#what do you do if someone is a sociopath?

[adrianastrix]

Reblogging only to add that - yes, ALL THE YES to giving voice to marginalized people in times that they were silenced or just not recorded.

But I think it's also important that either white guilt or people cynically trying to "cater to the woke" don't erase the fact that white/male/cis/straight people weren't just bigoted villains or silent bystanders troughout all History. Allyship, however imperfect, always existed, and without it, things would have been even harder and more unfair to most causes.

The fact that Engels' burgeoise riches paid for Marx's books isn't a "gotcha" moment against communism, for instance, just a reminder that you CAN use the tools that your privilege gives you to work against that privilege. You can use your platform to raise someone else even higher.

Narcisistic and/or sociopathic people might not fathom why you would use your influence to tell people to be less influenced by you, but remember that the more heads were involved in a decision, the more hands you will have to fix things when they go sideways (and they WILL). The charismatic leader now is always the perfect scapegoat later.

You don't have to be a genius ahead of your time to notice this and have a "wait, who elected me as the babysitter 'guardian' of a woman's honour and best interests? I can barely make such decisions for myself!" moment. Or a "why SHOULD I care about how people present at or what they do in bed again??" moment. Or a "that person is basically me with a different skin/accent, why are we fighting/enslaving them like it's nothing??" moment. And suddenly, a can of worms is open and the worms will never fit in again.

(DISCLAIMER: I will say that again just in case, discussing allyship and bringing out historical allies' lives and feats into spotlight ISN'T the same as giving voice to the marginalized groups, it definitely DOESN'T count as representation.

I just feel that people should learn with their ancestors that recognizing you have a privilege doesn't mean you have to defend it at all costs or live in constant fear that you will be just as hated as people create and mantain this unfair state of things. You can use it to help making things right. And it might mean that your effort won't be recognized in life, since most of the marginalized people will understandably be wary of you and the privileged people will consider you a taitor. But you will be making a difference, you will be inspiring the change you desire and you will be making meaningful connections to the people you are helpig, if only locally and secretly.

And that certainty is enough of a reward. No one should do what is right expecting adulation of the masses.)

Genuinely 90% of historical fiction would be so much better if more writers could get more comfortable with the fact that to create a good story set in a different time period you do actually have to give the characters beliefs & values which reflect that time period

[dickgraysonsptsd]

#honestly I’m even sick of the way people always qualify liking her work by acknowledging every little off color thing that made it in when #she’s never done anything half as objectionable as war games #Devin Grayson was—in fact—one of the people who objected to the treatment of female characters and characters of color in war games! #but do people on here even know what happened to Orpheus in war games?? do they know who that is??? #do they care about Winnick fridging Onyx in UTRH or know who Onyx is????? #where is any of this treatment being aimed at men?? #it’s nowhere so forgive me if I assume everyone who apes on Grayson is working backwards from the fact that she’s a woman (@fredricwertham)

yea i personally have never felt like i need to say "i love nightwing as a character and tntt as a comic BUT i acknowledge marv wolfman wrote a 15 y/o girl as a sociopath fully responsible for an adult man statutorily raping her" in the way i feel like i need to qualify even the most remote mention of liking devin grayson's writing and her impact on dc. the assumption made of people who like grayson's writing is that you are pro-racism and pro-rape* until you establish otherwise and that is nuts! why is this true of her and of no male dc writer when male dc writers have consistently done way, way worse?

i get why people DO qualify liking her work because i've already seen someone on my dash this morning get yelled at by a total stranger for talking about her WITHOUT that qualification. but oh my god pleeeease let 2025 be the year where we can all just say "yeah i love devin grayson's run on nightwing" without a fifteen paragraph disclaimer attached... please god i want to breathe fresh clean mountain air and talk about how good her gotham knights was

*this is insane btw. absolutely bonkers batshit wacko crazy that so many people are to this day eager to allege that she's pro-sa because she wrote a serious dark sa arc. actual floridian book banning mother dialogue.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

How do you think Carlisle would react to someone who genuinely hated him? Like, the gift you and Vinelle say he might have to explain why people like him so much just does not work on this person and they couldn't stand him, for... admittedly fair reasons.

Look, I like Carlisle. But, you gotta admit, he does do things that would make someone go, "wait, what".

Like, letting his coven go to high school even though some of them have terrible control and one slip up would mean a building full of slaughtered children.

Or that he is friends all across the globe with unrepentant serial killers, and his best friend is the ruler of the serial killers.

That he just let Edward go off and have his human drinking phase.

And lastly, the fact he is in such deep denial over the truth that his coven is made up of sociopathic, obnoxious assholes.

Anon, that's Caius.

Caius does canonically try to kill the man and his entire family because they *might* become a threat, and is generally disparaging on all accounts. I wouldn't label it hate, personally, but it's at the very least a vehemently strong dislike.

And everything you list out is absolutely something Caius would say to Carlisle's face.

Carlisle gets by though is very upset and leery over the fact that this guy did just try to murder his family (possibly in conjunction with all three of the Volturi). But that doesn't come to a head until Breaking Dawn at which point we have the "ah ha ha ha ha ha witnesses, please don't murder us all" plan.

Before Eclipse, while we don't really see, Carlisle doesn't seem to give a fuck about the fact that Caius doesn't like him. Rightly so, the man's not really a part of his life.

I'm also laughing because, while this is by all accounts a stan blog, I absolutely agree that Carlisle's ridiculous and that there's many valid reasons to hate the man and that being in such deep denial is hardly a good thing.

The man has deep flaws with lethal consequences.

[sundewhasaudhd]

Hey moots, I’m gonna be drawing and posting my 200/300 followers DTIYS Friday (I can’t do it tomorrow cause of Thanksgiving), and I’m torn on what to make it. So…

Tagging all my moots cause I what yall to have an input

@rantapes @barzfrommarz @myaminecraft @m-llohi @dukingadorablez

@kristinafandit @rxccoonboo @lovelielaurel @inktasticmagic @alchemicalwerewolf

@a-sociopath-do-your-research @hearts4lilith @kyuummie @anon-h3art @plaguethewaters

@rae-unbeloved @marurumai @fotcollective @justonebitebaby @themusicalsystem

@silverwaredrawersys @schnozzlebozzle @aninkidumbass @donatellofanyeee @hopalongfairywren

@kate-the-spaghetti @piizgaxw @zorishy @stormzi13 @board-key

@loneycorner @becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot @hammyham-o-o @froggiesir @cupidl0vesy0u

@averagetmntfan @bugr0t @reiimicxii @helpicant-stop @vidrissaponem

@mon-moonfae @dotted-ink @dottina-craves @areslikestodraw @veryobsessedchild

@random---ghost @tinyattack09 @musicalfan78 @chuffycharles @xec0re

@nato-obenkrieger @legallypawsome @iiloveethesmiiths @ihavemadgiganticfeelings @mountaindewgay

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@aroace-elgyem @antitheticaldreamgirl444 @razz0rblade @atmonie @nevadasstarss

@ender-of-the-sender @pavl-art @wigglyobsessedweirdo @sunshine-embry @zyrtecbrainrot

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@possibly-evil @goobiegoo3000 @richielipschitzaot @sleepycloudi @iliveinyourfridge67

@imasillygooose @julia-writes-things @theflatpancakes @nerdyratz @violyet

@tobytheeggo @aaaaaa-musical-trash @thinkingabouttheimplications @biologyologyy @python-nebula

@hunkaliciousjay @cubescop @despairdoodlesreal @corviddionysus777 @multi-fandomdisaster

@ella-ashmore @doodle-bug-nightmares @divukuri @eli-am-confused @thegirlwholikesmusicals

@paranormaltheatrekid @extralargechips @literal-monster21 @4rielle @inkwell-illustrations

@thesouthernsocialist @frongle444

[cassianandfenrysaremyboyos]

I'm sorry but this just pisses me off (Not Hunt obviously, but Bryce)

Bryce rant incoming which you can just ignore and I'll probably delete later

But Bryce just puts all the blame on the Asteri. And yes ultimately they are to blame in the larger sense of things. But Bryce plays a direct role in leading them down the path that results in Hunt, Ruhn and Baxian being caught. It was her need to find out Danika's secrets with no thought to the consequences, her idea to go to the Eternal City. And she takes NO personal responsibility for it at all!

Hunt is blaming himself for everything that's happened. Even when it's not his fault at all. When we're in his pov he's constantly drowning in guilt, thinking about how he should of done more, he should of tried harder, he should of been better, how it's all his fault this happened and that his friends suffered.

And then Bryce does none of that. When we're in her pov she doesn't really show any major guilt. I can't think of any times when she blames herself like Hunt does. And I'm not saying she should be wracked with guilt. But a normal person, a good person, will usually feel bad and will feel guilty and blame themselves to some degree when something bad happens and people they care about are hurt, regardless of how big or small they're involvement is, or even if they're not at fault at all, case in point Hunt being wracked with guilt even when it's not his fault.

And to make it worse she acknowledges that Hunt warned them, warned her. But that she disregarded it and would of done it no matter what.

And then she has the audicity to say she doesn't regret it. And she thought they were on the same page. ON THE SAME PAGE!!?? Hunt made it clear in hosab that he didn't want to go down this road again, that he didn't want to get involved. YOU just didn't listen Bryce. And yeah Hunt's an adult, he can make his own decisions and he could of said no and not gone. But of course, OF COURSE!! he wasn't going to let Bryce go down that road alone, because he loves her, and doesn't want anything to happen to her, and wants to protect, so of course he would never desert her. But that doesn't mean he wanted to do it!

For Bryce to be that unaware of Hunt's feelings, when he explicitly stated them. For her to be that disconnected from her mate's feelings that she's surprised that he wasn't really on board is kinda unfathomable to me. Just that complete lack of awareness really does make her look quite selfish/self centered.

Anyway sorry, this post is a mess but I just had to vent

And then when Hunt mentions the consequences he and his friends faced, Bryce makes it about her pain. She's hurt that Hunt mentioned that they suffered. And the worst part is, Hunt then regret's it, he regrets saying something that hurts Bryce, because he cares about her and feelings. And she does not consider his feelings to the same degree

It just pisses me off

[girlivealwaysbean]

spending my whole life trying and trying and trying and trying to be good enough for people who don't give a fuck about me

[sebdoesthings]

I'm not neurotypical enough for "hey how are you?" Or "everything alright?" Like if you got grievances then just spill it, otherwise we'll go ahead with regular programming and i'll tell you about this thing i'm obsessed with

[neverendingford]

.

[homeworkreminder]

If you're a licensed therapist and make tiktok or reels or shorts or whatever talking about trauma recovery and specifically painting all abusers as narcissists and tagging your posts as npd, I believe your license should be revoked and you should be not allowed the chance to practice in any type of medical field, or any field that requires professionalism.

[stelashe]

I went on Twitter for a second and I was immediately flooded by human cruelty. Twitter is not bad because of musk or right wingers it's bad because it's full of awful people. I don't believe that irl these people are good and the Internet turns them into hulk, it's what they are.

In this order I read: people wishing rape to a woman bc she voted for trump, a doctor talking about private shit of a patient, people doxxing and harassing someone over an opinion, virtual mobs against some celebrity, casual bullying over someone like it's whatever and adults grown ass people being mean and rude to strangers. I felt so much anger but then I thought this makes me wanna be kind. I can't stop these dickheads, we can't always just fight and with what the void?y all I can do is be kind and make it my resistance. Fuck it all, I'll ignore them and I'll be a good person instead. Online and off. At least I'll try cause I refuse to be like them.

[serial-unaliver]

there was a tiktok I made a while ago basically saying "your abusive ex boyfriend is more likely a misogynist than a narcissist" and while most people agreed some said I was victim blaming(?) and that I couldn't know what their ex is like, and while obviously I don't, every fucking person describing their narcissistic ex is describing a typical misogynist. ask yourself, is this behavior you associate with narcissism directed at women or does he treat his male friends the same way? is his general functioning in life impaired?

many people don't seem to know this, but a mental disorder is NOT based on symptoms alone, it's based on how much the symptoms actually impair you in daily life. most people could look at a list of mental disorder symptoms and identify either themselves or someone else with them. as far as a narcissistic personality, we all know people who appear more self absorbed than others, but this is typically subclinical narcissism (presence of narcissistic traits without significant impairment of functioning) which is not a disorder. there is also a misunderstanding of what npd is. a narcissist is not a supervillain invincible to emotion. npd is a defensive reaction to trauma that lead to deep insecurity and fear of being seen as weak or vulnerable. so narcissists aren't actually "in love with themselves" at all and often are diagnosed when seeking help for other issues such as substance abuse resulting from their struggles.

this focus a lot of abused women in online pop psychology have on narcissism is particularly concerning because it completely glosses over misogyny which is literally a huge factor in violence against women. people really only know misogyny as a surface level thing. they don't know it can lead to family annihilation, for example, and is one reason most family annihilations are committed by the husband. it's always "this man is a sociopath" "this man is a narcissist" when the man's behavior is driven by ideology. I am so fucking tired of everything being tied to mental illness and left at that. you know what this leads to? courts "fixing" abusive men by...giving them anger management therapy. guess what? it doesn't fucking do anything because the problem isn't mental instability leading to anger, it's targeted, purposeful abuse. we are getting nowhere

[truelovescamrecovery]

Narcissist? Sociopath? What...?

Narc, narcissist, sociopath, psychopath. Call them whatever you like, as long as you truly know what you're facing and what that means.

Narcissist or sociopath? Sociopath or narcissist..? Or just narcissistic? Please… know what you’re truly facing. Narcissist or sociopath…? There’s a feeling for many people that a “narcissist” isn’t a sociopath. The category of NPD is thought by lots of people to be different and “better” – meaning not as bad as a sociopath. It’s normal to hope that someone is not “as bad” as something that’s…

[genshinarchives]

Cyno, Al-Haitham, Kaveh, Tighnari / gender-neutral reader.

Synopsis: Cyno's, Kaveh's and Tighnari's reactions to Al-Haitham introducing you as his partner.

Cyno looked at Al-Haitham, then at you as if he was making a detailed analysis of your characters inside his head. While he normally wouldn't butt into other people's love affairs, he couldn't help but internally question your choice of partner.

Of all the people you could have dated in Sumeru, you chose the Scribe? Al-Haitham has zero dating experience, is a chronic bookworm and probably a sociopath deep inside. Cyno was positive that he wouldn't hesitate to abandon you for a measly book about communicating with cats if it ever came to that.

Nu-uh. Al-Haitham doesn't deserve someone like you.

"I think you should break up with him, (y/n)," he bluntly said as he shuffled the deck of cards.

"Cyno, I'm right here."

Kaveh was flabbergasted. Gobsmacked. Stupefied. Bamboozled.

If The Scream existed in Teyvat, that's what Kaveh looked like at the moment.

Since when was Al-Haitham dating you? He doesn't even look like the type to be romantically interested in someone!

Dropping his glass of wine, the architect staggered over to you and clamped his hands down on your shoulders with a disturbed look, beads of cold sweat rolling down his forehead.

There has to be a logical reason behind you, the sweetest angel in Teyvat, dating his sociopathic roommate.

"Are you being threatened?" he asked, puzzling you, "Or... do you have Stockholm Syndrome?" His mind was a whirlpool of unlikely hypotheses, and you swear you could see the spirals in his eyes. "If you need help, you can always come to me."

"Oi."

Tighnari laughed at the news and patted your shoulder as he congratulated the two of you. He knew that Al-Haitham had been secretly crushing on you for the past six months, and was glad that the Scribe actually took his advice after the latter sent him countless letters asking for tips on courting you, including letters detailing how he screwed up pathetically on some attempts.

What is he, a love counsellor?

Tighnari let out a muted sigh, shaking his head at Cyno and Kaveh badmouthing Al-Haitham to you right in front of the man himself, who looked less than pleased by his friends' behaviour.

Although he's happy to see you and Al-Haitham together...

His smile suddenly became strained.

He definitely thought that you could do better than this.

Taglist: @coco-goat-milk / @m3gitsune / @melkxsh / @irethepotato / @frostines-blog / @xphantasmagoriax / @crunchy-princeles / @nanamisflowerfield / @dulcetamore / @beowlet-spam / @sinnyrants / @chuusposts / @austrae / @chocogi / @angelkazusstuff / @flowwerpot / @mintydump / @kiraisastay / @niktwazny303 /

[gremlingottoosilly]

Wifey!Reader trying to surprise visit him at work only to witness how Pushover!König is like at work

You stare at your soft, kind, a bit of a weak husband as he slams the recruit's body to the ground and stomps on them. Twice. Screamed a bit for good measure and then hauled other recruits to get them to the hospital before he got some other lazy ass out in a chair. The recruit missed the training one time and was a bit snarky about it. You're not sure what you were expecting when you married him. A colonel from a mercenary organization is as socially inept as those people can be. You're basically his only social link, barely holding on to dear life as you were trying to convince him to be just a bit less sociopathic. You thought he'd be...fine. Somewhat. A little bit more adjusted than usual. You were not expecting him to yell at someone like that. To know so many ways of belittling someone. And also look hot doing it. Konig, of course, is terrified when he finds out you are here, looking at him like a deer stuck in headlights. He made sure to keep his professional and personal life separate - to always make sure you are getting the best version of him he can give to you. Now, of course, it's kinda pointless. You know this crazed look of his, the cold steel of his eyes as he looked at you, his triumph slowly melting into shock...and you were so fucking aroused it made your stomach twist. A mix of panic and pleasure, your silent desire for him to be the one standing over you, toying with your helpless body as if you were nothing but his helpless little pet. You made sure to ask him to be a bit rougher in bed after this one time. Maybe manhandled you a bit, some dirty words thrown in your direction as you imagined him taking you a bit more forcefully. Your poor soft husband will have to take his work attitude again...and it's not like he doesn't enjoy it.

[pathologicalreid]

prisoner | s.r.

in which you and Spencer conduct a custodial interview with a serial killer - Spencer's first since he was released

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: post prison reid, fwb but also mutual pining, serial killers, prison, panic attack, chiromancy word count: 3.66k a/n: i originally came up with this idea in 2023 😭 😭 it's about time i finished it lol. definitely suffers from exposition overload but i don't caaaaare.

Fourteen times.

You had asked him fourteen times if he thought he was going to be okay doing the custodial interview. No one else was available to do it, but you still had your reservations. Sending Spencer to a prison felt wrong, even if he wasn’t on the inside of the bars anymore.

Without telling him the reason, Emily elected to send you with him to the facility, she said it was because you had never done one before, but you knew it was deeper than that. “How many victims?” You asked, not taking your eyes off the road as you drove to the destination.

“Eight,” Spencer answered, looking through the case file. The killer had asked for the interview, hoping to be transferred to a minimum-security facility. The odds weren’t good, but you needed to oblige the request even if it wouldn’t prove successful.

You hummed, turning down the road, you pulled up to the security station. Presenting your credentials to the guard, he lifted the gate for you, and you found your reserved parking. “Do you want to take the lead?” You asked him, trying to gauge how he was doing.

Nodding, Spencer got out of the SUV. You shut off the engine and followed suit. “Unless it doesn’t seem like he’s responding to me, I’d rather not present him with someone who fits in with his victim pool.”

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you said sardonically, grabbing your bag from the backseat before locking the car and following Spencer inside.

The two of you went through security, locking up your weapons and going through metal detectors. It wasn’t until you went inside the first gate that you noticed it; Spencer was fiddling with the belt loop of his slacks. “I can feel you staring,” he whispered so only you could hear. You watched his posture relax when the gate buzzed and opened in front of him.

You smiled softly, “I can see you fidgeting,” you responded. At work, the two of you were merely coworkers who knew each other really well, so you couldn’t just reach out and take his hand. Not that you’d want to, in a prison full of serial killers.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, implying that he wasn’t right now. The smile fell off your face as the two of you followed the guard into the warden’s office.

At the sight of you, the warden stood and smiled, “You must be Agents Y/L/N and Reid, thank you for making the trip down here.”

Raising your eyebrows, you reach out your hand for the warden to shake, “He’s Dr. Reid, actually.” You corrected, seeing as Spencer didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Ah, my apologies, Dr. Reid,” he responded kindly, gesturing for the two of you to follow him.

Spencer gently brushed your hand as you followed the warden. It was so subtle that someone else could’ve brushed it off as an accident, but Spencer Reid never did anything without purpose.

“Marshal Lukins is the most prolific killer we’ve had in my time here, we aren’t expecting anything to come of this, but you know as well as I do that we have to humor the psychos,” Warden McCall told you, stopping in front of a gate and calling out for it to be opened.

You raised your eyebrows, deciding against telling the warden that Lukins profiled as a sociopath, not a psychopath. “How’s his behavior been here?”

The warden shrugged, “He won’t be winning any merit badges any time soon, that’s for sure. Spends most of his time in solitary, really.”

“His file said he had gotten into an altercation with another prisoner, what was that about?” Spencer asked.

McCall cleared his throat, “turf war. You know, prison gangs can get rowdy. Especially when they find out the feds are coming.”

You raised your eyebrows, grateful you couldn’t see Spencer’s expression. “Oh, yeah,” he said quietly.

Then you were in front of a serial killer, someone who had been put away years ago, but the way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. “Marshal Lukins?” You confirmed.

“Why hello, pretty lady,” Lukins responded, rising from the chair. His legs were chained to the ground, but his hands were free.

Behind you, Spencer cleared his throat, “Sit down,” he ordered. Taking a tone of authority that you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from him.

Taking your seat across from Lukins, you looked him in the eyes, “You may call me Agent Y/L/N.” 

Your interviewee shrugged, “I’ll call you whatever I want in my mind later.”

Ignoring the hairs that stood up on the back of your neck, you rolled your eyes at the skeevy pervert. “If you want to be transferred, you’re not making a very good first impression,” Spencer intervened, likely aware of your discomfort.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first criminal to make a pass at you, and in your line of work, it likely wouldn’t be the last.

“I’m not much worried about first impressions, people usually have a first opinion about me before they even hear my voice,” he responded, leaning back in the chair.

You had to bite your tongue to stop yourself from responding, yeah, that happens when you murder eight women. “What would you rather our opinion of you be? That you’re misunderstood? Did you find god in prison, Marshal?” You asked him.

He leaned over the table ever so slightly, yellowed teeth flashing beneath the fluorescent light that hung above the interrogation table, “Would you like me to show him to you?”

Raising your eyebrows, you maintained a bored disposition while flipping open your files, “No.”

With custodials like this, you weren’t allowed to have photos in your files. Lukins was a sexual sadist, and the profile that Aaron Hotchner had put together was damning, describing the man in front of you to a T. He even got the age correct, right down to the receding hairline. Even though Lukins was in prison, you’d never provide him with visual aids to relive his crimes.

“Why did you request this interview if you weren’t interested in playing nice?” Spencer asked, setting his own files on the table in front of him, but he refrained from opening them. He managed to memorize their contents on the drive from Quantico, enabling him to weaponize his memory.

Lukins put his hands up in mock surrender, “I was hoping they’d send me someone nice to look at, make a good conversation with, and boy am I glad I took that chance.”

Spencer clasped his hands together and set them on the steel table, “Thank you,” he responded, keeping himself stone-faced in the presence of the killer.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the criminal in front of you snapped, jutting his chin in your direction.

Bored, your partner spoke up again, “Yes, you are,” he corrected. You were unable to communicate with Spencer without tipping off Lukins, so you let him continue, trusting that he knew where he was going with this. “In your trial, you said all of your victims were your sheep,” Spencer recalled from the file, “Is that why you shaved their heads before gutting them?”

Lukins scoffed, bored easily within the confines of the interview, “My sheep were my friends, but every sheep needs a wolf. Isn’t that right, Bo Peep?” He asked you, meeting your gaze despite the fact that Spencer all but told him not to engage with you.

You narrowed your gaze at him, tilting your head innocently, “Would you have let me be one of your sheep?”

He gave you a look that made you feel like you needed a shower, “You would’ve been a nice addition, could’ve rounded out my numbers.”

He reached out a hand, trying to take a piece of your hair between his grimy fingers, but you stood up quickly, stepping back from the table and almost tripping over your chair in response.

A few prison guards came in at the sudden movement, and Spencer had a vice-like grip on Lukins’ wrist, keeping him away from you. Tossing his arm back at him, Spencer glared at the killer, “No touching,” he instructed, looking back at you to check-in. He opened the door to the room, ushering you out before looking at the guards, “I want him in cuffs.”

With a hand on the small of your back, Spencer herded you to the private space that the two of you were expected to inhabit for the day. “Hey,” you spoke to him once the door was shut behind you.

Spencer was filled to the brim with nervous energy, shaking out his hands in an attempt to expel his nerves, “We should just go back to Quantico.” He shook his head, brown curls fanning out around his face, “There’s no way he can tell us anything that will get us to endorse his transfer.”

Watching him like this made your chest ache, and you had no idea what to do with that emotion. Your relationship with Spencer was strictly horizontal—usually—and you found yourself floundering when it came to how to act outside of bed. You wanted to take his hand, desperate to run your fingers over his knuckles and find the familiar callus from where his pencil rests on his finger, but you just couldn’t get yourself to reach out.

You hadn’t known Spencer before he was arrested in Mexico, but you made your mark on him without ever letting him lay his eyes on you. You sent letters to him along with the rest of the team, refraining from talking about cases and instead choosing to use your letters as a personal diary, chronicling your first three months with the Behavioral Analysis Unit with your prison pen pal. Periodically, you put money in his commissary account, despite the rest of the team telling you that you shouldn’t feel inclined to.

Pressing your lips into a thin line, your eyes tracked his pacing in the conference room before you started to voice your concern, “We have to go back in, Reid.” You grabbed a water bottle from the counter and twisted the cap off before handing it to him.

He took the water begrudgingly, glaring at you as he did so, “Why do we have to go back in, exactly?” After taking a sip of the water, he handed it to you so you could have some. You could’ve grabbed your own, but surely this was quicker.

“Lukins said I would’ve rounded out his numbers,” you told him, nervously fiddling with the cap of the water bottle as you waited for him to get it.

Spencer adjusted his tie, pulling the silk fabric further from his neck, “Yeah, I heard him.” It bothered him, the slightest implication that you were endangered in that interview room put him on edge, but all you could do was sit down and watch him.

You sighed, “We only have a record of eight victims. We don’t know what he’s rounding to, but that’s at least two more bodies that we don’t know about.” Lukins could be rounding up to ten, which would be the closest option, or you were looking at the possibility of a considerably higher body count. Your fear was that he would use those additional kills as a bartering tool to get a transfer.

He stopped in his tracks while he processed what you were telling him. Spencer turned to you, lips parted before he nodded, eventually agreeing with you even if it pained him to do so. “We should call Emily and let her know what’s going on,” he told you, taking a seat across from you and placing his head in his hands. “I’m gonna step outside for a second,” he said, getting up just as quickly as he took a seat and swinging the door open, leaving you alone in the conference room.

Holding your tongue, you stopped yourself from voicing your approval, even though you did think some fresh air would be good for him. Instead, you watched the door click shut before fishing your phone out of your pocket, tapping on Emily’s contact before bringing the phone to your ear.

“How’s it going?” Emily asked you as soon as she answered, and you couldn’t help but picture your unit chief waiting by her phone, hoping to hear from you or Spencer.

You sighed, inadvertently cluing her into how the custodial interview was going, “We might have a problem,” you told her. Continuing on to explain what had happened between you and Marshal Lukins, all the way up through your discovery that he might have a higher victim count.

Prentiss clicked her tongue on the other end of the line, “What does Spencer think?”

The question didn’t come as a surprise to you, neither did the fact that her inflection told you that she was sneakily trying to ask you how Spencer was. Wiping your free palm along the fabric of your pants, you leaned against the table, “Reid thinks Lukins is out for blood.” You opened your mouth to continue but were interrupted by an alarm being tripped, your head snapped up as lights started to flash on the walls.

“What’s going on?” Emily questioned you over the phone, but you could barely hear her over the blare of the alarm, a low-pitched buzzing sound that made your brain feel like it was vibrating within your skull.

Clambering to your feet, you grabbed your water bottle and walked out of the room, slamming the door shut behind you as you looked aimlessly around the prison for someone who could offer you an explanation. “I’ve gotta go,” you blurted into the receiver, stuffing your phone in your pocket and making your way to the front of the prison, ignoring the men who shouted at you from behind bars.

You looked down the walkway, watching as the failsafe on the doors was triggered and they slowly started to shut, triggering you to try and make a run for it. “Y/N,” Spencer called out your name, picking up his own pace from the opposite direction.

It didn’t take you long to realize that you weren’t going to make it, skidding to a halt as the bars clicked shut in front of you. You weren’t scared until you watched Spencer pull at the door, frantically trying to slide it open, “Reid,” you said his name, trying to get his attention. “Reid,” you shouted that time, trying to make sure he heard you over the alarm.

He didn’t pause to look at you, he simply continued to pull at the bars.

“Spence,” you said desperately, and that time his eyes snapped to yours. Wide brown eyes bore into yours as you placed one of your hands on his, both of them encircling the bar. “It’s not going to open,” you reminded him. A fact he was well aware of but didn’t want to acknowledge.

Silently, he leaned back into the wall, sliding down the side of it and looking up at the ceiling, pulling at his tie again, this time taking it all the way off. “It’s a lockdown,” he panted helplessly, “They’re in a lockdown.”

You nodded softly, having drawn that conclusion on your own, “It’s okay,” you told him softly, reaching through the bars and taking one of his hands in yours. “You’re alright, Spence,” you continued, your tone bordering on a coo.

He pulled his knees to his chest and slung his free arm over his legs, hugging himself.

It broke your heart to watch him like this. You pointed in the direction he came from, “Look. Hey, you could be free to leave, I’m the one who’s locked in,” you told him, highlighting the fact that the bars were blocking you, but Spencer could make his way back to the entryway.

“Not helping,” he told you, his voice almost a gasp as he tried to regulate his breathing.

Your shoulder’s slumped forward slightly, “I’m sorry. What can I do?”

Spencer just shook his head, squeezing your hand in response when you started sweeping your thumb over his knuckles. You ignored the buzzing of your phone in your pocket as you watched him, completely focused on making sure he was okay before you did anything else.

With your free hand, you grabbed the water bottle that you took from the conference room and slipped it through the bars. “Here, take this,” you murmured, setting it on the ground next to him when he didn’t take the bottle from you.

He visibly relaxed when the alarm stopped going off, but the lights were still flashing, which offered somewhat of an explanation as to why the door hadn’t opened yet.

You fiddled with his hand, opening up his palm and tracing the lines on his hand with your index finger, “Have you ever had your palm read?” You asked him, twisting your head to get a better look at it.

He looked at you, the panicked look in his eyes had subsided, promptly replaced with incredulity, “When have I ever struck you as the kind of person who would get my palm read?”

Shrugging, you slowly traced his love line, “You like Halloween, I thought maybe you’d let your curiosity get the best of you.” Although you supposed if Spencer really wanted to have his palm read, he’d just do it yourself. “When I was in college, my summer job was reading palms in a booth at an amusement park,” you informed him.

Spencer chuckled at your revelation, and the sound made your heart sing, “That is… oddly endearing.”

Nodding, you looked at his hand again, “Chiromancy says men were born with their left hand, and their right is what they accumulate throughout life,” you told him softly, sliding your other hand through the bar.

“Actually, I was born with both of my hands,” Spencer responded, a teasing lilt in his voice.

You rolled your eyes, studying his left hand intently, “You have water hands,” you said, showing him his own palm as if he’d never seen it before.

Spencer raised his eyebrows at you, “Well, now you’re just making things up,” he openly teased you that time, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

Humming, you furrowed your brows and pointed at his hand, “This is your head line,” you explained. “See how it’s long and straight? It sort of tapers off before the end of your palm—that means you tend to think realistically.”

“I could’ve told you that,” he challenged, but his eyes were following along as you pointed at his palm.

You shook your head and sighed, “Here’s your life line,” you said, pointing to a different line and tracing it with your fingertip. “It’s straight and goes down to the edge of your palm, which means you’re cautious about relationships,” you continued softly, leaning your head against one of the bars of the door.

He was silent after that one, briefly taking his bottom lip between his teeth and looking down at his hand. You could tell that even though he didn’t quite believe what you were saying, he was perfectly fine with humoring you.

“This is your fate line,” you told him, entirely expecting to lose him the moment you began discussing fate. “It’s broken down the middle and curved in different directions, and that means you’re prone to a lot of changes in life. Changes influenced by external forces.”

Gently, Spencer pulled his hand away from yours, flexing his hand before looking down at it, “You’ve officially lost me.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up, “I’m surprised you lasted this long.” Just long enough apparently, the doors buzzed soon after, and you withdrew your hands from the slots as the bars slid into a hole in the wall.

Spencer got up first, dusting off his hands before he extended a hand to help you up. Your hand lingered in his for just a moment too long, the exchange oddly intimate for the two of you before his arms dropped to his side, “Thank you,” he murmured, a shy smile on his face.

Shrugging, you crossed your arms in front of your stomach, “There’s nothing to thank, Reid.”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that it was disappointment that flashed across his face at your reply.

The warden had rather unceremoniously asked the two of you to leave, citing security concerns and letting you know that he’d be in contact with Emily to reschedule. Emily had called you six times during the lockdown, but you’d texted her once everything was clear.

Which left you heading back to the SUV with Spencer, there were prisoners out in the yard, so he walked on the inside, blocking your body from the view of the inmates. “Are you alright?” You asked him, feeling more free to inquire now that you were in the open air.

He nodded, “I’m fine, I just really wasn’t expecting something like that to happen when I asked Emily to send me on this custodial.”

Your footsteps faltered at his words, “You asked to go on this custodial?”

Spencer frowned, “I was on this case originally ten years ago, so I asked Emily to let me go.”

“And she said yes?” You asked incredulously.

Spencer opened the back door for you to place your bag in, “Not initially, but eventually she realized that I’d be her only option if she wanted to get it done today.” He shut the door and shoved his hands in his pockets, “It’s a lot earlier than I thought we’d be getting back, do you want to stop and get lunch on the way back to Quantico?”

Your eyes went wide and you were grateful that he couldn’t see your expression, “Uh, sure. Why not?”

“Perfect,” he said, “Maybe I can get you to tell me why you avoided reading my love line.”

[happy74827]

A New Moon

[Dexter Morgan x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Despite his gut telling him he shouldn’t, Dexter can’t help but fall deeper into the trap of his own emotions. And the more time he spends with you, the more he starts to realize what exactly those emotions are. {GIF Creds: beautifulguycollector}

WC: 2889

Category: Slight Lime/Spice, Friends to Lovers + Forbidden Love (if you squint) Tropes

Gotta keep this fandom alive somehow 🥲 (also… why are titles so hard to write? That and the synopsis are harder to write than the actual fic)

『••✎••』

You were too good for him. Plain and simple. You were a smart, beautiful, hard-working woman who had goals and dreams. He was a cold-blooded killer. Not to say that he hadn't been there for you, though. The two of you had been friends since… well, a while. A long while.

He couldn't quite pinpoint the moment he started to notice the changes in your relationship. It was a slow, subtle buildup, and the first time you called him your friend, Dexter thought nothing of it. The second time, it made him pause, but not enough for him to consider what the implications of you saying that to him could mean.

But when you said it again and again and again, he realized the meaning behind your words, the affection they held. Dexter couldn't say that he was particularly close to many people. There were a select few he'd consider his friends, but he wasn’t emotionally invested in any of them. And he didn't think he was invested in you, either.

But maybe he was.

Debs was different, and it made him question how much he was supposed to care about someone. But that was his sister, the one person in the world who loved him unconditionally. That reason alone made his relationship with Deb unique. He was sure of that.

The same went with Brian—his brother, as it turned out. And Harrison, his son. Dexter felt things for those people, but they were different. Those were family, the people he was genetically tied to. Of course, he would care about them.

But you weren't family, and yet he still cared about you. It was a different kind of caring. And it was confusing. Dexter had convinced himself for years that he was a high-functioning sociopath, but lately…

Lately, he was beginning to question if that was true. Simple glances from you could bring an unwelcome smile to his lips. And when he heard the sound of your voice, he could feel his chest getting warm. It was a nice feeling, something he'd only experienced briefly with Rita, but then, that relationship was different too.

It was hard to put his finger on it, but being with you was just… easy. And it didn't feel like work. There was no pretending. Dexter didn't have to act when he was around you. He didn't need to try to be someone he wasn't. It was the real him.

It was terrifying.

Because now, as he sat on your couch, watching as you moved gracefully around your small apartment, the feeling was back, and he didn't know how to deal with it.

He should have been home with Harrison, but the little boy was staying over at Debra’s tonight, so he didn't have any responsibilities. The passenger within him didn’t see it as a problem either, considering he’d just recently “disposed" his latest target.

It was nice, Dexter decided, to relax every once in a while. Work and family didn't give him a lot of opportunities to do so, and now that the two were temporarily taken care of, he felt he deserved to be lazy for a bit.

You didn’t have a TV in your living room, so the two of you settled for movies. Dexter didn’t really have a preference for them. He could watch a comedy, action, drama, or horror and not feel strongly for or against any of them.

Apparently, you didn't mind what he watched either because he could see the spark of excitement in your eyes when you pulled out the case for one of the worst comedy films Dexter had ever seen.

He'd seen it before. Not with you, one of the movies Vince shoved down his throat when he planned a night out with him, Angel, and Quinn.

It wasn't his favorite, not by a long shot, but the grin on your face and the way you eagerly skipped to the DVD player, set the disk inside, and closed the hatch made him bite his tongue.

Dexter had learned a long time ago that you were a very expressive person. And even though most of the time your feelings weren't displayed on your face, your eyes told another story. Such opposites to his own, Dexter often found himself fascinated by the light they held.

You had a passion for life that was rare, and it drew him in. It was a quality he lacked, and he could see it in everything you did. Whether it was talking about the newest book you read or making coffee, you put all of yourself into your actions.

It was something that Dexter had never understood. How could you have such a strong sense of self? Didn't it get tiring, having to live up to a standard of being so… so good?

But then again, you'd always been better than him. He might’ve been smarter in some regards, but what was intelligence if it didn't come from a place of morality? You were better, purer than him. He knew it, and everyone else did, too, even if they weren’t aware of how pure he wasn’t

That's why this was so wrong. This thing that had been going on for the past couple of months between the two of you. The subtle touches, the longing stares, the late-night calls. It was all wrong.

You were similar to Rita in some ways. You were kind and compassionate, always looking for the good in others. You had a knack for taking care of people, whether they needed it or not.

Dexter could tell that was your nature, and it was one of the things that initially attracted him to you. All the things he lacked, you had. But that didn't mean that you could replace Rita. He didn’t want you to.

And that was the difference. While he may have found qualities in you that resembled the ones he'd found in Rita, you were not her. Rita was gone, and it was his fault. She didn’t deserve to die, and yet she did. She deserved to grow old, to see Harrison grow up.

She deserved better.

The same went for you. You didn’t deserve a monster like him. The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he should stay away. It was for the best of both of you.

And yet he was here. On your couch, watching a shitty movie and drinking the beer you'd offered him. Because, despite his efforts, he couldn't keep his distance from you.

He should've known. When it came to you, Dexter didn't have a choice.

His gaze drifted over to your form as you sat down beside him. You were smiling, your eyes bright and focused on the television. A lock of hair fell across your face, and you pushed it back, the sleeve of your hoodie falling down slightly.

Dexter had never been so tempted to reach out and touch someone in his life.

It was a feeling that had been creeping up on him the last few weeks, and now, sitting with you, watching a bad movie, it was at an all-time high. He'd never craved intimacy. But there was something about you, a pull that he couldn't deny.

It gave him a sick feeling in his stomach. Reminded him of that need with Lila. God, Lila. What a mess that had turned out to be. Another thing to add to his growing list of mistakes.

And yet, the longer he stared, the more he found himself leaning forward. He didn’t register what he was doing until his lips were a hair width away from yours.

You froze but didn't move away. The only indication that you were startled was the widening of your eyes. They bored into his, unflinching. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He was scared. Scared? Yes. That was what he was feeling. Why? He didn't know. Fear was new. It was a feeling reserved for Deb and sometimes his son, but even then, it was different.

But as Dexter gazed at you, so close and so beautiful, the fear melted away. It was replaced by a warmth that he was quickly becoming familiar with. It made his body thrum and his blood rush. It made him feel alive.

You were the first one to make a move. Well, not really a move, just the smallest shift forward, and then you were breathing the same air as him. You weren't kissing. You were just… waiting. Waiting for him to make the final move.

It was like an unspoken rule between the two of you, the power dynamic. He was the dominant one, and you were the submissive. You had never fought against it. You were a people pleaser, and he knew that.

It was one of the reasons he knew this was wrong. Because he couldn't stop, and you would never ask him to. Even now, as he hesitated, you waited patiently. You trusted him.

Why did you have to trust him? Why couldn't you be more selfish, more like him?

But deep down, Dexter knew that it wasn't your nature. You couldn't change, not any more than he could.

So, after another agonizing second, he closed the distance between you.

It was gentle, the way his lips pressed against yours. A stark contrast to the usual forcefulness he applied when taking his victims. No, with you, he was careful. Almost timid.

Your lips were soft and smooth, and the kiss was sweet. Nothing more than a simple caress. Dexter didn’t expect the tingling sensation it would cause, but the slight brush of your mouth sent shivers down his spine.

The kiss was short and chaste, but it was enough to leave him feeling dizzy. The heat spread through him, from the tips of his toes all the way to his cheeks.

Dexter pulled back, and you stared at him. His breath hitched in his throat at the look in your eyes. There was something there, something that mirrored his own emotions.

Was it possible? Was he really capable of such intense emotion?

Maybe he was.

You didn’t move. It was like time had stopped, and the only sound that could be heard was his own uneven breathing. That, and the movie playing in the background, which was forgotten as soon as your lips touched.

The urge to reach out and grab you was there. He could feel the need deep in his bones, in his soul. But instead, Dexter sat, staring. Staring into the eyes of the woman who had somehow managed to break down all the walls he'd spent his life building.

You didn't speak. There was nothing to say. No words could describe the feelings that had surfaced between the two of you. So, instead, you smiled. A simple, beautiful smile that had him feeling weak.

He could have stayed there forever, just looking at you, taking in the beauty that was you. It was a new experience for him, and it was nice.

“Debra is going to be pissed," you finally said, breaking the silence. “I’ll be bullied into telling her every detail."

He blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his lips curled up in amusement. It was true. Eventually, she’ll figure it out. Maybe she already knew but was waiting for confirmation. Debra was good at figuring out things, even if it wasn’t the most obvious answer.

His sister was good at a lot of things, like being a detective. And, apparently, being an interfering matchmaking nuisance.

At least she wouldn’t call you the things she called Lila.

The thought made him chuckle, and you looked at him in confusion, but it would have to stay a mystery to you. For what was life without a few private jokes between siblings, right?

You didn’t press for answers, though. You did what you’ve always done and waited for him—waited for him as if it was his turn in Chess.

And he did the only thing he could think to do. He kissed you again. And again. And again. And again. Until he had you pinned beneath him, your arms around his neck, and your breath coming out in heavy gasps.

The kisses were still innocent, just as you were. But he could feel the passion behind them, the hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that. It had been a long, long time.

But the longer he kissed you, the more the heat grew, and soon, he was lost in the sensation. Your hands found their way into his hair, and you tugged at the strands. His heart was racing, and the sound of his own ragged breathing filled his ears.

It was exhilarating.

Your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside, and the innocence was gone. Replaced by a desire that left him trembling. The feeling of your tongue against his, the taste of you on his lips, the smell of your shampoo mixed with your unique scent—it was all intoxicating.

The movie continued to play in the background, forgotten as you pulled him closer. The warmth in his chest intensified, and Dexter didn't fight it. Instead, he embraced it. He gave in to his emotions and let himself feel.

He didn’t go too far; he knew you weren't ready for that yet. The craving was there, and it was strong, but the moment wasn’t right. Instead, he satisfied himself by touching your skin, mapping out every inch of it, memorizing the way it felt under his fingertips.

And, when you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, he held onto you, refusing to let go. His eyes searched yours, searching for something. Anything. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but whatever it was, he didn’t find it.

He mostly saw fear, anger, and some regret when he had them pinned down beneath him. Of course, that was usually the case with his victims. Fear, anger, and regret were normal emotions—a reaction to being trapped by their own demise.

Having someone look up at him with emotions on the other side of the spectrum was different. Not a bad different, just... different.

Rita had been the first to look at him like that. Lumen did, too, once upon a time. And Lila, well, her emotions were never consistent.

But you? You looked up at him with an expression that was all too familiar and yet not quite the same. Your eyes were full of affection and desire, yes. But they were also filled with something else. Something he couldn't place.

Something he couldn’t understand.

"Dex,” your voice was so soft, a whisper. He almost didn’t hear it, and yet, he felt it. He felt the way his name rolled off your tongue, and it was like music to his ears.

"Yeah?" he whispered back. He didn’t know why he did that; it wasn't like the two of you were speaking in a library or something. Maybe it was the way the light danced in your eyes, the way the colors reflected off the white walls, casting an ethereal glow.

"I didn’t expect you to be… like this," you murmured. You ran a finger over his cheek, down to his jawline. He swallowed thickly. He could feel his pulse quicken.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Not bad," you replied. Your lips curved up, and his eyes were drawn to them. They were red and swollen from kissing, and it was such a contrast to the pale skin of your face.

"You think I'm not bad?" he said, raising his brows. "I'm flattered."

You shook your head. "You know what I mean," you said. "I just meant that you're different than how you come off. I didn’t think you'd be so... bold.”

He snorted.

Bold.

If you only knew.

"I guess I'm full of surprises," he said, smirking. You rolled your eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder, only for him to catch it and press a kiss to the back of your hand. It was something he picked up from a movie once, and it seemed to be a pretty romantic gesture. And by the look on your face, it seemed to be appreciated.

You didn't say anything else. You didn't have to. There was nothing else to say. The two of you simply enjoyed each other's company, content to just be together. The movie might've been a failure, but the night wasn’t.

And when Dexter finally left, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. Not the type of relief he felt after a successful kill, but the type of relief one feels after a burden is lifted off their shoulders. The type of relief one gets when they are finally honest with themselves.

Rita was gone. Lumen was gone. And although his guilt and shame were still there, his self-loathing and fear were slowly starting to fade away. It wasn't gone, it was never going to be, but it was a start.

A fresh start.

A new beginning.

A new moon.

Yes, tonight was the night that changed everything. Tonight, Dexter Morgan learned that maybe he was more than the monster he thought he was.