#turn lock satchel

[mariasont]

hi bby, i also have another idea! <3

it’s a song inspired fic with spencer or hotch and bimbo!reader and how they are in the office when they first get together and maybe some moments before they do!!

the song i was thinking of is birds of a feather by billie eilish and you can choose either hotch or spence bcuz i can’t decide, lol

anyway ily and i’m so glad you’re doing better and it’s so lovely to see you here again!! <33

BIRDS OF A FEATHER - S.R

a/n: i just need you to know you are literally the backbone of my fics i swear!!! ur requests are always my favorite <3 but anyway ilysm and i'm so happy to be and so happy to fufill your request, i hope you like it!! :)

masterlist

pairings: spencer reid x bimbo!receptionist!reader

warnings: clingy!reader, dramatic gf calm bf best duo, established relationship, tooth rotting fluff, idiots in love

wc: 1k

You'd lost count of how many times you'd checked the clock. Five days without Spencer felt like an eternity. You weren't sure how people survived long-distance relationships. 

You’d tried everything to distract yourself. A true crime documentary had seemed like a good idea, something to make you feel like Spencer was still close, in that nerdy, FBI way of his, but it turned out to be too scary (and okay, a little boring). You’d spent most of it hiding behind a pillow, silently debating whether the narrator’s voice was creepy or just British.

All you could do was scroll on your phone and pout at the clock, wondering if maybe, just maybe, you'd somehow willed time to speed up since the last time you looked. Spoiler, you hadn't.

By the time you heard the jingle of keys outside the door, you were practically vibrating with excitement. You shot off the couch so fast you nearly tripped on the blanket you'd be wrapped in all night. 

The lock clicked, and there he was, Spencer, with tired eyes and messy hair, his satchel hanging limply off one shoulder like it weighed more than he did. He looked exhausted but perfect, the way only Spencer could.

"Spence!" you squealed, launching yourself at him before he could even get through the doorway.

"Hi," he murmured, wrapping his arms around you as you buried your face in his chest. He smelled faintly of coffee and something antiseptic, but underneath it all was that comforting, familiar scent that was just him.

"I missed you, too."

You buried your face in his chest for a moment, breathing him in like you could bottle the feeling and save it for later. Then, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes, you gripped his jacket tightly.

“You better have. I’ve been losing my mind waiting for you.”

Spencer’s lips twitched into a tired smile. “Losing your mind? Sounds serious. Should I be worried?”

"Definitely," you said, nodding earnestly. "I've been so bored, Spence. I started talking to myself, like, full on conversations. And I'm not as smart as you, so they weren't even good conversations."

He chuckled softly, his thumb brushing slow, soothing circles against your hip. “I’m sure they were better than you think.”

You stepped back and began tugging his jacket off, shooing him toward the couch. He followed without a word of protest, letting you fuss over him.

“You look so tired, baby,” you said, plucking his satchel off the floor and setting it aside. “Did you eat? You better have. I should’ve made something, but I didn’t know when you’d get here, and I got distracted, and —”

Spencer's hand caught yours, making your mouth snap shut. His fingers were warm, and the way they curled around yours was enough to make your brain go fuzzy for a second. 

"I'm fine. Really."

“You don’t look fine,” you said, wrinkling your nose at him. “You look all…” You waved vaguely at his face. “Work-y.”

“Work-y,” he echoed, his lips twitching into a small, tired smile.

“Exactly,” you said, nodding as you plopped down beside him and immediately curled into his side. Your arms looped around him, holding him tightly, as though he might vanish if you let go.

Spencer let out a soft sigh, leaning into your touch. 

“You’re very clingy tonight,” he teased, though the way his arm came up to pull you closer told you he didn’t mind.

“Obviously,” you replied, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. “I haven’t seen you in forever. I missed your face. And your hair. And your nerdy little brain. Especially your nerdy little brain.”

He laughed quietly. “My brain missed you, too.”

“Good,” you said, tilting your head to press a kiss to his jaw. “Because I’m not letting you go anywhere for at least... three days. Maybe four. You’ll just have to solve crimes from here.”

Spencer hummed, his fingers continuing their gentle movement. “I’m not sure the FBI would agree to that.”

“Then they’ll have to fight me for you,” you said with a dramatic huff, crossing your arms. “Honestly, I could probably take Hotch in a fight. He doesn’t look like he’s had a good night’s sleep since, like, 1999. One shove, and he’s done for.”

Spencer laughed, his chest shaking against yours. “You’d shove Hotch? I think that’s a violation of multiple workplace policies.”

You grinned, tilting your head to look up at him. “It’d be worth it. You’re way more important than some dumb policies.”

“You’re terrible.”

“Terribly in love with you,” you said, your grin widening as you leaned forward to nudge his nose with yours. “Now, scoot over. I’m not comfy enough.”

Before he could ask what you meant, you were already moving, shifting to climb into his lap with zero hesitation. Spencer blinked in surprise, but his hands instinctively came up to steady you, one resting on your waist while the other settled on your thigh.

“You could’ve warned me,” he murmured, though his lips quirked into a small smile as you tucked yourself against him like a human blanket.

“Where’s the fun in that?” you teased, wrapping your arms around his neck and leaning your forehead against his. “Besides, I missed you too much to sit all the way over there.”

Spencer let out a soft, breathy laugh, his nose brushing yours as he adjusted to your weight. “You don’t think this is a little excessive?”

“Excessive? No. Necessary? Yes.” You kissed the tip of his nose, grinning when his cheeks flushed a faint pink. “You’re my boyfriend, Spence. This is part of the job description.”

He shook his head, but the way his arms tightened around you gave him away.

“Love you,” you said in a sigh, nuzzling closer to him.

“I love you too, angel,” he said. His hand moved to cup the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. “I love you more than I can put into words.”

Spencer let out a long breath, his head resting back against the couch as his hands stayed comfortably on your waist. 

“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” you teased, though you didn’t move an inch from where you were nestled against him.

“Maybe,” he murmured, his voice low and a little gravelly.

“Good,” you whispered, your cheek pressed to his. “That means you’re staying right here.”

He didn’t answer, but the way his arms tightened around you was more than enough.

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[gghostwriter]

something fluffy i thought of is how spencer never had friends his age so he never got to have a real sleepover, so reader decides to change that and does all the cliché sleepover stuff with him (building a fort, pillow fights, facemasks,...)

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Fluff w.c: 1.5k A/N: I’ve been in a writing funk lately so really took a while, so sorry about that! I wrote this with early season!Spencer in mind, think s1-s2. Not proofread cause i will second guess myself. Special thanks to @thegloryofliterature for helping me power through! Masterlist

Cucumber Slices. // Spencer Reid

Two pretty glasses on the kitchen counter, ready for use? Check.

Non-alcoholic wine chilling in the fridge? Check. 

No clutter in sight? Check.

Your eyes flitted all over the apartment, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be—no stray pair of shoes, overflowing from your cabinet, strewn all over the wooden floor. It was a problem you’d need to tackle soon or later, your lack of space in this otherwise tiny apartment and your shopping addiction, but that wasn’t top priority at this very moment.

No, the cause of concern was making sure all went well tonight with your new beau, Spencer Reid.

It was all thanks to a cup of spilled coffee down at your favorite shop that caused this new development. You remembered how wide-eyed, afraid, and guilty the FBI agent looked as he took note of your state of distress, pale pink blouse turning sheer from liquid. Your lips must have wobbled then, thinking about how your new top was ultimately ruined, that caused him to clumsily remove his plaid coat, smelling of cedar wood and worn pages, and wrapping it all over your slight frame.

With his tenor voice, he repeatedly apologized and proposed to have your top dry cleaned, hoping to salvage it, all the while offering a spare button down from his leather worn satchel. Honestly, you didn’t know why you accepted it then and why you shyly gave away your contact information. It was like his amber doe eyes, teary from stress, hypnotized you to saying yes. 

Catching sight of your reflection, you assessed the mirage in front of you. Hair casually blown dry, not too curled, and makeup kept to a minimum, a hint of gloss, that’s it. 

You didn’t want to come off too dolled up for his very first sleepover in history, a fact he humbly disclosed during your fourth date and a fact you wanted to rectify immediately, and for his first sleepover as your new official (the thought made you want to squeal) boyfriend.

Looks? Check.

The corners of your cherry flavored lips lifted into a smile just as a hesitant knock echoed through your tastefully designed apartment.

Boyfriend? Check.

“Coming!”

As you reached for the locked door knob, the excitement palpable on your face, a small inconspicuous package caught the corner of your eye.

It was a box of protection you bought, just in case.

You sucked in a breath, afraid of what could have happened if you just left it there. Quickly running to your bedroom and pulling the bedside drawer so harshly the contents rattled, you shoved the box away, face burning from the thought of being caught.

To be fair, it really wasn’t in your list to buy during the quick run to the grocery. It had caught your eye while checking out and added it to the cart without really much further thought. You definitely wasn’t expecting anything to happen tonight, knowing how fresh the relationship is and how shy Spencer is to any type of physical affection. He did once rattle off a fact how hands touching transfer more bacteria than kissing and at that moment, all you could think of was leaning in and meeting his lips with yours. 

There was another knock. 

“Just a moment, Spence!” You called out, voice cracking at the end as your feet slid against the waxed floor.

You paused, trying to catch your breath before swing the door wide open to the view of Spencer shyly smiling at you, weighed down by the amount of items on his hands.

“Uh—hi, hey,” he breathed out. “I-uh, I brought over some stuff we might need for the sleepover.” 

You giggled. “Did you bring your entire apartment with you, by any chance?”

“What? No, no of course not! I just—” he stepped inside your apartment, lowering the bags on the kitchen counter. “—I didn’t know what a sleepover would need so I did research and it—” gesturing towards the items. “—just snowballed from there.” 

You stretched on your tip toes, softly giving his cheek a kiss. “That’s sweet of you, Spence. Can you tell me more about what you found?” 

His face brightened, very much used to people not wanting to hear him talk on or off tangents. “Well, I brought a couple of games, one I borrowed from Penelope—” he pulled a chess board, a deck of cards, and Monopoly. “—I also got us assorted slice fruits to share, I read that people in sleepovers tend to eat take out, pizza or Chinese, which I brought too, and I wanted us to have a healthy dessert on hand and although chocolate seems to be the usual meal treat, it is primarily made of concentrated sugar with little to no added nutrients. Fruits, on the other hand—”

He paused, eyes slowly tracking the contours on your face. “—do you want me to stop? Usually the team would have cut me off by now and I don’t want to bore you.”

You quickly shook your head. “No, no! Not at all, Spencer! I love to hear your voice and i think its so cute that you researched.”

Rocking on his heels, he pressed his lips into a tight smile as his ears reddened in color. 

“Well,” you sidestepped to stand beside him, back facing the counter. “Should we get started?”

Spencer nodded, eyes earnestly looking at you for guidance.

“In my mind, a sleepover isn’t complete without this,” you gestured towards the ingredients laid out earlier.

A chopping board and it’s matching knife, one piece of unsliced cucumber, a tub of unopened Greek yogurt, and a bottle of honey.

“Is this for our snack?”

You giggled, bumping the side of his hip with yours. “You’ve got plenty to learn, my young padawan.”

***

“Are you sure this—” Spencer gestured to the concocted bowl in front of him. “—is sanitary? I don’t think I ran across this step when I was researching.”

Laughing, you pinched slices of cucumber between your manicured fingers and gesturing him to lean slightly back. “Of course it is, Spencer! I did trust the washing and cutting to you, didn’t I?”

“It’s just—I’m not quite sure what benefit we’re supposed to get.”

You leaned in, keeping a critical eye on your handiwork as if you were a painter inspecting the masterpiece. He smelled fresh, having taken a shower before settling on the couch in front of the opened television—he smelled of your body wash with a hint of his own scent you couldn’t describe.

Pulling back, you gestured for him to do the same to you, covering your bare face with the homemade face mask.

“Well, according to Paolo, the cucumbers actually do nothing but it’s nice to just get into the mood, don’t you think?”

The space between his brows threatened to disappear as the tip of his tongue peeked between his lips in concentration. It was absolutely adorable to see him wracking his expansive mind as to who Paolo was. 

“Should I know who that is?” 

You faux gasped. “From Princess Diaries?”

Spencer shook his head, leaning away from his finished work.

“As your girlfriend, I fear it’s my duty to get you up to date with romance movies. Which is why—” reaching for the remote to press play. “—I chose one I’m sure you’d know.” 

Classical music started to play through the speakers matched with a sunrise on an empty vast field and slowly, the title card appeared, Pride & Prejudice.

He chuckled, settling in on your off white sofa, shoulders brushing against each other.

As the movie progressed, Spencer softly whispered commentary under his breath, his voice rumbling from his chest, lulling you to ease. It felt so easy being with him. There was no second guessing the meaning behind his words, the meaning behind his actions. You still couldn’t believe your luck that you found The decent man of your dreams through a cup of spilled coffee, it was worth having your designer silk blouse as the casualty. 

On screen, Mr Darcy had reached to guide Elizabeth Bennet up to the carriage, bare handed. The camera cut then, focusing on his hand flexing from the touch of her hand.

Your heart rate picked up, this scene had always been your favorite. Such an inconspicuous move but quite scandal during their time.

Spencer cleared his throat, adjusting his position beside you, hand mirroring Mr Darcy’s. Slowly, as if he was unsure of your consent, he brushed the back of his palm with yours, intertwining the two pinkies together.

Breath caught in your chest, you wove the rest together. Both palms slightly damp from the nerves, he squeezed three times and in that minute, you knew. 

This relationship was for keeps. 

My inbox is currently closed for requests but comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[reidingandallthat]

used to, not to

spencer thinks of all the ways he's gotten used to you when you're away from him.

spencer reid x reader words: 1.7k genre: fluff a/n: pulled this outta me for valentine's day bc i have fomo

Seven steps until he finds you again, or at least the memory of you in the smell of the same old bakery on his path to the office, familiar as he hears your voice,

“Okay, just one donut.” reverberating through his head, one hand subconsciously holding the satchel closer to him.

The doors of the office open on their own, and he repeats the daily routine of tight-lipped smiles to almost strangers, people he sees everyday but knows nothing about. Penelope pinches his cheeks just for a brief moment, along with her chipper “Good morning!” when he passes her.

He woke up in an empty bed today, an unhappy reminder of your departure last night. The flight had flown well into midnight because of the weather, and he was glad, at least he could talk to you before you went up into the sky, unreachable to him. 

You'd laughed at him when he said it to you,

“Baby, it's only 5 hours, you'll have me available right after you wake up.”

“I’m so glad you think I get 5 hours of sleep every night.”

He had laughed along with you, but truth to be told he was afraid. He'd gotten too used to being around you whenever he was home, you had a much agreeable schedule. 

So now he's in his bed, resting his back on the bed frame behind him, laptop resting on his legs, right after you cut the call.

The screen was already black, he'd been too busy talking to you to pay attention to anything. His phone screen lit up again, a last text with your name on it,

“Bye baby, don't miss me too much. Get some sleep. I love you.”

How cruel of you to send it when you won't even be able to see his answer for the next few hours.

A few more minutes spent in silence and staring at his reflection over the blank screen when he shakes his head to come into his senses, and busies himself in anything other than thoughts of you.

Morning.

Hurried hands and squinted eyes, scrolling through the only notifications he cares to read on his phone.

Two missed calls and seven texts. 

The texts are timed several minutes apart, updates on when you landed up until you reached your hotel and fell asleep.

“I'm glad you actually went to sleep. See you in my dreams.”

The text read like you, sweet and teasing till he smiles with an ache in his heart, of course this was the day Hotch didn't decide to call everyone 3 hours earlier than usual.

The day goes as it always does, mundane and routine. JJ states a case, Hotch tells everyone what to do and they get to the jet to discuss further details.

He spends his time inside offices and police stations, looking through files and clues that are informed to him over the phone, connecting pasts to present, turning his phone on and off for anything new, as if that would automatically generate a text from you.

Evening comes in, hues of orange red and blue as he walks home, the same donut shop, haunting him as he leaves it behind.

He thinks of calling you again, but he remembers you telling him to text you more, you can't always pick up his calls. He knows he shouldn’t, but it's a selfish wish to hear from you again.

So instead he takes a picture of the shop, and tells you he's thinking of you, and puts his phone back into his satchel.

The door is locked, another thing he was out of routine, he had gotten used to you being home before him. He'd gotten used to seeing you in your pyjamas, cozying up in your blanket watching your shows, or blasting music as you pretend the spatula is your mic. 

You'd both laughed a lot that day.

A bittersweet feeling envelops him again as enters through the door, and switches on the light, feeling heavy in the absence of your presence, an oxymoron, he thinks.

He goes into his bathroom to take a shower after a long day to be met with cold water. He yelps as the water makes contact with his skin when he realises that you always made sure the shower was ready whenever he came in, or you tried most days. He doesn't remember asking you to do this, only remembers thanking you the first time you did. 

He's glad you're not there to see the smile on his face, lovesick and pathetic whenever he thinks of you when you're not there.

He wonders if others notice it, but realises the stupidity of his question. He remembers the initial days of them dating, how Emily would shake her head whenever he jumped to take your call, how Penelope gushed about his adoration towards you, and the usual remarks of Derek teasing. 

The coffee machine just finished pouring his beverage into his cup when he hears his phone ring. He knows who it is, so he answers like it's meant for you,

“Hi, I missed you.”  

“It's only been 3 days, Spence.”

The clock hands have moved past two hours because neither of you had put down the call. He had read his book and you had done your work in silence, light typing sounds in the background.

He was glad he'd been away from home for a few days, it gave him space not to th ink of you inhabiting the space beside him, to not think of the absence of your arms around him, to not have another reason to make coffee in the morning. 

The leftover beverage stared at him whenever he moved his head, daring him to go pour himself another cup. He'd made too much, he was too a creature of habit, not used to you being gone.

Nights had a weird way of going by slowly when he didn't have you to talk to. Another bad habit of his, he realises, your voice.

He wouldn't dare tell you, or anyone if he's being honest, that he'd played your voice note more times than he'd admit. 

Pathetic, with that stupid grin on his face as you told him about your day. 

Hopeless, he thinks.

He doesn't mind being hopeless, especially if it's you.

Spencer doesn't dream often. He's glad, he has enough running thoughts every second he's awake. But he's also glad to have this dream, where your fingers are sliding down the slope of his nose, tracing the bones of his cheek, running through his hair.

He doesn't open his eyes, he wouldn't dare put a stop to any of it. The voice that chuckles sounds eerily like you, but he does open his eyes when he hears it say,

“Never seen you smile in your dreams.”

He's never woken up this fast, his heartbeat immediately higher than it should be this early in the morning, but he deems it a natural reaction to being around you. His eyes are desperate and searching, confused and the image makes you chuckle. He looks adorable like this, you think.

His voice is a near whisper, adapted to the quietness around him as he wakes up,

“What are you doing here? Weren't you coming tomorrow?”

You laugh again and it's like honey to him, “Got off early, thought I'd surprise you.”

He doesn't have much to say, too many different thoughts running through his brain so he buries his face at the crook of your neck. You smell like you, he’s missed that too and he has to stop himself from saying it out loud.

“I think I've gotten too used to your coffee, nothing else seems good anymore.”

“Everyone else says it's mediocre,” He chuckles, his breath warm on your skin, “You're the only person who likes it.” 

“Well, it's… you, I guess. I like it because I like you.”

This is the only thing about you he's never gotten used to. He doesn't know how to respond when you talk to him like this, words too sweet, too saccharine, words only meant as a declaration, as a compliment.

He has answers to most if not all questions you could ask him, he'd list facts about any topic you talk to him about, he'd tell you how amazing you are every day, because he's used to it.

He gives away parts for him to his job, to his friends, to his mother, but he's never had much practice receiving it. It's second nature, to let the person in front of him know that “Yes, I care about you.” in crystal clear words so that he never has to bear the hurt of the sentence that follows, “Please, stay.”

He'd asked Penelope once, what to do with compliments. She had told him, after many minutes of teasing, to thank them, or tell them you love them. He’s not sure how other people think, but the idea of just a thank you didn’t sit right with him. 

Neither of those options sounded good to him, but he had thanked her and left, not very satisfied with the answer. Instead, he does what he's gotten used to doing, telling you the new things he's learned when you haven't been around.

“I think I've gotten too used to listening to your voice before sleep. I played the voice note you sent me atleast 7 times.”

Pause.

“7 times?” He could hear the amusement in your voice.

“You should make a morning alarm, just for me. Then I could wake up to your voice.”

You're not quite sure how to respond to that. It's a common occurrence, your perplexity at his compliments. 

Who says that anyway?

You're used to responding to the usual compliments, you know what to say when someone tells you you're pretty, or that you look good in your outfit. 

How does one ever say anything in response that could ever live up to whatever he just asked of you?

So you don't. You find his hands and squeeze them to let him know you heard him, and say the first thing that you could think of to answer him, to calm your racing heart, 

“You don’t need one. I'll be here myself, promise.”

[abiatackerman]

Could I make a request if it's not too much? I was hoping you could write something where Levi defends you from being assaulted it would help me a lot to get over some things but I understand if it's too much keep up the great writing!

Hello sweetie! Thank you for requesting! You didn't specify how the reader would get assaulted so I wrote in my way! Hope you'll like it!

Safe in his arms

⚔��Levi Ackerman x Female Reader ⚔️

⚠️Mentions of physical violence and harassment⚠️

Canon universe! Captain Levi Ackerman X Female Reader! Overprotectiveness! Argument! Make-up! 2.1k words!

Summary: After a heated argument, you storm off, only to be cornered by a drunken man. Just as fear sets in, Levi arrives—furious and relentless.

Tags: @theremainsof @spouseofleviackerman @levisbrat25 @itsnathateasy @violentvaleska @dreamerofthewest @meowmewow7 @mikabella7 @satorella @sugacor3 @darkstarlight82 @derealizationns @happygiverbluebird

🩷If you wanna be tagged let me know🩷

✨Masterlist✨

🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

The barracks are quiet right now, save for the distant murmur of soldiers finishing their nightly routines. But the tension inside your room feels suffocating. The air inside is thick with tension, heated by an argument you barely remember starting. You and Levi are standing inches apart, locked in a battle of sharp words and stubborn silence.

"You're not going."

You stiffen but don't turn around. You had expected this.

Levi is standing by the doorway, arms crossed, posture rigid. His sharp gaze is locked onto you like a command.

"It's too dangerous."

A slow breath leaves your lips as you tug your satchel over your shoulder.

"I know the roads, Levi. I grew up there."

"I don't care," he snaps. "It's the middle of the damn night. Do you have any idea what kind of shit lurks out there?"

You turn to face him now, frustration simmering beneath your skin. " That's why I'm taking a carriage! Also I can handle myself."

Levi's expression darkens. "Tch. That's what I'm afraid of."

You exhale sharply, already knowing where this is going. He has always been overprotective, but this—this felt different. More annoying.

"I don't need you to babysit me," you mutter.

"You think this is about babysitting?" His raises his voice slightly, something rare for him. "It's about not being a reckless idiot. You have no idea what could happen if you—"

You cut him off. "So what? I should just sit here and wait for permission like some helpless girl? You know Levi, my mom is sick! I'm worried!"

Levi's jaw tightens. "That's why I'm saying I'll take you there myself tomorrow morning. Erwin haven't given you the permission to go either. So you can't leave!"

"So what? I can just leave right now and then I'll apologise to Erwin later!" You step closer, anger flaring as your voice raises. "Why do you always act like I can't do anything without you watching over me?"

Silence stretches between you, heavy and charged. Then, Levi's expression shifts as his features hardens-

"Because you're weak."

The words slammed into you like a punch to the gut.

You know it too that you're weak. Compared to him. But that doesn't mean you're so weak that you can't even go to somewhere far just because it's the middle of night. It's too much.

And just to make the situation worse, Levi doesn't stop.

"You don't think. You just act. And one day, that's going to get you killed." His tone is sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. "Maybe I should stop wasting my time worrying about you."

You swallow the tightness in your throat, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady.

"If that's how you see me, then I guess there's nothing left to say."

You step past him with your suitcase, your shoulder brushing against his as you walk out.

"Tch. Do whatever you want."

That was the last thing he said before turning his back to you.

And it stung.

You storm out, desperate for air, for distance—anything to stop your chest from aching like this. The streets of the district are quiet at this hour, save for the occasional patrol. The cool night air does little to ease the tightness in your chest as you quicken your pace, your destination set.

A dimly lit tavern comes into view, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the worn wooden walls. This isn't just any stop—it's where you need to collect medicine for your mother. From here, you'll catch a carriage that will take you home.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you push open the heavy door. The scent of alcohol and smoke envelops you immediately, thick and cloying. The low hum of conversation barely registers as you make your way to the counter.

Sliding the list of medicines across the worn wooden surface, you glance up at the tavern keeper. He takes it with a nod, scanning the contents before speaking. "Give me a moment. I'll get these for you."

You nod in response, shifting your weight as you glance around. Your eyes land on the large clock mounted on the wall. There's still time before the carriage arrives.

With another quiet sigh, you decide to order a juice, hoping it will help settle your nerves—even if just a little.

"You shouldn't be alone, y'know," a voice slurs beside you.

You stiffen. A man reeking of alcohol leans too close, his bloodshot eyes scanning you in a way that made your stomach twist.

"You lost, sweetheart?" He grins, his teeth yellowed and uneven. "I can keep you company."

You kept your expression blank. "Not interested."

"Aww, don't be like that." His starts to brush his fingers against your arm up and down, slow and deliberate.

You pull away. "I said no."

But he wasn't listening. His hand clamps down on your wrist as the another grips your thigh, fingers digging into your skin. Your heart pounds as you try to yank yourself free.

But you're too tired. After the busy day and the argument... You're too tired!

"You're actin' like you got a choice," the drunk man sneers feeling your tiredness, yanking you toward him.

Suddenly there's a scrape of a chair. A shadow moved.

Then, a loud crack.

The man's head snaps to the side as he crashes onto the floor.

A hush falls over the tavern. The few patrons lingering in the room shrink back, whispering amongst themselves.

Levi stands over the crumpled man, his fist still clenched. His knuckles are already bruised, his chest rising and falling in steady, controlled breaths. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but calm. They burn with something dark, something lethal.

The drunk man groans, rolling onto his hands and knees, but Levi dosen't give him the chance to recover. He grabs him by the collar, lifting him just enough to slam his fist into his gut. A strangled gasp left the man's lips as he crumples again.

"You fucking bastard," Levi mutters, his voice low and sharp. A chill runs down to your spine because you can tell by his voice that he's furious.

Another punch.

The man coughs, spitting blood onto the floorboards. But Levi dosen't stop. He grabs a handful of his hair, yanking his head back.

"You think you can touch her and walk away? What were you planning to do with her, huh?" Levi's voice was dangerously calm, almost detached. His grip tightens. "I should kill you right here."

His fist reels back.

"Levi."

Your voice barely wavers, but it is enough to make him pause. His chest is still heaving, his fingers still curled into a fist, but something in his expression shifts.

He looks at you.

And for a moment, it felt like the whole world has gone silent.

"That's enough," you whisper, stepping closer. You reach for his hand—the same hand that has just shattered the bastard's nose—and cover it with your own.

Levi exhales sharply through his nose. His body is still tense, but after a few seconds, his grip loosens. He let the man collapse onto the floor, unconscious.

His attention shifts fully to you now, his gaze scanning you for any sign of injury. "Are you hurt?"

You shake your head. "Just shaken."

Levi's eyes darkens, and his fingers twitched like he is resisting the urge to turn back and break the man's ribs. But instead, he reaches for your hand, the same way you had reached for his. His touch is firm, grounding.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters. "So I followed you to make sure you make it to the carriage safely but-" He looks at the unconscious drunk man and clicks his tongue again.

"I'm sorry."

That's all you could just say.

Levi scoffs as the tavern keeper comes back with the medicine and apologises for the mess. Sighing you take the medicine and walk out with Levi before he can even start to give the keeper a piece of his mind.

"Thanks for coming levi." You say in a soft-grateful voice as you hand levi a tissue to clean his hand.

"Idiot. Of course, I did. I had to make sure you got into the carraige safely." He says as he wipes off the blood with an irritated expression on his face.

"Tch, filthy-"

You smile at his adorable irritation and slowly you step closer, resting your forehead against his. He stiffens at first—Levi isn't one for public displays of affection—but after a second, you feel his arms wrap around you, one hand slipping to the small of your back, the other curling into your hair.

"You smell like alcohol," he mutters against your cheek.

You huff a laugh. "You smell like blood."

His grip tightens, his lips ghosting against the top of your head. "Next time you're mad at me," he says, voice quieter now, "just punch me instead of running off."

You smile and meet his gaze, your hands gripping the front of his jacket. "Maybe I will."

His eyes softens. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans in. His lips brushes against your forehead—slow, lingering.

"Let's go home," he murmurs.

And this time, when he leads you away, you followed without hesitation.

[callsigns-haze]

Beat me for the crown 1

Part 1 of 3

Pairing: Xaden Riorson x reader

Years after the war, Xaden and YN are raising their two children, Liam and Kaia, in Tyrrendor’s royal residence. While YN is away on a girls' trip that for some reason includes Ridoc, Liam—small for his age despite being heir—is relentlessly bullied and hides his injuries until a brutal second attack drives him, bloody and broken, into Xaden’s arms late at night

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains themes of bullying, physical violence, drinking, anger, emotional distress, and injury involving a child.

The sun is golden through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm glow on the mess of dresses, boots, and accessories strewn across your bed. Your room—your room in the royal residence of Tyrrendor—is a chaotic masterpiece of controlled packing frenzy. You’re half-laughing, half-arguing with yourself as you debate whether or not you need the fourth pair of heeled boots (“I definitely might need them, what if we go somewhere fancy?”) when you hear it.

A low, drawn-out groan. Then a sigh that sounds borderline pained. Followed by the unmistakable thud of a heavy folder hitting your desk.

You glance over your shoulder.

Xaden Riorson, your husband, your partner through war and fire and revolution, the King of Tyrrendor and the father of your two terrifyingly clever children, is currently slumped at your desk like the world’s most exasperated bureaucrat. His hair—still that inky black, streaked now with a dignified silver near his temples—falls forward as he rubs his hand over his face, fingers dragging down with dramatic exhaustion.

“Everything alright, Your Majesty?” you tease, turning and leaning against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, hip cocked.

He doesn’t even lift his head. “If I have to read one more request for funds to renovate a statue of someone no one remembers, I’m going to set the entire treasury on fire.”

You grin, biting your lip to hide the laugh. “That would be… dramatic. Even for you.”

He lifts his head at that, those obsidian eyes locking on yours—and you see it, the smirk trying to fight its way past the grumpiness. But he loses that battle and lets his head fall back with another groan. “You’re abandoning me.”

“I’m going on a girls trip,” you remind him, tossing a bundle of socks into your bag. “It’s not abandonment if I warned you.”

“You didn’t warn me Ridoc was coming.”

“That’s fair,” you murmur, grabbing the list Mira sent this morning and tucking it into your satchel. “I didn’t know until twenty minutes ago.”

“He’s not a girl.”

“Technically, no. But Sloane insists he makes the best cocktails, and Violet wants him for target practice if we get bored, so…”

Xaden grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like I knew this was a mistake.

You walk over, slipping behind him and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He leans back immediately, head tilting into the curve of your neck with a tired sigh. “You’ll survive,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “You have Garrick to keep you sane, Sawyer to help you build forts with the kids, and Brennan for sarcasm. Plus our children—who are basically miniature yous. You’ll be fine. Oh and your cousin.”

“I miss you already,” he says dramatically, and you laugh into his neck.

“You're going to miss my ass in these shorts,” you say, voice low and teasing.

He growls, arms reaching back to pull you into his lap, the desk groaning in protest under the sudden shift of weight. “That too.”

You giggle, letting your forehead rest against his. “You’re insufferable when I leave.”

“Because I actually like you,” he says plainly, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. “And because Liam and Kaia are going to take full advantage of your absence to negotiate extra sweets and a later bedtime.”

“Use the look,” you whisper.

He smirks. “Which one?”

“The one you used on that Sage before you vaporized him.”

“Tempting.”

The door creaks open before you can respond, and a little voice pipes in: “Dad, Kaia says she’s Queen now and I have to listen to her forever.”

You and Xaden both blink. Liam, now twelve and shorter than most boys, stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, looking exactly like his father on a bad day.

From somewhere down the hall, Kaia yells: “BECAUSE I WAS BORN SECOND. I’M A MIRACLE.”

You glance at Xaden.

He sighs again. “Go on your trip,” he mutters. “Before I pack myself in your bag and come with you.”

You kiss his cheek and whisper, “You wouldn’t last five minutes with that many women.”

“You’re probably right.” He glances down the hall. “And neither will Ridoc.”

You both laugh.

And when you finally close your bag and sling it over your shoulder, you take one last look at your chaotic, wonderful little family—King Xaden surrounded by paperwork and pint-sized versions of himself, and all of them completely, utterly doomed without you for the weekend.

Perfect.

The moment Liam disappears from the doorway with a loud, exasperated sigh, you barely have time to adjust your bag strap before the unmistakable sound of bare feet pattering down the hall echoes like a storm brewing in the distance.

And then she appears.

Kaia Riorson barrels into the room like a force of nature, a blur of dark curls and swishing skirts, her arms already open wide as she launches herself directly at your legs.

“Mama!” she squeals, clutching your thighs like you’re about to disappear forever rather than leave for a weekend. “You weren’t going to leave without saying goodbye to me, were you?”

You bend down, brushing her wild curls back from her face. She’s the image of her father—onyx eyes with those telltale golden flecks, skin like warm bronze from days spent in the sun, and that sharp Riorson jaw she already uses to full effect in every argument, whether with her brother or the palace tutors.

And stars, is she already eight. Eight going on eighty.

“Of course not,” you say with a grin, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “How could I leave without a proper Kaia Riorson sendoff?”

She straightens at that, planting her tiny hands on her hips in a way that mirrors Xaden so perfectly it makes you bite back a laugh. “I left you a checklist on the dresser,” she announces with regal seriousness. “To ensure you remember your travel documents, your tonic for headaches—since Aunt Mira talks so much—and your good boots for hiking. And the backup ones.”

You glance over her shoulder to the edge of the dresser, and sure enough: a neatly folded parchment list written in tiny, careful script.

Xaden raises his brows from the desk, giving you a look that very plainly says She’s your child, and you smirk in response.

Kaia isn’t just clever—she’s terrifyingly bright, already reading at a level far beyond her age, soaking up history and politics with a kind of fierce hunger. It makes sense, you suppose. She's grown up in the aftermath of war and revolution, in the heart of a rebuilt kingdom, with a father who rules and a mother who would rather die than be ruled.

She’s got both your blood in her veins—and she burns like it.

“Did you also leave me a tactical escape route in case Ridoc tries to teach us dance moves again?” you ask, deadpan.

Kaia giggles. “Obviously. It’s on the back of the list. Plan Alpha-K.”

“I taught you too well,” you whisper, tugging her close and kissing her temple.

She melts into the hug for a second—just a second—before she pulls back with an almost wistful frown. “I wish I could come with you.”

“I know, baby.” You brush your thumb across her cheek. “But this is just for the girls. You’ve got a kingdom to help Dad rule while I’m gone.”

Her eyes light up at that. “Does that mean I get the crown?”

From the desk, Xaden cuts in dryly. “No.”

She spins around and marches over to him. “Why not? I already read the amendment to the Tyrrish Succession Treaty and everything. It doesn’t technically say heirs under ten can’t assume temporary authority—”

“I burned that amendment,” Xaden says with an arch of his brow. “You annotated it in red ink and included a doodle of yourself holding a sceptre.”

“It was artistic interpretation!”

You stifle your laughter as Xaden leans back in his chair, rubbing his temples with all the weariness of a man outnumbered by the brilliance—and persistence—of the women in his life.

Kaia pivots back to you. “Okay, fine. No crown. But if Dad falls asleep in a meeting again, I am declaring a National Dessert Day.”

You hold out a fist. She bumps it like the tiny revolutionary she is.

“Well, good,” she says primly. “Because as the acting Lady Regent while you're away, I need to be briefed on several things. First, the kitchen staff needs to understand that under no circumstances is Dad's allowed to cook. Not even toast. We all remember what happened last time.”

You press a hand over your mouth to hide your laugh, glancing over at Xaden, who’s watching from the desk with a raised brow and a wounded expression. “That fire was barely bigger than a candle,” he mutters.

Kaia ignores him entirely.

“Second,” she continues, tugging your hand and making you crouch so she can whisper in your ear like she’s sharing classified battle plans, “Liam keeps letting the palace boys bully him out of the courtyard when they spar. Just because he’s small doesn’t mean they should treat him like a baby. He’s the heir to Tyrrendor, and I keep telling him to act like it, but he says I’m bossy. Am I bossy?”

You smooth her hair, hiding your soft smile. “Only when you're right. Which, unfortunately for the rest of us, is often.”

Kaia beams, utterly pleased.

Then her arms are around your waist again, and her voice is soft in your side. “Be safe, Mama. And tell Aunt Violet I think her hair looks better short.”

You kiss the top of her head and breathe her in, letting yourself memorize the scent of wildflowers and parchment and sunshine that always seems to cling to her. “I will.”

She pulls back, brushing invisible dust off your traveling cloak. “I’ll watch over Liam,” she adds, more seriously now. “The kitchen boys were teasing him again. I’ll make them regret it.”

Your heart tightens.

Because Liam—twelve and bright and thoughtful—is still small for his age. Still soft around the edges. Still gentle in a world that hasn’t quite learned to stop testing him. He’s the heir to Tyrrendor, yes. But that doesn’t stop the older boys from pushing him around, doesn’t stop the whispers, the underestimation.

Kaia sees it. Feels it. And even if she’s younger, even if she’s half a head shorter, she’s got claws for him.

You crouch again, hand cupping her cheek. “Just make sure you don’t start a fire, okay?”

She grins. “Just a small one.”

Then she kisses your cheek, twirls on her heel, and dashes from the room with all the fury and elegance of the little queen she’s becoming.

And you’re left standing there with your bag over your shoulder, a half-packed bed behind you, and your husband watching you with that unreadable expression that still manages to stir heat low in your belly, even after all these years.

“You sure you want to leave me with her?” he mutters.

You flash him a grin. “I trust her more than you.”

“She’s eight.”

You shoulder your bag with a smirk. “And already running circles around you.”

From the hallway, you hear Liam mutter something about Kaia being “Queen of Overreacting,” followed by the sound of footsteps retreating quickly—probably realizing she’s within earshot.

“She just wants to protect him,” Xaden says behind you, voice low and warm, like the smell of the cedarwood soap he still insists on using. “Even if it comes out like a battle cry.”

You nod. It’s true. Liam may be the heir—the firstborn, the boy with the lineage and the weight of a crown already etched onto his shoulders—but he’s still small for his age. Sharp as a blade, sure, but not built for the kind of battlefield presence Xaden had at twelve. And he gets pushed around for it more often than he admits. Kaia, on the other hand, is half his size and twice as loud, and somehow convinced it’s her job to fight his battles and run the kingdom while you’re gone.

“She’ll take care of him,” you say softly, kissing the top of her head.

Kaia pulls back into the room, suddenly solemn. “I know I joke a lot,” she says, eyes wide and serious, “but I’ll be good, I promise. And I’ll take notes if anyone does anything especially stupid.”

“Please do.”

You stand and she wraps her arms around your waist one last time, squeezing tight before looking up at you with a grin that is all mischief and heart.

“Bring me back something expensive and shiny,” she says sweetly.

“Of course,” you laugh. “What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t?”

“A broke one,” Xaden mutters without looking up from his paperwork.

Kaia snickers and skips to the door, pausing only to give you a little wave. “Bye, Mama! Try not to kill Ridoc.”

“No promises!”

And then she’s gone, trailing chaos in her wake like a proper Riorson. You look back at your husband, who watches her go with a tired kind of fondness.

“She’s you,” you say.

“No,” he murmurs. “She’s you—just dressed in my temper.”

You laugh, heart full, and finally shoulder your bag with a sigh. The room feels quieter without Kaia’s whirlwind presence, but the warmth lingers.

And gods help Tyrrendor if she ever really does become Queen.

You cross the room slowly, giving yourself a moment to just look at him—at Xaden. Your husband. The King of Tyrrendor. The same boy who once stood beneath lightning-split skies and dared fate to take him first. Now he’s older, steady. His broad shoulders still carry the weight of too many things—battlefields, guilt, duty, your shared past—but there’s peace in the lines of his face now, etched beside the silver starting to dust the edges of his dark hair.

He groans softly and leans back in the chair, rubbing his temples like the stack of scrolls in front of him might catch fire if he so much as glances at them wrong.

You rest your hip on the edge of the desk, arms folded, teasing. “You know you’re allowed to delegate, Your Highness.”

He looks up, glancing at you over the tops of the papers. “I tried. Kaia told me my signature was unbalanced and revoked the parchment.”

You snort. “To be fair, she does have a decent eye for penmanship.”

“She’s eight,” he mutters.

“She’s Kaia,” you correct, sliding the paper off the top of the stack and reading it sideways. “Hmm. Budget request for a secondary aerial defence net over the west cliffs?”

“Yes, and apparently the only justification was ‘just in case.’” He groans again, slumping forward to rest his forehead on the desk. “I’m begging you. Take me with you.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you laugh. “You’ll be fine. Garrick and Bodhi are here, Liam needs a confidence boost, and Kaia needs to be stopped before she rewrites the palace's entire line of succession.”

“I’m going to die,” he says into the desk.

You run your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the nape of his neck, and he hums like a man starved of touch—even after twelve years of marriage, two kids, and gods know how many war council meetings.

“Don’t you dare,” you murmur.

He turns his head just enough to look up at you with those dark, molten eyes. “I’ll miss you.”

Your heart tightens, just a little. “I’ll miss you too.”

And then, softer, teasing, “But not so much that I won’t enjoy having one night without someone barging into our bed because of a thunderstorm, a bad dream, or a heated debate about whether the moon is technically a weapon.”

He groans again, but this time it’s almost a laugh. “Liam started that argument.”

“And Kaia finished it.”

“With charts.”

You grin. “That’s our girl.”

He sits up slowly, taking your hand, pulling you between his knees so you’re close—so close—and the teasing fades from his eyes, replaced by that look. The one that says no matter how long it’s been, no matter how much life has shifted beneath your feet, you’ll always be it for him.

“Be careful,” he says, voice low and rough.

You lean down and kiss him—soft, slow, lingering like the promise of something waiting for you when you return.

“I always am,” you whisper.

He brushes his lips against yours once more before letting you go. “Tell Mira I said if she brings home another owl, I’m burning the aviary.”

“Noted.”

You sling the bag over your shoulder, give him one last wink, and turn toward the door.

Behind you, his voice is a low murmur, reverent and amused all at once. “You were always the dangerous one.”

You glance back, smiling. “Still am.”

And then you’re gone—out into the corridor, toward the echo of voices and laughter and friends waiting to whisk you away, just for a little while, from crowns and chaos and the most loving kind of madness that is your family.

And stars, you wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.

The halls of the Tyrrendor royal residence are quieter than usual—too quiet, which immediately tells you Kaia is either plotting something or Liam finally got her to leave him alone long enough to hide in the library. The soft echo of your boots against the marble floors is the only sound as you descend the wide staircase, the weight of your travel bag slung across your shoulder and the lingering warmth of Xaden’s kiss still pressed to your lips.

You adjust your grip and keep moving, the grand archways of the lower wing coming into view—and with them, voices. Familiar, chaotic, ridiculous voices.

“No, Ridoc, for the last time, you cannot come just because you say you identify as ‘emotionally feminine.’”

“That’s a legitimate excuse!” he protests. “Besides, you need someone to carry things. I’m very strong. Exceptionally strong. Just ask—”

“Absolutely not,” Mira says, cutting him off with that patented General tone that makes even grown riders snap to attention. “You’re here because Kaia invited you and you had the audacity to say yes.”

“She said I was essential to the operation,” Ridoc insists, arms spread like he’s appealing to a jury. “Her words, not mine.”

You turn the corner into the vestibule and laugh at the sight before you.

Rhiannon is perched on the edge of a chaise, hair braided back tight and face buried in the packing list she wrote for everyone two weeks ago. Maren and Cat are sorting through supplies, arguing about whether it’s “overkill” to bring five daggers each—spoiler: it’s not. Mira is checking a map and muttering about schedules. Sloane is sitting beside Violet on a bench, both of them sipping tea, looking serene in a way that only ever precedes absolute chaos. And Ridoc… well, Ridoc is standing in the center of it all with a satchel slung dramatically across his chest, already wearing tinted glasses like you’re going somewhere tropical instead of the Aretian coast.

“Sorry I’m late,” you announce as you walk in, and eight heads turn toward you like a synchronized squadron. Violet’s face lights up immediately.

“You’re never late,” she says, standing to hug you. “We were starting to worry Xaden locked you in a room and threw away the key.”

“He tried,” you murmur, grinning as you return her hug. “But Kaia overruled him.”

“I knew she was my favourite niece,” Rhiannon says brightly.

“She’s everyone’s favourite niece,” Mira sighs. “Including mine, and I’m not even biologically allowed to pick favourites or Leia would end me.”

You drop your bag by the others and stretch your arms with a groan. “She’s planning a full security audit while I’m gone. And apparently Xaden is forbidden from cooking.”

“Smart girl,” Maren nods.

Cat tosses you a piece of dried fruit. “We’re packed, provisioned, and Ridoc has agreed to carry all our bags.”

“Wait, what?” Ridoc sputters, but Violet just pats his shoulder as she passes.

“You’re emotionally feminine, remember?” she teases. “Lean into the nurturing energy.”

“You’re all going to miss me when I marry rich and leave you behind.”

“You say that every week,” Imogen mutters, grabbing her pack.

You laugh again, warmth blooming in your chest as you look around at this ridiculous, perfect group—your friends, your family. The war was years ago, the revolution even longer, but this? This is peace. This is yours.

“All right,” Mira says, rolling up the map and tucking it under her arm. “Let’s go before someone gets cold feet.”

“Or Xaden shows up shirtless in the hall and begs you to stay,” Cat grins.

“Don’t give him ideas,” you say, hoisting your bag. “He already tried that move twice.”

They laugh, and together, the eight of you head for the doors—toward the carriage, toward freedom, toward a weekend of laughter and stars and chaos. And, if Ridoc has anything to say about it, probably at least one spa day and a very expensive bottle of wine.

You don’t look back.

You’ll be home soon enough.

Tyrrendor Royal Residence, Evening

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, casting golden light over the rich stonework and high-vaulted ceilings of the reading chamber. The scent of burning cedar mixes with old pages and Fern’s faint, warm dog smell—a comfort all on its own.

Liam is sprawled across the couch, one arm slung over his face, a thick leather-bound history book open across his chest. The other arm is draped over the gangly mass of limbs and fur that is Fern, their shaggy, brown-footed Gordon Setter who has made herself very comfortable using the twelve-year-old as a full-body cushion. Her tail thumps against the cushion every time Liam shifts beneath her weight, a silent protest that he should stay still.

Kaia, eight years old going on eighty, is curled on the floor in front of the fireplace, her legs crossed, her posture absurdly perfect as she reads aloud quietly to herself from a diplomatic theory tome that probably should’ve bored her to sleep fifteen minutes ago. But Kaia doesn’t do boring. She does analysis, logic, and the occasional ruthless breakdown of someone’s psychological weaknesses—for fun.

The door creaks open, letting in a gust of cooler air and the heavy sound of bootsteps.

“Evening, squirt,” Garrick says as he walks in first, nodding toward Liam with an easy grin and ruffling his dark hair as he passes. “Didn’t see you out in the courtyard this afternoon. Bunch of the other heirs were doing sparring drills.”

Bodhi trails behind, tossing a wrapped sweet into his mouth. “Yeah, I saw the Ironcrest boys working the heavy blades. You could’ve joined them, right?”

Xaden walks in last, tall and quiet and very, very still.

There’s no mistaking the flash of warning in his eyes, the subtle shift of muscle in his jaw. His gaze narrows—just slightly—but Garrick doesn’t miss it.

“Easy,” he mutters under his breath, lifting both hands in surrender.

“Liam’s got time,” Xaden says evenly, walking past and setting a stack of correspondence on the sideboard. “He’s ahead of his studies. There’s more than one way to prepare to lead.”

But Liam’s shoulders have already tensed beneath Fern. His face remains neutral, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it—shame, or maybe that low-grade anxiety he’s carried since he turned eleven and everyone started expecting him to be someone. To be Xaden Riorson’s son.

“Please,” Kaia mutters from the floor without even looking up, “he’s not training because he doesn’t want to get beaten up again.”

The room stills.

Xaden turns sharply. “Kaia—”

“He didn’t even tell anyone,” she continues, flipping a page like she’s reciting weather patterns. “They broke his ribs. A week ago. Brennan mended him before anyone else found out.”

“Shut up, Kaia!” Liam snaps, sitting up so fast Fern lets out a soft yip of surprise and scrambles off him.

Kaia finally looks up from her book. “Well, it’s true, and you shouldn’t be ashamed of it. They ganged up on you because you’re smaller and quiet and smarter than all of them combined, but you don’t have to be quiet—”

“I said shut up!” Liam’s voice cracks with the sharp edge of hurt that makes him sound younger than twelve. “Why do you always have to run your mouth?”

“Why do you always let them hurt you?” Kaia shoots back, rising to her feet, her cheeks flushed with rising anger. “You think hiding it makes you stronger? It makes you a coward!”

“Kaia,” Xaden barks, his tone edged with authority now. “Enough.”

But neither of them hears him. Not really. The fire snaps behind them like the tension in the room, and Liam’s fists are balled at his sides.

“I’m not a coward!” he yells. “You don’t know what it’s like—every time I go out there, they look at me like I’m some little kid who got lucky being born first. Like I didn’t earn anything!”

“You don’t try! You sit around with Fern and read while everyone else is out learning to fight! You let them walk all over you and then pretend it’s fine!”

“I hate you!”

“Good! I hate you more!”

Xaden moves, quick as lightning, stepping between them—but Liam’s already storming for the door, brushing past Garrick and Bodhi without a word.

“Liam!” Xaden calls, low and sharp. “Liam, stop—”

The door slams hard enough to rattle the sconces.

Kaia stands in the middle of the room, shoulders heaving, eyes brimming but defiant. “He always runs away. He always runs.”

Xaden rounds on her, but his voice is softer now. Not gentler—just lower. Controlled. Dangerous in a different way. “And that gives you permission to humiliate him? Publicly?”

She opens her mouth, but Garrick holds up a hand. “Let her sit with it, Xaden. Let both of them.”

Xaden’s jaw flexes. For a moment, he looks like he might snap the nearest chair in half.

Fern whines softly and pads toward the door where Liam disappeared, ears low.

Kaia stares at the fire again, her lower lip trembling now that the adrenaline is gone.

And Xaden—Xaden just sinks onto the couch, one hand over his face, like the weight of fatherhood and peace is somehow heavier than war ever was.

Xaden exhales slowly through his nose, the kind of measured breath that’s meant to calm, but does absolutely nothing to untangle the knot of rage and helplessness pulling tighter in his chest. He drops his hand from his face and looks at the flames instead, watching as they lick over the charred logs like they’re trying to burn through the tension still crackling in the room.

Fern whines again at the door, then pads back to sit beside the couch, pressing her head against his knee like she’s asking him to fix it—like she knows he can’t.

Garrick’s voice is the first to break the silence. “Kaia.”

She doesn’t look up from the fire. Her arms are crossed tight over her chest, jaw clenched, face blotchy from holding back the flood she’s too stubborn to release.

“What exactly happened?” Garrick asks, softer this time. Not as the General. As Uncle Garrick. “To Liam.”

Kaia’s throat bobs as she swallows, and for a second it looks like she might stay silent. But then she huffs out a breath and shakes her head. “He didn’t tell me,” she says. “Not really. I found out because I walked in on Brennan healing him in the north wing. I wasn’t supposed to see, and Brennan made me swear not to say anything, but—” She cuts off, her voice tightening. “He looked like he met Malek. His ribs were black and blue, and he couldn’t even breathe without flinching.”

Xaden stiffens. “Who?” The word is barely a growl, cold and low.

Kaia shrugs, finally turning toward them. “He wouldn’t say. But it happened in the training yards. The day they let the Ironcrest and Marhen boys spar. I guess they made a ring and kept pushing him in. Liam said it was a game—that it was ‘all in fun.’”

“Fucking hell,” Bodhi mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “They jumped him.”

“He’s small,” Kaia says quietly. “They know he’s the heir, but he doesn’t look like one. So they test him. He never fights back.”

“Because he’s trying to prove he’s better than them,” Garrick mutters, pacing toward the hearth. “Godsdammit.”

“I only brought it up because…” Kaia's voice falters again. “He just keeps shrinking, and no one’s saying anything. You always tell us that protecting people means seeing them, and he’s right there, hurting, and no one even notices!”

Xaden presses a hand against his mouth, the fury in his veins starting to lose its edge, replaced by something colder. He didn’t miss it. Not really. He saw the way Liam flinched last week when Fern jumped up on him too hard. The stiffness in his posture when he sat down for dinner. The way he always seemed to vanish around sparring hours. He just… didn’t push.

Because he wanted Liam to come to him. Because he thought maybe giving his son space was the better option than pressing into his pride. Because Xaden, for all his commanding presence and ruthless intellect, still found himself lost in the damn dark when it came to fatherhood.

“You did the right thing, telling us,” he says finally, voice rough.

Kaia blinks, surprised.

“I know you’re trying to protect him,” he adds. “But sometimes protecting someone means letting them be seen—even when they don’t want to be.”

Kaia swipes at her cheek with the back of her sleeve. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Xaden stands. His shadow stretches long and tall across the room. “No,” he says. “But I’m going to find him.”

And then, without waiting for anyone else to respond, he heads for the door, Fern trailing faithfully at his side, both of them moving into the night to find the boy who wears his eyes—and all of his weight.

The corridor to Liam’s wing is quiet, unusually so. The kind of quiet that seeps into the stone itself, amplifying every footstep until they echo like memories.

Xaden’s boots tread heavily down the long hall, Fern’s claws clicking beside him in a staccato rhythm, like she’s urging him forward. The guards posted at the entrance to the family quarters straighten when they see him, but he waves them off without a word. His jaw is tight. His brows drawn low. The air around him hums with restrained power, with the fury of a father who’s failed to see something he should have.

He reaches Liam’s door and lifts a fist to knock—firm but not loud. He doesn’t want to startle him. He just wants to talk.

“Liam,” he says, voice steady. “Open the door.”

Nothing. No shuffle of feet, no sound of movement. Just silence.

Fern whines softly and presses her nose to the seam beneath the door.

Xaden frowns, heart picking up pace. “Liam, I know you’re in there. Let me in, son.”

Still nothing.

He places a hand on the wood. “I’m not here to yell. I just want to talk.”

A beat.

Then—

“Go away!”

The words slam against the wood as hard as a spell-cast. Liam’s voice is cracked, frayed at the edges, too loud to hide the fact that it’s trembling.

“I’m not leaving,” Xaden says, jaw tightening.

“You should!” Liam yells from the other side. “I don’t want to talk to you! I don’t want to talk to anyone! Just go!”

Xaden’s stomach sinks. He leans his forehead against the door.

“Liam,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t see it,” his son screams. “You didn’t even notice! And now everyone’s looking at me like I’m some fragile little prince who can’t hold his own. And Kaia—Kaia told everyone!”

“I didn’t need her to,” Xaden says quietly. “I saw it, Liam. I saw it, and I should’ve asked. That’s on me.”

A choked sound breaks through the wood—half a sob, half a breath held too long.

Xaden closes his eyes. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you. You didn’t deserve to carry it alone.”

“Don’t—don’t say that like you know,” Liam shouts. “You’ve never been like me! You’re not small, or quiet, or scared! You’re the Rebellion’s Weapon. You’re you! And I’m just…” His voice fades. “I’m just nothing.”

Xaden’s heart twists, a raw, deep pain he hasn’t felt since the war, since holding someone he loved in his arms while the world fell apart.

“You are everything,” he says fiercely. “You are everything I ever hoped my son would be.”

“Then why do I feel like I disappoint you every time I walk in a room?”

Silence.

And then the soft sound of a quiet sob Liam doesn’t manage to swallow.

Fern whines again, pawing gently at the door.

“Liam,” Xaden says, low and aching. “Please. Let me in.”

But the lock stays bolted. And Liam’s voice returns, softer this time. Fragile. “I can’t. I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I don’t care how you look. I care that you’re hurting.”

Another pause. Another breath.

“Just… just go,” Liam says again, his voice breaking. “Please, Dad. Just go.”

Xaden stands there a long time. Long enough that the fire torches down the hall begin to dim. Long enough that Fern lies down and rests her chin on her paws with a heavy sigh.

He presses his hand against the door once more, as if he could reach through it and wrap his arms around the boy on the other side. His son. His legacy. His heart.

“I’ll be right outside,” he says softly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

And then he sits. Right there on the cold stone floor. His back against the door. Guarding his son in silence—not as a king, not as a warrior. But as a father who refuses to walk away again.

Two hours.

That’s how long Xaden sits there, back pressed to the cold wooden door of his son’s room, knees drawn up, arms draped loosely across them as Fern sleeps beside him. The hallway has long since grown quiet. No servants pass. No guards linger nearby. Just the crackle of distant torches and the subtle tick of time bleeding out.

He’s not sure what he expected—maybe Liam cracking the door open just a sliver. Maybe one of those sigh-heavy reconciliations you read in books, or that one sob that leads to a father pulling his son into his chest and promising him he’s not alone.

But the door never opens.

Not even a shuffle of feet. Just the distant sound of a boy crying—quiet now, muffled behind the thick stone walls. Like Liam has pressed his face into his pillow and is trying to drown the sound in cotton.

And maybe that’s what breaks Xaden more than anything else.

He scrubs a hand over his face and leans his head back against the door, his neck stiff from the angle, his heart heavier than it’s been in years. Not even the revolution weighed this much, he thinks grimly. That war had a path. A purpose. This?

This is his son—his baby—hurting, and pushing him away, and he can’t do a godsdamn thing about it.

He closes his eyes. He’s not used to giving up. It’s not in his blood. But something in his chest tells him that staying now—forcing it—might do more damage than good.

So, with the weight of failure dragging on every limb, he exhales one long, shuddering breath and slowly rises to his feet.

Fern lifts her head, confused, tail twitching.

“I know, girl,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers behind her ears. “I hate it too.”

He turns back to the door, resting one palm flat against the wood. “I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I’m right here, whenever you’re ready.”

Then, before he can change his mind—or let the guilt devour him whole—he turns and walks away, the hem of his black tunic whispering against the stone, the shadows swallowing him up as he disappears down the hall.

Behind him, Fern hesitates for a beat longer… and then follows.

And in the silence that follows, only the sound of a quiet sniffle remains, buried deep within the locked room where a twelve-year-old boy curls up and quietly lets himself break.

Xaden’s steps are slow as he walks back through the winding halls of the residence, each footfall echoing too loud in the quiet. The kind of silence that hangs heavy with the things that weren’t said, the comfort he couldn’t give, the son he couldn’t reach.

His shoulders sag with the weight of it. The defeat.

He pushes open the double doors to the main sitting room, the warm glow of the hearth spilling across the stone floor like it’s trying to offer some semblance of peace. But peace feels far away tonight.

Garrick looks up from the armchair near the fire as the doors whisper shut behind Xaden. His expression is unreadable—not surprised, not judgmental. Just there. Steady in the way only Garrick ever is. His hands are steepled over his stomach, one boot propped over the other knee as he leans back in the deep brown leather, eyes tracking every exhausted line on Xaden’s face.

No one speaks at first.

And maybe that’s a kindness.

Bodhi sits on the long couch closest to the fire, slouched down far enough that the curve of his arm is a perfect cradle. Kaia is tucked into his side like a little shadow, her tiny hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, dark curls falling over her brow. Her cheek is pressed against his chest, mouth slightly open in the deep, dreamless sleep of the utterly spent.

The flames catch in her onyx eyes—closed now—and make her look impossibly small.

Bodhi’s head lifts when Xaden enters, but he doesn’t move, careful not to disturb her. “She cried herself to sleep,” he says softly, voice a murmur meant not to wake her. “Kept saying she didn’t mean to make it worse.”

Xaden swallows hard.

“She was scared for him,” Bodhi adds after a moment. “Guess she didn’t know it’d hurt him more.”

“She’s eight,” Xaden murmurs, stepping further into the room, each word a sigh. “She shouldn’t be worrying about her brother breaking ribs in a training ring.”

Garrick shifts in his chair, his voice quiet but pointed. “And he shouldn’t be getting his ribs broken in the first place.”

Xaden glances at him, the tired lines around his mouth pulling tighter.

“He wouldn’t let me in,” he admits.

Bodhi’s brows draw together. “Still?”

Xaden nods once.

“I sat there for two hours,” he says, voice low. “He cried. I heard him crying. And he still told me to go.”

Garrick doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at him with eyes that have known Xaden longer than almost anyone alive. Then, finally, he nods once toward the fire.

“Sit down,” he says simply. “You look like you just lost a battle.”

Xaden huffs a humourless breath. “Didn’t even get to draw my weapon.”

But he moves anyway, taking the seat across from Garrick, elbows on his knees, hands tangled together. The firelight catches on the silver threads at his temples, makes the weight of age and fatherhood look like armor he never asked to wear.

Fern settles beside the couch, curling beneath the table like even she’s exhausted.

The only sound for a long while is the crackle of firewood and the slow, steady breaths of Kaia sleeping against Bodhi’s side.

And in that room, dimly lit and warm, surrounded by people who love his children like their own, Xaden closes his eyes for a brief moment—and lets the ache in his chest bloom into something raw and wordless.

Because this isn’t war.

This is something far more delicate.

And gods, he doesn’t know how to win.

Part 2....

A/N: I was not intending it to get so long for it to turn into a mini series but here we areeeeeeeeee Comments, thoughts and reblogs would be really appreciated

Credit to @empyreanevents for the divider

[golden1u5t]

mean but he likes it | s.r x fem!reader

ꨄ requested: anonymous

ꨄ genre: smut

ꨄ summary:  spencer finds that he likes it when your upset 

"yes, well, if you were doing your job- i wouldn't have to do it for you." you gritted out between clenched teeth, you took the file away from the officer and stepped forward. "it's surprising that you made this far into your career with how lazy-"

"y//n!" hotch's voice pulled you out of the anger induced state you were in, you looked over your shoulder at hotch and stepped back from the officer. you glanced back at the officer before dropping the file on the table and brushing past him. the officer stood there for a moment before turning around and leaving, he was embarrassed no doubt. the room was silent, everyone working on what they were assigned to, before spencer cleared his throat and scooted his chair back. he moved his satchel over his crotch.

"i should- um- i should go check on her." he stood up and rushed out of the room, his face beat red as he beelined to the bathroom. he put his ear up to the bathroom door before knocking, "y/n, it's me. can i come in?"

once you gave him permission to come in, he didn't hesitate to open the door and lock it behind him. you turned around and looked him up and down, your eyes landing on the satchel covering his crotch. it didn't take a genius to know why it was situated there of all places.

spencer stepped closer to you and you met him halfway, cupping his face and crashing your lips into his when you got there. he whimpered against your lips and let you walk him back into the wall. 

you pulled back long enough to take his bag off and drop it down on the ground. instead of going back to kissing him, like he expected, you tucked your head in the crook of his neck and started to press your lips to his skin, occasionally biting and sucking. you started to work on unbuttoning his pants, spencers hips bucked into your hand when you grazed his cock.

"y/n, please-" he breathed and grasped at your hips. you pushed his pants and boxers down, taking your head out of the crook of his neck in order to look at his cock. 

"what's got you so worked up, baby? huh?" you teasingly smiled at him and wrapped you hand around his cock. spencer closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.

"we're you thinking about last night?" you hummed, tilting your head down and letting your spit drip onto his cock. "or was watching me yell at that cop? that's what gotten you so turned on, spence?"

his cock twitched in your hand and that's how you knew you were right, you started to pump your hand on his cock. spencer gasped and moved his hands from your hips and wrapped his left hand around your wrist.

he wasn't going to last long, he never did, but that was a good thing in this case seeing that you were still actively working a case and you were in a public bathroom. so, you did everything to make him cum faster, you lightly squeezed his cock with every pump, swiped your thumb over his tip, used your free hand to cup his balls, and it worked.

"oh- i'm gonna cum, m'gonna cum, m'gonna cum!" he babbled, hips jerking forward into your hand as his stomach tightened. you stepped to the side so his cum wouldn't land on you and ruin your pants.

you pumped his cock a few more times for good measure before walking over to the sink and washing your hands, you looked over at him and laughed the sight of him leaning against the door trying to catch his breath. you dried your hands and walked over to him, you pressed a soft kiss to his lips before pulling his boxers and pants up and making him look presentable again.

spencer thanked you and opened his eyes, he looked down at the floor where his cum laid in a small pool. "what about the mess?"

"don't worry about that, i'll clean in up."

when spencer walked back into the room where the rest of the team was, they were all staring at him. he took a seat and opened the file again, trying to ignore all the eyes on him. hotch gave them a look that told them to keep quiet and get back to work, but of course derek wasn't going to do that.

"so... how's y/n?"

"she's good-uhm," spencer cleared his throat and looked up at derek, a small blush coating his skin. "she's really good."

"oh, i bet she is." derek snickered, earning a slap on the shoulder from emily. spencer blushed even harder and looked back down at the file, trying to ignore the small snickers traveling through the room.

[kannady]

more than gold

pairing: sylus x non-mc reader

summary: you were getting flashbacks of a previous life or maybe you were just going crazy. a man lingered in your memories, plaguing your heart and mind. and who was desperately in need of your help?

a/n: where the extent of my creativity ends, @silverianni's begins. wonderful idea, but a not so great execution. im afraid i might not be able to write it in the way you anticipated. honestly, im not proud of this at all LMAO. but ill try my best. heres a snippet for now. its very basic but theres a couple more chapters to go. and once again, i cannot express how much i hate how i wrote this. but then again its 5 am. let me know your thoughts or should i even continue it?

Trudge. Trudge.

It was eleven, and you had just gotten off work. Sometimes you liked working at the local bar, but most of the time, like today, it was a pain in the ass. One drunk customer refused to leave, drowned himself in liquor, and forced you to sit through his sob story about how his wife caught him cheating and ruined his life.

Sigh.

You almost knocked some sense into him. But for what? He wouldn’t give a shit, and you’d lose your job. Not exactly a win-win situation. So you hoped you’d see him somewhere else. And maybe today was your lucky day.

“Come on, sexyyyyy! Let me take—” Hiccup. “—you ‘ome.” He flashed a grin at a young schoolgirl who had just stepped out of the academy.

“No, thank you, mister. I’m quite alright,” she replied politely, trying to step around him. But he grabbed her wrist.

“No!” he shouted, catching you off guard. “You brats ‘ave no respect for the elderly!” His grip tightened, and he started dragging her toward his car.

Time to strike.

You sprinted forward, swinging your satchel hard against his head. With a grunt, he released the girl, clutching his skull in pain. She seized the moment, darting away with a breathless “Thank you!”

“YOU! How dare you—” He tried to throw a punch, but you dodged effortlessly. “I’ll make this short.” A sharp kick to his groin sent him crumpling to the pavement, writhing and howling.

Smirking, you crouched beside him, slipping a hand into his pocket and retrieving his wallet. Your brows lifted. He was loaded. With feigned innocence, you slipped a hundred-dollar bill into your pocket. “You forgot to tip me.”

A satisfied smile spread across your face as you turned and walked toward your original destination.

“Only you and this flower… can touch me here.”

A whisper, hot breath grazing your neck. Instinctively, you clenched your fists and whirled around. “Okay, back the-” Alone. In the middle of an isolated alley. “-fuck up?” You scanned the area but found no one. Just a cat rummaging through the trash.

You frowned, confused. You’d definitely heard someone, someone who had been right behind you, whispered in your ear, then vanished. You were a bartender, but you never drank on shift. So you weren’t imagining things. Still, this wasn’t the time or place to dwell on it.

You kept walking until you reached your destination. For some reason, your friends thought a midnight get-together was the perfect way to spend the weekend. A few hours ago, you’d have agreed. But now, you were exhausted, physically and mentally. And that eerie whisper clung to your memory like a stain. You just felt… off. Shaking away your unease, you stepped into the restaurant, greeted by laughter, clinking glasses, and the familiar hum of old stories, enough to drown out your worries for a moment.

You ordered dinner, downed a drink, and reminisced about the old school days. It felt good to laugh like this after so long.

Then you froze. The air turned to ice.

There stood a man, his gaze locked on you. Silver-white hair, slicked back, with a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. His eyes were ethereal. Crimson, like wine spilled over snow. They didn’t just look at you—they pierced you. His frown was barely perceptible as he spoke.

“Before you tried to kill me, did you consider it’d end like this?”

Suffocation. Like the oxygen had been sucked from your lungs. You gasped. “What the hell?”

“See! I told you it was a bad idea. Anyone would react like that.”

You blinked. Everything was normal again, just you and your friends, eating, drinking, laughing. No sign of the mysterious man. But the unease lingered.

You were not okay. You needed help. Now. Were you overworked? Drunk?

Questions flooded your mind. Absently, you excused yourself and headed to the restroom.

Staring into the mirror, you replayed the moment. Was it a memory? It felt familiar, like you knew him. But you couldn’t put your finger on it. The whisper in the alley, the glimpse of the stranger. What was happening to you?

You took a deep breath, turned on the tap, and splashed cold water on your face. Refreshing. Maybe you just needed sleep. That was the only explanation you’d accept. You weren’t crazy and you knew that.

Then you straightened and met your reflection.

“Please help me!”

Your head snapped around. Another voice. Female, desperate. Not a memory, but close. Too close.

[gold-onthe-inside]

coffee for two

summary: spencer picks you up for coffee after a lecture. that's the whole fic. who? dad!spencer reid (s9/10) x history prof!reader content warning: references to undiagnosed neurodivergence and bullying, benji's arm fracture. word count: 3.2k author's note: opening event for spring-fest, hope y'all enjoy. thanks to @esote-rika for the margary kempe info

Spencer checked his hair for the umpteenth time in his reflection on the window, waiting by your lecture hall, debating whether to catch the end of your lecture or not. Before he can decide whether his desire to see you in action again trumped his aversion of distracting you at work, students spilled out of the door, carrying bags and laptops and fat chunks of reading material.

With class clearly over, Spencer managed to make his way into the hall to get a look at you… wearing a graphic blue t-shirt of Joan of Arc, holding a sword high with the words, ‘I am not afraid, I was born to do this,’ written underneath and tucked into formal slacks and a black and silver belt completing your look.

His grin is irrepressible as he comes down the ramp to join you as you collected your laptop and papers from the desk, taking off your mic and wrapping the cord around the transmitter when you looked up. “Hi.” Your voice is pleasantly surprised, smile matching his at his breathlessness. “Were you running?”

“You have a lot of stairs,” he explained, his gaze returning to the soldier on your torso. “Nice shirt.”

“Thanks, and they’re not my stairs,” you quipped back, gathering your things and walking with him through another set of doors. Another thing he likes about you — the way you can keep up with him. Not that he’s got a list in his head.

“Any chance going on a date with you gets me a pass to use the elevators?” Spencer asked, unabashedly cheeky, his hands stuffed in his pockets while yours are busy with everything — your laptop containing your life’s work, printed reading material including your copy and the students who hadn’t attended your lecture today, your blazer folding over your arm, the shoulder sporting a satchel less worn out than his.

“Ha, I knew it. There was an ulterior motive all along,” you cried, grinning at him as you walked him to your office.

“Yes, everything in my life has been leading up to this point,” Spencer replied, quite matter-of-factly. “To gain entry to the elevators of GWU.” You huffed with a smile, hands fumbling to retrieve your keys. “You have your own office?”

“Shared office,” you corrected, closing one eye as you dug through your bag for the key. “All the Depth and Comparative Studies profs share one office,” you explained, “and Devlin’s on sabbatical, which means I have to cover his syllabus along with mine- ha!” You pulled out the key triumphantly, moving to unlock the door.

“You never did tell me what it is you specifically teach,” Spencer pointed out, leaning against the doorframe as you get the lock to click free and pull the door open, Spencer’s hand replacing yours to hold it back for you, fingers briefly grazing yours. You don’t catch the brief swallow and bob of his throat, leading him inside.

“No, I was planning on leaving that for the small talk on our date,” you replied, setting your things down on your desk while Spencer took a moment to appreciate your office.

The things he’d do to make the BAU bullpen look like this. Old maps covered the walls, more rolled up maps lining the wooden cabinets underneath, literature lined up on the shelves attached to each cubicle. Organised chaos, he presumed, turning his attention back to your desk. You set your computer in the middle, organising notebooks hastily, leaving bookmarks in textbooks before putting them away, pens clattering in their cup, and then grabbed your bag, hanging the strap over your shoulder.

“Shall we?” you asked, looking up at Spencer who nodded, smiling ruefully. He couldn’t seem to stop doing that around you. “Did you have a cafe in mind?” you asked as you step out with him, locking the door behind you both and dropping the keys in your satchel.

“There’s one on M Street I like,” he answered, strolling with you instead of his usual brisk march. “They have great pastries.”

“Good, I don’t settle for anything less than great,” you remarked, and though he appeared cool on the outside, inside Spencer was jumping for joy.

“Is it true you have to go through a background check to date a federal agent?” you asked, tearing off a piece of your croissant, fingers coming away with buttery flaky pastry and warm, gooey chocolate that you have to lick off of your thumb.

“What? No, where’d you get that from?” Spencer asked, his voice jumping an octave as he asked, laughing quietly with his brow slightly furrowed. You shrugged, taking a sip of your coffee, frowning when it tasted bitter than you’d had it first. Spencer had taken the smarter move — coffee first, then his chocolate and sprinkle coated donut.

“Saw it on a show once, I think,” you explained, smacking your lips lightly, eyeing your croissant again. Spencer can’t help but think that you’d fail the marshmallow test when your hand moves to tear another piece off. “The guy was a con-man and he fell for a CIA agent, but neither of them knew what the other did, and he was kidnapped by ‘The Company’—” you use air-quotes, dramatist that you are, “— and submitted to a lie detector test. It’s how he finds out his girlfriend is a CIA agent.”

Spencer snickered quietly. “You think the FBI is gonna abduct you and submit you to a lie detector test?”

“The Bureau’s gotten away with a lot worse,” you quipped, tapping your nose, accidentally dabbing a light smear of chocolate that widens his smile. His cheeks are gonna start hurting any second now.

“Hold on, you got a little—” He does his best to gesture, but you miss, making it worse and he sighs. He’s a walking cliche, pulling out his handkerchief to wipe away the tip of your nose for you.

“Thanks,” you murmured, leaning back in your seat, a faint colour rising to your cheeks. “I’m clumsier than Benji today.”

“Is that how he broke his arm?” Spencer asked, watching your gaze drop to your coffee for a moment before looking up again.

“That’s what he says anyway. I’m not so sure I believe him,” you confessed, sipping your coffee, tsking at the taste again. “He said he fell off the jungle gym wrong.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly in concern. “Do you have a reason not to?” He watched you let out a sigh.

“He’s… not exactly like everyone else in class,” you explained hesitantly. “He’s smart, but he gets distracted easily. Has niche interests, doesn’t have a lot of friends… He’s a vulnerable kid.”

“Ian’s mean to everyone,” Benji said, “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Spencer pursed his lips. “Has Benji ever said anything about Ian?” he asked, a hunch starting to form in the back of his mind.

“Uh… not often,” you remembered. “Near the start of the year. Said that Ian didn’t like him much.”

“Did you talk to the teachers?”

You just tsked. “They weren’t much help either. Benji denied any of it happening and without his admission, their hands are tied. They promised they’d keep an eye on him, though.” You scrunched your nose a little. “Sorry, that was a downer.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Spencer rushed to say, “I mean, it’s not fine, it’s awful, but that’s not on you and… I’m gonna stop talking now.” His gaze darted down to his almost-empty coffee.

“What about your kid? Emma, was it?” you asked, changing the conversation. “She seems bright.”

“Maya,” Spencer corrected, a fond smile spreading to his face. “And yeah, she is. We read together every night.” You rested your chin in your palm, sipping coffee, admiring him as he spoke. “In fact, studies show that parent-child joint reading is related to vocabulary aquisition and academic success, as well as motivation to read later in life, and that reading fiction books are really important in developing a child’s reading ability—” He cuts himself off, wincing at himself, even though all he sees in your eyes is warmth and an amused smile. “Sorry, I’m rambling again.”

You shrugged, absently spinning your cup of coffee. “I don’t mind,” you replied nonchalantly. “I get paid to ramble, so I get it. What did you grow up reading?”

Spencer sighed, shaking his head a little. “You’ll think I’m just trying to impress you.”

“No, come on, tell me,” you insisted, nudging his foot with your ankle, your smile dimpling your cheeks.

He let out a relenting sigh. “My mom used to teach medieval literature. So, naturally—”

“You grew up on medieval literature?” You raised a brow at him delicately. “Like Chaucer?”

“Chaucer. Margery Kempe. Interestingly enough, she was actually illiterate,” Spencer started explaining, unable to help himself. “She actually dictated it to two clerks from 1432 to 1436. It’s considered the first English autobiography.”

“Yeah?” you asked, smiling as you listened to him talk.

“Yeah, it’s focused on her spiritual journey, and how after her first child was born, she suffered a lot of pain, including visions of demons and how she was cured by a vision of Jesus Christ.”

Your gaze softened a little in surprise, a little touched by the passion on his face. You’d never met anyone who talked about something the way Spencer did; with such unabashed dedication. “And you read that as you were growing up?” you asked, your voice a little softer.

The change in your demeanour, the attention in your gaze, was not lost on Spencer, and he found himself unconsciously straightening his spine, his shoulders relaxing as he spoke. “Yeah,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “I was always pretty advanced, reading above my grade level, so my mom encouraged it, and she’d read with me, and…”Spencer trailed off, realising suddenly that he was getting carried away, and he flushed a little pink, clearing his throat embarrassedly. “Anyway, enough talking about me.” He smiled sheepishly at you. “What about you? What did you read as a kid?”

“Not nearly as impressive as yours. I grew up on a lot of Roald Dahl books,” you replied, shrugging, with your leg swinging a little.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Spencer assured, tilting his head, thinking you looked very cute at the moment, with your chin resting in your hand. “In fact, studies have shown that the imagery used in Roald Dahl’s works is actually very stimulating and can help—” He stopped himself again, taking a breath. “Sorry, there I go, again. My point is, Roald Dahl is good.”

You chuckled quietly, sipping your coffee. "Are a lot of people bothered when you talk about studies?" you asked him, setting your empty cup back down.

Spencer paused, surprised that you’d asked. Usually, people just cut him off, and he’d never met someone who asked about him like that. “I… yeah, sometimes,” he confessed, a little sheepish. “I just… get carried away when I’m talking about something I’m interested in, and sometimes other people…” He trailed off, realising that he was rambling again and flushed, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck.

"You don't have to cut yourself off with me," you told him, shrugging again.

Spencer was taken aback for a few seconds before he could gather his thoughts. You were… you were asking him to keep talking, to keep going. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, and he relaxed a little in his seat. “Are you sure? I can get a little carried away.”

"Can I tell you a secret?" you asked, leaning in closer.

Spencer was surprised by your closeness, and by the conspiratorial glint in your eye. “Um, sure?” he said, shifting in his seat, his gaze darting between your eyes and your mouth as you leaned closer to him.

"So do I," you whispered, grinning at him.

Spencer’s brows shot up, and he stared at you for a few seconds in surprise. “You… you do?” he repeated, almost disbelievingly, his brain stuttering.

"You should see my lectures," you huffed, leaning back in your chair. "I never seem to finish them in the allotted time. I have to set timers for myself to keep track of how long each segment should take."

Spencer’s eyes softened as he took in your words. You were like him, he realised, in this way, at least. A warm smile curved at his mouth. “I’ll have to sit in on one sometime,” he said, only half-joking, his voice a little quieter that time.

You shrugged. "Why not? Bring Maya if you want. She seemed pretty interested in the career day talk I gave. And you clearly know enough to fill in the gaps.”

It took Spencer a moment to realise that you were actually offering. He’d been half kidding when he said he’d sit in on a lecture of yours, but to know you were open to the idea of him and his daughter being there… well, it was a little surprising, but certainly not unwelcome. “Yeah,” he nodded, his smile growing a little. “Maya would love that.”

"And if she likes libraries, she's free to go ham on the Georgetown campus. I mean, she won't be able to check out anything, but if you want to make a day of it," you added, just spitballing.

You had no way of knowing it, but every word out of your mouth was making the expression on Spencer’s face grow more and more fond. He was just a little in awe; nobody had been as willing to incorporate his daughter into their life like this, so quickly. “Honestly?” he said. “That sounds great. She’d have a blast.”

"Plus, the campus looks so pretty this time of year, with the cherry trees in bloom," you continued.

Spencer could only agree. There was a particular scenic area around the quad where the cherry blossoms grew along pathways. He’d taken Maya there before with Alex, and they’d taken photos together among the blossoms. “Yeah, they’re beautiful,” he agreed, trying to keep his voice casual.

"Anyway, let me know and we can set it up," you said, shrugging. Cool and casual. He'd never met someone so easy going, someone who could unwind him like you.

He liked you. A lot. Spencer realised that with a jolt. It had been a long time since he’d met someone who he felt comfortable with and who made him feel so… at ease. It was a little scary. “Yeah,” Spencer nodded after a few moments, trying to control his emotions, which were beginning to run a little wild. “I will.”

His phone buzzed, a text from Penelope calling him into work and he sighed. “That… would be work, I… I have to go in. I’m sorry, I really thought I’d have time off today.”

“It’s okay. Work is work,” you said, grabbing your coat and bag. “I can walk you to the station.”

Spencer was a little surprised by your offer, but not in a bad way. He was quickly learning that you were just an unusually kind and accepting person, and his admiration for you grew with every interaction. “Sure,” he said, grabbing his own belongings before the two of you walked out of the door.

"So, you just get a text on your phone, and you get whisked away on a case just like that?" you asked, blazer folded over your arm as you walked down the street with him, tucking hair behind your ear.

Spencer hummed, nodding as he walked next to you, his long legs matching your pace. You didn’t even have to walk that fast to keep up with him, and that made him feel oddly pleased. “Pretty much,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s a call, sometimes a text. But yeah. We have to be ready to drop what we’re doing and go where we’re needed.”

"Huh, like Batman," you commented, grinning at him.

Spencer couldn’t help but let out a quiet huff of laughter at that. You kept surprising him somehow, with the way you spoke to him, with how you thought about things. “Yeah, I guess,” he mused, glancing over at you. “We’re like the B-team, though. I don’t think they’d let me wear a cape.”

"No, I think the cardigans suit you better anyway," you said, bumping his shoulder.

Spencer’s eyes darted to you, a surprised expression on his face. He’d been poked fun at for his cardigans before, but you seemed to actually like them, and it was a little jarring. He was a little embarrassed at how pleased it made him that you like his cardigans. “You think so?” he asked, his voice taking on a slightly teasing tone.

You nodded, repressing a smile badly. "Yeah, plus, you know, people like warm fuzzy things, so..."

The image of you cuddling into one of his cardigans was not one Spencer ever thought would have crossed his mind, but you put it there, and it was all he could think about for a few moments. He cleared his throat, shaking the image from his head. “Warm and fuzzy? Like me?”

"Is that not an accurate descriptor?" you asked, smirking as you reached the entry tunnel to the subway, leaning against the wall.

If Spencer was being honest, you were describing him with startling accuracy. He’d always prided himself on his intelligence, but had never gone so far as to label himself as warm and fuzzy. When it came from you, though… it didn’t feel like an insult. He shrugged, standing in front of you. “I don’t know if I’ve ever had my character described like that before,” he mused, contemplative.

"Well, I think it's accurate," you said, with a nonchalance that made his stomach flip. Why was that so attractive?

Spencer’s breath hitched at your casual confidence. There was no hesitation in your words, you just said whatever was on your mind, and it made him wish he possessed even an ounce of the self-assuredness you did. He swallowed, trying (failing) to keep himself from feeling flustered. “You do?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.

"Yeah," you said, nodding with a smile.

Spencer’s gaze lingered on your mouth a little longer than it should have, and he felt a sudden and uncontrollable urge to step closer to you, to press you up against the wall— He caught himself, and he let out a long breath, looking anywhere but your face. He really needed to get to work.

"You have to go," you reminded him, still smirking at how flustered he seemed.

Spencer huffed a small laugh, embarrassed at how obvious he’d been. He stepped away from you, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah,” he said, his neck warm. He paused for a few moments, debating internally whether he should say what he was about to say. He took a chance. “I’ll text you later?” he asked, his voice soft and tentative.

"You have my number," you agreed, unable to stop yourself from smiling at him.

The corner of Spencer’s mouth pulled up at the sight of your smile. His heart was thudding hard in his chest, but he tried to act outwardly cool. “Yes, I do,” he agreed, nodding at you. “I’ll use it, though.”

And with that, he made himself turn around and descend the stairs into the subway station before he did something ridiculous. Like kiss you.

comments and reblogs appreciated, xoxo

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

morbid meeting - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader runs into a stranger in a coffee shop—a very smart stranger

genre: fluff wc: 800 warnings: reader is supposed to be alt/goth, mentioned kissing, kidnapping of an umbrella, mentions of serial killers and morgues a/n: requested by @westanleovaldito!!! ty:) also it's come to my attention that not everyone knows what a london fog is????

The rain made your hair much flatter than you had in mind when you back-combed it this morning. It’s a miracle it managed to not get soaked completely if we’re looking on the bright side.

But who are you kidding? You suck at looking on the bright side.

So you pat down your hair and shake off your umbrella.

You wonder to yourself if the craving for a London fog was really worth the wet tights (not to mention the scribbled-on Converse that most definitely don’t have stick men on them anymore). You’ll have to remind yourself to hold a wake for said stick men.

The shorts you put on this morning were a better idea before you saw Mother Nature’s idea of a good time.

Your feet move quickly to the back of the line.

“Excuse me?” You turn to see a tall man with shaggy hair and a satchel. An awkward smile adorns his boyish face–a face you could see yourself kissing. But that’s irrelevant.

A tilt of your head conveys your confusion and you're sure your wide eyes do too.

“Sorry, just–uh–is that your umbrella?” he asks, pointing toward the door.

When you look in the direction he’s gesturing toward, there’s–of course–a man walking out the door with your black and white polka dot umbrella.

“Shit!”

His head dips as his eyes lock onto his shoes. With your jaw slack, your head shifts back to him and, naturally, you follow his gaze down.

A complete 180, you grin. “Nice shoes.”

Your eyes meet and he mirrors the curve of your lips. “Thanks. You, too.”

“They–um–used to be nicer but, y’know, rain,” you shrug awkwardly.

“I understand,” he nods, that same smile on his face, “I’m really sorry about your umbrella, by the way.”

The way his nose scrunches makes you want to look at him longer. You’re blushing and you don’t even know his name.

“It’s okay! I like the rain.”

An honest, adoring look lands on you right before he says, “me, too! Did you know that the average speed of rain is fourteen miles per hour or twenty-two point five three zero eight kilometers per hour?”

Something about how he knows that makes you admire him. You mean, who just has that knowledge tucked away? Except maybe you.

“Did you know that the chainsaw was originally invented to assist in childbirth?” you chime happily.

His jaw goes slack in what you assume is impression.

“I did! Uh, th–there are roughly fifty active serial killers in the United States at all times.”

You giggle. “I knew that, I watch my crime shows. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting quite a response but he recovers. “Okay… Did you know that, in the mid eighteen hundreds, morgues brought in more onlookers than museums?”

“They did?” you narrow your eyes in curiosity.

He nods eagerly, a curl falling loose in front of his face. “Around forty thousand visitors a day! Children drew the largest crowds.”

“Wow,” you smile. You bite down on your crimson lip bashfully before muttering a soft, “you’re smart.”

You watch his throat bob as he swallows. A meek, gentle–and honestly adorable–”thank you,” leaves his lips.

You nod and your pupils dilate while they trace every curve and slope of his face. He has on a button-down and a tie, a cardigan on to keep him warm. The rain outside has started to dry, leaving messy but defined curls behind. His shoes are also muddy, yet, still cleaner than yours.

“Box Jellyfish possess at least twenty-four functional eyes,” he whispers under his breath as if to defeat the silence.

A soft giggle leaves your lips. “You just… know that?”

Proud of himself, he nods. “I read a lot.”

“Oh, yeah? What–”

“What can I get for you?” the barista asks.

And you’re pulled out of your real world reverie. The dreamy haze you found yourself in with a complete stranger.

How curious is that?

Your mouth opens to speak but you find it near impossible to get a word out. “Oh! Uh–” you clear your throat, “a medium London fog, please? Extra foam.”

The change in your red leather wallet practically hits the poor girl in the face with how quickly your manicured fingers ruffle through it. But the swiftness in which you pay doesn’t help you, because the minute you tell her the name for the order, the stranger–the one that’s not so strange–his phone starts ringing.

“It’s–uh–work, I’m sorry, I have to–I have to go,” he rambles, hand slipping into his satchel for a cellular device you haven’t seen in five years.

“It’s okay! I… it was nice…” and he answers the call, tongue sweeping across his lips. You continue to yourself, “talking to you…”

Peculiar.

Yet, you find yourself interested.

[dreamsontheirway]

It’s Not Your Fault | S.R.

Summary: You leave work late one night and someone follows you. Spencer x reader. Warnings: stalker, sexual assault/unwanted touch Word Count: 1.7k

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Spencer hated it when you had to work late nights. You were also an agent at the BAU, but sometimes you had to stay late to complete paperwork. He would stay late with you on occasion, but you hated inconveniencing him. Of course, he would never consider it an inconvenience.

He had offered to stay late with you again tonight, but you refused. He had such a long day and you knew he needed rest. Besides, you wouldn’t be too long.

It was only around 9 pm when you were finishing up your work. You heard the shrill beep of your phone, indicating a notification.

Hi darling. Almost finished?

You smiled at his message. You quickly sent a reply, letting him know that you would be leaving imminently. Almost immediately, he replied with a thumbs up and a heart.

You began compiling all your papers and files, now completed, and placed them in the filing cabinet at your desk. You stood up, grabbed your satchel bag, and admired the look of your tidy desk before turning on your heel and walking towards the door.

You normally parked in the parking garage attached to the building, but earlier today it had been massively full due to a conference. You were forced to park in the garage down the street a ways. This wasn’t so bad; the early fall weather was the perfect kind to walk in.

You began your short trek from your building to the parking garage, adjusting your satchel bag on your shoulder. It made you a bit nervous how dark it was already, but it wasn’t a far walk by any means.

You were about halfway there when you heard the light scraping of shoes on concrete behind you. You snuck a glance and saw a dark figure about fifty feet away. Most of the time men on the street were harmless, but you were an agent, and you had a bad feeling about this. There had been a few cases recently about women being assaulted in this area.

You assumed you were just being a bit paranoid. It had been a long day of looking at horrible case notes, after all. You decided to walk diagonally across the street as a short cut, and to see if the figure behind you did the same. Your stomach twisted tightly when the figure followed your path exactly. The figure had gotten closer, too, by at least ten feet.

Your hand instinctively went to your hip. Shit. You had left your gun locked up in the office. Shit.

You could hold your own in a fight, but you had absolutely no clue what you were up against here, and no back up.

You scrambled and fumbled your phone out of your pocket, and clicked the most recent contact on your call list. He picked up on the second ring.

“Y/N, are you on your way home y—“

“Spencer,” you whispered, with an intensity that resulted in a thick silence on the other end. You typically called him Spence. He knew something was wrong. “Someone’s following me. I left my gun in my desk.”

“Shit,” Spencer exclaimed, frantically. “Shit. Where are you?” You heard rustling on the other end.

You were a talented agent, and Spencer knew you wouldn’t call him unless you thought there was something seriously wrong. Unless you thought you couldn’t handle it. The thought sent a shiver down Spencer’s back.

“I’m almost to the parking garage, but there’s no one around. Spencer, I don’t know anything about who’s behind me. I don’t know what to do.”

The person behind you was getting closer, but you were talking quietly enough so they couldn’t hear you. You were growing increasingly frightened. You knew you were trained for this, but you were still a relatively new agent, especially in comparison to Spencer and the rest of the team. You’ve had your fair share of creepy men come on to you, but you had the advantage of analyzing them and knowing what you were dealing with. You didn’t have that advantage this time around. You could assume the figure behind you was a man by the heavy steps, but that’s about it.

“Keep walking, quickly. I’m on my way. I’m texting the others. Stay on the line with me, please.” His voice was desperate; you could tell he was just as terrified as you. You knew one of his biggest fears was losing you. Your mind briefly flickered to the realization he’d probably never let you work late without him again. The thought seemed comforting in the moment, and you found yourself wishing he was here.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up stiffly.

“Hey baby,” a deep, slimy voice spoke, a few feet behind you.

Damn it, you thought. You had been preoccupied talking to Spencer, you hadn’t realized how much closer he’d gotten.

You ignored the voice, and continued to walk quickly. You were unsure about how to handle the situation. You just wanted to get to your car. You could see it shining in the distance, the beams of light dancing on the windows from the lights in the parking garage. Luckily, you had parked on the lower level so it would be easy to access.

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to ya,” the deep voice continued.

You could hear Spencer frantic on the phone, asking who the voice belonged to. You ignored him; you had to focus on making it to your car.

“Hey!” The voice bellowed, and a strong hand clutched your arm tightly, and you knew it would bruise.

You yanked it away, turning around. “Do not touch me.” You demanded, releasing a shaky breath.

Spencer was losing his mind. “Y/N,” he gasped. “I’m almost there. Hold on.”

You just breathed out in response. You slipped your phone into your back pocket, still on the call with Spencer.

“What’s a pretty lady like you doing alone out here on a night like this?” The man questioned. He smirked, his teeth crooked and his eyes a piercing blue, so different from Spencer’s soft and comforting hazel.

“I’m going home,” you stated, continuing towards your car, but angled so you could continue to watch the man.

“Come on,” he smirked. “Aren’t you up for a little fun?”

He lunged then, grabbing the sides of your arms and pushing you against the concrete wall right next to the parking garage. You struggled against his grip. He had caught you off guard, and he was much stronger than you.

“Let me go,” you spoke deeply, as venomously as you could muster, although the slight crack at the end wasn’t very intimidating.

He just hummed in response, and let his hand travel down your arm and rest against your hip. You squirmed against him, but his grip was far too tight. You felt bile rising up your esophagus at the touch of the vile creature in front of you.

You whimpered, tears pricking your eyes. You couldn’t move. You had no part of your body free to even attempt to utilize the years of training you’ve had. The bastard knew what he was doing, and it terrified you.

The man’s large and sweaty hand traveled further, and squeezed at the fabric of your ass. Against your wishes, your let out a light sob.

All of a sudden, the man was torn away from you, his tight grip causing you to stumble forward onto the grass. It all happened so fast and you looked in the direction of where the man had been pulled to.

You saw a familiar head of brown, wavy hair. Spencer was clad in a Caltech sweatshirt and jeans. He really had left the house as soon as you called. He always preferred to wear a combination of slacks and a button down or sweater.

Spencer had the man pinned against the wall, one arm against his throat and the other — oh my god. Spencer’s right hand had his gun pressed to the man’s side.

“Don’t fucking touch her. What gave you the idea you could touch her?” Spencer growled, his left arm adding pressure to the man’s throat. Spencer rarely cursed; you knew he was pissed. The last time you saw him like this was during the whole events with Emily. But even then… this was different. The veins in his neck were popping out so much it looked like they might burst. Spencer was often protective of you, knowing the dangers out there in the world, but you hadn’t ever seen him like this.

“FBI, put your hands up!” A loud voice boomed to the left of you and you quickly looked towards it, breathing out when you saw Morgan, his gun pointed towards the man and Spencer.

Despite Morgan being here now and you being safe, Spencer didn’t budge from his position against the man.

“Agent Reid,” Morgan boomed, harshly, knowingly. He knew how much Spencer cared for you, and how quickly his emotions could escalate when something he cared about was threatened.

Spencer loosened his grip slightly, and the vile man against the wall lifted his hands up in defense. Spencer hesitated, then finally released him, but pushed the man against the wall as he let go.

Morgan rushed forward and took Spencer’s place, twisting the man so his front was against the wall. He grabbed his wrists and placed them in cuffs.

You were sat, watching the scene in front of you. You felt helpless, vulnerable, stupid. You were an agent of the FBI, how could you have let this happen? You choked back a sob, but a whimper left your lips against your will.

At the soft and solemn sound, Spencer’s gaze dashed to you and his eyes were filled with worry. He rushed to you then, cursing himself for not attending to you earlier. He lifted you from the grass, clutching your shaking form against his own.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” He asked, his hot breath against your ear.

“Just my pride,” you choked, laughing grimly. “I’m so sorry I let this happen.”

His grip on you tightened, his strong hand pulling the small of your back towards him. “Don’t say that. It’s not your fault. We’re pretty sure he’s the unsub the local police department has been looking into.”

You shuttered at the thought. You felt like one of the victims whose smiling face was on the board in the conference room. You felt weak.

As if Spencer could hear your very thoughts, he whispered against your hair, “It’s not your fault.”

-----

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[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Postcards

Summary: Tom Bennett is sweet on the Post Office girl, but only dares to approach it just as he's conscripted for war | Word Count: 7.2k~ (oops) | Warnings: ww2, mentions of death, smut, fingering

A/N: A very VERY Happy Birthday to @ewanmitchellcrumbs <3 I hope you enjoy this and have a lovely day! ❤ And thank you so much to @theoneeyedprince for skimming over this 😘

“Get ‘im a cuppa, would ya darlin’!”

Her grandfather’s low baritone seemed to rumble through the floorboards so much so it made her eardrums throb, and she shook her head as she descended the creaky staircase at the back of the store room, running a hand over the collar of her dress to keep it flat.

“Yes, Granda,” she sighed, filling the kettle and placing it on the lit stove. Gone were the days when she was young, afraid of the tiny flame that appeared when her grandfather struck a match to light the gas. He’d always laugh at her concerned expression, chuckling that no grandchild of his was going to be such a ‘scaredy-cat’.

He’d had her lighting matches on the stovetop since she was eleven years old. No exceptions. 

A harsh but fair upbringing, given that she was his only grandchild.

She brushed a wavy lock of hair from her face, her pumps clicking on the floorboards as she let the water boil and joined him at the front of the post office. She rolled her eyes when she saw him struggling with the sack of post, grunting and grumbling to himself as elderly men often do.

“Get off, granda, let me.”

“Cheeky beggar! Can do it on me own, ya pesky-”

“Granda.” 

He finally turned, perhaps recognising the same tone he’d heard in his wife and daughter in years gone, and knew not to argue. She saw that when her grandfather, turned while bent over and withered with his years, with a smattering of white on his chin and waved sparsely on the crown of his head, had a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the end almost chewed right through with the effort he’d used in trying to lift what he easily could have several years ago.

He raised an eyebrow, bringing the cigarette from his age-weathered lips and blowing the smoke out, “Go on then. Tea on?”

“Course, it is,” she sighed, bending to pull the sack of post from the floor and into the corner to be sorted later. “I’ll do that later, you go upstairs”.

“Bollocks, will I. I’m staying ‘ere.”

Her grandfather was stubborn, though it was something they accused each other of being regularly. A family trait, some would say.

The postman, clad in his dark uniform trudged through the front door, ringing the bell with it. His satchel was empty and his cheeks were pink like the wind had been at them.

“The usual route please, darlin’”.

She nodded. “Cuppa first?”

“Yes, ta, milk, one sugar-”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she smirked, “same as every day.”

As the postman settled into the familiar chair, reserved for him if anyone asked, her grandfather gave a low grumble, shifting his weight with the slow deliberation of age. He looked over at his granddaughter, the same stubborn glint in his eye that she mirrored back at him.

"You're not still jawing, are you?" he muttered, taking another drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray like he had done a thousand times before.

The kettle whistled, and she moved with ease, pouring the steaming water over the tea bags, the rich aroma filling the small, worn kitchen. She added the milk and sugar to the postman's cup, stirring it with a practised hand.

"Here you go," she said, placing the cup in front of him. "Warm yourself up."

"Bless you, lass," the postman replied, wrapping his hands around the mug as if to soak in its warmth.

The grandfather watched the scene with a softened expression before he straightened, a hint of urgency in his voice cutting through the usual routine. "Put the sign out, will you, love?"

With a tired sigh, she set her teaspoon down and retrieved the sign her grandfather had already sorted that morning, today’s headline written in white chalk across the blackboard surface. She didn't usually pay it much attention, but as she held the frame in her hands, her eyes were drawn to it. One word stood out like a beacon:

‘Britain Declares War on Germany’

“It’s official now,” her grandfather mused, having clocked her shocked, mildly terrified expression, his voice carrying an air of aged wisdom. He had seen another war before this one after all, even then, he had been too old to actually fight in it.

Her breath caught for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. "Today?"

"Aye, today," he confirmed, as if it made any difference, a solemn nod accompanying his words. "The world’s about to change."

She stepped outside, the gravel crunching under her feet as she made her way to the front of the shop. With a steady hand, she hung the sign where it would be seen by all who passed by. She stepped back as if to make sure the words were true and not a trick of the eye, and couldn't help but feel the gravity of the situation settling in. The world was indeed about to change, and their quiet corner of it would not be spared.

As she stood there, contemplating the significance of the headline, she heard the familiar sound of a bicycle approaching. Douglas pulled up, half-dismounting with a hurried air.

“Y’alright, Douglas?” she greeted him, her voice tinged with curiosity and concern.

Douglas’s eyes flicked to the sign, and he visibly flinched. A deep furrow appeared on his brow, and his jaw tightened, frustration evident in his tense posture.

“Not seen my boy, Tom, have ya?” he asked, a hint of worry in his voice.

“Fortunately not. Why, is he in trouble?”

Douglas let out a frustrated sigh. “Is he. If you see him, send him back home.”

She nodded, then glanced back at the sign, understanding the unspoken pain in Douglas’s reaction. “I will, Douglas. Take care.”

Douglas gave a curt nod, his eyes lingering on the sign for a moment longer before he mounted his bike again. He gave her a brief, strained smile, the weight of his past experiences clear in his eyes, and pedalled away. She watched him go, feeling the heavy burden of the news. He and Tom were alike in many ways, stubborn mostly though, and set in their ways once their mind was made up. But Douglas was gentler since the first war had changed him, and Tom was never the same after his mother. Turning back to the house, she couldn’t shake the feeling that their small world, like so many others, was on the brink of something monumental. Something far beyond their understanding.

The week passed in a blur of routine tasks and quiet contemplation. She worked diligently, covering the post office as her grandfather went off to the social club, seeking the comfort of familiar faces and shared memories. The steady stream of customers brought a sense of normalcy, yet the weight of the headline hung over her like a shadow, and many others as well.

Each day felt heavier than the last, as the reality of the declaration of war settled in. Conversations with customers often turned to the uncertain future, and the usual gossip was replaced with talk of enlistment and preparations.

As the afternoon sun began to wane one gloomy day, the door to the post office swung open with the chime of the bell. She looked up from the counter, her heart skipping a beat as Tom Bennett walked in. His usual carefree expression was absent, replaced by a seriousness she’d rarely seen before now.

She smiled. “Three guesses who you're skulking away from.”

Tom approached the counter, a faint smirk rose at the corners of his mouth, and his serious depression faltered somewhat. “Box of matches, please.”

She rang him up, the familiar clink of the register grounding her amidst the day's uncertainties. Even from here, behind the counter, she caught the faint scent of cigarettes on his weathered coat, for some reason making her head feel airy. As she handed him the matches, she couldn't help but broach the topic. 

“Heard you signed up,” she said, her voice gentle but curious. “What made you do that?”

Tom’s face hardened slightly. She knew immediately why but dare not say. “Don't carry on, had enough of this off Dad.”

“Not Lois?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

Tom let out a short, humourless laugh. “Nah. She can’t wait to see me gone.”

“How will she cope?” she smiled, attempting to lighten the mood.

Tom shrugged, pocketing the matches. “She’s tougher than she looks. She’ll be alright, both of ‘em will.”

Granda trudged past the doorway leading to the back room, leaving a large heaved sigh with a cigarette between his weathered lips. Tom nodded up at him, “y’alright, Granda? Keeping steady?”

She couldn't help but smile as she glanced back. Nobody called him by his real name, only ever what she had always nicknamed him, from a time where she was unable to say ‘grandad’. At first it embarrassed her, but now to hear everyone else call him Granda, well, it was endearing.

Her grandfather simply glared with hooded eyes, blowing smoke between his lips and permeating the air with musk, “bugger off, ya bone idle twat-”

He was still muttering things as he walked off and she gave Tom a face that showed she was trying her hardest to remain stoic.

“Your own fault really. Should know better.”

Tom chuckled, “Yeah, I should.”

From the first day she stepped behind the counter, Tom had made it his mission to tease and charm her, testing the waters with playful remarks and lingering glances. He would lean in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, just to watch her cheeks flush a delicate pink. It was a game they played, a dance of words and looks that neither was quite brave enough to escalate.

She found herself looking forward to his visits, the highlight of her day amidst the routine tasks of sorting mail and ringing up customers. Tom seemed to delight in the effect he had on her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he leaned in close. “You’re going to spoil me with all this attention,” he’d say, and she’d laugh, trying to hide how much she enjoyed their playful but enigmatic banter.

Now, as Tom stood before her, the weight of his decision to sign up for the war added a new layer to their unspoken bond. The cheeky glint in his eyes was tempered by a newfound seriousness, and she felt the fragile line between them tighten and shift.

As she handed him the change, their fingers brushed, and she felt a familiar warmth rise to her cheeks. “You know,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “you’re going to make a right mess of things if you keep winding everyone up.”

Tom leaned on the counter, his smirk widening. “Oh, you like it when I wind you up. Admit it.”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t suppress her smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Big word for a post office clerk-ow!” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief, rubbing his shoulder in faux offence when she smacked him lightly. If she were honest with herself, it was just an excuse to touch him.

“One of these days, your cheek will get you into real trouble,” she warned, though her smile betrayed her amusement.

Tom leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe I’m hoping you’ll be the one to give me a proper telling off.”

She rolled her eyes, busying herself with doing a recount of the till, mostly so that she could have something to do with her hands. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Impossible to resist?” he quipped, his grin widening.

“Impossible to deal with,” she corrected, though her cheeks flushed with a hint of colour.

Tom watched her for a moment, his smile softening, blue eyes flickering to the pile of post she still had to sort. “Got anything for me? I'll take it back on my way home.”

She hummed a laugh, shaking her head as she sorted through.. She always sorted the Bennett Household’s post separately, so she’d be prepared for another one of Tom’s spontaneous visits. “To face the wrath of Douglas?”

He scoffed, leaning back against the counter with a mock look of horror. “Don't make me laugh. I can handle my old man.”

“Brave words, Mr. Bennett,” she teased, handing him a small stack of letters. “But I’m not sure anyone can handle Douglas when he’s in a mood.”

Tom took the letters, their fingers brushing for a brief moment. “Guess I’ll find out soon enough,” he said with a wink. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

She smiled, feeling the familiar warmth spread through her. “I believe it. Just don’t go getting yourself into too much trouble, alright?”

Tom’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “No promises. Trouble seems to follow me wherever I go.”

As he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder. “And don’t worry, I’ll come back before I ship out. Wouldn’t want to miss another chance to see you blushing for me.”

With that, he straightened and headed for the door, leaving her with a smile and a heart a little lighter despite the day’s heavy news. She watched him go, the weight of their unspoken connection lingering in the air. In her heart she knew she was afraid of truly letting him go, at the prospect of not seeing him walk through those doors every other day. Her heart felt like lead, deep in her chest, wondering if it was already too late, with war reaching their horizons, to admit how she really felt about the man who had just signed up to fight in it.

The days continued to pass in a blur of activity and mounting tension. The declaration of war had cast a long shadow over their small town, and everyone was feeling its effects. Life carried on, but the underlying anxiety was palpable.

A week later, Tom walked into the post office, a different kind of seriousness in his eyes. He held an official-looking envelope in his hand, and she knew immediately what it was.

“Got my papers,” he said, handing her a letter to post. “I’m shipping out in a few days.”

She felt a lump form in her throat but forced a smile. Don’t cry. “So soon?”

He nodded, looking around the familiar space of the post office.

“There’s a…leaving do at the Cross Keys, if you want to come and see me off with the others.”

And why on earth would she have said ‘no’. 

A small gathering was held at the local pub to send off the men who had conscripted to do their bit. It was a tradition of sorts, a way for the community to come together and show their support. Friends and family gathered, raising their glasses to wish him well and offer their prayers for his safe return. It was all bright faces, pink cheeked from ale, clinking glasses and all. And all she could do was watch from her seat. Watch him. As if she wanted to print the very image and soul of him into her mind on the off chance he might not return to her, or if he already had a sweetheart to write to, and wouldn't spare a second glance to her.

The pub was filled with laughter and conversation, but she could see the sadness in everyone’s eyes. As the evening wore on, people began to drift away, leaving behind a quieter, more intimate group.

Tom found her sitting at a corner table, nursing a drink. He slid into the seat next to her, a playful glint in his eyes. “Mind if I join the prettiest girl in the room?”

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t help but smile. Tom looked around, then back at her. He was antsy, she could feel his nervous energy a mile away. He was probably annoyed as well. Douglas hadn’t come to the pub that night, and there was always something in Tom that craved his approval. “Got anything you want to say to me before I go, or are you just going to miss me in silence?”

She looked down into her lap, tracing her thumb over the rim of her glass, taking a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t know what to say without sounding like a fool, Tom.”

“Then be a fool. I won’t mind.”

Her chest was all tight with anxiety when she finally had the courage to form the reply, looking up into his blue eyes, “this place just won’t be the same without you.”

She’d always seen Tom a certain way. Sure. Cock of the walk. Ever since his own mother died he’d almost put on this thick outer layer that was impenetrable. But here, sat with half a beer left in his glass, tapping his fingers against it nervously, his eyes gave way to something more vulnerable. They both know he was off to go and do something important, that he needed to feel valuable in some way, and this was his way of proving it. But his expression showed that he was also a young man, like so many others, who was afraid. 

“I won’t miss much about his place.”

Her heart sank a fraction, deep, forming a pit in her stomach. And it seemed Tom sensed it, as he twisted his body to face her, nudging her arm with his elbow to grab her attention again.

 “But I will miss you. Especially you.”

She looked up, meeting his gaze. The pub was nearly empty now, the noise reduced to a low murmur, and she suddenly felt uncomfortable in her chair, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt in a gesture of uncertainty about herself. “Tom, I–”

His lips pressed to hers in a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a moment they had both imagined countless times, but reality was far sweeter and more poignant.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers and chuckled softly. “About time we stopped dancing around it, isn’t it?”

She could laugh. Cry even. 

Tom sensed her surprise and something that lingered deeper, but his bravado didn’t allow him to approach it, but it was enough that his thumb brushed a wayward hair from her face. “Had to get that in before I left. Didn’t want to regret missing my chance.”

She let out a relieved, breathy laugh. One that expelled all the tension from her body for a moment. Her eyes never quite left him, as if in wonder. And she was hit with the endless thought that she did not want this moment to end, she didn’t want him to leave. But knew she could never ask that of him.

“Promise me you’ll write,” she said instead.

A classically-Tom Bennett smirk rose to his face. He always did that when he saw the colour rise to her face. “I might.”

They both laughed lightly, with some uncertainty, when she swatted his shoulder. That attitude would get him in trouble, if not with her.

“How about I do you one better,” he started, “I’ll come back, and we’ll have our time.”

She knew then she could ask no more of him. She felt a mixture of hope and fear, knowing how much she was already relying on his return, how much she already craved it. But in response to his weighty promise, she nodded softly, her eyes feeling heavy with tears she did well to keep back.

It almost felt cruel, to have this moment the day before he would leave her for the seas. There had been no time…

Tom’s cheeky grin returned, albeit with a touch of tenderness. “Good. Now, let’s get you home before I change my mind and decide to stay here with you.”

She wished he would. 

It was only when she was at her doorstep, watching him walk away, the darkness gradually enveloping him, that she finally took a deep breath, clutching the memory of his kiss and the promise of his return close to her heart.

The days following Tom’s departure were filled with a bittersweet mixture of hope and anxiety. She busied herself at the post office, trying to keep her mind off the worry gnawing at her. The routine tasks that once felt mundane now served as a distraction from the ever-present uncertainty.

On the morning Tom was scheduled to ship out, she was on shift, sorting through the morning post with a heavy heart. She couldn’t bring herself to go to the docks to see him off, knowing it would be too much to bear. Instead, she stayed at the post office, her mind wandering to thoughts of him, imagining his cheeky grin and the promise in his eyes.

After a fortnight, she was giddy with joy when she was sorting the post and saw her name amongst the pile, she nearly gave herself a papercut in her fervent attempts to open the letter, wanting to see his words, in his hand, it would give her happiness beyond belief.

Little Miss Postie, You wouldn't believe the state of things here. It's a lot different from our quiet little town. The lads are a good bunch, though, mostly, and they’ve already learned to put up with my jokes. They’ve got no choice, really. It’s either that or Hitler and I wouldn’t like those odds. I miss seeing your face every day, the way you blush when I tease you. You remember that night at the pub? I bet you do. I wasn’t joking about regretting not kissing you sooner. Let’s just say I’ve had some pretty vivid dreams since then. Don’t worry, I’m keeping my head down and staying out of trouble. Mostly. But it’s hard not to think about you when I’m supposed to be focusing on training. The open sea allows a man to think a bit too much, and every time I see the stars at night, I think of you. And, well, there’s not much else to do out here except think… and maybe imagine a few things I shouldn’t put in a letter. Write me back soon. Tell me everything. And don’t leave out the parts that make you blush. Yours, Tom

She sat at the counter, Tom’s latest letter in hand, a smile tugging at her lips as she read his words again. The warmth of his cheeky tone and the sincerity of his affection made her heart flutter. She knew she had to reply, but she wanted to make it special.

Rising from her seat, she walked over to the display of postcards near the entrance of the post office. The assortment included scenic views, cheerful illustrations, and wartime propaganda. Her fingers brushed over each one until she found a postcard that seemed perfect—a World War II specific postcard featuring a charming drawing of a sailor in uniform, waving from a ship, with the words “Keep Smiling and Carry On” printed in bold letters.

She took the postcard back to the counter and carefully penned her reply, choosing her words with care and affection. When she finished, she read it over, her cheeks warming at the bolder parts. With a satisfied smile, she addressed the postcard and prepared to send it off.

Dear Tom, I’m glad to hear you’re getting along with the lads and keeping them entertained. The town isn’t the same without you, and I miss your cheeky grin and those comments that always get under my skin—in the best way, of course. I hope you continue to write to your father and Lois, they miss you greatly. I’ve been thinking about that night at the pub too. More often than I should admit. Sometimes I catch myself smiling like a fool. Granda thinks I’ve gone mad. He’s just a few pennies short of putting me away. Since you were so forward in your letter, I suppose I can be a little brave too. I’ve had a few dreams myself, some of them involving a certain navy man and that uniform you hate. I’m looking forward to seeing you out of it as much as in it. Stay safe, Tom. I can’t wait for your next letter. Yours, ‘Little Miss Postie’

Little Miss Postie, I knew there was a reason I liked you. I couldn’t stop smiling when I read your letter. And blushing? Don’t worry, I’ve been doing plenty of that myself. Don’t tell anyone though or I’ll tell everyone you’re lying. I can’t wait to get back and see if those dreams of yours are as good as mine. Maybe we’ll have to find out together. And as for that uniform, well, I’ll make sure to wear it just for you. But you might have to help me out of it later. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while. Training is tough, and they’re keeping us on our toes, but thoughts of you keep me going. The lads are starting to wonder why I’ve got this goofy grin on my face all the time. I’ve been telling them about you—well, only the parts that won’t make them too jealous. They all say hello, by the way. Take care of yourself, love. And keep those letters coming. They’re the best part of my day. Yours, Tom

Her reply was affectionate, written with that telltale blush to her cheeks that Tom would have made fun of her for. Every scratch of the pen on paper, telling him that him blushing at her letter would be their little secret, and that he shouldn’t give the lads too high of expectations of her, made her heart feel as light as air. And as she signed off the letter, urging him to come back to her, she would not let that little whisper of uncertainty grow at the back of her mind. And as she turned over the postcard, appreciating the watercolour design on the front, she thought of his face when, and how she imagined it would light up when he received it. Just as hers does.

She waited for a response. But none came.

She found herself anxious, restless. Had she said something wrong? Gone too far? Scared him off with her incessant affections and flirtations? Surely not, she thought. But the lack of any real response had tensions rising in her gut, and the seed of doubt had long been planted.

As the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, she checked the post every morning with a mix of anticipation and dread. Each time the mail arrived, she sifted through the letters, hoping to find one from Tom. But there was nothing. No letter, no word. Her heart sank a little more with each passing day.

Her grandfather and the regular customers noticed the change in her. She became quieter, more introspective, holding onto the hope that Tom would keep his promise and return. The thought of his words, “I’ll be back, and we’ll have our time,” became her lifeline, the thing that kept her going through the long, uncertain months.

Sometimes, she'd allow herself a trip to the house Tom used to inhabit, remembering the times she'd pass by on her way to the post office and spot him leaning against the doorway, smoke blowing from between his curled lips, amused to see the way she was watching him. 

She'd hand Lois the post, come in for a cuppa, sometimes Douglas would say a quick hello as he was passing through the kitchen. But whenever she saw him, she was reminded very much of Tom, thousands of miles away from her, and the way his eyes crinkled like Douglas’ did when he smiled.

Every morning, she performed her duties with a determined smile, greeting the postman with a hopeful glance, on the off chance that some letter had accidentally ended up at Douglas’ home, only to be met with a sympathetic shake of the head. She would take a deep breath, steel herself, and continue with her day, refusing to let despair take hold. If she ever let it stick, it would swallow her whole.

It was funny how life had a way of testing people in their worst times.

Granda had always been stubborn. So much so that even when she told him she would put out the sign in a moment, he was too impatient. She only found him later, collapsed alongside the sign for that day's news. But no news seemed as important to her as that very minute, knelt beside her dying grandfather and shouting at passerbys for help.

If her little town was good for anything, it was community. Her grandfather left enough to cover the costs for the funeral, but all who remained put in as much as they could so that they could give the very beating heart of their slice of peace a good sendoff. Her grandfather would have hated it, everyone snivelling and crying over him. But it took the edge off her grief to see that he had touched the hearts of so many, despite his grumpy attitude.

At least, she thought, she wouldn't have to let go of the post office and go work in a factory. This small slice of peace was all she had left of her grandfather. And she counted her blessings that he had left her a good amount in his will, and what remained of his savings.

She only hoped that this brief didn't come in pairs. And she couldn't help but think of Tom now she was truly alone, running the post office by herself, her loneliness only exacerbated by the fact she only had herself to make a brew for in the morning now. She has the most vivid nightmares about the day someone would come and break the news that he wouldn't come back.

Then, one crisp morning, as she stood behind the counter, sorting the latest batch of letters, the door to the post office swung open with a familiar chime. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat as Tom Bennett stepped inside, dressed in his navy uniform, looking weary but very much alive.

Their eyes met, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The weight of all the months of worry and hope melted away as he crossed the room, a tired but genuine smile spreading across his face.

“I told you I’d come back,” he said softly, his voice carrying the same mix of cheekiness and sincerity that she had missed so dearly.

For a moment, she stood frozen, unable to believe her eyes. Then, in a rush of emotion, she ran around the counter and threw herself into his arms. As she hugged him tightly, the dam of her emotions broke and she began to sob uncontrollably. He smelled of cigarettes and the sea, a mix of salt and smoke that was uniquely him. The scent brought a rush of memories and emotions, grounding her in the reality of his presence. His uniform carried the faint tang of saltwater, a reminder of the long months he had spent away from her, battling the elements and the enemy.

Tom hugged her back, a bit confused by the intensity of her reaction. “Hey now, what’s all this? I’m back, aren’t I? In one piece and everything.”

She laughed through her tears, clutching him even tighter. “You look terrible in that uniform,” she said, her voice shaky but filled with affection.

Tom chuckled, a familiar warm feeling pooling in her gut, rubbing her back soothingly. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t join the navy for the fashion. Besides, I was hoping you’d be so happy to see me that you wouldn’t notice.”

She wiped her cheek, feeling like air was finally making its way into her lungs. “Y-You didn’t write me back. I thought I'd lost you too.”

“I’m sorry, love. I never meant to leave you in the dark. It was just complicated out there, I–”, Tom furrowed his brows, his head cocking down at her slightly. “Too? I—”

He only had to look around. It was never usually this quiet. And she saw the realisation dawn across his war-hardened face when he spotted the framed picture of Granda on the counter.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “When?”

“A few months ago,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “Stroke. The tobacco must have caught up with him.”

Tom’s expression softened, and he pulled her into a tighter embrace. “I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, resting his cheek on her head, “you're more a soldier, doing all this on your own.”

She held onto him, his presence like a balm for her aching heart, growing stronger every day around the pit that was grief. “I didn't feel very strong.”

Tom didn't reply. He hadn't felt very strong himself either. And she knew from the way his large hand rubbed her back to comfort her, that there was more to his easy-going facade than he wanted to let on. And he knew for her equally, that the months were tough on her own, and that she was still healing.

“Missed you so much,” she confessed, pulling away slightly to look up at his half-worried expression, “it felt like I was losing both of you at the same time.”

Tom sighed, a light, almost pretty sound from his lips, his gaze drifting down slightly to her lips, as if he were just remembering all the details he didn't want to admit he'd forgotten all those months at sea.

“Don't cry.” His thumb lingered, swiping away a tear from her under eye, before he lightened the atmosphere with his smile, “I'd prefer to see you blush again. Suits you better.”

She couldn't help a smile breaking across her face, and the warmth that crept up her neck made her feel like a schoolgirl.

Tom winked. “There it is.”

Before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, as if testing the waters. Her hands instinctively found their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his uniform as she kissed him back, the warmth of his lips against hers sending a shiver down her spine.

She pulled back slightly, a playful protest on her lips. “Tom, we’re still open…”

He gave her a devilish smile, turning around to flip the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and locking it with a swift motion. “Not anymore, we’re not.”

He wasted no time, pulling her back into his arms, his lips growing more insistent and passionate. His hands roamed her back, finding the familiar curves and contours he had missed so much, but had no time to explore before he’d left. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with desire.

She felt her own longing mirror his, her body responding eagerly to his touch. “Show me,” she whispered, her breath hot against his skin.

Tom’s grin turned wicked as he trailed kisses down her neck, his hands exploring with newfound urgency. “I've been dreaming about this,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot and tantalising. “Every fucking night.”

She laughed softly, feeling a delightful mix of anticipation and excitement. “Tom Bennett, you are impossible.”

He gave no reply, his fingers already working on the buttons of her blouse. His movements were deft, practised, as if he had imagined this moment a thousand times over. She gasped as his hands brushed her skin, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through her body. 

His lips found hers again, their kiss deepening as he pulled her blouse free, letting it fall to the floor. “Yeah, but I knew you’d come around,” he said with a cheeky grin, his hands sliding to her waist and pulling her closer.

Their kisses grew hungrier, their bodies pressing together with an urgency that had been building for months. She reached for the buttons on his uniform, her fingers trembling slightly in anticipation as she worked to free him from the fabric. He shrugged off his jacket and pulled her into his arms again, his hands caressing her bare skin and breasts through her brassiere, sending waves of heat through her.

She sighed, her head falling back as his lips trailed down her neck, his kisses leaving a path of fire in their wake. “Tom,” she breathed, her hands clutching at him, needing more.

“I know, love,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm. “I know.”

He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her to the small sofa in the back of the post office where she sometimes took breaks. Gently, he laid her down, his eyes never leaving hers. Their movements became a dance of passion and longing, each touch, each kiss, a testament to the months they had been apart. Tom’s hands explored her with a reverence that made her feel cherished, loved.

As if by muscle memory from those dreams he would write about, his knee slid between her thighs as his hands roughly bunched up her skirt to her hips, two fingers tucking between them to tease her bud through her knickers.

“Tom,” she gasped, her body arching against his.

“Shh,” he soothed, his lips capturing hers once more. “I’ve got you.”

She was enraptured by the way he nipped at her lips, that she only realised he had pulled the gusset of her underwear aside when he gently, but insistently, pushed two fingers inside her, crooking upwards and finding that rough, sweet spot with unyielding precision.

He swallowed every sound she made, every now and then a grunt of approval slipping past his own lips as he stretched her open on his fingers, his pace teasing. Her fingernails left crescent moon shaped welts in his now bare shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath them.

Tom hummed against her lips, pleased with himself. “Not so shy now, are you?”

His teeth slid across her neck, no doubt marks left behind, but she couldn't even focus on that with the way he was insistent on teasing that wild spot inside her that made her body feel like white, fluttery flames.

“I've missed your reactions…especially this one.”

His thumb joined in his ministrations, applying gentle but firm pressure to her bundle of nerves in tandem with his fingers plunging in and out of her wet heat. And if her face hadn't been buried in his shoulder, she would have cried out, embarrassed at the sounds she and her body was making. Tom however, seemed to revel in it, his hand soaked with her arousal as she teetered on the edge.

The tightness in her gut spiralled as she clutched him tighter, her body aching pleasantly with the force of her peak rushing through her, all while Tom grinned and didn't falter, as if to watch her linger on that border of pain and pleasure.

Before she had even fully come down, his fingers were gone and she felt she was able to fully breathe again. Her flushed expression snapped open to him as he pulled her thighs towards him, on the sofa, and watched as he righted himself and slid his belt through the loops of his trousers, a sound that made her belly flutter.

He raised his eyebrows, pulling his trousers low enough to free himself and leaned over her again. “Missed me that much?”

She laughed, and hid her face, the dull ache still thrumming through her body ignited again as the head of is cock parted her folds and nudged her bud. “Tom-”

Warmth crept to her face again when his hand turned her face towards him again, his pupils near eclipsing the blue with want as he sheathed himself within her, holding her there to watch her expression as her walls stretched to accommodate him.

In any other scenario, she would want to slap that self-impressed look off his face, but not now, not when it felt this good.

His eyebrows barely furrowed, struggling to keep his composure. “Christ, you're so fucking tight—”

His words shot straight to her core, clenching around him and eyes slipping shut as he began a tortuous pace, like he hadn't gotten to this part in his dreams before. His arms wrapped around her like choking ivy, pushing her body to his with every needy thrust, his breath hot against her neck and the metal of his identification tag cold against her chest.

For a few brief moments, the world outside the post office ceased to exist. There were only the two of them, reconnecting in a way that was both familiar and new. Tom's cheeky comments and playful touches had yielded to blend seamlessly with his genuine affection, creating a moment that was perfect in all its imperfections.

She can feel his hips growing tired the closer he gets, and if she is being truthful, the cooling sensation of the buckle of his belt and the friction it gives her is only flinging her to the edge right alongside him. And when he breathes her name all shaky and low like that, she can't help herself, and she lets go again with a choked cry, the second sneaking up on her so quickly it feels like she never really recovered from the first.

With a stuttered groan, mirrored by his own hips, he crushes her in his arms and pushes forward as hard as he can, burying himself as deep as he's able as he comes hard nestled in her silky walls. She held him on top of her, his weight a comforting reminder that he was real, that he was here. Her fingers gently traced the contours of his back, feeling the warmth of his skin, the rise and fall of his breath.

Her heart was still racing, but not just from their shared passion. It was the sheer relief, the overwhelming sense of having him back in her arms after so long. Every night of worry, every day of longing, all melted away in this moment.

She buried her face in his hair, inhaling the familiar scent of him, mixed with the faint hint of the sea. Tears of relief welled up in her eyes, but this time they were tears of joy, of profound gratitude. And she wanted to say so much, but whenever she tried, her throat closed up, not wanting to interrupt this quiet, loving slice of peace in her arms. For the first time in months, she felt whole again.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and flushed, Tom rests his forehead against hers, his eyes filled with love and mischief, her his voice low and intimate. He means to say so much more. The depth of his feelings, the fears, and the nights he had spent longing for her, it all threatened to spill out, leaving him vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to. She saw it, though, in the way his eyes darkened with emotion, the unspoken words lingering just beneath the surface.

“I think we might need to close early more often.”

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[avis-writeshq]

03 — labyrinth

summary: “uh oh, i’m falling in love”/“thought the plane was going down, how’d you turn it right around?” pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, slow burn, mutual pining warnings: drug usage & addiction, talks about relapsing, therapy, tobias hankel, talks about weight (not reader’s), panic attack/night terrors wc: 3.8k a/n: as always, special mention to @astrophileous for beta-reading SPARKS FLY MASTERLIST // MAIN MASTERLIST

“Are you okay?” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you gently lay a hand on Spencer’s forearm. You offer a soft squeeze of reassurance, your gaze meeting his. 

He nods dismissively, averting his eyes but not shrugging your hand away. His tone is cold as he responds, “I’m fine.” 

You know better than to believe him. Ever since his kidnapping a few short weeks ago, he’s been acting strangely. His eyes are sunken, bloodshot most of the time, with dark bags beneath them. He’s lost weight, not that he wasn’t already skinny to begin with, but he’s thinner than usual. He gets distracted more easily, he doesn’t spout out about random facts or statistics, and he’s now almost always irritated about something. 

He’s been spending more and more time at your apartment, not that you don’t blame him. The two of you would spend your mornings at the dining table, eating half-stale cereal and sipping coffee from the premium machine you splurged on a couple years ago. The closeness is nice, and at times it feels a little too domestic to be platonic, but you’ve learned to control yourself around him. 

You open your mouth to say something else (you’re mainly hoping to call him out on his behaviour), but he moves his other hand on top of yours, lightly pressing your fingers. Your mouth goes dry and your cheeks flush at the contact, effectively making you go quiet. He glances at you, his face softening and for a moment you could have sworn you saw the ‘old Reid’ resurface.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into your ear, his voice wavering with each syllable. “I’m fine. I promise.”

Even before you were a profiler, you prided in being able to read people well. Spencer is no exception to this; he’s always been easy to read, and his tells are only obvious to the trained eye. In other words, in your long five years of knowing him, you could smell his lies from a mile away. You don’t comment on it, just allowing yourself to bask in the comfort of his touch and the warmth he exudes. 

The two of you head off to work minutes later, climbing into your car with you in the driver’s seat. He holds your hand the entire time. 

*** 

Spencer thinks he’s going to throw up. The moment he gets onto the plane, he thinks he’s going to hurl. He locks himself into the bathroom, fumbling with the little vials of clear liquid in his satchel. He doesn’t know how long he can keep this a secret for– he’s always been a bad liar– especially from a team of profilers. He gathers that they probably already know.

His vision blurs and his head grows foggy as soon as he feels the liquid enter his bloodstream. He squeezes his eyes tightly, relishing in the artificial feel of serenity when there’s a knock on the door.

“Uh… Spencer?”

Fuck, he wants to scream as he scrambles to put everything back in his bag. Not you. Anybody but you.

“In– in a minute,” he responds hurriedly, flushed and woozy from his high. He feels nauseous again and he wonders if he should actually just throw up to make the story more believable.

“Um, okay? I was a little worried; you’ve been in there for a while. Did you need anything?” You ask again through the door as quietly as possible, glancing at where the team were sitting. “Water? Tea?”

He swings the door open, and his voice is a lot harsher than he expected it to be. “I’m fine.”

He almost misses the way you step back uncertainly, and the way your fingers twitch at your side. Almost. He knows you don’t believe him. He knows that you know him better than anyone and at times it scares him. He feels like Pandora’s Box and it’s only a matter of time before you release the demons within him. His heart lurches as he watches the way your face falls into confusion and hurt– hurt that he is responsible for. 

“I’m fine,” he repeats, softer now. “Just– just tired.”

He watches as you pause and give him a once over. His breath hitches in his throat as he feels your eyes over every inch of him, and for a second he feels incredibly exposed. 

“You know you can talk to me, right?” You say slowly, cautiously, and you reach a hand out to gently graze against his forearm. “I’m here for you.”

The contact is enough to get him to calm down, and his shoulders visibly relax and his eyes close for a moment. He nods, looking at you with a softness he didn’t even know he could muster.

“I know,” he responds, touching his fingers to yours. “Thanks.”

“Anytime,” you respond with a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You pause for a moment before nodding towards the seats of the plane. 

Spencer follows you there, sitting beside you and as he relishes in your warmth and, in your company, he doesn’t feel quite as lost. The nausea begins to dissipate and he suddenly feels a lot lighter– and it’s not because of the drugs. This is different, a better different. A different he could get used to. The pressure from the plane doesn’t seem to affect him as much anymore, and his ears are no longer ringing. 

He leans into your touch, his head pressed against your shoulder and his eyes begin to close. He feels your fingers gingerly hold his own, squeezing lightly in an effort to help him relax. It works. It always works. He feels the way your thumb grazes against the back of his hand and he feels both full of air and breathless at the same time. 

“You okay?” You ask into his hair, continuing to rub your thumb back and forth against his hand. 

He nods, not being able to bring himself to speak. He’s tired, so unbelievably tired, and he thinks that if he speaks he’ll begin to cry. He doesn’t realise that his grip on your hand has tightened.

“I’m not going to leave you.” He hears you whisper, squeezing his hand back.

He only brings himself to nod again, trying desperately to ignore the way his heart flutters in his chest. Uh oh. He’s falling in love.

***

Spencer knocks on your door at half past two in the morning, eyes bloodshot and feeling as if he was suffocating. He doesn’t want to be alone. At least, he doesn’t right now. He would usually enjoy the feeling of solace, considering that it was unlikely he would be able to experience those moments, but lately it feels as though he is lost inside of his own mind. He misses the moments where his head would swirl with unnecessary statistics, or random animal facts that he knows you adore. Now, the only thing stuck in his mind is the rush of the high– and the plummeting feeling of the low.

He holds a breath as he watches your feet come to a stop at the door before the doorknob jiggles and opens. His eyes hesitantly meet yours and he swallows thickly. 

“Can I come in?” He asks, the words barely a whisper. 

“Yeah,” comes your response, and you open the door a little wider. “Yeah, Spence, of course.”

He watches as you boil water and prepare two cups of tea– one chamomile and the other peppermint. He sits on the couch, fiddling with his fingers and his eyes darting around nervously. 

“Spencer.”

Your voice echoes through the room, and suddenly he feels very grounded. He forces his eyes to meet yours and he feels himself stop breathing. Have you always been this beautiful?

“You haven’t been yourself lately,” you say, setting down the cup of peppermint tea in front of him. “Talk to me.”

He laughs humourlessly, sipping at the scalding tea and he grimaces at the burning sensation. “You sound like a therapist.”

“I studied as one,” you counter, dipping your teabag up and down in the cup. “The others… they can’t say anything. But I’m leaving the BAU soon, so I’m technically allowed to ask you this without any federal obligations.” 

“I don’t know–” he begins to deny, but stops short at the way you give him a warning look.

“You’re high right now, aren’t you? And you were on the plane.” Your tone isn’t accusatory, but he expects it from the words that leave your lips. Your gaze softens as you continue. “It’s because of him, isn’t it?”

He flinches and he knows there’s no way out of it. “I tried.”

“I know.”

“I just– I can’t and I want to and I wish that I was… that I was stronger.”

“You are strong.”

He shakes his head. “I should be able to get over this. Get over everything he did to me.”

“Spencer, you were kidnapped and drugged and then you came back to the BAU like nothing even happened.” You pause and lick your bottom lip. “No one is expecting you to get over it, especially not this quickly.”

He doesn’t respond, a strange sense of deja vu filling him at your words and he sits rigid on the couch with his hands in his lap. His eyes don’t leave your face, his gaze shifting from your eyes to the curvature of your nose and then to your lips. For a split second, he wonders how they would feel against his, or how they’d feel against his neck. His head goes heavy at the thought and he pushes them away.

You don’t seem to notice where his eyes have settled, or you’re very good at acting as if he isn’t staring at your face because you continue to speak. “Well,” you say slowly, putting the cup of tea onto the table, “it’s a good thing I’m leaving the BAU then, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know if I can do this job without you,” he confesses, shifting his eyes downcast as he stares into his tea. 

You laugh a little, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard. “You act as if I’m dying or something.”

“I’m serious,” he presses, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I want to be happy for you. And I am! But at the same time I feel– I feel so selfish for wanting you to stay.”

He feels you sit beside him and he instinctively leans into your touch, burying his face into the space between your neck and shoulder.

“It’s not your fault, Spence,” you whisper, rubbing comforting circles on his back. “And I’m always going to be there for you. Promise me you’ll remember that?”

He nods deftly into your neck, breathing in the smell of your perfume. 

“Spencer.”

“Promise,” he mumbles, an arm wrapped around your waist. “I know. I promise.”

You hum in acknowledgement. “Good.”

There’s a lull in the conversation, but for once it’s no longer the uncomfortable silence you were tormented with back home. You could feel everything from his hot breath on your neck to the way his fingers squeeze your sides as if you’d disappear if he held you any looser. 

“We still need to talk about this whole issue at some point though. You know that, right?” You murmur into his hair.

“I know.”

“We don’t have to talk about it now.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to stay over?”

“… please.”

***

It has been two weeks since you finished up at the BAU and started work at a clinic, working as a children’s therapist. It’s been a good change of pace for you; a lot slower and much more routinely. The hours are a million times better, and you find that you’re able to get home before seven on most days. The amount of free time that’s been handed to you is something to get used to, now that it’s no longer filled with completing paperwork or getting onto a plane. 

Despite all the positives, it feels strange not seeing your former team everyday. It feels strange not being able to see Penelope’s brightly coloured outfits, or Derek’s dumb jokes. You missed Emily’s sarcasm and JJ’s stories about Henry, and you missed seeing Hotch’s rare smiles whenever he sees someone in his team succeeding. A lot of the time you find yourself craving Rossi’s famous pastas accompanied with special wine. But most of all, you miss seeing Spencer in his element every single day. 

He’s been doing better, or so he says. He’s been going to self-help groups and you’ve been sending him summaries of help books written by former addicts. It seems to have helped because he’s been acting more and more like Spencer Reid than a weird limbo version of him. He still spends a lot of time at your place, sleeping on your couch despite your constant protests. He ends up taking turns with you after you bribed him with multiple chocolate donuts. 

Although he insists that he’s been doing better, his constant night terrors say otherwise and more often than not you find him sweating and sobbing in his sleep. Today is no different.

“Spencer,” You whisper, shaking his shoulder firmly. “Spence!”

He jolts awake, sitting up so quickly he almost knocks his forehead with yours. He groans, his fingers flying to his eyes as he rubs them. Fresh tears slip past his closed eyes, spilling down his cheeks and you pull him into your arms. 

“You’re okay, I got you,” you murmur, rubbing soothing circles against his shoulder blade as he sobs. 

He keeps repeating the words “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t want it” as he sobs against your shoulder, clutching your shirt in the palms of his hands. 

“Breathe in,” you guide gently, running your free hand through his hair, “breathe deep… breathe out…”

He takes in a shaky breath before exhaling through sobs but he continues to follow your guide. He wraps around you tightly, taking deep breaths in before releasing them. After a few minutes of steady breathing, he finally speaks.

“I relapsed yesterday.” 

He expects you to push him off and start screaming. He expects you to start yelling at him for not being able to control himself and for wasting all his progress. He reckons he deserves it. But you don’t do any of those things. 

“That’s okay,” you respond, squeezing his hand. “Have you talked to Meredith about it?”

Meredith Gray is a therapist you introduced Spencer to. She’s a good friend of yours and specialises in addictions as well as post traumatic stress disorder, and she even wrote her final thesis about it. Even though you work in different fields, the jobs cross over a lot when there’s speculation that a parent could be sick. After explaining the situation to her, Meredith was more than willing to take Spencer as a client.

Spencer shakes his head, the guilt creeping into his chest and lacing his words. “No… I have an appointment with her tomorrow though.”

“Okay, good,” you nod, continuing to rub soothing circles on his back. “Relapsing is normal. It’s just another step to healing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“But–”

“It’s normal,” you repeat firmly. “You acknowledged it, and you told me. That’s good, Spence, better than most people.”

He’s quiet, his nose brushing against the soft skin of your neck before he speaks again. “Did you know I’m scared of elevators?”

You can’t help but laugh at the change of conversation and you squeeze his hand. “No, I didn’t.”

“Morgan and I got caught in one the other day. On a case,” he muses. “On average, elevators are inspected once or twice a year, but some could go up to three years without inspection. There are approximately ten thousand elevator related injuries per year, and twenty seven deaths.” 

“Now I’m never going into an elevator again,” you respond with jest, poking his cheek. “It’s late. Take the bed, Walter.”

He huffs. “It’s your turn.”

“You need it more than me.”

“I’m not fragile.”

“I never said that you are.”

“(Y/N).”

You give him a pointed look. “Spencer.”

He stares at you for a moment, holding your gaze before he swallows and looks away. You watch the way his Adam Apple bobs in his throat and you suddenly feel faint. 

“Take the bed, Walter,” you repeat, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. “Please?”

He says your name again, and he reaches up to rest his fingers against the collar of your pyjamas. Your breath hitches and you can’t help the way your cheeks grow warm and your head starts to spin. His touch is gentle, his fingers brushing against the skin of your shoulder. You resist the urge to shudder as you relish his skin against yours.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, pleading, and his eyes glance from your collar to your eyes. 

“You hate sharing beds,” you remind him.

His thumb grazes against your jaw and his face is so close to yours you could count his eyelashes. If you didn’t know any better, you would have thought that he was going to kiss you. But you do know better, so you avert your gaze and push the thoughts out of your mind. An indescribable look flickers on his face but it is gone as quickly as it had appeared. 

“It’s okay if it’s you,” he says earnestly, and you find yourself agreeing because how could you say ‘no’ to that?

You climb into bed, one leg outside of the covers because everything felt so warm, especially with his arm wrapped around your middle and his breath against your shoulder. The thin line between platonic and romantic love has blurred indefinitely now, and at times like these you feel as if it has disappeared entirely. Guilt creeps into your veins as you feel him bring you closer to him, his nose buried into your shoulder. Is this considered coercing? He’s in the middle of healing, working towards sobriety, and here you are taking advantage of his vulnerability. Well, technically you’re not ‘taking advantage’ of him if he seeks you out first but it still feels inherently wrong. Morally wrong, maybe. 

It takes you another thirty minutes to fall asleep, your head rushing with thoughts and questions as you do. He’s gone when you wake up in the morning.

***

“Someone is looking happy,” Derek comments with a teasing grin, slinking an arm around Spencer’s neck. 

It has been about a week since the ‘sleep in the same bed’ incident and he was promptly whisked away to a case in Nevada. He felt guilty about the whole ordeal, considering he wasn’t in his right state of mind at the time. It still made him feel like a sleazy college student who had a one night stand with some random person and then bolted (even though there was no contact of that sort that night). Despite his initial guilt, his head is spinning with the sheer peace and comfort that he experienced when he was sleeping in the same bed as someone. And that someone was you! He could barely even believe it. It all felt so right and perfect… and the way you would shuffle closer at times… it was enough to get his heart racing (he thinks that it’s terribly cliche and horribly cringe-worthy, but therapy has told him that he needs to ‘embrace’ his gross sappy feelings).

“What? No– I mean yes but–”  Spencer coughs in response to Derek’s teasing, clutching the strap of his shoulder bag. 

Derek cackles at his fumbling, grinning ear to ear. “Alright, so… is it a girl?”

“What?!” He shrieks, his voice raising by two octaves as he does. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Oh so there is a girl,” Emily joins in with a smirk.

“There is– there is no girl,” he responds briskly, his cheeks burning in embarrassment.

Derek hums in thought, a mischievous look in his eye. “Did you catch up with Lila again?”

“No!” Spencer bristles at the thought. Ever since he almost destroyed his friendship with you over her, he hasn’t even bothered to give her a call. “I haven’t seen her since her since– since her case.”

“What about that girl you picked up at a bar?” Emily offers with a sly laugh. “What’s her name again?”

“Austin,” Spencer recalls instantly, his cheeks flaring up again as soon as she says her name. “B-but I haven’t spoken to her either!”

JJ rounds the corner, all too happy to join in the fun (much to Spencer’s chagrin). “I bet it’s (Y/N),” she says with a knowing smirk. 

Spencer considers his brain to be a well oiled machine of facts and logic. It’s one of the only things he could rely on– and the only thing people seem to respect him for. As of late, his ‘well oiled machine’ hasn’t been functioning as well as he would have liked, but that doesn’t mean it’s not functioning at almost full capacity. But JJ’s comment, no matter how well functioning his brain was, rendered him speechless. 

“Looks like you hit the nail on the head, JJ,” Derek cackles, clapping Spencer’s shoulder. 

He lets out a small grunt at the contact, almost stumbling over his feet before he catches himself. “There is nothing going on between (Y/N) and I. We’re just friends.” The words taste bitter on his tongue and he resists the urge to cringe.

“Sure,” Emily says with a short laugh. “Totally believe you. How long did it take for you to realise you’re in love with her?”

JJ snickers along. “Yeah, before or after you had that make out session with Lila?”

Spencer groans at their relentless teasing, covering his face with his hands as they walk along to the bullpen. They’re definitely a lot calmer once they enter their official place of work, but it still doesn’t stop the way they poke fun at him through sly smiles and tasteful words. 

“There’s nothing going on between us,” Spencer reiterates with a frown. “She knows just how difficult this job is; she doesn’t deserve to have to deal with it again.”

“Isn’t she the one who’s supposed to decide that?” Emily asks gently, no more teasing in her tone. She’s always been good at giving advice.

He pauses at that, a frown etched upon his features. His mind rushes with memories; the constant leaving, the torture, the trauma, the drugs… his fingers run through his hair. 

“It’s not a good time right now,” he explains softly.

“When will it ever?”

He doesn’t meet her gaze.“I don’t know.”

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full work

[joelsprettyprincess]

Run, Rabbit, Run

Pairing: low honor!Arthur Morgan x f!virgin!reader Summary: Arthur Morgan has done countless things for you. He decides that you owe him a big, fat favor. Tags: dub-con smut (reader is coaxed into sex), age gap (early 20s/mid-thirties), slight manipulation, oral sex, unprotected piv, dirty talk, pet names, slight daddy kink, corruption kink, loss of virginity, aftercare Wordcount: 4.2k A/N: I know I'm supposed to be working on my stalker Joel fic but I just had to get this out, Arthur is such a cutie pie I couldn't resist. All constructive criticism is appreciated and once again MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! Also @thoughts-of-bear I know you wanted to be tagged so here you go 🩷

"C'mere, baby. You see it?"

Arthur beckoned you closer to him. The two of you were hunched in the grass, hunting a particularly nimble deer. 

You crawled over to his broad, muscular form. He was pointing to where the deer was loitering and looking around. 

You and Arthur had been trailing this deer for a while now; it was healthy and big, and would make good food for the gang. But every time one of you got too close, it skittered away.

Hunting this deer was important to you. Ever since the Van Der Linde gang had taken you in, 6 months ago, you were desperate to prove your worth.

Arthur Morgan had saved your life on that fateful day. A couple of crazed thieves had ambushed you and your father on the way to a town near your run-down cottage. They'd demanded all your goods and your father refused, instead drawing his gun. A shootout occurred, leading to your father being killed– struck in the chest with a bullet.

The only reason you escaped with your life was because Arthur and Micah had happened to be in the same area. Hearing your screams for help, they'd ridden down the hill and saw the thieves handling you roughly, stripping you of your belongings as your father bled out just a few feet away.

Two more shots rang out, one from each of your saviors, and the men went down quickly.

"You alright, miss?" Arthur asked, though of course at the time you didn't know his name.

"I- no, my- please," you blubbered incoherently, gesturing at your father.

They went over to him, but he was already gone. The bullet had killed him instantly.

Micah and Arthur stayed in town for several days. They helped you report his body so he could get a proper funeral and possibly justice by the law. After the service, Arthur took you back to the bare cottage you had called home since your childhood.

You stood on the porch, profusely thanking him for everything he had done. "I really can't thank you enough," you said. "If it weren't for y'all, I'd be a goner..."

"'S no trouble," Arthur assured you. He put his black hat back on his head. "Anything else you need? Food, drink?"

"No, you've done so much already," you sighed. "Thank you. I really mean it."

He nodded. "I'm glad we could help. But if you don't need anythin' else, I'll be on my way."

"Alright. Thank you, Mr. Morgan!"

You watched him walk towards his horse, then turned back to your doorstep.

You put your hand on the doorknob, and immediately jerked it away. The knob felt cold to the touch, despite it being late spring. 

You discovered that you couldn't open the door. Not that it was locked— you physically couldn't open it. Your hand wouldn't turn.

Looking back, you saw Arthur loading his horse's satchel.

A lump formed in your throat. You swallowed it away, and tried to will yourself to open the door, to no avail.

You stood there for a second, then made a split decision.

Turning around, you ran back onto the road where Arthur was just starting to leave.

"Arthur!" you called, running as fast as you could in your dress. "Mr. Morgan, wait!"

Arthur looked back and saw you clutching your skirts. He slowed his horse and turned around, trotting back.

"Need somethin'?" he asked.

You hesitated, then nodded. "I...I want to come with you."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

"To your...group. I want to join...if that's okay with you?"

Arthur got a funny look on his face. "I...uh– look, darlin'," he began awkwardly. "That's not a good idea. I haven't been completely honest with you. Our group is more like a gang."

"A gang?" you asked confusedly. All he had told you was that he and Micah were part of a group that traveled all around the country.

He scratched his neck. "We do things that are...not quite legal."

What? "Wait, so you're...a criminal?"

He nodded.

You stood there, thinking. "So have you...never mind. Um...I still want to join."

This time both his brows shot up. "Really? Do you understand what you're askin', young lady?"

"Please, Mr. Morgan. I can't go back there...I can't go live in that house if my father isn't there with me. I don't have anything left 'cept my horse. Please let me come with you."

He sat on his saddle, thinking. Finally he muttered, "Fine. But it's not up to me. I'll take you up to the camp and you can ask Dutch."

You smiled and almost giggled when he said that. The prospect of experiencing a totally different life appealed to you as a way to heal from what had happened. 

Arthur sighed. "Alright. Get on your horse, darlin'."

And the rest was history. Dutch allowed you to stay, with Arthur as your unofficial guardian. 

He had to teach you almost everything. You'd worked as a bargirl since you became an adult, so the only thing you were really skilled at was putting drunkards out on their asses.

Well, that, and gardening. You loved to forage for herbs to use in recipes and medicine.

But everyone had to contribute. Arthur taught you how to shoot a gun first. You'd only ever shot your father's pistol a few times. He felt it wasn't appropriate for a lady to own a firearm, so you had never learned.

You and Arthur spent days just shooting at random things, working on your aim and grip. It had been a learning curve but eventually you mastered the basics.

He also showed you the ways of the gang. Most of the women took part in thievery and spying, not actual fighting. So you learned that, with Tilly serving as your guide.

And of course you were learning to hunt. Setting a trap was something you already knew, but it was slow and not as reliable as a proper weapon.

That was why the two of you had been trailing this particular deer for so long. You were determined to bring something to Pearson.

"We may have to try an' hit it from here," Arthur whispered. "Seems like it senses us from so far away."

You nodded and very slowly unsheathed your bow and arrow. This was your preferred weapon; it was whisper quiet and smooth.

Lining up the shot, you pointed the arrow straight at the deer's chest, breathing lightly.

"Easy," Arthur whispered. He was beside you, his breath ghosting over your ear. "Take your time."

You waited a second, then released the arrow. It sailed through the air, going straight towards the deer. It looked up at the last second, and by then it was too late. The arrow struck and the deer fell.

You gasped. "I did it! Finally!"

Both of you stood up. You skipped through the grassy turf to observe your kill, ecstatic at finally landing a clear shot.

It was a really good one. The arrow had struck almost dead center, ensuring the deer suffered for no more than a few seconds.

"You did good, sweetheart," Arthur praised you. "I'm proud."

You smiled and blushed at his approval. "Thanks," you said. "It was really you. If you hadn't taught me I would still be shit with a bow." 

He chuckled. "I'm flattered, but that was all you, baby. You've learned so much." He paused. "But you know what, I have been a big help, haven't I? You owe me a few favors, don't you?" He laughed loudly.

You laughed as well. "Probably, but I dunno how I'd pay you back. There's nothing you can't do for yourself."

He shrugged, grinning. "I can think of a couple things. I'll figure somethin' out."

You chuckled again, assuming he was joking. 

The two of you stowed the deer onto the back of Arthur's horse. 

"Listen, sweetheart," Arthur started, leaning against his horse. "It's getting a bit later in the day and the camp is quite a ride from here. Whaddya say we set up camp right here and set out in the mornin'?"

You looked up. The sun was well past its peak by now, and there were golden orange and pink hues in the horizon.

"Plus you'll get a break from all the jabberin' from everyone," he added, chuckling.

"That sounds great," you agreed. You had camped with Arthur a few times before. He was a good partner to have.

"Shit's settled then," he grunted. "Let's ride down to that creek to wash up, then we can start a fire somewhere." Arthur helped you onto your horse and patted your leg before getting on his own.

You spurred your horse, Desdemona, into action, and she set off behind Arthur's horse.

There was a deep creek (or maybe it was a shallow river?) a few minutes away, where you and Arthur scrubbed the blood and dirt off your arms while the horses drank.

You glanced at Arthur and saw that he was looking at your arms. "What?" you asked.

He shook his head. "Nothin'. Yer hands, they're just so...delicate."

You had never noticed before, but now you could see that compared to Arthur's large grizzled hands, you were really soft– not just physically but mentally.

"It's 'cause I'm useless," you joked. "Just like Pearson said."

He looked sharply. "Pearson said what?"

"Oh– nothing, just...well, it's nothing," you muttered.

"Tell me what he said," Arthur said firmly.

You hesitated, not wanting to be a snitch. "Well, he just said that I don't really contribute much...but I mean, he's right! I don't do much. That's why I wanted to hunt today."

Arthur didn't say anything for a bit, then he said in a low voice, "I'll have a talk with him."

You felt bad. "You don't have to."

He didn't answer, and instead stood up. "You ready?" 

You stood as well, finishing drying your hands on your cloth. "Yup."

Arthur got back on his horse and continued down the trail, with you following closely behind. Within a few minutes, he located a bit of flat dry land on which to set up camp.

The horses were hitched to a nearby tree and given their supper. You worked on lighting a fire while Arthur refilled your water containers.

Both of you had lunches packed, fortunately. Arthur said he wanted to leave the deer untouched until you got back to camp.

You sat on the grass and ate your sandwich. Arthur shared some of his jerky with you. He also offered you a sip of alcohol, which you accepted and almost immediately spit out.

The two of you spent some time at the fire, eating and looking at the slowly advancing sunset.

Without looking at you, Arthur took your hand in his and gently rubbed your knuckles.

You didn't think too much of it. He'd held your hand before and said it didn't mean anything, it was just a sign of your companionship.

Arthur was strange sometimes, you thought. Here he was appreciating a sunset, when just last week he'd stumbled into camp covered in blood– and only some of it was his.

You knew the reality of life in the Van Der Linde gang. The men made no attempt to hide their actions from you, least of all Arthur. In fact, you sometimes wondered if he sought out violence on purpose. The looks he gave you when came back from a long day of lawbreaking were...interesting, to say the least. Like a wolf observing a clueless rabbit.

But on the other hand, he was a man of hidden beauty. You'd found his journal soon after you arrived, and in the 10 seconds before he snatched it away, you read the words written in neat cursive and surprisingly good sketches.

He also sometimes went foraging with you, and seemed just as interested in the herbs as you were.

As for the handholding, you didn't know how to feel about it. He only did it when the others weren't around, and you knew it usually had romantic notions. But you knew it could have friendly notions as well.

Arthur Morgan was complicated, that was for sure. He made your thoughts jumble and your face heat up as you tried to piece together his psyche. He was handsome for sure, way more good-looking than anyone else in camp.

Still, though, you didn't think it was appropriate to explore those feelings. It was...weird. He was quite a bit older than you, after all, and your relationship was more of a teacher-student one.

Well, whatever your feelings were, you were certain he knew not to encourage them.

Deep down, he was a good man.

-

You had been watching the sunset for a few minutes when Arthur spoke in a low voice.

"Sweetheart, I've been thinkin'."

"Mhm?" you asked.

"About how you can repay me."

"Oh? I thought you were joking," you giggled.

He chuckled, then cleared his throat. "Well, I've done so much for you, I feel like you should do somethin' for me, yeah?"

"Yeah, I suppose so," you replied. "What do you want? Money?"

"Not quite." Arthur took your hand, still encased in his, and placed it between his thighs.

You felt something stiff but pliable pressing against your palm. "O-Oh," you said, heart pounding. 

"It's the least you could do," he said. "Are you...have you done this before?"

"...Yes," you whispered. "Twice. But...I don't..."

Arthur used his other hand to unbuckle his pants and pull them down a bit. He moved your hand to rest on his boxers.

"Arthur, I–"

"You owe me," he said. "All the times I covered your ass. Not to mention I saved your life."

Your pulse was quickening rapidly. You were getting a bit scared at his change of tone. "I don't think this is...appropriate," you spoke carefully. 

"Why not? We're both adults," he said flippantly.

"I just–"

"You can't do this one little thing for me, babydoll?" he asked. "It's not a big deal."

You stayed silent and thought about what to do. The only sound was the trees rustling.

Arthur slipped your fingers underneath his boxers. Your fingertips pressed against his groin.

You gasped and inadvertently jerked. 

Immediately, he was calming you. "Shh, s'okay, don't panic, baby. Just let it happen..."

You remained still as Arthur pulled down his boxers and let his half-hard cock spring out.

Your breath quickened. You weren't that experienced, but even you could tell he was big. It was just a bit longer than your hand length, and the girth looked almost scary.

Arthur could tell you were nervous. "Hey, it's okay, babydoll. Look at me."

You met his gaze. His normally bluish-green eyes had darkened.

"Is...is this...normal?" you asked confusedly. "I thought..." You trailed off uncertainly.

"Thought what, darlin'?" he prompted.

"I dunno. It feels weird..." You couldn't explain it.

"This is very normal, I promise you. Yer daddy tell you about what married folks do?"

"Not really," you admitted. "But I know some things. And...I did a little."

"Well then, you know how good it feels. 'S nothing to be afraid of. I'll be gentle, I promise. We don't even have to go all the way."

He placed your hand on his fat shaft and left it here. "Just use your hand, baby. Up and down."

You started off uncertain at first, giving tiny strokes, then Arthur intervened and showed you just how he liked it: a nice, fast stroke.

"Don't be shy, now," he said. 

After he removed his hand you tried to match the speed. This felt really weird. Although you did find Arthur attractive, you kind of had relegated it to a silly fantasy. A pipe dream. 

This was all just happening so fast.

He sighed and shifted closer to you, so your legs were pressed together. Then he said in a husky voice: "Put some spit on there, darlin'."

You hesitated and paused. "S..spit?"

He nodded. "Use yer mouth. You never did that before?"

"Just once... but is this okay? Will Dutch get mad?"

He laughed. "Dutch? He ain't got nothing to do with this. This is somethin' special just for the two of us. "

Arthur grasped your neck and pushed your face towards his stiff tip. When your mouth was inches away from it, he said, "Now just relax your mouth, don't use your teeth. Just use your tongue."

He pushed further until your lips were against his shaft. You parted them and allowed him to enter your mouth.

Arthur inhaled sharply and sighed. "That's right. Good girl...g'on and suck it..."

Only a few inches were in your mouth, but you already felt full. You struggled to swipe your tongue over it, and tried to suck it as best as you could. Horribly lewd noises came out of your mouth, and you were embarrassed.

Arthur roughly grasped your hair and pushed down, forcing more of his thick cock down your throat.

You made a noise and pulled away, gasping for breath. Arthur allowed you to breathe for a second before coaxing your mouth back onto his cock.

By this time it was early evening and the sun had almost completely disappeared. The first stars were appearing.

"Suck it good, just like that," Arthur moaned while you struggled to fit him in. You found it most comfortable to just suck the tip, but he clearly wanted more than that. After a minute, he was pushing your head down again.

You tried to lift your head but Arthur didn't let you. He rubbed your back. "Shh, s'okay, you're doing great," he whispered. "Just relax. Relax, babydoll."

You kept sucking and slurping with your tongue. It still felt weird, but it did feel good. Arthur smelled like the outdoors, which wasn't that bad.

"Keep using yer hand too," he reminded you.

The length that wasn't in your mouth was encased by your fingers. You moved them as much as you could.

You had this sudden need to please him. Actually, it wasn't sudden at all. You lived for Arthur's praise. Whenever he taught you something new, you tripped over your feet to prove yourself. It made your day when he said "good girl", or "I'm proud of you." 

It was the same here. Though you were still a bit apprehensive about this, your need to satisfy him overruled it. 

And he wasn't shy with the praise. Dirty words from his lips, his chest heaving in and out as you attacked his fat cock with your tongue.

Arthur started pushing and pulling your head, using you almost like an object. Your lips slid up and down his throbbing shaft and the speed of it made it difficult for you to focus on breathing.

He pushed and pushed until your mouth was almost pressed against the hair at the base. Holding it there, he muttered, "That's right. Choke on daddy's cock." 

You choked, and desperately tapped his leg and made noises before he finally let go.

You shot up off his cock, coughing and blinking. Drool ran out of your mouth.

"Ah...haah," you breathed, wiping off your lips. Did he really just call himself...?

"Good," he praised. "You're doin' so well for me, sweet girl."

Arthur stared at you, transfixed by the spit smeared around your lips and the bewildered look in your eye. 

He needed more.

Arthur gently maneuvered your body to lay on the blanket under you, then pulled up your skirts.

"Wh-what?!" you gasped. "I thought you weren't-"

He put a finger to your lips. "Shh, it's okay, baby, I promise. Just lay still."

You lay there as he pulled off your shoes and bloomers.

Arthur traced the outline of your cunt and you shuddered. 

"You ever been touched here before?" he asked.

You wordlessly shook your head.

He whistled lowly. "Good."

Arthur took his pants off completely and lay down on you– but his head was between your legs. He pulled your underwear off– the last layer. You shivered a little as the cool evening air hit your bareness. 

Using his hands, Arthur kept your legs spread and started using his tongue. You were completely shaken by the sudden pleasure blooming and cried out.

"Arthur–!" Your hands found his hair and grasped it, needing some sort of grounding.

He continued eating you out, sparing no pleasure. Your legs squeezed around him but his arms kept them spread.

You tried to moan quietly, but it felt too good. Your hips rocked against his face and grinded your cunt on his lips.

He added a finger, and it was like you'd died and ascended. You were seeing stars.

"Arthur, Arthur, please," you gasped, not even knowing what you were begging for. It was sinfully good.

"That's my good girl," he whispered, replacing his tongue with another finger. "Damn, you're a tight squeeze. Fuckin' creamin' all over daddy's fingers, ain't you?"

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you thought it was strange how he kept calling himself that, but you were too overwhelmed to care. Maybe you even kind of liked it.

"Yes...yes," you whined.

After just a couple more minutes, the pressure that had been building in your stomach was very quickly released, in the form of you reaching your peak and soaking his fingers and the blanket, crying out in ecstasy the whole time. Your own fingers shot down, encouraging your cunt to ride out the full orgasm.

After what felt like an hour, you finally opened your eyes to see Arthur smiling at you. 

"Never seen nothin' like that before, baby," he said huskily. "You sure you're a virgin?"

You giggled nervously. "I am."

"Hard time believing that," he remarked, wiping off his mouth. Then he shifted positions, so he was on his knees in front of your cunt, towering over you. His cock stood at the ready, still just as hard and leaking precum.

"You ready?" he asked.

"What- we're not done? There's more?" you gasped.

"Course there's more. I gotta get off too, don't I?" Arthur laughed. He tapped his tip against your still throbbing cunt.

You got scared again. "W-wait, Arthur, I don't think it's gonna fit- Ah!" 

Ignoring your words completely, Arthur pushed his cock into your soaked hole. You cried out at the stretch and the warmth. He was fucking big, much thicker than his fingers.

He coaxed in about half of it before pausing to breathe. Your eyes were tightly shut and you were gripping the blanket, breathing heavily. 

Arthur leaned down and gently kissed your lips.  He put his hands on your shoulders and slowly started thrusting in and out, enjoying the loud, creamy noises that were being produced.

If getting fingered was the pinnacle of pleasure, this was completely supernatural. You had no idea a person could feel like this.

It did hurt a bit, even with Arthur prepping you beforehand. He went slow enough at first, but he was impatient. Soon he was speeding up, desperate to feel every inch of your tight, warm hole.

Very quickly his cock was coated in your juices, allowing him to more easily fuck you. And this was definitely fucking, not making love. He growled lowly in your ear, nibbling on the lobe. 

The force of his thrusts made your breasts bounce up and down. One of his hands went down the front of your dress and fondled your breast.

"Good girl," he mumbled. "Good fuckin' girl. Gripping me so nice. So sweet...my special girl. Fuck...I never wanna leave this pussy. You're daddy's special cocksleeve, yeah? You want that?"

You whined desperately, arms scratching his broad back. Lucky he still had his shirt on, or he'd have scratches all over.

"Please, Arthur," you gasped, eyes rolling from pleasure. "I-I- mm–"

Another orgasm washed over you. You gripped his cock tight, milking it, barely letting him thrust in and out.

He chuckled. "Gripping me like that, you're fuckin' begging for me to fill you up. You want that, princess?" He slapped your face. "Dirty slut."

His sudden change of tone surprised you, but you couldn't say it didn't totally turn you on. But he'd reminded you of something.

Between moans you gasped, "What– about a, a baby?"

Arthur didn't answer, bent on reaching his climax.

"Arthur!" you cried, getting nervous.

"I'm close," he muttered. "Lay still, babygirl, lay still."

You were scared he was going to finish inside you. "Arthur, please! Please–"

"Fuck,"  he growled, pulling out at the last possible second. He was just barely able to scramble upwards before his cock twitched and he came, letting out thick spurts on your breasts.

Arthur grabbed your hand and you jerked him off together, both of your hands quickly stroking him. He let out a couple more thick ropes, which landed on your face.

Once he had let out the last of his cum, Arthur let your hand go and breathed heavily.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed. He grabbed a nearby cloth and used it to wipe your face off, then kissed you deeply.

You kissed him back, stroking his hair.

-

The two of you wiped down everything as best as you could, using damp cloths. 

You shared the tent that night, bodies pressed together.

"I love you," Arthur mumbled. "My special doll."

His hand found yours and squeezed it.

[k-nayee]

Wife to the Winds Epic: The Musical | ii

wc: 3.5k a/n: yeah I'm sorry y'all. I'm, a slow updater/editor. But I'm getting faster and better! Here's the animation for this part

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ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˏ⸉ˋ‿̩͙‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙.·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ .‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ‿̩̥̩‿̩̩̥͙̽‿̩͙ˊ⸊ˎ

recap

"You truly believe you can ensure my safe passage home? After everything?"

"With all my heart..."

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The salty tang of the sea clung to your hair as you followed Odysseus back to the creaking ships. The satchel against your hip jostled with every step, containing all of your life ever since the ambush of your village.

Midway through readying the ship for their long-awaited return, the men around fell silent as Odysseus approached.

Murmurs rippled through the crew as they watched their battle-scarred leader approach, a stranger by his side.

Reaching the center of the gathered crowd, Odysseus raised a hand for silence. A hush fell over, their gazes flitting between you and their captain.

"This one!" he boomed, aura carrying the authority of a seasoned leader, "is under my is under my protection. Do not lay hand upon her, show her the respect you may give to me."

Glances flicker towards you and stare intently, their faces etched with curiosity and a hint of something...more.

What it could be? You don't know, but you refuse to show it. Even riddled with fear and wary, you held your head high, posture radiating confidence.

That's when the whispers reached your ears: "A goddess, perhaps?" one muttered. "Sent to test us," another added, a hint of reverence lacing his voice.

'Wait...what?' You blink at this. Looking closer, you realize they are staring at you in awe, not lust.

You steal a peek at Odysseus, but his face remained impassive, any amusement he might've felt hidden.

'A goddess huh?' Your lips twitch, a snort of disbelief threating to escape your lips. Seems Odysseus initial shock towards you wasn't a one man reaction.

"Men!" attention is brought once more to the King of Ithaca.

"We have weathered storms. We have battled and sacrificed. Yet, victory lies within reach. Today," he brings a fist up to the heavens. "we begin our journey home!"

Cheers erupted from them, collective roars of relief and anticipation.

The rest of the day was a blur of activity: sails unfurled, oars readied for rowing—image of home ever the motivator.

Days bled into weeks, the endless blue horizon and rocking of the ship becoming your new normal.

The crew remained wary, interactions limited to curt greetings and exchanges. Your only solace came from occasional conversations with Odysseus and surprisingly, both Eurylochus and Polites.

Speaking of which, a tense discussion was brewing near the stern. Eurylochus, his weathered face etched with worry, was locked in a heated debate with the king.

"Six hundred mouths to feed," Eurylochus stressed, frustration coloring his voice, "and our supplies are dwindling! We may not make it far, we are running on fumes!"

Polites, ever the diplomat, step forth in hopes of calming the second in command. "We'll find a way, Eurylochus. Odysseus is a resourceful man—"

"Look!" Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by Odysseus himself, his gaze fixed on the sky.

You follow his line of sight, spotting a flurry of birds flying into the distance. Your brow raise at that, catching on to his proposal.  

"We watch where they go, and there we will hunt for food." Giving a firm nod, Eurylochus began giving new orders.

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

Hours had pass, soon the Sun going down leaving the stars and moon as your only source of light.

"Captain!" Polities' cry breaks you out of your daily/night inventory checkup. "There in the distance: I see a light faintly glowing."

You quickly stuff everything back into your bag, rushing over to stand next to the Greek warrior and see for yourself.

He turns and gives you a bright grin, lightly bouncing on his feet. "Maybe it's a village lighting a fire? Who knows! They might even share some food."

"No." Odysseus shakes his head. "No, somethings not right. I see fire...but there's no smoke."

Eurylochus scoffed. "Let's raid the place and be done with it!" he barked, his hunger overriding caution.

Odysseus narrowed his eyes. "No," he countered, his voice firm. "There must be another way, one that doesn't involve bloodshed."

"Captain you can't be serious, we don't know of the danger's ahead! A—"

"Just!...just give me until sunrise," Taking a glance at the awaiting crew, his voice lower in attempt to quell their bloodthirst knowing just speaking of potential fighting would set them off. "And if we don't return, burn this place to the ground."

Odysseus turns to Polities, gesturing towards the approaching island. "Polites, gear up. We'll scout ahead."

"Yes sir!"

"I'm coming with you!"

The mortal king's head snapped towards you, frown creasing his brow. "Absolutely not."

Your voice rose in protest. "B-but I can help! I'm a fast learner. My skills..."

"There will be no debate," he states, voice leaving no room for argument. "The men are weary. They need their rest. You will stay and watch over little Ajax."

Anger welled in your chest as your teeth gritted. You storm off, the sting of rejection burning in your eyes.

Being reduced to babysitting(once again) felt like an insult to your abilities. You couldn't help but pout in disappointment as you watch the two sail step off the ship, crossing your arms with a glare.

The rest of the night crawled by, the time made longer from your simmering resentment.

It was sunrise when Odysseus and Polities returned, their faces were painted with apprehension.

"We've been told of a cave with food in the east!" he said "enough to last us on our journey back to Ithaca, even extra to spare."

You perk up at the news as men were called to arms. Pushing your way into the forming group, you stand before Odysseus who releases a heavy sigh upon seeing your wide grin. 

"Perhaps I can help assess the situation? My knowledge of—"

"We have enough help," he holds up a hand, silencing you with narrowed eyes. "You stay here with Ajax. Guard duty."

You bite your tongue to keep your anger from saying something disrespectful.

Taking a deep breath, you clasp your hands in a pleading motion. "Please. Just let me help. I-I can gather herbs, o-or even tend wounds..."

"There'll be no wounds," Odysseus says curtly. "We'll be in and out, quick and quiet."

And with that, he and his newly gathered group of men began venturing east in search of food.

Though your fists clenched in fury, you knew better than to disobey Odysseus directly. Instead, you waited, a plan forming in your mind.

It was then upon spotting the ever-cautious Ithacan Eurylochus right as he prepares to leave and catch up with the main group, an idea sparks.

You quickly approach him in determined strides. "Eurylochus, there isn't any proper medical supplies on board. I'm sure the men will gain injuries on their quest for food. And for that, I will need to go and get more herbs." 

Eurylochus barely glanced in your direction, more focused on ensuring his weapons are tied on correctly as he gives a dry chuckle. "Injuries huh? I'm sure medicine won't be needed for a little wound."

"You sure about that?" Offput at the chilly tone of your voice, he looks up only to be taken aback at the emptiness of your gaze. "Even the mightiest of warriors have fallen, crossing the River Styx from a mere scrape."

A tremor of unease ran through Eurylochus. He cleared his throat, the bravado gone

"Alright," he conceded, "but if anything goes wrong..."

"There won't be anything wrong!" you assured him quickly, smile bright and innocent as if you hadn't just traumatized this man.

Gesturing two nearby men to come over, Eurylochus gives you one final look. "Now, I'm trusting you to get what you need and get out. This is Lycus and Alexander; they will watch over you, so stay close. Understood?"

You bobbed your head enthusiastically, already launching into a flurry of excited instructions for your temporary bodyguards.

Eurylochus couldn't help but shake his head and sigh as he turned to leave. "Gods...Odysseus is gonna kill me..."

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The moment your feet touched the shore, a thrill shot through you. The air hummed with an unfamiliar energy, and the vibrant foliage swaying in the gentle breeze.

Years of training under your mother's watchful eye kicked in: You recognized the landscape instantly—the lush vegetation, the specific types of trees—everything she taught echoing in your mind.

Unlike Odysseus and his men trampling path, or the impatient stomping of your guards, you carefully navigated the undergrowth with practiced grace; steps light and sure.

Awe filled you as you surveyed the diverse flora. You stopped every so often, meticulously collecting samples in your satchel, murmuring a silent thank you with each pluck.

A memory flickered from your childhood's countless foraging trips; your mother kneeling beside you in a sun-dappled meadow as her hand gently guides yours. "Plants are lives of their own...they are deserving of respect, as would any other being."

Too caught up in reminiscing the past, you miss it when your small group stumbled into a clearing.

It wasn't until you noticed the men behind you stopping themselves did you pay attention to your surroundings.

There, in the center of the area was a group of figures. Their faces were serene, eyes filled with an otherworldly light.

You couldn't help but look at them in awe, tales heard over the years could never measure up to the—

The sound of drawn weapons snap you out of it.

"W-wait!" you cry, darting forward and placing yourself between the armed men and the peaceful Lotus-eaters. "Lower your weapons! They mean no harm."

Lycus, a gruff soldier with a gnarly scar on his cheek to match, scoffs. "They could be a threat, best get rid of them while we can" he grumbles, grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Undeterred, you squared your shoulders and met his gaze.

"And as I said, they mean no harm. Pose no danger Look at them!" You gestured towards the Lotus-eaters, some of whom were staring at you with wide-eyes, others seemingly lost in a blissful daydream. "They wouldn't hurt a fly."

A tense silence hung in the air. The men exchanged uncertain glances, unsure of how to react.

 You pressed further, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Besides. I'm not moving, and Odysseus wouldn't be too happy if I got hurt...now would he?"

The mere mention of the formidable leader caused the men to flinch, images of Odysseus' fearsome wrath flashing in their minds.

Lycus grunts in defeat. "Fine." Reluctantly sheathing his weapon, Alexander follows suit in a mixture of annoyance and grudging acceptance.

The Lotus people seemed captivated by the scene unfolding before them. Their gaze remained transfixed on you, faces filled with a strange mix of curiosity and wonder.

You turn and offer them a warm smile, disarming the Lotus-eaters completely. Their gaze remained fixed on you, captivated not just by your courage and kindness, but also by your beauty. 

Unlike the warriors who had come earlier, bristling with aggression, you approached them with an open heart of respect and curiosity.

And they knew this...from the moment you stepped into the forest, you were being watched after all.

So watchful of those who arrived on their island, the Lotus-eaters had seen everything: your reverence for the plant life, your gentle touch as you collected herbs—it spoke all that was needed.

They felt—no, they knew your heart held no malice. So that's why they had no problem answering any question you asked.

Meanwhile, the men assigned to guard you grow bored from the lack of conflict. They began to talk to each other, attention drifting away from their assigned duty.

After all, you seemed perfectly safe surrounded by these serene beings.

Encouraged by your gentle demeanor, one of the Lotus-eaters hesitantly approach you. He's tall, a crown of woven leaves sitting on top of his curly-hair.

Shy and gentle eyes meet yours. A tranquil smile is etched on his face as he holds out a strange bulbous fruit within his cupped palms, its surface pulsating with an otherworldly glow.

You recognize it instantly for its legendary intoxicating properties, accepting the Lotus fruit with a grateful smile.

Knowing the dangers of the Lotus and its ability to induce a blissful forgetfulness, you carefully stow it away in your satchel.

The Lotus-eaters trill in content, their voices all speaking at once in a wave of pitches.

Straining to hear what they were saying, you slowly make out some of the words drifting through the air.

"...giant..." one voice rasped, low and conspiratorial. "...big as a mountain..." another chimed in.

You pause, a flicker of unease taking root in your stomach. 'Did I just hear that right?...'

"Excuse me," you began, your voice dropping to a hushed tone, "but I couldn't help but overhear something about a... giant?"

They eagerly nod, their excited chatter confirming your worst suspicions.

The Lotus-eater from earlier locks eyes with you. You sense a flicker of concern flash across his glazed eye before murky sereness takes place once more.

He spoke, voice deep and whimsy. "The one-eyed giant in the east? He owns most of the sheep,  calls himself Polyphemus..."

'Giant...sheep...cave...east...that means—' when the pieces clicked in your mind, dread coiled in your gut. Odysseus and his men...trapped with a monstrous cyclops?

This was a disaster.  You needed to get away, and fast.

Glancing at the warriors, still lost in their own world of boredom, a devious plan began to form in your mind.

You turn to the group of Lotus-eaters and lower your voice further.

"Listen," you began, urgency lacing your tone, "there's something really really important I need to get from the cave in the east."

You give a nudge towards the lounging duo guards. "Those men who came with me wouldn't understand. Plus they're not very nice...they've been nothing but mean and unhelpful!"

The Lotus-eaters exchanged glances. Even with their peaceful demeanor they could sense your worry.

"What do you want us to do?" the crowned Lotus-eater asked, his voice laced with alarm.

A large grin stretched across your face.

"Pretend to kidnap me!" you declared, barely able to contain a giggle. "Take me to the cave. There, I can handle the rest."

Their faces broke into wide smiles. Now this was a game they understood.

A Lotus-eater with eyes the color of the sky, clapped her hands in delight. "Oh that sounds fun!"

Before you could even blink, half of the group erupted in a playful ruckus of shouts and laughter; hurling small rocks branched leaves at the warriors.

The men sputtered in confusion as nearby plants and vines creeped down and snatched their weapons, leaving them flabbergasted and unarmed.

"What in Hades—" Alexander exclaims, eyes wide with confusion as his sword was yanked from his grasp by an unseen force.

Now for your part.

Taking a deep breath, you let out the most dramatic, exaggerated scream you could muster. "Help! Oh no! They are taking me! What ever shall I dooooo!"

The distracted guards turn in time to see the other half of the Lotus-eaters scoop you off the ground. You kicked your legs playfully, still crying out in mock distress. "No! Oh no! Let me go! Someone, save meeeeeee!"

As Lotus-eaters began moving to the cave, you grimace when realizing a little too late of your lack of fighting back and reaction to being taken. 'I hope they didn't see right through me. Probably should've acted a little more afraid.'

"H-hey!" You turn back to see Lycus' stressfully looking in your direction as he tries to dodge the sticks and stones, "They're kidnapping her!"

"We must save her!" Alexander chimed in, his panicked filled voice reaching your ears before you disappear into the foliage.

You blink in disbelief at their gullibility. 'Nevermind...'

════════════════*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*═════════════════

The further you were carried away from the clearing, the more the sounds of chaos faded into the background.

When you finally reached a safe distance, they gently set you down.

Once brushing off your clothes and looking around you immediately notice the Lotus-eaters brought you to the side of a mountain.

'Where's the cave...?' Confusion flickered across your at face as you try to understand why you where there instead.

Seeing your puzzled expression, the crowned-Lotus eater stepped forward with a gentle smile.

"We brought you to a secret passage," he explains softly, "It's a hidden way that leads to where the sheep are kept. The giant one may find you at the entrance, but this path is safe."

He gestures towards a cluster of branches and vines. Pushing them aside, he reveals a human-sized crack in the mountainside before letting dense foliage fall back over the cleverly concealed hole.

A warm smile spreading across your face at their concern and attempt for your safety. "Thank you!"

Leaning forward, you stand on your toes to place a soft kiss on the forehead of the crowned-Lotus eater who's been your main communicator of the time.

His cheeks flushed a deep scarlet red as he giggled, his companions joining in with flushed faces and shy smiles of their own.

"Good luck," he whimsically mutters, still blushing.

With a nod, you turned towards the secret passageway. Your heart pounds as you carefully push aside the branch and vines and squeezed through the opening.

The rough stone walls loomed around you as distant noises faintly echo in the background.

Air growing cooler and damper with each step as you ventured deeper inside, it wasn't until then did the faint sounds became clearer—multiple voices talking and sounds of sheep scuffling around. 

You pause at the edge of the cave, listening intently.

"Over here!" At the sound of Odysseus' commanding and calm voice, you immediately peek around the corner.

The first thing you're met with is an abundance of food and resources scattered all around: Jugs of wine stacked neatly against the walls, expensive cloths rich in color and texture, to even golden chalices and cups that gleamed in the torch-light cave.

And the sheep.

There were so many! So much, a few roaming ones were so close that you could feel the softness of their wool if you just reach out to tou—

Your nose scrunch up in disgust as a pungent wave of musk, grass, and a hint of manure hits you. 'Ugh...don't smell as cute as they look. That's for sure.'

Looking past the sheep, your body almost instinctively relaxed as you saw no signs of dead bodies or a murderous Cyclops.

Instead, you spotted the King of Ithaca standing alongside his 2nd of command and friend, onlooking as the other men got to work.

"Odysseus! Look at all this food...a-and all of these sheep!" Polites exclaims, you could even make out his bright smile all the way from here. "I can't believe it! This cave, it has all this for us to keep."

Eurylochus stood a few feet away, a begrudging nod of acceptance as he keep watch of the soldiers as they slaughter sheep and prepare to carry them to the ships. "I've gotta hand it to you both, this is quite the treat. More than enough sheep here to feed the entire fleet."

"Hmmm. I'm not sure. Looks too perfect, too good to be true." Odysseus seemed unconvinced. He shifted on his feet, glancing around as unease began seeping into his bones. "Why would the Lotus-eaters pass up on all this food?"

'Okay!' You take a step back, readying yourself for the potential scolding you most definitely were going to get for leaving the ship. 'You can do this...'

He sounds worried enough, so maybe he won't be too mad?

Taking a deep breath, you straighten you back and take a step out to greet the— 

"WHO ARE YOU?" A deep, rumbling voice echoes through the cave, making everyone freeze in their tracks.

Popping your head back around the corner, the blood drains from your face once you see the Cyclops.

Odysseus steps up with a confident smile. "Hey there! We're just travelers." He waves to the giant and motion to the others. "We come in peace."

The cyclops says nothing at first. He's monstrous, frame towering above so high you could barely make out his features—a single eye glowing menacingly in the darkness as it glared down at the Spartan warriors.

"YOU KILLED MY SHEEP. MY FAVORITE SHEEP. WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT TO DEAL A PAIN SO DEEP?"

You stumble back with a soft gasp and try to calm your racing heart. Your mind raced as you tried to figure out what to do.

"TIME TO DRINK—YOUR BLOOD OVER WHERE YOU STAND. YOUR LIFE NOW IS IN MY HAND."

Recalling the tales and stories of the cyclops' favored weapon (a massive club), you knew it was only a moment of time...

"BEFORE I'M DONE, YOU WILL LEARN THAT IT'S NOT SO FUN TO TAKE. YOU CAME TO MY HOME TO STEAL, BUT NOW YOU'LL BECOME MY MEAL."

Your hand flickered down to the weight in your satchel. With trembling fingers, you rummaged through it.

A Lotus fruit and bundle of dried Nepenthe and Poppy herbs are pulled out the bag, now in your hands. 'Please Gods....please. This has to work...'

"A TRADE, YOU SEE? TAKE FROM YOU LIKE YOU TOOK FROM ME."

[rebelliousstories]

Desperate Times and Desperate Measures

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by @infinityfandoms

Warnings: Fluff, Mentions of Fighting

Word Count: 1,505

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: She always said she would be about as useful as a wet paper bag in a fight. Good thing she never skips leg day.

Consider Donating: Here

“And who is this? I don’t think audiences have had the pleasure of meeting you yet.” The man in the red mask asked, looking at the woman behind Gambit. She looked up, startled at the sudden attention being brought to her.

“Um, hi.” She offered her name, but was still confused as to what was going on with these new people.

“Wait, wait, wait. You’re ‘The Druid’ aren’t you,” Deadpool gasped, “sparkle hands.”

“Sure, I guess if that’s how you want to know me. Haven’t heard anyone call me that in years.” She turned back to her bandages that she was wrapping back up. There were footsteps coming closer to her, but someone stopped them.

“Until I know whatcha gonna be doin’, ya ain’t gettin’ no closer.” Gambit snaps, charging a card near the red masked man.

“Oh, I’m not going to do anything to her. I’m a fan really. From one person with a regenerative healing factor to another, I applaud you, my dear.” Wade clapped his hands together and bowed dramatically. She giggled and set down the bandages, before walking over to Gambit.

“We’re alright, hun. He’s just being friendly.” With a hand on his chest, the man turned and caught her eyes. Letting the energy fizzle out and back into his body, Gambit wrapped an arm around her waist to tug her close.

Later that evening, as they prepared to go to bed in preparation of the big battle the next day, she was checking and double checking her stash. Different salves, elixirs, and dressings were being packed away in her satchel to take with her. As she was placing the last bottles and jars in, hands creeped across her waist and pulled her back into a firm chest.

“Neva’ gonna get tired of seein’ you work like dis, chere. Amazes me each and every time.” Remy drawled, pressing kisses to her neck while she leaned back.

“All to make you guys better, hun.” She replied, loving the feeling of his affections.

“Listen, when we in da lair tomorrow,” he began, “you gonna stay back righ’? Stay in da car?”

“Of course, I am. You know I can’t fight.” Her snort made the man smile as he pressed a kiss to her head.

“Good. Don’t want you gettin’ mixed up in all dat.”

Her hands came in front of them, and both of their attentions were on it. In a matter of a few seconds, a magnolia blossom was blooming from her palm. Taking it from one hand to the next, she passed it back to her lover. He held it to his nose, and breathed in deeply. The sweetest scent flooded his senses. Gambit tucked the flower into the top of his chest plate, right near his heart.

“Everything is gonna be alright, Remy. We’ll be fine.”

Those seem like famous last words now.

She was staying in the background. Behind the car because she was just not going to stay in an on fire car for anything. So far, no one had noticed her and that was just how she liked it. Keeping an eye on her boyfriend and friends, the chaos around them almost made her lose the line of sight.

An explosion next to her gained her attention, and made her squeak in surprise. Thankfully, she was still virtually hidden from the rest of the fighting going on. Locking eyes on Gambit’s coat once more, she was shocked to see someone sneaking up on his. Of course, all the fighting and shouting made the odds more optimal, but it was still an incredible task to do that to him. When he did not seem to be turning and looking at the attacker behind him anytime soon, she knew she had to do something. Looking around her, she tried to find something that would draw both Gambit’s attention to the attacker, and the attacker’s attention away from Gambit.

So she threw a shoe. Some random shoe that had gotten blown off of someone was what she picked up to throw. And somehow, it worked.

“Uh oh. We done messed up now.” She muttered, seeing the new set of eyes on hers. Taking off, she began weaving through the structure. But that man was close behind.

Gambit only noticed when he heard the sound of footsteps running behind him. A card blew up the spot that those feet had stood in the second prior. Taking a look around, he noticed that there was someone now chasing his girl all through the maze of bars that was Cassandra’s lair. Remy took off after the person, while trying to look ahead to see where she was going. Somehow, he remained just out of range for his cards to reach.

Ducking into a corner, she breathed heavily as she tried to catch her breath. A stitch was deep in her side, and her claves were beginning to cramp, but she couldn’t not stop now. Her life, Remy’s life, depended on it. All the noise around them meant that she would not be able to focus on the bad guy’s movements even if she wanted to. Poking her head out of her hole, she breathed a sigh of relief as she did not see him immediately. But that changed when, from the other end of the apparent hallway, he dropped down. She was trapped.

There was nothing that she could use as a weapon nearby, and her powers were defensive; not offensive. Breathing hard, she tried to steel herself against the awful smile that the man was now sporting. A cool metal bar was digging into her back. Her heart was speeding up. If she fell from this height, she would survive, but her bag would not and that was a greater travesty in her opinion. However, she did not have these thoughts long as a flash of magenta flew in front of her and sparked in front of the man.

“Ain’t ya momma eva’ teach ya how t’ treat a lady?” Remy was here. He shot a wink over his shoulder to her, before going after the man. His bo staff was out and charged, but for some reason it did not seem to be slowing this man down. Finally, he got close enough to stick a card to him, that promptly exploded. But as he walked away, this man just got back up and began to heal again.

Gambit groaned, and struck three cards to the ground, before running and grabbing his girlfriend from the railing. As they fell, an aftershock of the explosion knocked them in the air. He tucked her head into his chest, and cushioned their way down. Landing on the hard ground, both of them groaned as pain shot through their bodies.

“You good, chere?” Remy asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was inspecting her face as his hands ran over the rest of her body.

“Yeah. You?” She replied, doing the exact same thing to him.

“Don’ worry about ol’ Gambit now. Gambit’s fine. I want you to go dat little hole in the side over der and stay der till I come get you.” The man pressed a kiss to her head, a brief one to her lips before rolling them over so he was on top. Slipping a card out from his pocket, he flicked it towards someone coming near, before getting up and joining the fray once more.

Once she had caught her breath, she did exactly what Remy had instructed of her. The little cave that she had found herself in allowed her to keep an eye on everybody, but stayed out of the fighting. She knew where her strengths lie, and she was definitely going to be most useful after the fight. As she watched, her mind kept forming different recipes and mixtures that she could use to help.

The fighting slowed until there was just a few people left. As the group finished them off, she stepped out briefly to watch their two friends jump into the glowing circle and away from the Void. As they disappeared, she ran over to her boyfriend and their friends. He welcomed her with open arms, and breathed a sigh of relief as they stood there.

Taking an assessment on her friends, she immediately set to work dressing some of the injuries that they had but could not heal properly. She felt Remy pat her shoulder lovingly as she was wrapping a spot on Elektra’s back. Turning to him, he just drew her in closer before allowing her to tend to wounds he may have gotten. This was a well oiled machine that had been established over the years.

As they piled into the Honda Odyssey after, their journey home was quiet. They did not know if they were going to be able to go home, or if they were stuck there forever. But one thing was for certain; that shoe was going to live in her head for a while.

[gold-onthe-inside]

hamelin

who? spencer reid (s6/7) x mayor!reader summary: spencer's the first person you think to call when the kidnapper attacks your home. content warnings: animal gore, kissing (no smut) word count: 3.5k (a lot of stuff goes down, okay) a/n: part two to diplomat, ending is open ended (i couldn't decide what happens next and this fic is long enough already)

It’s late when you get back home from city hall, briefings from that day and agendas for tomorrow tucked under your arm and fumbling for your keys and finally unlocking your front door. You moved to switch the light on, dumping your folder and keys on the top of a cabinet and closed the door. There’s a relief that comes with closing the door, the version of you that is so carefully made up for the public eye shedding away.

You took off your heels, turning around to set them on the centre table in the lobby of the mayoral residence, when you let out a strangled scream — dozens of slain rats pooled in front of the staircase, your heart beating frenetically. Your heels clattered to the floor, shaky hands moving to call the first person that came to mind as you retreat back to your car, leaving your door open. Pick up, pick up, pick up—”

“Hello?”

“Someone’s broken in, there’s-there’s rats and blood everywhere,” you gush instantly, switching the cell phone between hands and tearing your car door open and slamming it behind you before locking yourself in.

"Can you stay where you are? I'm coming now- stay there-" he said, as he stood up abruptly, grabbing his coat and his satchel. "Prentiss-" He called out. "Can you come with me? I have to check on someone."

Meanwhile, you fumble quickly through your glove compartment, finding the handgun you carried, slotting the magazine in place and cocking it before sliding back in your seat, starting to wonder if you should’ve just called the chief of police instead. As the minutes tick by, you curse yourself for what you’ve done. You can imagine the questions that’ll get asked when this is over — why was he the first person you called? Why wasn’t the chief of police involved? More importantly, if you couldn’t keep yourself safe, how were you supposed to keep your city safe?

The tap on your window scares you, raising your gun into Spencer’s face at the shotgun window, and you let out a soft breath of relief, switching the safety on and releasing the magazine before putting it all back in your glove compartment. Agent Morgan stepped out of your house, along with Agent Hotchner, and as you get out of your car, Agent Prentiss holds the door open for you, closing it behind you.

“Are you okay?” she asked and you nodded, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

“I’ll be better once we find out who did this.” You looked back at your house, trying to ignore the sympathetic look Emily was giving you. You feel numb as Aaron explains the process to you, and you might as well be a child for all the power you wield — that forensics will need to take over the scene before they can do any actual profiling, that they need to do a cognitive interview.

“I'll need to speak with my office,” you manage to get out in as mature a voice as you can, considering. It's not like you haven't gotten death and assault threats before, what female politician didn't? But something about this felt different, it felt real.

Emily's grown up in your world, in the world of appearances and stiff backs and false smiles, so she convinces Aaron to take you back to city hall, let you get a handle on things before doing an interview.

Spencer watched you the entire time from the rear mirror of the car, the way you slipped into business mode on the drive to City Hall. It was all so foreign to him, the way you soldiered through this. He remembered a time when seeing a dead pigeon had made you tremble and he’d had to hold you in your arms and tell you everything was alright. It was a far cry from what he was seeing now, and for a moment, he even felt a slight disconnect.

He felt completely out of place from your life, watching you approve clothes for a press conference, your secretary directing hair and make-up to your office, listening to a speechwriter read out your statement for you and making amendments without a single tell that any of this was getting to you. At least, not until Mandy arrived.

“So, we’ll do the first one outside City Hall,” she began immediately, right behind you as you waved away the make-up artist, standing up to pay attention to your campaign manager. “Once the residence is cleared by the police, we’ll do a second one there. We also have a response prepared for a potential recall—”

“Recall?” you demanded, turning to look at Mandy. “We’re in the middle of the campaign.”

“They’re saying that public trust is gonna drop 13% by the end of tomorrow’s news cycle,” Mandy said, widening her arms helplessly. “Perry’s changed his entire campaign to be tougher on crime,” she said, looking at her clipboard, oblivious to the anxiety that was starting to overwhelm you as your hands fidget at your side — anxiety that Spencer was all too familiar with.

“Mandy, I think- I think she needs a minute-“ he spoke up, moving a little closer to you, but keeping his words gentle, not touching you. “I don’t think we need to overload her with all of this right now-“ his gaze flickered to yours, giving you an encouraging nod.

“We’ll deal with a potential recall after tonight’s conference,” you said, finding your centre of gravity in Spencer’s eyes. “I have a statement to revise.” Your speechwriter left the sheet on your desk with a sheepish smile before walking out, your stylists packing up to leave, and Mandy half-glaring at Spencer for obstructing her job twice now before leaving. The door clicked shut and you let out a breath of relief, sagging against your desk to pick up your cue cards while Spencer stepped forward, plucking them out of your hands. “Spence,” you protested but it melted under his look.

“You haven’t taken a minute to process what happened,” Spencer said, his voice gentle but insistent.

“I don’t have the time—”

“Then make the time,” Spencer said firmly, interrupting you swiftly and you pursed your lips at him. That hadn’t changed. “Your home was broken into and your floor was covered in dead rats, and you’re gonna go on like nothing happened?”

“This isn’t about me,” you replied patiently. “This is about the city needing to feel safe—”

“The city isn’t safe, and you telling them otherwise is… It’s patronising and it’s belittling their intelligence,” Spencer retorted and it was unfair because he was right.

“I can’t believe I’m taking political advice from a STEM major,” you muttered, moving to sit behind your desk and pull out a fresh sheet of paper.

“I can’t believe I’m giving it,” he pointed out, and he stepped around to the front of your desk, placing a hand atop yours, and sitting himself directly in front of you, forcing eye contact. “What do you need?” He looked at you, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

"Twenty minutes to write a new speech and a lot of coffee," you said.

“I’ve got you,” he said, and disappeared around the corner, reappearing a minute later with a pot of coffee and two mugs, and he poured one for you and one for him, setting it on the desk, just like old times. It was hard to concentrate with the smell of the coffee and Spencer’s cologne right in front of you, and you took a quick sip before setting the cup down and writing your speech.

You soldiered through your speech, putting on your best face, and Spencer pulled you away from Mandy who was trying to get you to take this threat of a recall seriously, setting you up in a secure hotel room instead. “You really don’t have to do this,” you said, sitting cross-legged by the foot of the bed as Spencer checked the windows were locked.

“We need to make sure you’re safe. If you go back home, there’s a stronger likelihood that he’ll come after you this time,” Spencer said, closing the curtains over the windows. “He’ll think you aren’t taking him seriously.”

“I don’t understand how he could just break in,” you said, rubbing your face tiredly, and Spencer pulled up a chair in front of you to sit down, face to face when you look up.

“Morgan and Rossi are looking into it, we’ll get you answers,” he assured you, pressing his hand to your knee and you sighed.

“What are the chances that this is connected to the missing kids?” you asked and Spencer frowned, retracting his hand.

“The working hypothesis was that a disgruntled parent might have done it, but leaving that many rats behind—” Just the mention of the creatures seemed to cause you pain, a wince crossing your expression at the memory of it. “—doesn’t seem plausible for just any parent to pull off. Was there anyone specifically angry at you?”

You chewed your bottom lip, shaking your head. “Not enough to do this. I was expecting getting tomatoes thrown at me or something.”

Spencer frowned. “Tomatoes is oddly specific,” he noted and you shrugged.

“I had these parents corner me after a council meeting, asking me why I was more focused on county fairs than looking for their kids,” you said, looking down at your hands and picking at your thumbnail. “I write policies and draft budgets. I can’t find a mass abductor, and people expect me to put more pressure on the police force as if they’re not doing everything they can. We can’t just close off an entire district forever. And the protocol says that after the first 24 hours…”

“For a regular child abduction,” Spencer told you. “This is different. He hijacked a school bus and abducted over 30 kids. It’s unprecedented, there’s no protocol for this.”

You swallowed before you looked at him, your expression cloudy and downcast. “I’m gonna lose my job,” you whispered, tears rimming your eyes and Spencer’s hands cupped your cheeks, thumbing the tears away like they had ten years ago.

“Hey, no, you’re not,” he insisted softly. “Noone’s done more for this city than you have.”

“Like that matters,” you muttered, wanting to cry some more but his hands were so warm and comforting that you just closed your eyes. “All Perry has to do is promise to deliver. I’m the one who has to actually do the work, and no matter what I do, I get criticized for it.”

“Well, then, they’re idiots,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. “You don’t wanna be a mayor of a town of idiots, do you?” he asked and you snorted gently, laughing as he shifted to sit next to you, and he felt you curl into him, so he rubs your arm, following his instincts.

“Thank you for being here,” you murmured into his chest, his woollen sweater vest warm against your cheek, your fingers playing with the hem of it.

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your hair, his hand on your arm stilling. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

“Sap,” you muttered, making him smile a little, one you can feel as he presses his lips to your hair. “You could’ve called,” you murmured, still playing with his sweater.

“I didn’t think I was allowed to,” he replied quietly. “You were so mad that night.”

“Ten years ago,” you reminded him, pulling away to look at him. “You thought I was gonna be mad at you forever?”

Spencer looked at his hands, long spindly fingers meant to lace through yours. “I didn’t have any evidence to believe otherwise.” He looked at you with those glassy hazel eyes that made you melt. “I screwed up,” he murmured. “But I was so afraid you’d look at me like everyone else.”

“Spence,” you whispered, shifting closer, knee pressing against his thigh. “There is more to a person’s character than their reputation, or their qualifications.” You cupped his face the way you used to, his cheek slightly rougher than before, and the briefest thought flickered across your mind — does he still kiss like he used to? You swatted it away, focusing on the conversation at hand. “There is so much more to you than your PhD.”

“PhDs,” he corrected quietly, and you snorted quietly.

“You got more of them?”

“Math, engineering, chemistry.”

“Does that make you Dr. Dr. Dr. Reid?” you asked and Spencer shook his head, your hand dropping to his lap.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Well, how else will people know you’re a multi-PhD holder?” you asked, teasing.

“Shut up,” he muttered, kissing you, his hands sweeping up to cup your face, holding your jaw like it belonged to him. You were wrong. He doesn’t kiss like he used to. Not tentative or hesitant, but confident and breath-stealing, each move precise and purposeful as he took pauses in just the right places to make you needier, smiling as you chased his lips greedily. His fingers threaded into your hair, like he still remembered how to drive you insane, still holding your face close to his as he pulled away for breath, feeling yours fan over his lips. “I wanted to do that all day,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours.

“I…” You had no words, opening your eyes to look at him, your head all cloudy and dazed and Spencer wanted to laugh, hands dropping to his lap. You, who had an argument for everything, the debate captain who always won, who had a retort armed at all times, had been struck speechless.

“Need a minute?” he asked, smirking and you wanted to hit him. You definitely wanted to kiss him. His smirk dropped as he saw concern flit across your face. “What is it?” he asked, starting to panic just a little. “Did I… No, I should’ve asked first—”

You shook your head. “No, well, I mean, yes, you could’ve asked first but that’s not…” You dropped your gaze, stopping yourself from taking his hand. “You’re leaving,” you said quietly and he frowned. “Once you find this guy… I won’t see you again,” you said matter-of-factly, blinking away the sting in your eyes.

“I… I can visit,” he offered lamely and you looked up, tilting your head at him.

“You won’t,” you said quietly. “And you shouldn’t. This part of your life ended ten years ago.”

“I don’t want it to,” he whispered.

“If your team hadn’t been called in to find these kids,” you asked softly, “would you have ever thought about me again?”

“Don’t say that,” Spencer insisted, taking your hand in his. I still love you, he thought. “We’re gonna find these kids, and this guy who’s harassing you, and… And we can figure this out too.”

Wishful thinking, you thought, but his hand felt so warm in yours, his heart on his sleeve, bleeding in front of you. You can’t dash his hopes, even though a part of you thinks he’ll be better off that way. “Okay,” you said instead, and his phone buzzed, forcing him to pull it out of his pocket and step away to answer Morgan. You can hear bits and pieces from Spencer’s side.

“Yeah, she’s with me… I already asked her, she doesn’t know… I can ask, yeah. If it is him, I’d rather stay here, make sure she’s safe… If there’s the slimmest chance that he comes here instead, I’m not taking the risk, Morgan.”

You rubbed your wrist, waiting for him to return. “Do you know a Perry Williams?” he asked, showing you a picture of the man, his voice on FBI mode and it creeped you out.

“Should I?” you asked, frowning.

“He used to be a pest controller, did work all over town, and he was at the school when it burned down four years ago,” Spencer said, slipping his hands in his pockets. “Right around where your first term started.”

You shook your head, frowning, not remembering the name or the face. “No, I don’t. But one of my first acts as mayor was to award the firefighters at the school,” you said. “I… I can’t remember their names either.”

Spencer said nothing, calling someone else instead, leaving you to twiddle your thumbs. “Garcia, can you look into firefighters associated with the school fire?” he asked and you were starting to feel restless, watching him work instead. “Huh,” he said, his expression puzzled. You watched him put the phone away again and turn to you. “Apparently, the firefighter you awarded implied to the press that the reason the fire got so bad was because of Williams, saying that the pesticide chemicals made the fire worse. When Williams recovered from his burns, that firefighter became his first victim.”

“What?” you asked. “Wh-How?”

“You don’t want to know,” Spencer said and you stood up to face him.

“Don’t tell me what I want or what I can’t handle, just tell me the truth,” you retorted firmly and he let out a breath.

“He was beaten to death in his own home and then set on fire,” Spencer said, watching you process that.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, running a hand through your hair.

“The records also said,” Spencer continued, slowly this time, measuring your reaction, “that he tried to get a meeting with you multiple times but he was denied.”

You stared at him. “So he kidnapped an entire schoolbus of kids?” you demanded. “Are you kidding me? Who does that?”

“It was multiple stressors piling on,” he said patiently. “He was recovering from his burns for the better part of a year, he lost his job, plus the separation from his wife, add that the city’s hero blames him for the fire, and the fact that he’s going unheard… so he did a drastic thing.”

“So now what?” you asked.

“The team’s checking his place, and any other locations he might go to, and hopefully, we’ll find him before morning.”

“Great,” you muttered, sitting back on the foot of the bed, hands grasping the edge, and Spencer knelt in front of you, placing a warm hand on your knee.

“We will find him,” he assured you. “Believe it or not, we’re very good at what we do.”

“Yeah, I know,” you murmured, tucking hair behind your ear, and looking down at him. A moment passed like that, just both of you looking at each other, different in so many ways, and in so many ways, still the same. Spencer wet his lips, getting up eventually.

“You should get some sleep,” he said and you frowned.

“Just me?”

“Well, I need to be up, in case anything changes,” he said and you narrowed your eyes at him.

“Or maybe you just want an excuse to watch me sleep,” you retorted, making him blush.

“What? No, I-I don’t want— I mean, I don’t—” He’s cut off by your little laugh and his attempt at a scowl came out more as a pout as he moved to sit beside you. “You’re mean,” he mumbled and you laced your fingers into his, raising it to kiss his knuckles, then pressing your interlocked hands to your chest.

You can’t sleep and he’s not supposed to, so you end up curled into his side, hand in hand, while he tells you what the last ten years have been like — about being recruited and abandoned by Gideon, meeting Derek who would become arguably his best friend (you narrowed your eyes at that, a flare of jealousy that he kisses away, reminding you of your place in his heart), and stories about cases. By 2am, he’s telling you all about Riley and how his dad had helped cover up the murder of his killer, all to protect his mom from having witnessed it, and you’re hanging onto every word, until his phone buzzes with a text.

Derek: We got him. Kids are all accounted for. Tell your girl.

“They found the kids,” Spencer said first, knowing that would bring you more relief than just telling you that they found Williams. He’s right, too, noticing how your eyes close and you take a deep, calm breath.

“Thank God,” you murmured.

“They’ve got Williams in custody too. You could probably go home in the morning,” Spencer continued, watching you nod, the tight coil in your chest unravelling.

“And you?” you asked, looking up at him, memorising his face now.

“What about me?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow, noting the huff that leaves your nose.

“When do you have to leave?”

“Under normal circumstances? We make sure the PD and the DA have enough to prosecute. Sometimes they don’t have enough evidence, so we stick around for a confession, but otherwise, we leave when the jet’s available.”

You nodded stiffly, lips pressed together. “This isn’t normal circumstances, though,” Spencer continued and you glanced at him.

“It’s not?”

He looked at you with a kind of fondness that you’ve only ever associated with him. “Normal circumstances don’t include you.”