previous places of employment and your current boss has only good things to say. Along with a personal reference by an employee of mine, you’re certainly a person of interest. You’d be working interchangeably with three other individuals, however you would be the first one called when needed.”

That is definitely not what you were expecting. You were almost immediately ready to turn down the offer. You didn’t work well with cops. You worked well in a hospital, going into the field to patch the wounds of both good and evil was a less than appealing deal to you.

“You’d be on call while you worked your current position at Quantico Medical, when you’re at home you can remain there, but you’ll be flying with the rest of the team when they leave. You will be entered into a federal database, and employed as a stand-in for hospitals near you when working abroad.” She went on to explain you’d be paid salary, and when you heard just how much you could add to your monthly income by doing this, you took it. You were doing fine, you definitely didn’t need the financial boost, but you had family that could use it. Your niece had been close to turning down college because of the cost, so some extra money could really set her up.

“Excellent. You’ll start your field training next Monday.” She was shuffling papers into a hefty stack as she talked. “Come back when you’ve finished this and I’ll arrange a team meeting.” The stack was even heavier than you expected when you picked it up. It was far too early to be regretting your decision.

–

The first day of training had been easy enough. You weren’t an agent, so you avoided having to learn weapons or combat. It generally consisted of learning efficiency, along with how to work properly with agents and the expected etiquette when dealing with an unsub. You had met the team only once by now. Everyone had been nice - Garcia especially - but aside from her nobody had been particularly welcoming. The conditions of your job were a bit strange, basically capitalizing on the what ifs that came with the FBI title, and that created a bit of distance between you and the rest of the team. They questioned the necessity of you, they’d survived this long without a stand-by medic with them, why did they need one now?

Above any disregard for those in law enforcement sat your stubbornness. You knew they were on the fence about you, the most logical thing for you to do now would be attend every session required of you and prove yourself through pure accomplishment. Easy in theory, much harder to execute when Aaron Hotch is the one you’re learning from. He was a good teacher - you’d give him that - he had a confidence to him that easily dominated a room, attracted eyes in a way other men couldn’t manage. You’d ignored the initial stir in your stomach when meeting him in favor of attempting to scold him and his partner. Now, it was much harder to quell the slight pound in your head or the sweat on your palms. He was just standing up front, lecturing on the importance of a team, but his attire was the only thing able to break through the haze in your mind. Every time he’d shown up at the hospital, he’d donned a suit, a slightly baggy blazer worked incredibly well as a shield to your curiosity. That had clearly changed, as he shed the overcoat when talking to the class, having just a white button up adorn his torso. You took notice of the rolled up sleeves, clearing your throat quietly to snap yourself back into focus. You had the intention of snuffing out this little thing of yours but were a living contradiction at this point, setting on the goal of avoidance while barely ignoring the sight of the veins on his arms. You pondered the thought of sleeping with some man at a bar just to get this out of your system, but remembered how little projecting attraction onto someone else helps a situation. In other words, you were probably fucked.

–

The first mission you worked with the team had you flying to a tiny Georgia town to investigate a string of bodies being found in ransacked homes. It seemed to be a simple motive, robbery turned to murder, but the team was called down to help once the kill count hit five. You had been expecting a long commercial flight, figuring you’d need to invest in a good neck pillow and some aspirin. Nobody had bothered to inform you the Bureau utilized private air travel, or that you’d be flying in one with people you’d known for two weeks. You’re sure you looked a little out of place, looking around the plane without being obvious you were doing it and adjusting to the sight of couches on planes. The others, having had this privilege for years now, took their respective seats. You had been nervous about that, unfortunately. The unsure feeling of where to sit reminding you painfully of high school cafeterias and inferior reputations. The only open seat happened to be right next to the man you’d been ducking away from the past two weeks. Lovely. He took a moment to look at you when you sat. You were prepared to talk to him, but for now you busied yourself with rummaging through your bag looking for nothing and pretending not to see him in your peripherals.

“Do you get sick on planes?” He seemed to have a deeper motive when he asked, like you saying yes would solve a puzzle in his head.

“Not really.” You’d only been on a plane a handful of times. “Turbulence can make me nervous, but I think that’s fairly normal.” You thought momentarily that perhaps he would blame your obvious anxiety on that instead of his proximity to you. He was a profiler, you’re sure he picked up on tells for nerves you weren’t even aware you had, but maybe he’d write it off. “Why do you ask?”

“You seem…” He trailed off for a moment, looking over your face to try and categorize your expression. “I don’t know, lost?” He smiled, light and easy, and you realized he was trying to reach out to you. The comfortability in the gesture made your head spin. It was like a shot of morphine, enveloping your body in a dull elation - an escape. You wanted that comfortability, wanted him to feel weightless around you. There had been a certain tension between the two of you since you started. He was warmer than the rest, but also more awkward. Your first real interaction had been an outburst, and it left you hesitant to talk to him.

You chuckled at his remark. “No I -” You shook your head as you spoke, as if shaking off his accusation. “Nobody told me about the jet. You’d think exclusive aircraft would be in the job predecessor.”

He nodded in agreement, holding a slight upturn on his lips. “Yes, you would.” He glances away to check the time, looking back to you quickly like you were his homebase. “Strauss has a habit of getting ahead of herself. Plus, we’re all pretty used to it by now. I have to remind her sometimes that normal provisions don’t have a TI.”

“I’m sure.” It was clear she’d worked with the unit for a while. “Even if they did, though, they’d never find another Garcia.” You thought of the woman, bright and sparkly and incredibly good at her job. “You guys are lucky to have her.”

He stared at you, losing a hint of the lightheartedness and letting a wave of genuinity intertwine with it. “You have her too, Y/n.” His eyes were like a trap, rich pools of honey just begging to tug you down in. “You’re a member of this team. Don’t think your newness makes you inferior to anyone else on it. We’re lucky to have you too.”

Fuck, you were whipped. “I really appreciate that, sir.”

He smiled, shaking his head and waving you off. “Don’t with the sir, please. It’s bad enough when Garcia does it. You can call me Aaron.” Not even the other team members called him that, a thought that seemed to strike you both simultaneously. “Or Hotch, whatever you prefer.”

You just looked at him, letting a smile rouse your lips and trying your hardest not to let the effect he had on you reach your face. “Ok.”

–

The first case had been good training wheels, simply tending to a vic who needed stitches and getting a feel for the life of a field agent. You’d been adjusting nicely to it, quickly getting used to working random hospitals and waiting to be needed on an active crime scene. The others had warmed up to you tremendously after getting back, opening their circle for one more, and you couldn’t be more grateful. A team like this was something you’d wanted for a while, growing more and more unsatisfied with the callous ER workspace by the day. Ironically, there was much more life in jobs dealing with murder. He had also been warming up to you. The two of you hit the status of work-place friends nearly instantly. The endearing encounter on the plane simmered inside you for a while. The memory of it prompting you to keep talking to him, always searching for a fix of the painkiller you’d felt that day.

You weren’t a profiler, but you were unfathomably infatuated, leading you to never miss his tone getting softer with you, or any one of his touches that lingered for just a second too long. It just barely bypassed the line of friendship, but you never lost sight of that linear barrier, so it was incredibly prevalent to you when he breached it. You scoffed at the idea of any reciprocity, brushing off every remark made by a coworker or the one horrific time you heard JJ refer to the two of you as ‘mom and dad.’ This wasn’t a plausible thing. This was a stupid workplace crush that was more of a hindrance than anything. The growing closeness between you and him would have it’s effects properly restrained to the confines of your head, only permitted to express themselves once you were away from the man. It was an odd dynamic, but Aaron wasn’t an obvious guy, so trying to define the edges of you two would only draw attention to the fact you had been looking at all. No thank you.

“Shit.” The team was sitting around the table going over their files. You were mainly there for support, as you were never a part of the lead up to the catch, the chase. You heard Hotch mumble the exclamation under his breath and looked over to see the trouble. He was looking down at his phone, jaw resting between his thumb and pointer finger. You got up and moved to sit next to him, the motion virtually ignored by everyone else as they continued searching for connections.

“Everything ok?” You mumbled to him, trying not to disturb your friends who were nearly nose-deep in their files.

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Jack’s sitter canceled. I wanted to stay here to go over the latest crime scene but I guess I’ll have to raincheck.” The killings of your latest unsub had been increasing. You knew the collective stress that was starting to boil within the team. Him going home would only slow them down, a horrible addition to a killer that was speeding up.

You volunteered your night away before you even got a chance to think about it.

“I can watch him.”

Surprise was apparent in the raise of his eyebrows. “I appreciate it, but I couldn’t ask that of you.

You’re fairly certain you would do anything he asked of you, but the nobility of the man in this case almost made you roll your eyes. “No, please. I offered and I would love to. I’m not helping anyone just sitting here, and you leaving would slow them down. You know what to look for here, I don’t. I don’t want another girl going missing just cause your sitter flaked. I can do it.”

He seemed mildly speechless. “I -” He paused, trying to find the wording he wanted. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll send you the address, if you’re sure.” He looked at you with more adoration than you’d ever had directed at you, so intense your eyes instinctively ducked down. “Thank you, Y/n.” He was so touched by the action it made you slightly sad to think about. Had no one ever helped him? Maybe you were raised weird, this seemed hardly beyond common decency to you.

“What are friends for?” He exhaled a slight laugh in gratuitous agreement, but you saw the glimmer of his eyes dull slightly. The notion surely reflected in your own eyes as the words burned your tongue. Friends.

–

Jack was a delight. A well mannered, clearly well raised kid. Parts of his dad shined so vibrantly in him that you’re sure you’d be able to pick him out of a crowd based on mannerisms alone. Hotch had called Jack’s daycare, verifying your identity and giving you the ok to go pick him up. He seemed quiet on the way home, but rushed to give you a tour of the house, and excitedly led you to his line up of toy trains once you’d entered the place. There was a shift between you and Hotch that happened when you gave the offer. A shift that was now only just settling in you. This was his house. His space, his stuff, his place of security. He’d invited you into it, gave you permission to enter it, to exist within it, and it was strangely intoxicating. He was intoxicating, and you realized quickly how much you ached for the permanence of it. You’d made Jack dinner, played for a bit, went out for ice cream per his pleading, and wished him a peaceful goodnight when his bedtime rolled around. He’d dubbed you his ‘best babysitter ever’ and you knew as soon as the words hit your ears that you’d be watching him again. You’re sure situations like today popped up frequently for Hotch, you could be a valuable asset to him when you had free time. He would be saving money too. No need to pay a sitter when you were being paid by the Bureau every second you were there. Aaron had gotten home a few minutes past one, utterly exhausted and uncharacteristically apologetic. He was sorry for being gone so long, making you stay so late, everything and anything the man could apologize for was pouring out of his mouth. He’d welcomed you to stay, but his hair was messy from messing with it all night, and he’d ditched the suit jacket for a gray long sleeve. You’d wanted to take the opportunity, wanted to bask in the safety of him for as long as he’d allow it, but those restrained thoughts were clawing the walls of your skull with a vigor unlike anything you’d felt before. It would be abhorrent to dream about the man while in the confines of his home. You couldn’t do that - you wouldn’t. You brushed off any apology he could conjure and let him escort you out the door. His hand was on your lower back, and his voice was low from the siphoning nature of the day.

“Thank you, again.” He looked at you. “You’re a lifesaver.” You’d expected to hear some humor in his voice. The start of banter between friends, a casual appreciation for a job well done, but there wasn’t any. He sounded rough, slightly beat down, his eyes filled with a sincerity all aimed at you. A blend of pure adoration and a deeper level of dedication. Was this a commitment? What kind?

Heat bubbled in your stomach as you made eye contact. “Please.” You shook your head slightly. “Jack’s an angel. You’re clearly as good at this as you are profiling.” You nodded in the vague direction of Jack’s bedroom as you referenced the kid. “It was my pleasure. I’d love to do it again, if you’ll let me.”

He sighed out a small laugh and broke your gaze for a moment, looking back to you as he spoke. “I’d like that.”

–

You’d seen Jack a multitude of times after that. Aaron was never particularly fond of asking you, claiming that he appreciated the gesture but it was mainly Jack’s begging that made him cave. That, and your persistence. You liked Jack a lot, and more selfishly, you liked being around Aaron’s stuff. It was a little creepy, yes, but you felt better acquainted with him after being around his things. An energetic type of understanding, the type that deepened a connection without words. He was needed late tonight, and as much as you hated denying an offer to see Jack, you had priorities at the hospital. The previous sitter wasn’t able to watch him, so she gave a personal recommendation, and Jack got stuck with a stranger. You thought about him while working, probing and patching people half-focused with the desire to be elsewhere. You’d felt mildly guilty about it, but it’s not like it altered your work, so you figured it was harmless.

You wondered slightly if you manifested the event you were watching play out. You watched in pure disbelief as a sobbing Jack was being carried into the ER by a flustered blonde woman. There was blood staining the right sleeve of his shirt, pouring out of his skin in a surplus and completely soaking through the material. A jagged piece of glass was standing at attention in his wrist, having sliced through the fabric like butter. He was marked ‘urgent,’ who knows if the shard had hit an artery or where the glass had come from.

Most other doctors were busy, either operating or tending to patients. You’d walked to the front desk, remaining as calm as your racing heart would let you, and told the secretary to assign the case to you. “I know this one. Let me take him.” She just nodded, marking your name down as the primary doctor and allowing you to take him back.

Walking up to the blonde woman, you assumed this had been the new babysitter. She was a wreck, trying to explain what happened through her own hysteria while simultaneously having her words drowned out by the crying child. “It’s ok, ma’am.” You’d reassured her, obviously she hadn’t intended the injury. “Let me take him, I’m a friend of his father.” You saw the calmness dilate her eyes, making itself apparent in the relaxation of her tense shoulders. You removed the bleeding boy from her arms, holding him against you and cooing at him the way you would a baby. You took him to a stretcher a few feet away and laid him down, ensuring his wounded arm stayed flat in an attempt to slow the blood. He was on the brink of passing out, his body not having nearly enough energy for the sobbing on top of losing vital fluid. “Jack.” You addressed him directly, two more doctors aiding your transfer to an examination room. “I need you to stay with me, buddy. Just a little longer, I promise. You’re gonna be just fine.” You pushed with one hand, caressing his non-injured arm to emphasize your affection. “Just a little longer.” You looked at him in between looking forward to keep the stretcher straight, seeing that same adoration from his father’s eyes mirrored in his. You felt protective, realizing you cared for the Hotchners much more than you let yourself believe. Little kid with bruises, you skimmed through your origins in your mind in an attempt to center your focus. Just a little kid with bruises.

Two hours later, Jack was stitched up and sleeping soundly. You knew his sitter had called Hotch, probably as soon as something happened, and were not surprised to find him idle in a waiting room chair. He was leaned forward, head in his hands and knee bouncing violently. He heard footsteps getting closer, a feeling within him recognizing them as yours, and he looked up. His eyes were teary, tired. The look of a concerned father.

“How is he?” You’d never witnessed this type of worry in him, heard the amount of desperation in his voice.

You smiled lightly as a predecessor to Jack’s wellbeing. “He’s fine. Glass missed his arteries. We had him patched up in around an hour and a half. Gave him a lollipop and a light sedative to get him to rest. He should be all set to go in the morning.”

He sighed, and the amount of stress that audibly left his body made you feel a little lighter from where you stood. “Thank God.”

“Hey man, give us a little credit.” You joked, relieved when you heard the slight laugh come from his downturned head. Pity laugh, probably, but it was a cherished sound nonetheless.

“You have full credit, Y/n.” He shook his head, raising it to look at you. “Quite the hero.”

You almost physically recoiled from the term, rushing to correct him while maintaining the lighthearted nature. “Definitely not.” You rejected the praise. “Just doing my job. I’m glad I could help him.”

He leaned back in his chair, relaxing for a second before he planned to stand up. “Noble.” He chuckled. “But you helped my son. That’s about as heroic as it gets to me, doc.”

Blood rushed to your ears at your professional title being used so affectionately. “Go check on your kid, Hotch.” You waved back towards the direction of Jack, knowing that even though he was asleep, he’d want to see him anyway. You also hoped the slight distraction would draw his attention away from your increasingly flustered state. “You’ll have plenty of time to praise me.” You weren’t entirely sure you’d wanted the sentence to exit your mouth, but it was too late to bite your tongue.

He raised his eyebrows so slightly that you scolded yourself for having noticed. Such a minuscule action that seemed to move mountains within your brain. “Oh?”

“Shut up.” You rolled your eyes at your own remark. “I’m walking away. You know what I meant.”

“Mhm.” He smiled, nodding his head dramatically and rising from his seat. “Just name a time and place, doc. I’ll do good on that promise.”

You went momentarily braindead, hoping your eyes weren’t giving away the less than work appropriate feeling pumping through your veins. You stared baffled at him for what was definitely a millisecond too long before giving a half-shocked, half-flattered laugh and gesturing him away. “Say that when you’re not obviously sleep deprived and delirious and maybe we can arrange it.” The last thing you heard was him, laughing the way you do when you’re very serious but desperately trying to pass it off as a joke. You knew it well, having done it almost every time you were around him since you started. Comfortable, witty retorts between friends. “Have a good night, Aaron.”

Aaron, he thought. He’d remember that.

–

That had been the second shift between the two of you. Felt immediately by both parties and tossing you both into the deep end of whatever you’d been building with him. He’d been much more touchy, seemingly subconscious on his part but noticed by every part of your body, mind, and soul. You thought about what it could mean, then sunk even further into your incoherent mind when realizing just how subconscious the actions really were. He was just drawn to you. You had viscerally fought that conclusion as it came to you but it genuinely could not be anything else. He was touching you more because - whether on the surface or deeper down - he just wanted to, and that fact was wrecking you. You were so fucking into him that it hurt. Hurt to look at him or be in his home watching Jack or have his knee pressed against yours in the back of car during a team outing. It all hurt because he wasn’t yours. He seemed into you, too. Of course, you didn’t know to what extent. You worried maybe he hadn’t said anything yet because he simply didn’t like you enough, and that hurt more than any other factor. It was a foolish notion - one you would have abandoned instantly had you peeked inside his head - but alas, no such luck.

He’d been more relaxed, too. The two of you reaching a point in your relationship you hadn’t ever let yourself dream about. He was funny, achieving that lightness around you that you’d wanted from the start. He’d gotten riskier, amping up the dial on his remarks a bit. Starting with those like the hospital, ending with ones that made you have to take a breather in the room where they kept the coffee. It hadn’t gone unnoticed, per say, but the others were certainly ignorant to the true depth of the change. You simply couldn’t measure it by witnessing, you had to feel it. And fuck were you feeling it.

A week or so after Jack’s ER visit, you’d asked after him. You didn’t know if the regret was immediate, but it flooded through you quickly. Aaron got nervous, shifty, like you’d touched a live wire of his and he now had to patch it up before it blew. You got concerned, asking if something happened with his stitches or if Jack was now showing some sort of trauma response to the event. Was that even plausible? You weren’t sure, PTSD wasn’t exactly your strong suit. However, he quickly stated that wasn’t the case, noting that Jack was actually in perfect health and had been relentless about wanting you over for dinner.

“He’s grateful.” Hotch was smiling with paternal reluctance, proud of his son for having such good morals but also uncomfortable with the possibility of rejection he was facing. “He wants to see you, say thank you for “saving his life.” He emphasized the last bit in a sarcastic tone, both of you knowing his life hadn’t been in danger but also knowing that fact wouldn’t deter the boy from considering you some type of guardian angel. “Would you be up for it?” If you hadn’t been so focused on snuffing out the heat rushing to your face, you would have seen that same heat reflected in a slight pink across his cheeks.

“Definitely.” You smiled at the thought of the boy bugging his dad about getting you to the house. “When were you thinking?”

“Saturday night?” Both of you were scheduled to be off that day, and you found yourself begging whatever merciful being would listen to not have some lead to chase that day. “He’ll want the day to prepare.” He chuckled.

“Oh no.” You joked. Prepare? You couldn’t even begin to imagine what that meant. “Well, I am extremely curious to find out what an eight year old boy has to prepare for. How about seven? Would that be good?”

Aaron felt his palms start to sweat. He’d never actually been around his house when you’d been there, only seeing you on your way out. “That’s perfect.”

“Great.” You smiled, checking the time and realizing you needed to get going to the hospital. “I’m looking forward to it.” You nodded slightly as one last confirmation and headed out, suppressing a giddy smile while trying to force yourself into a headspace you could work in.

In the meantime, Aaron watched you walk off from where he’d been perched on your desk, entirely oblivious to the man watching the scene.

“As I live and breathe.” Rossi had crept up on him, not spooking him but rather suspending him in a state of immeasurable embarrassment. “Aaron Hotcher has a crush.” The man held his shoulder, patting him there like a father witnessing his son get his first girlfriend. “She’s a good one. Quite the eye you got, Aaron.” Then he was gone, walking away with Aaron’s dignity clasped in his hands. Closing his eyes in pure mortification, Hotch simply thanked God that nobody else was around for that and walked away with the intention of fusing to his office chair to avoid ever looking at Rossi again. At least you’d said yes, he thought. He didn’t know how he’d cope with his friend watching him swing and miss.

–

The daylight seemed to be anticipating this more than you were, hours passing by like minutes until eventually the sun woke you up on Saturday morning. It was blazing through the cracks in your blinds, settling in slim lines across your floor, as light and gentle as snow. You’d been rehearsing your poker face in preparation for tonight. Writing safety manuals for any ungodly situation that could happen, everything from a fire to Aaron gaining the ability to read your mind and unearthing what you really thought about him. You were so happy that Jack held you in such high esteem, but your hands were shaking at the thought of sitting down with him and his father and acting like it wasn’t the dynamic you fucking dreamt about. You knew it was a good sign of compatibility if someone’s cat liked you - did their child liking you mean the same thing? You hoped Jack’s seemingly innate approval of you gave you at least a couple brownie points. Aaron had called you a hero. Swiftly ignoring the memory of what he’d said after he called you a hero, you pulled out your phone. You and him didn’t really speak outside of work and babysitting schedules, but you were pacing around your room and needed something to give you a semblance of structure, a reassurance - even if it was just for the time. You texted, asking if you were still on for tonight, then went to go make breakfast and inevitably pace some more. He’d gotten back to you about twenty minutes later, confirming the time and giving details of how excited Jack was about it. You smiled at that, praying tonight would be as smooth as humanly possible and you could walk away with an ounce of emotional control. You set an intention, this wouldn’t deepen your feelings for Aaron. Was it a pointless goal? Yes. Was it also highly unlikely to prove true? Yes. But the loose plan you worked around the resolution almost completely extinguished the anxiety that had been blazing for hours now. It would be fine, you thought. Completely and utterly fine.

The same words were looping through your thoughts when you got to his front door. Casual - but still minorly more dressed up than he’d seen you. You’d put a little extra effort into your appearance, mainly to pass the time if you were honest, and you walked in with mild confidence fueling your steps. You did your best not to ogle him, he was in an attire that was already threatening to unravel the safety net of the goal you set. You were used to the suits hidden beneath blazers you cursed the existence of, maybe a snippet of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves late at night. Now, though, he sported a simple black tee, more comfortable than you’d ever seen him. Domesticity was practically oozing from the entire situation. You felt the pieces slip into place as Jack ran up behind him, and you almost cried with how badly you wanted this feeling to be your normal.

“Hey, buddy.” You laughed as he hugged you, reciprocating the act as well as you could from the multiple feet you had on his height. “How’s the arm?”

He raised up his wrist, now gauze free and proudly showed off the scar there. You played up the genuine admiration you felt for him. “That’s a pretty gnarly scar.” He nodded in response, probably feeling cool for the evidence he handled such an injury. “I don’t want to see you back in my operating room, you hear me? Scared the life out of us.” The scolding was playful, and he giggled at your words.

Aaron huffed in agreement, cocking his head to the side slightly. “You can say that again.” Jack looked between you two, smiling and seemingly thinking something neither of you could decipher. To break the moment of silence, Aaron patted his shoulder. “Why don’t you tell her what’s on the menu, buddy?”

He told you, and you hummed along to his words, commenting that it sounded delicious and actually meaning it. He ran away a second later - presumably back to whatever he’d been doing before you got there - and left you and Aaron alone. Venturing into the kitchen, you saw multiple pans and pots sitting neatly on the stove, table set and ready to be utilized. Everything was being kept warm, and you finally gained an appetite after having wrestled with nerves all day.

“Do you want a drink?” He asked it while entering the kitchen, pausing to look at you.

“Please.” You were desperate to calm yourself, eager to subdue the shaking of your hands. “Do you have any wine?” You weren’t the biggest fan, but you couldn’t think of a drink more fitting for the evening.

He nodded slightly. “Red or white?”

“White.”

He chuckled. “Thought so.” It was quiet, more to himself than you as he was already walking away from you when he said it. He’d thought about what kind of wine you liked, you thought. He’d thought about you. He pulled two wine glasses down from the cupboard, then walked over to the fridge. He reached above it, barely having to stretch, and pulled an uncorked bottle from the storage up there. You felt your legs tense looking at how tall he was, how sure he was of his actions. Jesus. It’s been five minutes and you were crumbling. You watched his hands as he uncorked the bottle, reading the label and realizing the brand.

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Seems a little fancy for a dinner.”

He laughed under his breath as he finished pouring the glasses, walking back over to sit next to you on the island stools. “You’re a guest of honor.” He placed yours in front of you. “I thought it was fitting.”

You searched, but couldn’t find the humor in his tone. You raised your eyebrows slightly. “Am I?” It was sarcastic, you needed to stop the heat in your stomach from spreading. “I didn’t know doing your job earned such a title.”

He was drinking as you spoke, finishing his sip before joking back. “You’re a doctor.” He said. “I thought you knew that better than anyone.”

You sucked air through your teeth as if wounded by his words. “Touche.” You took a sip of your drink, relishing the taste. Damn, he didn’t come to play. He laughed, and you set your glass back down. “Ok, I have to know.” He drew his attention to you. “What the hell did Jack need the day to prepare for?” The question had been on your mind since he asked you.

He took a drink, chuckling with a mouthful then swallowing so he could reply. “He actually helped cook most of this.” He nodded towards the stove full of different dishes. “That was what he needed the day for. Time for trial and error.”

You grinned at the thought of Jack and Aaron spending the day in aprons, making sure everything turned out perfect. “That is the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”

He looked back towards Jack, coloring in the living room, close enough to see but far enough to miss your discussions. “He gets nervous around you.”

That surprised you. “Why on Earth would he be nervous around me?” You took your turn looking at the boy, an idea hitting you and making you feel sick. “Wait, I didn’t do something did I?”

He looked back at you, smiling. “No, no. Nothing like that. He gets nervous because he likes you. He knows who you are to me, too, so he wants to make a good impression.”

Your mind latched onto that sentence and played it like a broken record, bouncing between your ears over and over. “Oh?” Your lips were curling up at the corners, eyebrows furrowing as you got ready to hold him to that statement. “And who might I be to you, Aaron?”

Fuck. He’d let that slip past his lips without even thinking about it. So used to being in the confidential company of his son. Good thing he used to be a lawyer and could lie his ass off. “Most of his sitters aren’t also my coworkers.” He delivered it the smoothest way he could, smiling and drinking to hopefully exude a false comfortability that he certainly wasn’t feeling.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look sarcastic but in truth downplaying the sting you felt. What if this had been one-sided all along? You hadn’t prepped a safety guide for that.

Luckily, Jack came sprinting into the kitchen a second later, pleading with his father to eat now. Clinging to his leg and declaring how hunger was killing him by the second, dramatically threatening to wither away before your very eyes. You both shared a look, agreeing silently to put the kid out of his misery. The instinctual nature of the act hit you like a bolt of lightning. Both of you so in tune it was comical. The dinner had been lovely, and you reminded yourself to encourage Jack to keep up his cooking hobby. Maybe you could foster a professional chef. You’d talked with them both, light and the happiest you’d felt in a while. There it was, you realized. That weightless feeling you wanted to give him. You felt it in yourself too, and you could only pray it was because he felt it first. When dinner concluded, you’d help clean up while Jack resumed his coloring. His bedtime was soon, and you didn’t want him to spend his last hour washing pans. He was nearly delirious by the time 9:00 graced the clock, tired from the preparation of the day and needing to get to sleep. He’d given you a hug goodnight, thanked you for coming like the gentleman he was, and that was the last you saw of him. The rest of your time there was spent on the couch with Aaron, you both held a second glass of wine, and you noticed it manifest in the blush on his face. He was gorgeous, and you were staring. You know your eyes went to his lips a couple times as he spoke, low and rougher as the time ushered more light out of the sky. You saw his eyes slip down a few times too, this sort of unspoken, agonizing rule of look don’t touch. He’d walked you to the door, thanked you for your attendance, and then you were leaving. Sitting in your car, warm on the inside from both his presence and the anger you felt at yourself for not just kissing him. You were so incredibly needy for this - for him, and that fact just sat with you, like a raincloud constantly in a state of downpour, never letting you forget the pure fucking craving you had for him.

–

You think the start of your blackout was Morgan’s panicked voice over the speaker. You’d been stationed in your typical hut, equipped with medical gear and waiting on someone to need you. It was almost never your team in need of service, typically you were tending to an injured hostage or sometimes the unsub themselves, but never your friends. Your breath had been baited since you’d heard the gun go off. You knew the case was dealing with an aggressive attacker, you’d been expecting a fight, but nothing is ever more excruciating than waiting to hear who the shot was meant for. Derek crying out your name followed by a “get in here. Hotch is down, we need you in here.” had you ready to run the soles of your shoes down to dust just to make it in time. In time. God, in time for what? You’d ran past Emily and Rossi hauling out the unsub, anger evident in their treatment of him. How bad was it? How bad had he got him to have them acting like that?

The scene was bloody. Your brain switching off and forcing you into autopilot as you registered the pool of Hotch’s blood that Morgan was kneeling in. He was putting pressure on the wound, an attempt to stop the bleeding but it was flowing like a river. He wouldn’t make it to the hospital like this, you realized. He wouldn’t make it to the fucking hospital. You were holding his life in between your hands right now, the slightest tremor could sever that chord and you were feeling the pressure hard. Aaron was leaned against the wall, slumping down slightly which was only making the bleeding increase under the internal pressure.

You looked at Morgan, putting on the bravest face you could muster and effectively seizing control of the situation. “Morgan.” You got his attention quickly. “On three I need you to lift him away from the wall. I need to check for an exit wound.” He just nodded, doing exactly as you’d told him when you reached three. You checked the area, finding an exit wound in nearly the same spot. It’d been a straight line. You sighed in relief. Thank fucking God. “Ok, Morgan, I need you to put pressure on the wound on his back. I’m going to stitch the front to give us the time we need for the hospital drive but I need you to hold it. You got me?”

He nodded once. “I got it.” He moved his hand from the front to the back, Aaron wincing at the switch.

You took out the numbing cream from your pack, knowing it wouldn’t do much for a gushing bullet wound but hoping it would at least quell the sting of a needle. You took out the needle, threading it with hands frighteningly stagnant as the adrenaline gave you tunnel vision. You had to save him. “Aaron.” You looked at him as you prepped his skin for the procedure. “I’m gonna need to double stitch this, and it’s gonna hurt like hell. I need you to stay with me.”

The man just nodded, exhaling in exhaustion. “Do it.”

You worked as quickly as possible, gaining hope as you listened to the ambulance approach. “There you go.” You said under your breath, at this point you couldn’t tell if you were reassuring him or yourself. You looked to Morgan, who was still sealing the other injury. “Help me get him up. Keep your hand on there. These stitches are gonna give us twenty minutes tops. Hold his shoulders straight and walk quickly.” You counted again, both of you rising when you hit three, taking the man with you. The walk to the ambulance was the longest of your life. Aaron was clinging to his consciousness but you knew he was losing grip. Finally getting him to the stretcher and slamming the doors was a relief like nothing else. There was no time to debate anyone else going, you rushed him in and sat right down beside him, taking off almost immediately after. The bleeding had slowed, and your hand took the place of Morgan’s on his back. Since he was laying down, his full weight was on it, and you felt the circulation lessen more and more as it remained there. You couldn’t care less, you’d let the blood drain from your entire arm if it meant Aaron’s survival. He hadn’t passed out, which you thought was miraculous, simply walked the line of decently delirious. Groaning under his breath at every slight bump in the road.

“Why am I always having to save you Hotchner men?” You knew now wasn’t the time to be humorous, but you would have done anything to deviate from the tears in your eyes, the ball in your throat. You finally understood why it was frowned upon to date coworkers - it should be illegal to care this much.

“I don’t know, honey.” The pet name was the kicker, allowing a tear to break the dam and roll down your cheek as he chuckled. “You seem to be pretty damn good at it, though.” You laughed too, fighting the devastation you felt at the sight of him with the fact that he was clearly well enough to still be joking. “I should have kissed you when you came for dinner.”

Fuck. “Aaron, now is not the time.” You chuckled slightly as more tears fell. This is absurd.

“I know but-” He flinched as the ambulance hit another bump. Almost there. “I might as well say it now.” You wondered if there was genuinely something wrong with him. “You’ve been all I can think about since the moment-'' He paused to breathe slightly in exertion, you giving a disapproving look as his confession took it’s toll. “since the moment you started, you know that?”

“You are dying! Please, for the love of God, Aaron. Use this energy to prevent that from happening.” Your scolding was dramatic, but your actual concern shone brightly through your ruse of sarcasm.

“Exactly.” He was being equally as sarcastic. How on Earth did he manage this with a rapidly declining life force. “Give a dying man a chance. How unfortunate would it be if the last thing I hear before I go out is the woman of my dreams rejecting me?”

“Jesus Christ.” You shook your head in pure amazement. This was by far the most goal oriented man you’d ever met. “I’ll let you take me out if you shut the hell up and save your energy.” He smiled, letting his head hit the reclined back of the stretcher. “After you get better.” You added, reminding him that his recovery took priority. “Deal?”

“Deal.” This was probably the most insufferable man you’d ever met. “Such a good motivator.”

Scratch that. Most insufferable man ever.

1K notes · View notes

darkmatilda · 15 days ago

Text

𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the death of your father brings you back to your hometown, straight into the grip of a long conversation with an old friend, during which you both rediscover who you truly were and how differently you remember certain events.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x female!reader, childhood friends, flashbacks to times when they were 12-14, an alcoholic father, the father's death, brain tumor, death of both parents and grief, lots of inner rage, reader has actually a whole backstory so you need to immerse yourself, father is referred as "y/s", an open ending

𝐚/𝐧: my keyboard was burning as i wrote this

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 9k

Spencer had always found a certain comfort in nights spent aboard the jet.

In the dim light, with its warm, amber glow spilling softly into the shadows, there was a kind of serenity. A quiet that didn’t invite troubling thoughts to creep in but was instead punctuated by the gentle reminders of his team’s presence. The low hum of JJ and Elle’s tired but easy conversation, occasionally broken by soft laughter or the sound of cards hitting the table. The faint whisper of music leaking from Derek’s headphones as he drifted in and out of sleep. The rhythmic rustle of papers as Hotch worked methodically through them.

Usually, in this specific moment, Spencer felt relaxed. The case was behind them, and they were heading home. But that day, an unshakable knot lingered in his stomach.

He tore his gaze away from the chessboard. For a while now, he had simply been staring at it, his mind abandoning any effort to determine the next pawn move. He tried to snap himself back into focus, to analyze the game so far, find the weak spots, formulate a strategy... but he just couldn’t.

Leaning over the table, Gideon shifted back a little, propping himself on his elbow as he studied Spencer carefully.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Spencer, after a prolonged moment of silence, shrugged.

“I’m still thinking about your last move. Of course, for obvious reasons, I’m not going to tell you what conclusions I’ve drawn, opponent...”

“No, Reid, I’m asking what’s wrong,” Gideon repeated, nodding slightly in his direction. His voice softened a bit, as if trying to give Spencer space to open up. His eyes held their characteristic mix of curiosity and concern. “With you, kid. You’re acting strange.”

“According to some, I always act strange,” Spencer tried to shrug dismissively, forcing a small joke. He exhaled heavily afterward.

“But not like this. You’re not hesitating on your move because you don’t know what it should be. You’re hesitating because you’re distracted. You can’t focus, not even on chess,” Gideon stated with certainty. Spencer wanted to shrug again, but he knew repeating the gesture and his disoriented behavior wouldn’t ease the older man’s worry. Instead, he kept staring at the chessboard, avoiding direct eye contact.

“I’m going to ask you one question,” Gideon said, his tone steady yet gentle, “but I don’t want you to feel like you have to answer it. I just want to see your reaction—the rest I’ll figure out myself.”

Spencer couldn’t hold back a genuine chuckle, brief but sincere.

“Are you profiling me, Gideon?”

“That skill isn’t limited to catching serial killers,” Gideon replied evenly. “So, here’s the question—does the way you’re feeling have anything to do with the death of Lieutenant Y/S?”

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. A resigned sigh escaped instead. He abandoned any attempt to deny it, to change the subject, or even to lie—it was too precise a hit. A blow too accurate to defend against.

“How do you know?” he asked, genuinely intrigued.

“You usually read through entire newspapers as if they were single-page pamphlets in a doctor’s waiting room. Today, you stared at it for a good fifteen minutes. Then you slipped one of the pages into your jacket pocket. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I couldn’t make out which one exactly. But considering Y/S was from your hometown…you knew him. That much is clear.”

The curse of being surrounded by profilers: they noticed everything.

But eventually, Spencer gave a small nod, conceding the point. Deep down, he supposed he did want to talk about it—with someone he trusted, someone who knew him well enough to piece together his worries from something as small as lingering too long over a newspaper.

“He was my neighbor,” he began cautiously, unsure where to even start unraveling the story. Slowly, he reached up to remove his glasses, pressing the bridge of his nose in thought. “His whole family, actually. His wife and…and their daughter.”

Gideon raised his eyebrows, as if everything suddenly made sense. And, knowing him, it probably did.

“An old friend, then,” he said, his voice carrying a faint note of melancholy. “How’s she handling her father’s death?”

Spencer shook his head.

“We…we’re not in touch anymore.” The words felt strange on his tongue, as if he hadn’t said them out loud in years. And perhaps he hadn’t. No one had asked about her in a long time. The words didn’t fill him with sadness exactly—maybe too much time had passed for that—but there was still that odd sensation in his chest. A warm ache, tinged with something like regret. He pushed through it and met Gideon’s gaze. “But I’ve been thinking about her. Ever since I found out.”

“Understandable. Especially since you were so close,” Gideon replied.

There was a hint in his words, a suggestion that settled into Spencer's mind. He truly knew everything.

“I’ve been wondering if I should reach out to her,” Spencer suddenly blurted out. The idea had come to him earlier, spontaneously, and hadn’t let go since. “Maybe not meet up, but…maybe just call. Garcia could probably find her number…What do you think?”

“Maybe it’s because I’m from a different generation,” Gideon started slowly, taking on a more serious, almost fatherly tone. “But to me, things like offering condolences shouldn’t be done over the phone. Especially when that person means so much to you.”

“She doesn’t—” Spencer began, but the words died in a sigh. He couldn’t say she meant nothing to him. Still, he sensed that Gideon had formed an image of their relationship that wasn’t quite accurate, and he felt the need to clarify things. “Listen, I had feelings for her, that’s true. I’m not…not ashamed to admit it.” Why, then, did his cheeks begin to warm? “But what I feel now has nothing to do with that. Above all, she was my friend. And her father…I spent a lot of time at their place. Actually, it was because of him that I even started thinking about going this route. You know, the FBI. I just feel…I feel like I should do it. Reach out to her, I mean. Say I’m sorry, listen to how she’s doing. For both of them.”

When he finished speaking, he felt a slight out of breath, like he’d just run a mile. Well, okay, maybe it was more like he’d climbed the stairs faster than usual. He stared at Gideon, waiting for the next words. But Gideon’s face remained unreadable, his posture still.

Spencer blinked, a bit desperate.

“What? You got me to say all that, and you’re not even going to give me any feedback?” he asked.

Gideon watched him for a moment, then a small smile appeared on his lips.

“Spencer, you’ve already figured it out for yourself. There’s nothing I can add.”

He frowned in confusion. He started to think about it and didn’t even notice when they returned to their chess game. Surprisingly, he managed to move a pawn at last; his mind actually felt clearer. His opponent leaned slightly over the table again, unmoved, pushing the queen despite it being a risky move, one that could change everything.

“Did you tell her how you feel about her?” he suddenly asked, as Spencer remained lost in thought.

Spencer winced slightly, not understanding the question. Before the other man could repeat it, Spencer suddenly understood, and a short sigh escaped his lips. Oh.

He mumbled an unclear confirmation. He had to swallow to clear his throat.

“I did,” he admitted. A deeper breath, as if to wash it off. So much time had passed, he should have done it long ago. He looked more confidently at Gideon, his expression showing some finality, something unquestionable. “But she didn’t feel the same. And that’s…completely okay. Can we get back to the game?”

Gideon agreed, of course. But before doing so, he once again scanned his face. He didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, but despite that, it was clear.

Clear that he truly cared about him.

You couldn’t remember the last time something as simple as sending an email felt like such a challenge. You also couldn't remember the last time you'd written so many versions of a single message, all with the same goal in mind—agreeing to meet up. With someone you hadn't seen in years.

You alternated between typing and holding down the caps lock key, deleting everything. In recent days, you’d been replying to a mountain of messages, not even trying to hide the falseness of it all or force a smile of gratitude when someone insisted on hugging you, offering their deepest condolences. You surrendered to it all like some kind of medical procedure, while feeling the weight of eyes on your face, searching for traces of tears and the despair behind them. Searching for proof that it mattered to you. That you were conforming to their image of no one else but your father. The Lieutenant, repeatedly decorated for his service, who passed away shortly after retiring due to unspecified health reasons (such a nice euphemism for the pulmonary embolism caused by years of alcoholism). A daughter, humbly lowering her head at his funeral, eyes filled with tears, accepting all words of comfort with graceful charm. It perfectly fit the romanticized image of the person your father was.

That bitterness toward the entire situation grew stronger within you with each passing day. At the funeral, you’d been too disoriented to notice it. You felt like an empty field where any thought or conclusion simply withered in its infancy, never able to fully blossom. Too disconnected from reality, too preoccupied with logistics to cry.

But putting aside this self-analysis of your grief (you never bought into the whole five stages theory—though you didn’t deny it might work for some people. You just thought it was too complex a process to be summarized into bullet points), you agreed to meet with Spencer. His message pulled you, however briefly, out of that apathetic void, leaving you genuinely surprised. Only later did it occur to you that this was normal—old friends often reach out after years apart. They comment on vacation photos with flame emojis or laugh-reacts. They send generic birthday wishes. They ask how you're doing when your father dies. Normal stuff.

There had been no falling out between you. Sometimes people are simply separated by distance, by different stages of life, of career, and contact becomes more sporadic until, eventually, it fades. The moment it happens is easy to miss, and you’d missed it entirely. The last time you’d spoken face-to-face was right before you left for a college far from your hometown. Six years ago. By then, Spencer had already accumulated a staggering number of academic accolades, advancing at a pace that matched his brilliance. During your first year apart, you exchanged a few messages—it seemed like the right thing to do. But you’d never been good at maintaining long-distance friendships, and soon enough, his presence was relegated to that most worn-out folder in the archive of your life, simply labeled as childhood.

You had no real reason to turn down the meeting. You were curious about the kind of person Spencer had become. Still, you couldn’t deny, even to yourself, that your primary motivation was to escape spending any more time in that desolate house. A house that bore visible signs of use yet stood conspicuously empty of owners.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that it didn’t much like you. The house, that is. As though it harbored a grudge against you for deciding to leave, and now, upon your return, it had no intention of welcoming you back.

Any excuse to get away from it was a good one.

Your area didn’t offer many options for meeting places, so you suggested the first one that came to mind—a bar. As you walked inside, your eyes scanned only for a familiar face, paying no attention to the mahogany nooks and crannies of the place you knew all too well.

You exchanged a touchless greeting—two polite smiles, nothing more.

And then, the silence settled in, thick with awkwardness.

"I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to the funeral," he said finally. The words tumbled out, and he winced the moment they did, likely realizing that opening the conversation this way was steering it down a less-than-pleasant path. He sighed but pressed on, determined to explain. "I only found out about it, well, through the paper. By the time I knew, it was already too late to even think about it. Plus, work…"

"You’ve changed," you cut him off mid-explanation with a simple observation that seemed to spill out of your mouth unbidden. "Maybe that’s where we should start. It’s good to see you, Spence."

The use of his old nickname seemed to throw him off balance.

"Sorry," you added quickly, breaking into a small laugh. "I forgot how much you hate small talk."

"No, it’s fine," he assured quickly. At the sound of your laugh, he shifted in his seat, almost distracted. Even though you weren’t exactly an expert at reading people, it was clear that something about that moment had triggered a wave of warmth in him, the sharp and tender grip of nostalgia. You could almost see the memories flickering across his mind—the two of you racing your bikes to the library, abandoning them haphazardly near the entrance, and bursting through the doors with a triumphant shout of first! Or maybe one of the countless other small moments, fragments of your shared past that sometimes surfaced in your own mind like snippets of a forgotten commercial.

He shook his head, pulling himself out of the haze, a faint smile curving his lips. "I mean, I’ve come to realize small talk isn’t always the enemy. Sometimes it’s just…part of connecting with people. It doesn’t have to feel like this desperate attempt to keep a conversation from flatlining."

You ordered a beer—not because you wanted to drink it, but to have something to fidget with. Still, at his words, you raised it to your lips in an overly dramatic gesture.

"Wow. Words like that coming from Spencer Reid. Who would’ve thought?”

He spread his arms as if wanting to join in on your question. The initial awkwardness between you both seemed to be fading, and it felt like you were both becoming more relaxed.

"You said it yourself, I’ve changed," he reminded you, then raised an eyebrow. "Well, I just don’t know if you meant for the better or for the worse."

You adjusted your posture, like some professional judge preparing to deliver their verdict. The chance to scrutinize him had presented itself, and you were ready to take it.

You'd known each other since you and your family had moved to the house on the outskirts. You weren't exactly a little kid by then, but in hindsight, you weren’t sure you even had memories before that event. If you did, they were insignificant. Anyway, you had always been fascinated by how friendships were formed when you were kids. As an adult, it’s incredibly difficult and usually based on shared interests. You meet at work, a manga club, or a Pilates class. You have to have something to talk about. It’s best when your sense of humor aligns, or at least doesn’t offend each other. Shared views are nice, though some people claim to enjoy a bit of difference for expanding their horizons. But it’s always just a bit.

Well, that’s how it was with you two. You were the little, mischievous adventurer, and he was the know-it-all shadow behind your back. Somehow, he always agreed to your silly ideas, the ones that later got you both into trouble. But despite the differences, every summer morning one of you would show up at the other’s door. It’s hard to compare him to his childhood version when the last time you saw each other, you were both eighteen. But even compared to that, the man sitting in front of you was different. Still young, but with more mature features. His hair was neatly styled, instead of the shapeless mess of long strands. He wore a side parting now. His dressing style, once a bit granddad-ish, was still polished, but it now had the feel of someone who might, at any moment, be heading to the garden to transplant a fern.

That much hadn't changed, you thought, noting his navy cardigan and the collar of his shirt peeking out with a tie. You glanced at his shoes—no Converse or any kind of sneakers, but proper dress shoes.

Then, the last thing—his eyes. The most striking feature of his face, drawing attention like two slightly melted pieces of chocolate. They were penetrating, yet once upon a time, they allowed you to peer into his inner world and his feelings. At least, that’s how it was back then. Now, there was more calculation and seriousness in them. Only after a moment did you realize that the coolness in his gaze was likely a result of the years spent working around the horrors of violent crimes.

You cleared your throat, realizing that your staring had gone on longer than necessary.

"I don't think I can really judge," you finally said, trying to stay diplomatic. "But I'm glad you didn’t give in to the contact lens trend. You've always looked good in glasses."

Spencer gave you a doubtful look.

"When I started wearing them as a kid, you laughed and said it sealed my nerdy reputation," he pointed out.

"I don't remember that," you replied innocently.

"I do. And I think that's enough evidence," he snorted. "I have to admit, though, I did give contacts a try for a while. Just out of curiosity, to see if they were more comfortable and how I'd look in them."

You pointed a finger at him.

"Poser."

He rolled his eyes, amused. This word in combination with someone like him was so absurd that he wouldn’t have been offended even if you’d said it with the utmost seriousness.

"Classic me," he sighed. His gaze had been drifting toward you for a while now, darting away whenever you caught him. Eventually, though, it settled fully on you. "You've changed a lot too. Which, I guess, is obvious considering how much time has passed. Still, it surprises me more than it should. You’ve finished school by now, right?"

"Right. Though I feel like I should be asking you which degree you’re on now."

That sent the two of you down the path of catching up—old-fashioned life updates that somehow didn’t feel tedious or like either of you wanted to change the subject. It turns out, when you’re interested in someone enough, even hearing about their Thursday trips to the farmer’s market for fresh eggplants to make some fancy casserole can feel fascinating.

With genuine curiosity, you caught up on everything that had happened over the years, growing more relaxed as the evening stretched on. Question, answer, sarcastic jab, playful comment. Anecdote, opinion. Gratitude that you’d chosen to come out for this meeting instead of barricading yourself at home, surrounded by the thoughts you still hadn’t confronted and the walls steeped in the lingering presence of your father. A desire to capture your shared laughter, to trap it in time. A tightening in your stomach—though maybe that was just you.

Nostalgia was a dangerous pursuit. It stretched like a rubber band, reaching deeper and deeper into the past, plucking out the good parts. But at some point, it always had the potential to snap back, hitting you square in the face.

“You know,” Spencer started suddenly, his tone quieter, more thoughtful. “I really hate that it took something like this for us to meet again. And that it’s been so long.”

You shrugged, letting out a soft sigh.

“Well, it’s not like you made much of an effort to stay in touch.”

The words landed like a pebble dropped into still water, rippling outward. Both of you stiffened in your seats, and you both noticed it. A part of you regretted saying it, but another part—heart pounding in an inner applause—did not.

Even though you hadn’t delivered it with sharpness or cutting sarcasm, you could see from the way his expression tightened that the atmosphere around you had shifted.

“You didn’t, either,” he pointed out. His tone was calm, almost detached, but above all, honest.

You shifted in your seat, trying to shake off the weight of your own hypocrisy. For a moment, the two of you just stared at each other in silence.

Spencer opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it again. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost a whisper, carrying an undertone of apology.

“I just want you to know…it’s not like I stopped thinking about you. It wasn’t the news about your dad that reminded me you exist.”

"Spencer, please… don’t lie," you blurted out almost involuntarily. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly for a moment, your temples tensing. Of course, you couldn’t just enjoy a pleasant evening—you had to let your inner frustration spill out. You wouldn’t be yourself otherwise. Biting the inside of your cheek, you pressed on despite that or the expression on his face.

"I mean, I know that’s exactly how it was, because it was the same for me. You crossed my mind a few times, sure, but let’s not kid ourselves. If we had really meant that much to each other, we’d have met up long, long before now."

He shook his head as he listened to your words, simultaneously rejecting them and admitting their truth, as his tense jaw suggested.

"I went to see your parents," he confessed suddenly, hesitating as he wet his bottom lip with his tongue, a faint, somber smile touching his face. "It was actually the only time I came back here, after my mom… after I placed her in a sanitarium. I was hoping to run into you, but your dad said you hardly ever came home."

"Was he sober when you talked to him?"

"It was lunchtime."

You couldn’t hold back and let out a short laugh.

"Oh, boy, you missed a lot."

His eyes softened yet stiffened at the same time in a paradoxical way. You saw how he straightened slightly in his seat, as the saliva that had long been gathering in your mouth threatened to spill. You weren’t sure what you hoped to achieve by bringing up your father. Maybe you were trying to make some twisted, clumsy argument, or perhaps, after everything that had revolved around him in the past few days, your mind instantly turned to his figure every time you were too exhausted to pull up anything else. It was easy. Silence, awkwardness, pain. The memory of your father, the immediate understanding directed toward you. Almost pity, but dressed up in a more pleasant package.

"Do you have any idea what was going on with him in the last few years?" you asked, empty.

"He had a problem? You know, with drinking?"

You tried not to snort in contempt at the question.

"He’s always had a problem," you stated, your hands tightening slightly on your chest under the table. You'd never spoken to anyone about this aloud. Any grievances you had with him were always kept in your head, knowing you wouldn’t find understanding from people who hadn’t lived with your father every day. Who knew him as a cop with an iron fist, but with a big heart for suffering, innocent people. "Well, I don’t know if you remember. Beer as an inseparable part of the day. Or maybe more of the evening. But he had a stressful job, right? It’s normal to have a drink or two in front of the TV, isn’t it?"

Spencer’s lips pressed together tightly.

“He saw a lot of crap every day, so of course, he’d take it out by yelling at his wife,” you continued, not stopping the bitterness building up inside you. It had been there for so long, but never formed into one angry thought. It surfaced every time someone spoke of him in glowing terms, patting you on the shoulder and pitying your loss with a tear in their eye. “Or at his daughter. He had to control everything, right? After all, he worked hard. He deserved to come home to a perfect family, in a perfect house, with no complaints.”

You stopped, closely watching his reaction. Maybe you'd said too much, unloaded too much all at once, putting too much pressure on him.

“I remember when we were thirteen,” he suddenly spoke, in a strangely detached tone. It was as if he was talking about something that had unexpectedly lodged itself in his mind and couldn't wait. “And he let us try beer.”

Well, that wasn't the response you'd expected. But really, what did you expect? You'd told yourself countless times that someone's sympathy wouldn't change anything about your situation. But still, you felt a sting, as if he was changing the subject and brushing off your words.

“He let you try the beer,” you corrected him automatically. Yet, despite your grim mood, the corner of your mouth quivered involuntarily. “But you gave it to me because you didn’t like it.”

The memory flooded you, bringing a wave of others with it.

Another summer evening filled with shouting.

You waited until the two arguing figures disappeared into the kitchen walls before quietly slipping through the terrace doors. You’d started doing this a while ago. Your father had always been strict, making sure your mother sent you to bed at the designated time—unchanged since you were seven. And that year, you were twelve. Anyway, one evening, you lay trembling under your blanket. Even the smallest argument seemed like a horror story in a child’s eyes. You saw the light on at your neighbor’s house—Spencer’s and his mom’s. Knowing that after drinking, your father’s vigilance and control weakened, you decided to take the risk.

You managed to sneak out unnoticed once, then again. Soon, it became normal. You’d return about an hour later when the situation calmed down, and his drunken anger had finally shifted to drunken sleepiness, and he wouldn’t notice your return. You never asked about it directly, but your mom probably knew.

“Can we watch something normal, just this one time?” you whimpered at the sight of another nature documentary on the TV in the Reid’s living room.

Spencer, lying on his stomach on the carpet, jumped slightly, startled when you slipped in through the glass terrace doors. However, he was starting to get used to your evening visits and quickly shook off the shock.

“There’s nothing more normal on earth than the processes that happen on its surface,” he said, turning his gaze back to the TV.

You raised your finger, sticking out your front teeth.

“There’s nothing more normal on earth than the processes that happen on its surface,” you repeated, mimicking his pretentious tone in an exaggerated way.

“Go away.”

“Then give me the remote.”

You chased each other around the living room, trying to wrest the remote from each other’s hands. Your squeals, arguments, and laughter never seemed to disturb Spencer’s mom, which always puzzled you. She didn’t even come out when you accidentally knocked over the bookshelf, sending several shelves of books crashing to the floor, which you both scrambled to pick up in a panic.

You often wondered that every day, Spencer watched those science programs, alone in the living room, with the terrace doors open. The darker thought would occasionally cross your mind: What if, just that one time, someone else had barged in? What would have to happen to pull Diane Reid out of one of those strange states she sometimes slipped into, when nothing around her mattered, not even her own son? But, as you said, those were very rare thoughts. After all, you were just a kid.

“Why can’t you watch TV at your place?” Spencer asked, pouting his lips.

He lost the fight for the remote, and you were now watching cartoons. His eyes absorbed them with interest, even though he denied it.

“Evenings, the TV belongs to my dad.”

“Couldn’t you ask him to let you watch something sometimes?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because no.”

“That’s not an answer!”

But even though he pretended to be unhappy, the terrace doors remained open every evening.

You confessed to Spencer that your father had always been like that. He pretended to be fine, then would crack, and afterward deny everything. You saw hesitation on his face as he listened, especially when you described how things were during your childhood. Spencer Reid liked to be right, and he absolutely trusted his own judgment. He hadn’t been a direct witness to those events, unlike you. Your father had always adored him—the small, smart neighbor kid who skipped grades and always asked so many questions about his work in the police. Of course, he had always been the best version of himself around Spencer. You also suspected that he probably always wished for a son.

His assessment, therefore, might not have been objective. He hadn’t seen what went on behind closed doors. For a moment, fear crept up on you. Did he even believe your words? Or did he think you were just fabricating a tragic story to explain a real problem that, in reality, hadn’t started until after you moved out?

Spencer just gave a barely noticeable nod, his forehead tense.

"You spent so much time at our house," he said quietly, uncertainly. "Why...why didn’t you ever tell me what was really going on? Back then and later on?"

You shrugged. Inside, you could have easily mocked your father’s addiction, but in reality, you were still deeply ashamed of it. Like any family of an alcoholic, hiding his bottles, lying that he was sick when unexpected guests came over, never calling the problem by its name.

"I don’t know. You liked him so much." A moment of silence, swallowing hard. "And he liked you."

"I respected him. Like I think everyone did."

One of Spencer's most painful yet beautiful childhood memories was that one specific moment during the holidays. He always spent them only with his mom, who wasn’t always feeling the best, but that one moment stayed with him as something special. When they stepped out onto the terrace, where they had the perfect view of the terrace of the neighboring house. The family that lived there—mom, dad, and their daughter—would also lean out, and they would all sincerely wish each other a Merry Christmas.

Their house was always decorated with colorful lights and those slightly eerie garden gnomes in the night light. They stood on their doorstep, the three of them. Neatly dressed, their daughter in a red dress with a large bow in her hair, clinging to her mother's side. They always seemed so happy, so perfect to him. A strange feeling would arise in his chest, and he’d move closer to his mother’s side, but that only intensified the sensation of something missing inside him.

"You looked up to him."

"Because I was a kid. Look, just because he had an impact on me, on my future…it doesn’t mean I’m diminishing what you or your mom went through," he finally explained, his voice tinged with a slight crack. His gaze was both confused and sad, still processing everything he’d just heard. "It’s really awful, and no one should go through that. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Or maybe I did, but I didn’t want to? Anyway…I’m sorry for being so clueless."

"You weren’t clueless," you assured him, a weak smile forming on your lips. His words echoed in your mind. “You were just a kid. And I didn’t bring this up to make you feel bad. I’m sorry if that’s how it came across. I just...I wanted at least one person, besides me, to have the full picture”

He nodded, but not in the mindless way that merely signals someone is paying attention. This was different—a deep, understanding gesture, replacing the words that had been growing more difficult to say. You both sat there in silence for a moment, your fingers mechanically tapping out a slow rhythm on the dark wood of the table, while his rested motionless on his knees. It was hard to return to that relaxed, pleasant conversation you’d started with.

“I’m glad we could meet,” you said simply, but honestly.

Usually, saying something like that signals the speaker is preparing to leave. You had already spent a lot of time in the small bar, and with the evening progressing, the crowd hadn’t really changed—only a few more people had trickled in. The thought of going home wasn’t so bad anymore, but still, you hesitated before getting up and grabbing the coat hanging on the back of his chair.

“I am too,” Spencer admitted, briefly rubbing his forehead above his glasses. “But before you go, please, tell me—how’s your mom handling it? Maybe you should give her my regards. I hope she’s...”

He stopped mid-sentence, reading the expression on your face, and immediately understood.

"When...when?"

There was something unbearably unsettling about the plastic chairs in the hospital waiting room. At the same time, you could feel your legs completely numb from sitting in them, yet you also felt you didn’t have the strength to get up. You were effectively stuck, like a prisoner awaiting their sentence. In some ways, that’s exactly what it was.

When you were fourteen, your mom started acting strangely. She got sick—started with mild symptoms like headaches and nausea. Then, she lost consciousness at work, and that’s when they found the brain tumor.

When people hear such news about their loved ones, they often completely change their lives. They pull themselves together to be a support for them, they face the painful reality, and they find the strength to fight their own demons, like quitting alcohol. But your father, he took an entirely different route. It seemed like he was sinking deeper into it. No one really reacted. After all, he was a man facing tragedy; surely, it was okay for him to have one too many drinks. Previously strict with his parenting, he no longer seemed to care much about you.

This threw you into a state of confusion. At that moment, more than ever, you needed an adult, a parent, even if they were the most controlling person in the world. Actually, rules might have even helped keep your family in check, maintaining the appearance of normality.

For the first time, you felt the urge to confide in someone, but you had no one. Spencer had started college, which still seemed absurd to you, considering you were the same age. Your contact with him had dwindled, just when you started thinking of him as a true friend—not the ironic, childish kind. You met from time to time, of course, but it was always hard to open up, especially about what was happening at home. Maybe, if he’d been around, he’d have noticed your dad’s decline. But he wasn’t, and it felt silly to even entertain alternative theories, as if they could change the past.

Your knees shook involuntarily, your fingers almost breaking through them. In the room next door, they were performing the surgery to remove the tumor, which was located in a difficult spot, as the doctor, with a gentle yet experienced face, explained to you in a tone that almost sounded apologetic—as though it was his fault. Your dad had been there with you earlier, but you had no idea where he went with the passing of time. Did you even want to know? No. You wanted to be with your other parent—your mom. You didn’t want to leave that room for a second; you wanted to be the first to hear any news, whatever it might be.

The empty chair beside you was suddenly occupied by someone. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, staring at your shoes, trying not to suffocate on your own breath. You didn’t notice who it was.

"Two years ago," you informed him. After those words, there was always silence—people calculating in their heads whether two years was enough time for you to have pulled yourself together, or if they should treat you like a fragile porcelain figurine at risk of cracking. You always helped them, softening the tension that followed with something disarming. "But don’t worry. We weren’t really in touch by then, so you don’t have to feel bad about not knowing."

Okay, that was one of the stranger things you could have said. Spencer must have thought the same; his mouth literally fell open in disbelief.

"Of course I feel bad," he managed, his voice a mix of a sigh and an incredulous scoff, shaken yet laced with growing pain. He quickly shook his head, as if trying to snap himself out of it. "Of course I feel bad. I—I don’t know why you’d think I wouldn’t. She’s your mom."

Someone’s hand awkwardly reached out to take yours.

You glanced to the side, realizing with disbelief that the person who had sat down next to you was Spencer.

The boy who would get goosebumps at the mere thought of germs. Who openly mocked the idea of drinking from the same bottle, sometimes blurting out that kissing was safer than shaking hands—only to blush furiously when he realized how that sounded.

And yet, he did it. Hesitant, of course, but he reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze to disguise the trembling. You barely noticed it. Your hand was shaking too.

Modern-day Spencer rested his forearms on the table, leaning forward. The return of your mother’s tumor had been a blow, and her passing, another. Time, however, had marched on, and you had learned to move through life with that weight. Thoughts of her hadn’t brought tears to your eyes in quite some time. But at the sight of his reaction, the familiar sting returned.

To him, she hadn’t just been your mom. She was the woman in whose house he had spent a significant part of his childhood. The one who always stopped herself at the last moment from enthusiastically hugging him on his birthday, remembering his aversion to touch. The one who listened to him with fascination, praising his brilliance while gently, softly asking how his own mother was doing. The one who loved to sit wrapped in a blanket on the porch with a book, watching as the two of you played a self-invented version of chess that involved running laps around the yard before each move.

You leaned back from him, blinking rapidly to dispel the swell of emotion.

Your mom was to stay in the hospital for a while longer. Night had fallen, and though you couldn't remain until morning, your dad was still nowhere to be found. Instead of fruitlessly searching for him, you and Spencer decided to walk home. The empty streets of the suburbs seemed to meditate in the stillness between you, adjusting to the rhythm of your silence.

Your feet, however, led you both to the playground—a place you hadn't visited in years, having convinced yourselves that you were too old for such things. Even though it was summer, a strange chill settled over your shoulders as you sat in silence on the two solitary swings. Each motion forward felt like it brought you closer to the stars.

It wasn’t that night, specifically, but sometime shortly after, you began to realize that you were starting to feel something more. Lightly, in that innocent, teenage way, you found yourself falling for your best friend. At first, you would have rather died than admit it, but the feeling lingered.

Over the next four years, you saw each other regularly but rarely due to his studies. But you awaited each of these meetings with the greatest impatience, while simultaneously becoming more and more terrified of your own feelings.

"I'm so very sorry I wasn't here then," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. You wanted to shake your head in understanding, to reassure him, but he cut you off. "Not even just at the funeral itself. Just...with you."

"Stop," you pleaded weakly. "You didn’t know. I didn’t tell you. I probably missed a lot of things that happened in your life along the way too." You swallowed to wet your dry throat. The words came out with difficulty, your voice trembling slightly. "At some point, we stopped talking to each other—not the first childhood friends to drift apart and definitely not the last. It just.. happens."

"That doesn’t mean it was right," he replied without hesitation, tilting his head, clearly convinced of the truth in his statement. You weren’t so sure, given your hidden feelings, ones you had no intention of revisiting. Not then, not in that moment, not in that bar. During a meeting that was about to end.

"I’ve known you forever. Well, okay, not literally, but I’ve known you since my brain was forming the most—frontal lobes developing and…what I mean is, you’re really important to me. And I wasn’t there for you when both your parents…"

You let the completion of that sentence fade into the space around you. In the bar, which seemed to exist only in the space you occupied. Breathing more heavily, you recalled all the moments over the past six years when you missed him, wondering what he was up to and how he was doing. Which usually went hand in hand. Sometimes he would cross your mind when you saw kids playing chess in the park, other times you simply thought of him, unable to attribute the guilt to any particular association.

"You’re here now," you said gently, unable to say anything else.

He was still slightly leaning over the table, towards you. Suddenly, as if he realized his position, he slowly leaned back into his chair, exhaling more heavily after a long moment of silence.

You were unable to move, the growing sense of guilt shaping on his face. And when he felt guilty, so did you.

Your goal was to rise from the chair, but your body, against your will, made a different move. To both your surprise, it reached for both of his hands resting on the table, clasping them gently. You tried not to focus on their texture, not to compare them to how they had been before, not to search for that familiar feeling, not to flow with the current of any memories.

Simply to keep him in place for a moment.

“Thank you for being here today,” you whispered, gently squeezing his hands. His fingers, initially limp in yours, were slowly beginning to reconnect, though there was a certain confusion in them. The same confusion was in his eyes. “Thank you for coming as soon as you found out. It really means a lot, Spencer. It really does to me.”

For a moment, you both stayed silent, looking at each other. You both thought you would say something more. You would expand on the thought, maybe call him the best friend you've ever had. Perhaps, without thinking, you'd mention that once you had loved him in a way that might have seemed unexpected. Well, both those options passed through your mind like shadows.

“It’s late.” The third option won. If you had a watch, you would have glanced at it dramatically. That was all that was missing to complete this scene. “I really should be going.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. In the end, he just nodded with silent understanding when he noticed what time it was. Though, it wasn't the time that was the problem. After all, you were both adults who didn’t have a curfew. You could have stayed there until morning. But would that really be good for you?

Slowly, you pulled your coat over your shoulders.

Spencer didn’t move. You wondered if he planned on staying there.

"Do you... do you want me to walk you home?" he asked suddenly, hesitating.

You looked at him, unsure, slipping your hands into your pockets.

"I’m heading the same way," he added quickly, slowly getting up from his seat, even though you hadn’t agreed yet.

You raised an eyebrow in surprise, then remembered that the Reid house hadn't been put up for sale and had been sitting empty for years. You waited until he had put on his coat, and then both of you were exposed to the crisp night air. As you crossed the street, an occasional car passed by with its headlights on, making you both squint. You couldn’t help but think how you never expected that if you ever found yourselves together, side by side in your hometown, it would feel like this. Perhaps you hadn’t even thought that you’d never see each other again. After all, it was quite possible you’d run into each other a few more times. People often bumped into their neighbors from the same apartment block on the other side of the world during vacations, fate had a wicked sense of humor. What you didn’t expect, however, was how present the ghost of your childhood, and the memories it carried, would be during this encounter.

Your steps were oddly small, as though your feet had shrunk. Unconsciously, you extended the walk, turning into a wrong street, just like when you had returned from the hospital after visiting your mother.

“Are you stopping here?” you asked, your gaze absently drifting to the empty swings on the playground you passed.

Spencer’s eyes followed yours in that direction, and his steps even slowed a little. He probably would’ve stopped if you hadn’t kept moving confidently ahead.

“Just for one night,” he replied, adjusting his glasses on his nose. There wasn’t much enthusiasm in his voice. Sometimes, returning to the family home didn’t bring joy to grown-up children, especially when the house had been empty for a long time—or unbearably loud, depending on the family. “I’m actually flying out tomorrow. I just...really wanted to talk to you.”

You nodded, briefly asking about his mom, then about work, though not in a probing way—just the steady rhythm of a lazy conversation. Slowly, the familiar neighborhood began to shift into the one etched deeply in your subconscious, the one you had both memorized long ago.

Eventually, you both found yourselves forced to stop, mainly due to the sight of your family homes. Standing steadfastly side by side, just like you both had during that entire walk.

“Maybe we should meet up,” he suggested quietly, stopping in front of you. “You know, tomorrow. Just for a moment.”

Staring at his face, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlight, you gently nodded.

“And...maybe sometime after that,” he added.

You were a little short of words, but not because you didn’t want to see him again. It was simply that you didn’t like making promises driven by the moment. For now, you both drowned in nostalgia, unwilling to part ways and disrupt it. But who knew? Maybe once you disappeared from each other’s sight, you’d forget each other’s phone numbers again. Your hesitation seemed to stir something on his face. Perhaps he took it as a refusal.

You sighed deeper and rose onto your toes, wrapping your arms around his neck. It was a very slow, lazy embrace, gradually melding into his body as the scent of his clothes began to tickle your nostrils, and your chin sank deeper into his shoulder, like it was a pillow.

Spencer remained stiff for a moment. You’d only hugged before once, when you were packing your suitcase into the car before leaving for college, as far from your hometown as possible. That hug had been difficult for you. This one, although it too was a form of farewell, felt pleasant and hard to break. Especially when he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms tightly around your back, almost lifting the tips of your fingers off the ground. You heard a soft sigh escape his lips before you pulled away to arm’s length.

"So...see you," you muttered, slowly stepping back, heel to heel. You felt like a magnet being forcibly pulled away from a fridge, shaking your head to get rid of the pull.

Two more small steps back, you should have already turned towards home, but his expression stopped you. Full of hesitation, with a clenched jaw, as if he really wanted to add something, but wasn't sure if he should. You were already half-turned with your back to him.

"Would...would things have been different between us if I hadn't given you that letter back then?" he asked finally, pushing his hands deep into his pockets.

The words seemed to bounce off your ears but didn’t fully reach you. At least not completely. Your posture straightened, freezing in place, facing him once again.

"Well, you know," he tried to explain, forcing a small smile. "We would have stayed in touch more over the years."

"What...what letter, Spencer?"

His brows furrowed, his lips parted, but no sound came from them. Suddenly, he froze, expressionless.

"Did you send me a letter?" you tried, completely not understanding what he meant.

Maybe he had written down your address wrong, and it ended up going to someone else who threw it away. Maybe you had actually received it, but tossed it somewhere in your dorm room, too busy to read it. Then, while dressing, you accidentally knocked it behind your dresser, where it gathered dust through all your years of studying, never meant to reach you again. The cobwebs covering its words, whatever they might have been.

"I left you a letter," he finally said, his voice so fragile that you could almost feel it in your chest. "I knew I wouldn't be able to say it to you. And, well...you were leaving, and I had no idea when we'd see each other again. I just...I didn't want to keep it to myself anymore."

A lingering moment of silence.

"I left it on your terrace," he finally added, barely opening his mouth as he spoke.

You pressed your fist to your chest, closing your eyes for a moment.

"I never got it," you confessed hoarsely, still not looking at him, trying to process what you’d just heard. "On the terrace...God, Spencer. It should've been obvious that someone would throw it out. My mom or dad. Especially him."

He suddenly chuckled, but there was no trace of amusement in it. A bit of absurdity, yes. But mostly, the realization, after all these years, that he had messed up and had no idea about it. On the contrary, he had been under the impression that you knew.

"What was in that letter?"

You felt like you wouldn't go back home until you knew. Spencer, however, shook his head in disbelief, his eyes wide with shock.

"You have to tell me," you insisted firmly. "Whatever it was, please. Even if it's no longer relevant. I just want to know...what you wanted to say to me back then."

His temples tensed as he squeezed his eyes shut. A few breaths later, his muscles loosened. Meanwhile, your body remained still, waiting for what you'd hear.

"I liked you," he finally managed to say. A rush of sound filled your ears. Spencer suddenly let out a bitter chuckle. "It was a love letter. As deep as an eighteen-year-old can get. Maybe...maybe it's better you never got it. I’d be so, so embarrassed by it now…"

"You liked me?" you interrupted him.

You had been enchanted by him for years, not even realizing it for most of that time. Spencer, however, was a complicated teenager, both close and distant at the same time. He was reserved when it came to emotions, impenetrable. Sometimes he’d blush, but never once made a move, never.

He shrugged.

"Well, I guess it doesn't really matter now," he replied. He tried to smile, attempting to wipe away a certain sorrow that still lingered beneath the surface of his expression. "Back then, it didn't really matter much either. But...maybe it's good that you know now. You have...the full picture."

You laughed in a way that was almost tearful, surprising him. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to figure out what he had done wrong to provoke such a reaction from you.

"I think we should talk," you finally said, nervously nodding toward your house. "Maybe...maybe you could come in?"

With held breath, you waited for his response. You felt the suggestion was a bit silly. No conversation could change the course of the last few years, force its direction or undo what had already been set in motion. But you no longer cared about changing anything that had happened between you two. What was in the past was probably already irrelevant. What you wanted now was honesty. The full picture, as he had said. You wanted both of you to have it.

"I don't think so," he replied, taking an unsure step back. A nervous laugh escaped him, probably to loosen himself up. "I mean... I don’t even remember what was in that letter anymore, if you're still curious. It doesn't matter at all... we don’t have to talk about it. You don’t have to feel like you should…”

"I liked you too"

Spencer stopped in his tracks, his hands slipping out of his pockets where he had been nervously hiding them.

"I really think we should talk a little more," you added.

It turned out that those hours spent talking in the bar, just the two of you, hadn’t been enough.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, his head nodding slowly. He agreed.

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hemmingsleclerc · 11 months ago

Note

Hi! Could you write a fic with dad!Carlos x reader, where they have twins, and they're in a family gathering, they're playing UNO with the kids, each has one twin, but then Carlos loses, reader won, and pretenting to be super offended and says reader cheated, and everybody is siding with her, including the twins, and he pretends to cry, and the kids feel bad and hug and kiss their daddy? Thank you! <3

UNO! ┃CS55

note: ugh I love dad!Carlos 😭💕 this request was soo funny, I loved it

The Sainz family gathered for a joyful family reunion, and laughter echoed through the living room. Carlos and his wife Y/N watched over their energetic twins, Adrian and Noah, as they ran around the room, their laughter mingling with their voices.

"Alright, who wants to play a game?!" Y/N asked. Carlos approached the large table in the living room with different board games and the twins approached the table excitedly to grab their places.

''UNO! Please!'' Noah shouted holding up the deck of brightly colored cards.

''Yes! I love that game!'' Adrian nodded in agreement

''Alright, UNO will be''

Carlos smiled, knowing that a game of UNO with his lively twins was always chaos. "Are you guys ready?" he asked, ruffling Adrian's hair as he sat at the table next to him.

Adrian nodded enthusiastically, his eyes shining with anticipation. "Yes, Dad! We'll beat Mommy, right, Noah?"

Noah nodded, his small hand clutching a handful of UNO cards. ''Of course, because I will win!''

The game began with cheers and jokes. Y/N and Carlos teamed up with one of the twins each, creating a competition. As the game progressed, laughter filled the room and the twins' infectious giggles warmed their parents' hearts.

''Come on Noah!'' Carlos said frustrated, ''Why do you always give me +4 cards?''

Noah giggled ''Sorry papá''

However, luck seemed to favor Y/N and Noah as they drew card after card, inching closer to victory. Carlos and Adrián exchanged determined looks, but despite their best efforts, their stack of cards steadily grew thanks to Y/N's strategies.

Finally, with a triumphant smile, Y/N laid down her last card, declaring herself the winner. "UNO!" she exclaimed, her eyes full of joy and amusement as she watched Carlos throw his stack of cards onto the table.

Carlos's jaw dropped in mock disbelief, his playful expression turning into an exaggerated pout. "No, c'mon! You cheated, amor! You must have! I was winning," he exclaimed, feigning offense.

Y/N rolled her eyes playfully and her laughter filled the room. "Oh, come on, Carlos! You're just jealous because you lost fairly, once again I proved to be the best at this game, accept it cariño."

The room erupted in laughter as Carlos continued his charade, pretending to be deeply hurt by his defeat. "But…but…I thought we were a team, Adrian!" He said, turning to his son with feigned disappointment when he saw how he celebrated his mother's victory.

Adrian giggled, shaking his head. "Sorry, daddy! Mommy's the best at UNO!"

"No fair, Noah! You're supposed to be on my team!" Carlos exclaimed, turning to his other son, who simply grinned in response.

The rest of the family joined in, mocking Carlos affectionately as he continued his theatrics, pretending to wipe away imaginary tears while covering his face. However, the twins, sensing his father's distress, exchanged a worried look.

"Papá, you're the best in the world!" Adrian declared, throwing his arms around Carlos in a tight hug.''Please don't cry! We didn't want to make you feel bad''

Noah joined in, wrapping his little arms around Carlos's neck. "We love you, papá!"

Carlos's heart filled with warmth as he hugged his children tightly, his playful façade fading. Y/N watched everything fondly as she saw her husband along with their little children.

With a satisfied smile, Carlos leaned down to plant a kiss on the forehead of each of his twins. "I love you both more than anything in the world," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 month ago

Text

Checking His List

Warnings: stalker behaviour and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: Your shopping trip turns hectic.

Character: Curtis Everett

Day Twenty-Eight of the December Daze Challenge.

Prompt - the mall is packed and we keep running into each other.

Note: As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

While it’s below zero outside, inside the mall, the air is sweltering. The flurry of maddened shoppers searching for gifts churns the air with body heat and a wall of noise. You want to cover your airs and shrink down to nothing. You hate crowds but you have a list and you made a promise.

You laid it all out meticulously. You have a strategy but you’re not sure how much that will help given the furor all around. You set off to the first store on your list. The toys will be a lovely surprise at the community lunch. You know the kids won’t be getting much at home.

You squint at the paper. You made notes of Diana’s every specification. She’s very particular but you imagine that’s why she runs the children’s centre.

You look up as you approach the east entrance of the department store, just in time to avoid another shopper. You stutter step and back up as you wait for the man to pass. You only realise then that he isn’t moving. He’s standing entirely still amidst the crowds, though it might only be because he saw you about to crash into him.

“Oh, sorry,” you murmur, not sure he can hear you above the Christmas carols and rowdy shoppers.

He doesn’t reply, doesn’t react. You hesitate and step around him, issuing another apology as your stress burns even hotter. You’re really no good with the general public, worse in peak hours, and you’ve only just gotten started.

You don’t come here often. It takes you some time to get situated and find the right aisle. Oh, those are the art sets she wanted, and the Barbies. Hum, they don’t have many within budget. Oh, and the little cars. Those are cute.

You push your cart, only an inch before you rear back, only then seeing the man standing further down the aisle. You’re not sure you need anything else there, still you might like to check if you can limit how many stores you need to run around to.

The man doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t even really seem to be looking at the shelves. He’s just sort of there. Then, before you can muster an ‘excuse me’ or anything, he turns and marches off. The way he walks is stiff and straight and staunch.

As you slowly roll forward and refocus on your list, he sticks in your head. Do you know him? There was something familiar about him? Could he be one of the parents from the children’s centre? Would he be here if he was?

You peruse and find the selection lacking. You head for the checkout and wait patiently. The line zigzags around shelves of more merchandise, shoppers continuing their spending even as they wait to get their grand total. You peer around dully, unseeingly, until a dark spec catches your eye.

It’s that man again. The same one from the aisle. His face is unreadable. He wears a beanie and a grey jacket that should help him blend in but for whatever reason, he sticks out.

He’s look at you? Is he?

You crane to see behind you. The sign calls out the next available till. It’s your turn. You peek back again but the man is gone. You’re paranoid. That's all.

You go up and unload your cartful and unfold a reuseable bag. You grabbed only your biggest bags for today. You expect it will be an awkward journey home with all this. You pay with the company card Diana lent you and neatly fold away the receipt.

You’re certain to leave your cart in the pen meant for them and head out the west exit. It’s closer to your next stop. The bath and body store is fragrant, the air so dense with aroma that it makes your head foggy.

You buy the cute little bottles for kids; the bubble baths and seasonal candy cane scents. A mini scrubbie for each too. As you put it all in the small basket offered to you by an associate, you look up to the tight corner ahead of you.

A mother and daughter browse the floral assortment of candles and behind them, a man stands, undistracted by the shelves and tables of product. He watches you. Your eyes meet and you wince. It’s him! That’s so strange.

It’s one thing to keep running into the same person. It happens in a mall, but you haven’t seen him buy one thing. You haven’t even seen him look at a single purchase.

You turn and curl around the other side of the table of 3 for $15 candles. The checkout line is twice as long as the previous one. As hike up the bags from the department store. Why did you, the only person without a car, offer to do this? Well, for once, you wanted to feel useful.

You sense movement. A group of girls flutter up behind you, gabbing about if they should get coffee or just go look at shoes next as they get in line behind you. Then another shadow. Darker. Taller.

The man passes closely and stops right by you. Your heart is racing. It’s not him, it’s the crowd, the smothering press of people looking for soaps and lotions and candle melts.

He bends and reaches for something on the floor. He brings up the soap bottle with the reindeer antlers and holds it out. It must have slipped out. You accept it from him with a thanks. These baskets aren’t great for the smaller items.

He’s already walking away before you can get a look at his face. His grey blue eyes are stamped in your mind but the rest of him remains obscure. You shake away the odd encounter and shuffle forward with the line.

You tuck the smaller bag of soaps and such into one of your bigger bags and continue on once free of the shop. You don’t expect the dollar store to be an easy task, but a necessary one. You need wrap and few smaller stocking stuffers. It won’t be your last stop but it’s closeby and you don’t want to double back if you can help it.

You pause to check your list as you sidle out of the way of the dollar store entrance. Alright, that, that, that... You lift your head and push the small cart through the first row. It’s nice to have the weight off your arms, but you’ll have to pick all that up again. And more.

As you come to end of the first aisle, the foot of the cart rams to a halt. You squeak and look up. That man! His hands clamp onto the end of the cart and you blink.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to.”

He just stares and looks past you. He steps around the cart and as he comes along the side, you shrink down, shying away as you expect the worst. Instead, he inserts himself between you and the cart you hear rolling down after you. He stays there, a barrier between you and the unseen shopper. That’s... strange.

You scurry on frantically. You’re jittering from it all. The man, the hordes, the assault of lights and noise. You need to get out of her soon.

You get as much gift wrap and bags as you need and use the self-checkout. You’re grateful for that modern convenience. Your social wick is burning short.

You park your cart, take your bags, and go. As you emerge into the mall, a man walks full force into you, his wife narrowly missing you with her baby stroller. Neither of them apologise as you struggle not to topple. You lift the bags higher with all your strength and forge forward.

You go to the end of the bench where a few teen boys sit with their skateboards. You turn your back to them and face the mall map. You take a deep breath and hold it in. You’re about to crack. This was a big mistake. You’re barely strong enough to go get groceries on a given week. You just wanted to help! That’s why you volunteer with the kids, even if you mostly hide in the background.

Your eyes are glassy as you fight back tears. You release your breath slowly. It hurts. The panic attack needles hotly in your forehead and ears.

“Scram,” the deep voice cuts through the hubbub and the snap of dry fingers adds the punctuation.

The boys behind you quiet and you turn your head to watch over your shoulder as they grab their boards and hurry away. The man in the beanie sits, knees wide, and leans his elbows on his legs. He curls his shoulders and looks around like a guard dog.

Your skin tingles as you sit only a few feet from him. You should go too, before you lose all your nerve. Your bags crinkle as you hook the handles around your hands.

“You don’t gotta go,” he says.

You wince and turn to him. He keeps his gaze aimed at the closest store. You peer around.

“Busy,” he comments.

“Um, yes it is,” you agree. “Thanks, er, I got more to get.”

You gulp and turn away. Your bags hit the bench as you flee. That was weird too. Or maybe you’re just unbearably clueless. It seems like he was trying to give you space. That he chased away those boys deliberately. But why?

Flavoured lip glosses, sparkly nail polishes, socks themed for the most popular kids’ shows... you check the marks off your list in your final haul. Just one more thing. A few of the boys like to play knights but the foam swords are all whittling away from play.

You go down the next aisle, your cart doing little to part the sea of people. You can see what you need. The toy blades and even a few shields. You try to inch forward as an older man turns to the other shelf, but another woman fills the space before you can.

You wheel back and wait. You just need to get in and out. The woman finally moves and as you go to roll ahead, another cart noses into yours and squeezes into the space. You sniff and pull back again.

You stare helplessly. That wasn’t very polite but she doesn’t seem to notice. She takes out her phone and ignores you and the shelves. Is she even looking?

“Hey,” the gritty voice chills you as a large hand rests on the front of your cart. The man in the beanie steps between you and that woman, “you should apologise.”

“Huh? What?” She keeps her phone up but you can’t see much else.

“You hit her with your cart. Say sorry.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Apologise,” he peels his hand form the cart and jabs his thumb toward you without looking.

The woman huffs then leans to see you. You give a hapless shrug. Her eyes scan up the man’s dark jacket and she shifts.

“I-- I didn’t realise,” she clears her throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Maybe if you cared more about what’s going on than your phone,” the man snarls, looming over her until she backs away. She turns and grabs her cart, nearly hitting another as she rushes away.

He lets go and turns back, marching past you without a word. You can’t speak either. You’re burnt out. You’re going to get the last of it and go.

You finally get your turn and grab a couple of swords, each with a different colour handle, and some shields. You put it in your cart and circle the perimeter of the store to avoid the claustrophobic aisles. The checkout line however cannot be avoided.

You step into the narrow snaking lane where you are to wait your turn. As you lean on your cart, there’s a brush against your back, and another, and another. The garble of voices behind you drone with the rest of the overwhelming noises all around. You sink your head down and cover your ears. You can’t take it anymore.

You’re jostled again as a man laughs loudly and his elbow jabs your back. You gasp and turn to see what’s going on. A black shape moves decisively from the back of the line, cutting along the edge without falter.

The man in the beanie steps up and extends his arm between you and the man after you, the one who keeps knocking into you. He pushes him calmly away and inserts himself there, back to you as he crosses his arms and plants his feet wide.

“Hey, dude, you’re butting--”

“Pay attention,” the man growls. “You’re being a nuisance.”

“Dude, I’m waiting--”

“You’re bothering people. Too loud.”

“Whatever. You a cop or some shit?”

The man doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either. Even as the line ahead of you does. You roll with it and he keeps his barrier in place. You can’t help but be thankful for the unrequested buffer.

You pay, get your receipt, fill up your last bag, and push your cart into the corral by the door. You’re not going back through the mall.

Before you can back up, another shopper shoulders by and snatches the cart you just disposed. You stagger back and watch, dumbfounded. What is wrong with people?

Your ears are ringing and your eyes watering, and you didn’t factor in being physically battered by a shopping trip. This time of year is horrid. It’s chaos. People are animals. Just like you always knew.

Your arms strain as you clutch your bags and make a slow progress through the automatic doors. You just need to get to the bus. You stop just to the left of the doors and try to adjust your grasp.

Before you can, the weight is lifted and something rough brushes around your fingers. You are too stunned to resist as the bags are unhooked from your hands. You reel around and face the thief. You’re an easy target.

“Where’s your car?” It’s that man in his beanie, with the grey eyes and the dark stubble.

“I-- I don’t--- Who are you?”

“A good samaritan,” he rasps.

“You don’t have to--” You reach for the bags and he steps out of your reach. “I don’t have a car.”

He stares at you, “I can walk you.”

“It’s fine, the bus stop---” you nod towards the street.

“Bus...” he mutters. “Dangerous. With all this.”

“It’s fine,” you insist.

“I have a truck. I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t-- why?” You sputter.

He looks around. He’s quiet as his eyes scan the area. “Merry Christmas.” It’s not a very cheery tiding.

“Oh, but--”

“Curtis,” he says.

“What?”

“So we’re not strangers. I’m Curtis, and you?”

You heave and give your name. “I really can’t let you do all that--”

“But I’m going to,” he says and turns away. You have no choice but to follow him.

“Wait--”

“I don’t like crowds either,” he intones as you scurry to keep up with him.

You want to say you don’t think anyone does but you’re still reeling, as much from the hectic experience in the mall as from his sudden act of... kindness?

He stops behind a slate gray truckbed and slips the bags onto his wrist. He fishes in his pocket and there’s a loud click as it unlocks. He pulls open the back and loads your shopping under the heavy cover.

“You have a lot of kids?” He wonders.

You shake your head, “I work at the community centre. Volunteer, actually...”

He nods and shuts the back of the truck. You wring your hands shakily and stare at the silver lock. You frown and look up at him, finding him staring at you already.

“You don’t trust me,” he reaches into his jacket and takes out a canister. “Well, if I make a wrong move, press down.”

He holds out the long black spray can. You shake your head. What is it?

“Bear mace. You can keep it.”

You furrow your brow and continue to gape at the inexplicable offer. Why does he have this?

“Can never be too safe,” he takes your hand and places the can in it. “Make sure those toys get back safe for those kids.”

You wrap your fingers around the metal and he lets you go. You look down at it then at him again. You’re so confused but too tired to argue. You suppose it is the season for giving, even if he doesn’t seem the festive type.

“Anywhere else you need to go?” He asks as he takes his keys out.

You shake your head and back away. He watches you for a moment before he moves himself. He walks up on side of the truck and you the other. The door locks thunk loudly.

Well, whoever Curtis is, can he be any worse than the general holiday shopper?

#curtis everett #dark curtis everett #dark!curtis everett #curtis everett x reader #fic #darkish fic #december daze #snowpiercer #navy and roo's sleepover

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aventurineswife · 1 month ago

Note

Heey :3

I'm a bit new to HSR but I would love to make a request regardless. A platonic request with a reader that lost their parents at a very young age and somehow ended up with the listed characters With Boothill, Aventurine, Gallagher, Gepard (if I requested over the character limit just chip some off <33)

Reader is like in their teen years

Fragments of Fate

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Aventurine x Reader, Gepard x Reader, Teen!Reader, Platonic Relationships, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff with Angst, Protective Characters, Emotional Bonding, Slow Burn Friendship.

Warnings: Mentions of Parental Loss, Themes of Grief and Trauma, Violence (Mild/Implied), Angst with a Happy/Bittersweet Ending, Possible Depictions of Flashbacks (Trauma-Related), Protective Behavior.

A/N: WELCOME TO THE FANDOM!! I HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR STAY AND DON'T LET THE WEIRD PEOPLE GET TO YOU!! 🤗💕💖

[Part 2]

The galaxy was vast, unkind, and unrelenting—traits Boothill understood better than most. When he found you wandering the outskirts of a ruined settlement, it felt like staring into a mirror of his past. A teen, lost and alone, with nothing but the smoldering remains of a life stolen too soon. You reminded him of himself, crying in the snow all those years ago.

The first thing Boothill taught you was how to defend yourself.

"Out here," he said, crouched by the fire with his mechanical hand resting on his holstered revolver, "you either draw fast, or you're done for." His eyes locked onto you, and for the first time since meeting him, you saw something other than sharp wit and vengeance in his expression—concern.

But Boothill wasn’t a teacher in the traditional sense. His lessons came wrapped in stories of survival, laughter, and his signature dramatic flair. He showed you how to handle a blaster, track footprints across barren wastelands, and recognize when to stand your ground—or when to run.

One evening, as the two of you watched stars streak across the dark sky, Boothill broke his usual bravado. "The world’s gonna throw you into the dirt," he said softly, his shark-like teeth catching the firelight. "But you? You’re gonna get back up every time. You hear me, kid?"

In Boothill, you found a guardian who didn’t pity you but saw your strength—even when you didn’t see it yourself.

Meeting Aventurine wasn’t a chance encounter; it was destiny orchestrated by a gambler who always bet on himself. You stumbled into his orbit during a skirmish between the IPC and local rebels, a frightened teen who had lost everything. He could have walked away—after all, you were just another face in a galaxy filled with suffering. But something about the fire in your eyes stopped him.

"You’ve got guts, kid," he remarked, adjusting his glasses as he ushered you into the safety of his suite. "Stick with me, and you might just learn how to play this game called life."

Life with Aventurine was a whirlwind of unpredictability. He taught you how to navigate high-stakes situations, whether it was bluffing your way out of trouble or making calculated risks that turned the odds in your favor.

One day, he handed you a deck of cards, each one worn and bearing faint marks from years of use. "Lesson one," he said with a smirk. "The game’s rigged, but that doesn’t mean you can’t win."

Aventurine’s mentorship wasn’t about coddling. He challenged you, pushed you to think ahead, and celebrated your victories with genuine pride. Yet, there were moments of vulnerability—late-night conversations where he’d share fragments of his own tragic past. "We’re not so different, you and I," he admitted one night, his voice quieter than usual. "We both know what it’s like to lose everything. But here’s the trick, kid: we don’t let it break us."

With Aventurine, you learned that survival wasn’t just about strength—it was about strategy, resilience, and knowing when to bet it all.

When Gepard found you, it was during one of the harshest Fragmentum attacks Belobog had ever faced. You were huddled in the ruins of a home, clutching a makeshift weapon and trembling with fear. The sight of you—so young, so lost—stirred something deep within him.

"You’re safe now," he said, his voice steady and reassuring as he extended a gloved hand. "I’ll protect you. That’s a promise."

Life under Gepard’s care was structured and disciplined, but never harsh. He treated you with kindness and respect, understanding the pain of loss in a way only someone who had carried the weight of duty could.

He taught you how to wield a weapon—not for revenge, but for defense. "Strength isn’t about defeating your enemies," he said during a training session. "It’s about protecting what matters most."

Gepard’s lessons extended beyond combat. He instilled in you a sense of responsibility and compassion, encouraging you to help others even when the world seemed bleak. Under his guidance, you began to rebuild your confidence, finding purpose in small acts of courage and kindness.

One night, as snow fell softly outside the city walls, Gepard joined you by the fire. "I know it’s hard," he said, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. "But you’re not alone anymore. You have a family here—with me, with the Silvermane Guards. And together, we’ll face whatever comes."

With Gepard, you found more than a protector—you found a father figure who believed in you, even when you struggled to believe in yourself.

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felagund-the-valiant · 2 months ago

Text

Hobbies they like to share with you (Maedhros, Caranthir, Fingon, Turgon)

A/N: haven’t been on tumblr in a hot minute, damn. I come semi-back presenting you some hcs!

Maedhros: strategy games

Maedhros is an excellent strategist, and he greatly enjoys games that challenge this skill. Board games or card games, either is fine with him.

Unconquered chess grandmaster of Arda.

He’s a gracious winner and would never dream of making you feel bad for losing. Instead, he’ll try to encourage you, so you keep up your motivation.

He has patience for days (perks of being the oldest of a dozen grandchildren) and nothing can make him lose focus. Good luck trying to distract him.

Has zero tolerance for cheating and is quite perceptive, so he’ll call you out at the slightest suspicion.

Since he’s good at reading others’ expressions and body language, he’ll quickly notice if you’re becoming stressed or impatient and will offer to take a break, if necessary.

His unending patience makes him a great teacher and he’s more than happy to share his strategic knowledge with you. Maybe afterwards you’ll have a chance of actually winning. If he lets you.

Caranthir: cross stitching

Caranthir seems to have inherited his grandmother’s talent when it comes to all things sewing.

It’s a good meditative method to clear his head and it’s his go-to activity after a lot of stress.

Often incorporates elements of Míriel’s designs into his work, as a way of honouring her memory.

Since cross stitching is quite easy to learn, he won’t hesitate to invite you to join him. He’ll draw you in with motives like your favourite flowers or animals and once you’ve gotten the hang of it, the two of you have a lot of fun coming up with designs together.

He enjoys the companionable silence cross stitching together can bring. Sometimes the two of you sit together for hours not speaking a single word and it’s never awkward.

Fingon: cooking

Fingon is a damn good cook and proud of it.

He was prone to starting food fights during cooking when he was young, but his parents scolded that habit out of him very quickly, teaching him instead to not be wasteful.

As a result, he can somehow still make five-star meals out of leftovers.

Even if you’re not a good cook yourself, he’s somehow able to enlist your help in a way that makes you feel productive and helpful. Leave the fine measurements to him, you just worry about the basics like chopping ingredients.

Loves trying out different cuisines. One of his early methods of befriending the Sindar was exchanging recipes. Sometimes it’s that simple.

Very enthusiastic about taste testing. If you have kids, he’ll definitely make them participate to hone their palate early on. You best believe his children are going to be the best cooks in the west.

Turgon: miniature city building

If there’s one thing that fascinates Turgon, it’s tasks that require a lot of meticulous planning and fine details.

He’s fascinated by architecture and incorporates many different styles into his projects.

Is Gondolin really based on Tirion or is it one of the cities he designed back in Valinor? Only he knows the answer.

Once the cities are done, you better don’t touch them! Little Aredhel once thought they were toys and played out a “historically accurate reenactment” of an early Elven settlement getting raided by orcs … she hasn’t been allowed in Turgon’s workshop ever since.

Like Caranthir, he’s a big fan of companionable silence, though in his case it might not necessarily be intentional. He’ll invite you over to work on a project together, thinking it’s a great way to talk to you more and get to know you better, only to end up so deep in the zone you’ll have to do most of the talking.

His workshop is his little hideaway from the outside world and letting you in shows how much he trusts you. Doesn’t matter if you’re not gifted at fine motor tasks and can’t really help him, your presence is more than enough for him.

#tolkien #silmarillion #reader insert #fingon #fingon x reader #maedhros #maedhros x reader #caranthir #caranthir x reader #turgon #turgon x reader

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robin-evry · 3 months ago

Note

Hey there! Your fics are awesome, keep up the good work! :]

Also wanted to know if you could write a Loucha!yuu, Jing yuan!yuu or a Boothill!yuu(you can choose any of them)? If that isn't too much to ask for of course. Other than that, hope you have a good day <3

Hello, I'm glad that you enjoyed it and thank you for reading it.

so I'm gonna do all three of them but the headcanon is gonna be much shorter than my usual headcanon, hope that's okay.

( PS : Sorry if I've been slow on updates or responding on ask, is due to me being in the hospital for some time. )

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐋𝐔𝐎𝐂𝐇𝐀!𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 ⚰️🌾

An elegant and handsome blond young man who carries a giant coffin on his back. As an intergalactic merchant, he was unfortunately caught in the Xianzhou Luofu's Stellaron crisis. And that is how he found his mastery of medicine to come in handy.

NRC new official nurse, luocha!yuu is allowed to stay at NRC and study there while working as a part time nurse in the meantime, luocha!yuu healing abilities are by far more the best than most healing magic, their ability allows them to heal or restore damaged items into their original state. During the savanaclaw arc Leona number one concern is luocha!yuu due to their healing ability so ruggie was tasked to take them down first but every time he tried the plan failed or something interrupted it before it could happen. As if they will Always be aware of their plans before it could happen.

Known for carrying a large coffin around their back, the first years usually ask what's inside the coffin but every time they answer, luocha!yuu will always leave them with a vague answer. Many students have once seen luocha!yuu talking to the coffin or the person inside of it and one time a student once saw vines coming out to touch loucha!yuu hand. These rumors might cause some feeling of uncertainty around luocha!yuu but they seem to not mind because they said it's normal for people to feel that way.

More than meets the eye, perfectly described luocha!yuu. They may seem graceful and a genuine person but there seems to be a level deeper than what they appear as, luocha!Yuu is by far more intelligent as well more sharp than what many students think it's rather unwise to underestimate them or to trust them so easily.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐘𝐔𝐀𝐍!𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 🐥🐣

The Divine Foresight, one of the Seven Arbiter-Generals of the Xianzhou Alliance, leads the Cloud Knights of the Xianzhou Luofu. A student of the Luofu's previous Sword Champion, though not known for his martial prowess.

The prince charming of NRC. Handsome, charming, as well as animals love them. Known for their laid back personality Jing yuan!Yuu is very charming for the entire student body no one can resist their charm. Get along with Leona surprisingly both of them are known for their sleepy nature as well mastery at chess. Jing yuan!Yuu is Nestorius for their laid back and sleeping habits always post phoning their assignment but always finishing them in time as well getting good grades.

Carter once took a picture while they were sleeping and uploaded it on magicam and it went viral, many comments ask who's the hottie in the picture. Azul seeing the popularity of and started to sell photo cards of them and it was a hit that he earned more money than ever, Jing yuan!yuu find this amusing they make a contract with Azul that he is allowed to sell random pictures of them in exchange for half of the money he earns as compensation and it was a deal. Many agencies want to make contracts with them including vil one but Jing yuan!yuu will always ignore and change the subject or reject their offer.

Lilia and them would have tea together discussing their time during generals as well some parenting advice and some battlefield strategy. Jing yuan!Yuu is a powerful warrior and many people respect and admire them for it including epel, during overblot if the situation has become more severe Jing yuan!yuu would step up and end the fight using lightning lord to change the tides of the battlefield. epel reminds them a little of yanqing full of life and energy, he approached them whenever or not could they train together.

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐅 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋!𝐘𝐔𝐔 𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐖𝐒𝐓 🤠🐎

A cyborg cowboy drifting among the stars. Extremely optimistic and unrestrained. He is a member of the Galaxy Rangers who swore to punish the wretched by any and all means... His flamboyant and brash actions were all to draw the attention of the Interastral Peace Corporation — the target of his revenge.

NRC number one menace, during the orientation ceremony points their revolver to Crowley. Boothill!yuu knows business and they don't care who they go against. Boothill!yuu is very notorious for breaking rules as well as being wild in NRC. Many people see them as brash or otherworldly but theirs is also another side that encourages this behavior they are free. Boothill!Yuu is a trustworthy friend willing to do everything as long as they are safe and sound. A Ride or die partner. They are also known for their colorful ways of expressing words and cursing, their vocabulary causes riddles to faint. They also have a small dislike towards riddle of how his uptight ness of rules reminds them of an organization everyone should be free to express themselves and not be punished by something so small.

Floyd and them are best friends you can find them running towards each other whenever one of them comes to view, every time they finish an encounter one of them or both of them always end up in the nurse's office due to a playful spar they usually do. Since if you guys don't know boothill is canon for being illiterate so and doesn't want to learn how to read and write, boothill!yuu receive a magical device that helps them with reading and writing. It was created by idia and during why he decided to make it, idia replied it as a way to greet because he's happy Ortho is not the only one being a cyborg.

Idia, Ortho, epel and floyd are by far the closest to them other than the other first years, if a malfunction happens with their cyborg body, idia will find a way to repair or replace the malfunctioning item as well boothill!yuu and Ortho get along together like siblings. Boothill!yuu wants epel to embrace his other side and this will always end with a clash with vill, since they find epel similar towards themselves. Epel feels free as well being himself around boothill!yuu since both of them grew up in the country side. So he is usually free to express himself around them without worrying about vil. Boothill!Yuu is epel safe haven from vil if things get too hard in pomifiore.

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engeorged · 3 months ago

Text

The Conference Part One

Chapter One: 2018

Kit had taken the job not knowing that my first week would be the company’s annual sales conference. He was always painfully shy and preferred to stay at home with his nose in a book or playing some online strategy game in his darkened room. He had done well at school and college and eventually university where he had picked up his qualifications easily and ahead of schedule. But after finishing he moved back in with his parents and rarely went out. At first it was perfect, his parents left him alone and his noisy brothers were all off living their lives. But at 26, he began to feel a bit trapped. He needed to change something.

Tackling it in his usual academic way, he booked some time with a life coach. The first few meetings with the coach were painful but eventually he began to come round to the idea that he had a lot to offer the world. He was smart and funny and even though he would never admit it, quite attractive in a bookish way. Kit was tall and athletic looking for someone who didn't do any athletics. The coach had encouraged him to put himself out there into the world and so he applied for a job with a huge international shipping company. Well, shipping was their business on paper but in reality they dabbled in most markets making billions every day. The analytics job he applied for suited Kit down to the ground, he would be based in an office ploughing through numbers but would still be in contact with colleagues in person.

The day of the conference arrived and Kit had every intention of trying to interact with some people and had even practised some conversation starters in advance. As he stepped into the lobby of the huge hotel his heart began to pound, this was going to be even harder than he had feared. But he was determined to not bail. He joined the queue for check in and once he had his key card, he hurried off to his room for safety. After nesting and getting unpacked, he gave himself a little pep talk in the mirror and ventured to the first session. There was no way he would be able to avoid talking to people in a crowd like this.

Unfortunately, the reality was very much that he was able to attend a national conference and not speak to a single person. Everyone seemed to know people already and Kit just blended into the background, like normal. Sessions came and went, meals happened and Kit managed to not have a single meaningful interaction except ordering the odd coffee.

By the third day he was done hiding and decided that he would use some of the techniques he’d practised with his coach and approach someone to initiate a chat IRL. He scouted round the room and saw one of the guys he had met at his interview. He was in the same department Kit would be working in, and seemed friendly, so he approached him with a drink in his hand. He waited for a few minutes before the guy turned round and half smiled at him. Kit opened his mouth to say hi and ask how he was finding the conference and nothing came out. The guy waited for a few seconds before nodding his head awkwardly and turning round to continue with his friend.

Kit had blown it. He slipped away, holding back tears and found a quiet bathroom at the back of the hotel. Fortunately, there was no one in there and he shot into a cubicle and closed the door behind him. His head was spinning. Who did he think he was, taking a job like this? He should have taken something in a smaller company where there were just a few people and no annual sales conference. This was too much too soon.

As he sat there, berating himself for being so stupid, he heard the door to the bathroom crash open.

‘Fucks sake!’ he heard a deep voice exclaim. The man was clearly annoyed at something and went to the taps, which he turned on. Kit tried not to breathe as the figure stomped around the bathroom trying to do something. All at once the door to the stall began to swing open. Kit froze. He’d not locked it. As it opened further Kit saw the source of the swearing. The guy was huge. 6’6 easily with huge shoulders and a thick neck. He was frantically scrubbing something off his front. Kit prayed he wouldn’t turn around and see him but it was too late. The hulk of a man looked up and saw his reflection in the mirror.

‘Hey man, help a bro out?’ He said as he saw Kit sat on the toilet.

Kit, now spotted, knew he couldn’t get out of this. He stood up and ventured out of the toilet.

‘What happen? Er I mean how happened? I mean . . . (Sigh). What did you do?’ Kit stammered

The bear turned round and the hint of a smile crossed his face, although it didn’t feel unkind. As he turned, Kit saw what was wrong. He’d split a load of marinara sauce down the front of his white shirt. Now Kit could see him fully, he saw how good looking the giant was. He was as tall as he looked with dark messy hair, pale skin with a hint of freckles across his nose and piercing blue eyes. His face was neatly covered in dense stubble which framed his face and made him look incredibly handsome. The man was furiously scrubbing at a large marinara sauce stain that had spread across his crisp white shirt only making it worse.

The man glanced around the bathroom and his eyes landed on Kit again. “Could you give me a hand with this? I’m making it worse.” he asked, his tone surprisingly friendly despite his obvious frustration at himself. Kit froze, unsure how to respond. There was something about his easy confidence and open demeanour that made Kit feel a bit braver.

“Uh, sure,” Kit replied finally, stepping out from behind the stall. Together, they worked on the stain, but it quickly became apparent that it wasn’t coming out. Kit bit his lip, thinking quickly. “You could borrow my sweater?,” he offered hesitantly. “It’s oversized on me so it should fit you!’ Kit’s cheeks went red as he realised what he just said. ‘Shit. Not that you’re oversized, you’re perfect obviously.’

Fortunately for Kit, he ignored his babbling and his face lit up with gratitude. “That would be amazing. Thanks, man.” Without hesitation, he began unbuttoning his ruined shirt. As he pulled it off, Kit couldn’t help but notice his muscular physique. His broad chest and shoulders were covered in a neatly trimmed but strong layer of dark hair, which trailed down to a surprisingly rounded, but muscular furry belly. Kit felt a strange, unexpected attraction stir within him. The contrast of the man’s strong, imposing build and the firm, rounded belly was surprisingly captivating, making Kit’s heart race.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Kit handed over his sweater. He promptly slipped it on, the fabric stretching taut across his chest and stomach. It fit, but only just, highlighting his muscular frame in a way that was both impressive and slightly comical. A slim line of furry flesh visible just above his waistband was distracting. “Perfect fit,” he joked with a wink, his friendly demeanour putting Kit at ease.

“Thanks, Kit,” the man mountain said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re a lifesaver. I owe you one.” Kit managed a shy smile, feeling a strange sense of relief. As quickly as he had come into Kit’s life he was gone again before Kit could say anything.

That evening, Kit lay on his bed in the dim light of his hotel room, unable to stop thinking about the encounter. His mind kept drifting back to the sight of that muscular, rounded belly and the way it had felt to see him so close, so real. There was an undeniable magnetism there, an effortless charm that drew people in and made them feel seen. Kit had never met anyone like him before—someone so full of energy and creativity, who could transform even a mundane bathroom encounter into a moment of genuine connection.

Kit felt a strange mix of admiration and longing, but also confusion. He had known he was gay for a while, but it wasn’t something he had ever bothered to tell anyone. It didn't seem important really. But this attraction, particularly to the man’s firm, rounded belly, was new. He had never thought he could be drawn to a man with a belly, and the intensity of these feelings left him a little unsettled. As he replayed the events of the day, Kit realised that something had awakened in him, a desire to break free from his shell and experience life with the same vibrant intensity. Yet, the novelty of his attraction and the strength of Kit’s introversion, made everything feel even more complicated, leaving Kit with a mix of excitement and uncertainty that he couldn’t quite resolve.

The next morning, after very little sleep, Kit shuffled into the hotel’s breakfast area, still feeling the echoes of his turbulent thoughts from the previous night. He chose a quiet corner table, hoping to remain unnoticed. But as he picked at his food, he felt a sudden presence and looked up to see the same giant from the bathroom striding toward him with a broad smile. Without a hint of hesitation, he plonked himself down at Kit’s table, a plate heaping with scrambled eggs, bacon, and pastries in hand.

“Morning, Kit!” The man’s voice was warm and full of energy. He dug into his plate of food with gusto eating like he hadn’t eaten before, the smell of the rich breakfast filling the air. Kit realised that now was his chance to ask the guy's name. He tried to formulate the words in his head but as if the man were a mind reader he offered his own name. ‘I’m Odin by the way. I know what you’re thinking, but before you ask, my parents were hippies!’

Kit laughed at the confession. With each bite, Kit’s eyes were drawn back to the sight of Odin’s belly, the firm, rounded shape becoming even more pronounced as he continued to eat. The fabric of his shirt stretched tighter over his growing midsection, which seemed to be rounder that last night.

Fortunately, Odin didn’t really need Kit to say much as he chatted animatedly, his enthusiasm making it impossible for Kit to remain withdrawn. He was just very present in the space he occupied and seemingly at ease with everyone. He seemed to not notice Kit’s intense stares or his bumbled words, he just accepted him as he was.

As Odin piled more food onto his plate at the buffet table, and took large, hearty bites, his belly pushed outward, growing more pronounced with every helping. Kit found himself unable to look away, captivated by the way Odin’s midsection seemed to expand and stretch with the volume of food he consumed.

Despite the vast amounts of food Odin consumed, he managed to exude an infectious energy that kept Kit engaged and entertained. Odin’s effortless charm and the way his belly visibly filled out, becoming rounder and firmer, drew Kit in like a magnet. ‘Are you gonna eat that?’ Odin pointed at Kit's uneaten waffle. ‘Take it!’ Kit obliged but Odin had already reached over and taken a bite.

By the end of breakfast, Kit was unexpectedly energised, his thoughts a whirl of admiration and fascination, all thanks to Odin’s remarkable ability to connect and draw him in—even amidst the clamour of a busy buffet. His appetite sated, Odin stretched his arms high into the air in a big display of a stretch. This showed off his well developed biceps and triceps perfectly. As he made the gesture his shirt rode all the way up, exposing the whole of his hairy bloated stomach. Kit made every effort to not let his jaw drop as he got a glimpse of the full glory of his overstuffed middle. The curve of it framed by his muscular torso, his adonis belt still defined at the edges. Odin, apparently oblivious to his belly display, shook himself off and stood. ‘Right. Gotta catch a train see you next year buddy?’ And with that he'd gone leaving Kit with a mind full of questions and visuals he would no doubt be revisiting.

Chapter Two - 2019

A whole year had passed since Kit had last met Odin at the conference. In that time, Kit had spent countless moments scanning rooms at work events, hoping for another chance encounter with the man who had left such an indelible impression on him. Although he hadn't seen Odin, the experience had spurred Kit to work on his own confidence. He attended more networking events, pushed himself out of his comfort zone, and found himself slowly becoming more at ease in social situations. He would use the phrase, ‘Be more Odin’ in the moments where he lacked confidence.

That evening, at the same annual sales conference, Kit's heart nearly stopped when he finally spotted a familiar figure across the room. Odin, looking even more formidable than before, was chatting animatedly with a group of colleagues. His already impressive physique had bulked up considerably; his chest and arms were more massive, and his belly, while still firm and round, was noticeably smaller. As Kit approached, his eyes took in Odin's transformation. The man had clearly dedicated himself to work on his body, his muscles taut and defined under his fitted shirt.

Kit hesitated, his nerves getting the better of him. What if Odin didn’t remember him? What if he was just another face in a sea of conference attendees? What if he would remember him as the nerd who oggled him all through that breakfast. Doubt got the better of him, and he decided to turn away, retreating back into the crowd.

“Kit!” a familiar voice boomed behind him. Kit stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding. He turned around to see Odin striding towards him, a broad smile lighting up his face. “I thought that was you!”

“Odin,” Kit said, his voice a mix of relief and excitement. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“Of course I remember you!” Odin laughed, enveloping Kit in a hug. Kit marvelled at the sheer solidity of his friend’s body pushed up against him. As they pulled apart, Odin’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “I’ve got news. Decided to go part-time at work and pursue bodybuilding seriously. Aiming for the Olympics next year.”

Kit’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “The Olympics? That’s incredible! I didn’t know body building was an Olympic sport?’

Odin laughed, a deep, resonant sound. “I'm pretty sure it is! Well, it’s a dream of mine anyway. We’ll see how far I get.” His laughter and the casual confidence in his voice were infectious, and Kit couldn’t help but smile back.

Later that night, Odin suggested they hit a nearby bar to catch up properly. As they sat down with their drinks, Kit found himself falling deeper into conversation with Odin. They talked about everything—work, life, and Odin’s rigorous training regime. Kit was in awe of Odin’s dedication and the sheer positivity he radiated.

Midway through the evening, Kit accidentally stepped on a man's foot as he moved to get another drink. The man, clearly drunk and looking for trouble, began to mock Kit loudly. “Watch it, you prick! Can’t even walk straight, huh you fucking piss stain?” Kit felt his face heat up, the familiar sting of embarrassment threatening to ruin his night. But before he could react, Odin was on his feet, towering over the douchebag with an intimidating presence.

“Back off,” Odin growled, his voice low and menacing. “You’ve had enough to drink, and you’re out of line.”

The drunk guy, suddenly realising the size and strength of the man confronting him, backed down immediately, muttering an apology before slinking away. Odin sat back down, his expression softening as he looked at Kit.

“You okay?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

Kit nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude and something deeper—admiration, affection, perhaps even something more. “Thanks, Odin. That meant a lot.”

Odin smiled, a genuine, warm smile that made Kit’s heart flutter. “Anytime, Kit. You’re a good guy, and nobody should make you feel less than that!’

As the night wore on, Kit found himself hopelessly in love with Odin. The way Odin had stood up for him, the ease with which he navigated life, and the sheer kindness and strength he embodied—it all combined to make Kit realise just how much this man meant to him. By the end of the night, Kit knew he was no longer just looking up to Odin; he was falling for him, deeply and irrevocably.

Chapter Three - 2020

Kit was once again eagerly anticipating the annual sales conference where he could finally meet up with his friend again to see his progress. As the year marched on however, the dreaded covid hit. The conference was cancelled and replaced with a virtual event on Zoom. Kit was both disappointed and relieved—disappointed because he wouldn’t get to see Odin in person, but relieved because he could still potentially see him, even if only on screen.

As the conference began, Kit saw Odin’s name logged on and scanned the various breakout rooms, hoping to spot Odin among the sea of faces. Finally, he found him in a room dedicated to a team-building exercise. Kit quickly joined in, his heart racing with anticipation.

The breakout room was filled with chatter as everyone tried to navigate the awkwardness of virtual icebreakers. Odin’s familiar face appeared on Kit’s screen, and Kit’s breath caught. Odin looked more muscular than ever, his shoulders and chest filling the frame impressively. His biceps bulged as he gestured animatedly, the camera catching every detail of his powerful upper body.

Kit tried to focus on the task at hand, but his eyes kept drifting back to Odin. He was desperate to ask him how the olympic dreams were going but couldn't find an opportune moment. Midway through the session, Odin stood up to grab something off-screen. As he did, his shirt lifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of his belly. Kit’s eyes widened as he saw that Odin’s belly was fully back. It still retained that firm, round shape he remembered but it was a striking difference from the toned hunk he had met last year. The sight of Odin’s much larger belly sent a thrill through Kit, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

Odin, oblivious to the effect he was having on Kit, returned to his seat, readjusting his shirt casually. He then glanced at the camera and sighed, a hint of embarrassment crossing his face.

Later on that day when zoom fatigue was truly setting in, Kit received a private message with a link to a google meet session. “Alright, Kit!’ Odin said sheepishly. ‘I guess you saw how my training has been going!’

With that, Odin stood up again and pulled his shirt up fully, revealing his sizable belly in all its hefty glory. It was much larger than last year, firm and round, jutting out proudly from his otherwise muscular frame. “This,” Odin continued with a chuckle, patting his belly, “is what happens when you mix a love for food with a bit too much fun.”

Kit’s eyes were glued to the screen, his heart pounding. Odin’s nonchalant attitude and confidence as he displayed his body were incredibly captivating. The juxtaposition of his sculpted upper body with his prominent, tight belly was both surprising and intensely arousing for Kit.

“Anyway,” Odin said, sitting back down and readjusting his shirt, “I’m trying to get back on track, but it’s a work in progress.” He laughed, a deep, resonant sound that Kit found both endearing and incredibly attractive. “I’m thinking the Olympics are maybe for another time!’

As the unscheduled breakout session ended and the pair to the main conference zoom, Kit found himself barely able to think straight. His mind kept replaying the moment when Odin’s had shown him his belly. It was so round and inviting. And so perfectly covered in hair! As the event drew to a close, Kit knew one thing for certain: his feelings for Odin had only grown stronger, and he was more determined than ever to find a way to express them. He had a plan.

Part Two here

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