#//I needed this profile...for science

[nekrotisch-a]

[backpackingspace]

okay but what if team sassy science found out will was like an actual scientist like the rest of them. these leads to them pressuring will into doing lab work with them. will who already has like 3 jobs and has his brain melting out his ears does not know how he got and would like to leave please he has to drive 3 hours to feed his dogs

[magpiesbones]

.

[gyuuberryy]

fatal trouble

pairing: vampire!sunghoon x reader

synopsis: your roommate is hot. really really hot. and odd too. really really odd. after a strange experience with him, you slowly start distancing yourself from him. but, it becomes exceptionally hard with your feelings coming in the way. how are you supposed to protect yourself if you can’t resist him? the answer is you don’t need to. your fates are intertwined and there's no letting go.

genre: roommates to lovers, vampire au, soulmate au

warnings: suggestive content, mentions of nightmares and blood, jealous!sunghoon, 

note: dropping this before i go on hiatus for a month due to school work. i haven't proofread it that well i hope there are no mistakes. also im obsessed with vampire aus, enhablr needs more of them fr!! i hope you enjoy reading this!

word count: 6k

if you liked it please reblog or comment to give me your feedback! <3

the soft glow of your laptop screen illuminated your face, casting long shadows across sunghoon's pristine white sheets. you were sprawled out on his bed, legs crossed beneath you, surrounded by a chaotic scatter of textbooks and papers. the quiet hum of the air conditioner filled the room, broken only by the intermittent clicks of your keyboard.

sunghoon sat at his desk, a silhouette against the darkened room, save for the focused beam of his desk lamp. his fingers danced across the keyboard with an almost rhythmic precision, the soft glow of the screen reflecting in his dark eyes. you’d grown accustomed to the sight of him engrossed in his work, a solitary figure lost in the world of ones and zeros.

you’d known each other for a few months now, the kind of acquaintance born out of shared living space and the occasional group project. as roommates sharing the same major, your apartment had become a de facto study hub. computer science had thrown you together more often than not, and tonight was no exception. 

“hey, did you get the part about the algorithm?” your voice, a whisper in the quiet, cut through the comfortable silence.

sunghoon glanced up, his eyes a deep, almost unnatural shade of red in the dim light. for a moment, you were struck by how different he looked compared to the daylight. “yeah, i think so. isn’t it something about minimising the time complexity?”

you nodded, your eyes scanning the code on your screen. “exactly. i’m just having trouble with the implementation.”

a comfortable silence settled over the room as you both focused on your respective screens. the only sound was the rhythmic tapping of keys and the occasional sigh of frustration. you glanced up at sunghoon, his profile illuminated by the soft glow of his monitor. his long, slender fingers moved with an almost hypnotic grace across the keyboard.

there was something undeniably attractive about his focused intensity. his features, normally sharp and aloof, softened slightly when he was engrossed in his work. it was a side of him you rarely saw, and it was oddly captivating.

you shook your head, mentally scolding yourself for such thoughts. he was your roommate, nothing more. and besides, there was no way he could be interested in someone like you.

“hey,” sunghoon’s voice cut through your reverie, “i think i figured it out.”

you blinked, startled. “oh, really? want to explain it?”

he nodded, sliding his chair back and standing up. he walked over to your side of the bed, his tall frame looming over you. as he leaned in to point at your screen, his scent washed over you – a subtle blend of wood and something else, almost sweet, that you couldn’t quite place.

you felt a strange warmth creeping up your neck as he hovered over you. his proximity was unnerving, yet strangely intoxicating. you swallowed hard, trying to focus on the code in front of you.

sunghoon's breath was warm against your ear as he leaned in closer, his voice a low rumble, "try this." his finger hovered over your keyboard, about to demonstrate.

you felt a shiver run down your spine, not from the cool night air but from the inexplicable sensation of being so close to him. his scent, a mix of something woodsy and faintly sweet, was intoxicating. you tried to focus on the code, to ignore the way your heart was pounding in your chest.

he typed a few lines, his fingers brushing against yours. the contact sent a jolt of electricity through you. you forced yourself to concentrate on the screen, trying to understand the changes he made.

"see?" he said, straightening up. "it's simpler this way."

you nodded, still reeling from the physical contact. "thanks," you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper.

sunghoon stepped back, a small smile playing on his lips. "no problem," he said, turning back to his own computer.

you took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. it was just sunghoon, your roommate. nothing more. but the way he had acted, the way he had touched you, it was making it hard to think of him that way.

the room was quiet again, the only sounds the soft clacking of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper. you were deep in thought, trying to wrap your head around a particularly complex problem when a question popped into your head. on impulse, you asked, “so, sunghoon, what do you do in your free time, when you’re not, you know, studying?”

sunghoon paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. a flicker of something, perhaps surprise or amusement, passed across his face before he responded smoothly, “free time is a luxury for a computer science student, don’t you think? but when i do find a spare moment, i usually spend it reading or exploring new coding languages.”

his answer was polite, but it felt rehearsed, as if he'd prepared a response for just such a question. a sense of curiosity sparked within you. you’d always thought sunghoon was a bit of an enigma, but this was a new level of intrigue.

curiosity, a persistent itch, prodded you to ask something more than just about schoolwork.

“hey, i was curious about this” you started, your voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner, “where are you from?” it was a simple question, one you would normally ask any new acquaintance, but there was something about sunghoon that made you curious about his past.

he paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. for a moment, there was a stillness in the room that was almost palpable. then, with a casual shrug, he replied, "oh, just a small town. nothing interesting." the response was swift, deflecting your question with ease.

confused, you returned to your code, but your mind was racing. there was something off about sunghoon, something that had intrigued you from the moment you met him. you couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but there were strange little details that had started to accumulate.

there were those odd instances – like the time you'd woken up in the middle of the night to find the kitchen light on and sunghoon standing at the counter, completely motionless, his eyes glowing an eerie red. or the way he seemed to have an uncanny ability to appear and disappear without a sound. and then there was the peculiar lack of a reflection in any mirror in his room.

these memories surfaced, sharp and clear, as if your brain was piecing together a puzzle it didn't know existed. you shook your head, dismissing the thoughts as overactive imagination. after all, sunghoon was just your roommate, a fellow computer science student. nothing more, nothing less.

a yawn escaped your lips as you stretched, the late hour finally catching up with you. “i think i’m going to call it a night,” you announced, rubbing your eyes. the weight of the unanswered questions about sunghoon was beginning to feel heavy.

sunghoon nodded, his gaze fixed on the computer screen. “alright, good night then. i’ll probably stay up a bit longer.”

you nodded in response, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. as you stood up, you glanced down at the floor. something was off. the soft glow from sunghoon’s computer cast long shadows on the floor, including a distinct one from his chair. but there was no shadow of sunghoon himself. the spot where his shadow should have been was empty, an inky void against the illuminated floor.

a chill ran down your spine. your heart pounded in your ears. your mind raced, trying to come up with a logical explanation, but nothing made sense. you snatched up your bag, your movements jerky and panicked. without a second thought, you fled back to your room, the door slamming shut behind you. you fumbled with the lock, your hands trembling. only when you heard the satisfying click of the lock did you allow yourself to breathe.

your heart pounded in your ears as you leaned against the cool metal of your door. the realisation of what you had seen was slowly sinking in. no human lacked a shadow. it was impossible. a chill ran down your spine.

you tried to rationalise it away. maybe there was a draft, or a trick of the light. but deep down, you knew better. something was profoundly wrong, and it was connected to sunghoon. the friendly, quiet roommate you thought you knew was now shrouded in an unsettling mystery.

you glanced at the clock. it was late, and exhaustion was starting to creep in. you needed to sleep, to clear your head. but how could you sleep with this looming over you? you decided to distract yourself by pulling out a book from your shelf, hoping the words would drown out the unsettling thoughts.

as you turned the pages, your mind kept drifting back to sunghoon. his unusual behaviour, the absence of his shadow, it all fit together into a terrifying puzzle. you tried to shake off the feeling, but it was like a persistent itch you couldn't scratch.

sleep finally claimed you, but it was restless. your dreams were filled with shadows, long and menacing, closing in on you. you woke up with a start, your heart racing. the first light of dawn was filtering through your curtains. you got out of bed and went to the window. the world outside looked ordinary, peaceful. but you knew the truth was far from it.

something was wrong with sunghoon, and you were determined to find out what.

the days following your unsettling discovery were a blur of forced normalcy. you tried to interact with sunghoon as if nothing was amiss, but the weight of your knowledge cast a long shadow over your interactions. you found yourself avoiding his gaze, your voice trembling when you spoke to him.

sunghoon seemed oblivious to your discomfort at first. he’d always been a quiet person, so his reserved nature didn’t raise any immediate suspicion. however, as the days turned into weeks, his patience began to wear thin.

"hey, are you free to study together tomorrow?" he asked one evening as you were both making dinner. his tone was casual, but you could detect a hint of underlying disappointment.

your heart skipped a beat. you’d been avoiding his study invitations, coming up with increasingly elaborate excuses. the truth hung heavy in the air, a tangible thing between you. you hesitated, your mind racing.

"i... i’m really busy tomorrow," you stammered, your voice barely audible. "maybe next week?"

disappointment flashed across sunghoon’s face before he masked it with a forced smile. "sure, no problem," he replied, his voice flat.

as he turned away, you couldn't shake the feeling of guilt. you'd hurt him, and you knew it.

the night was a descent into terror. you dreamt of shadows, long and menacing, closing in on you. sunghoon was there, but not as you knew him. his eyes burned with an unnatural light, and his form was distorted, monstrous. you were running, but your legs were leaden, and the shadows were gaining on you. a scream built in your throat, but no sound escaped.

you woke with a start, drenched in sweat. your heart pounded like a drumbeat in your chest. panic washed over you as you gasped for air. you were disoriented, unsure of where you were. a noise from the living room startled you, and you jumped out of bed.

the light was on, and there, standing in the doorway, was sunghoon, his face etched with concern. before you could react, you found yourself lunging at him, your hands grasping at his neck. he didn't fight back, instead, he held you tightly, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

your sobs racked your body as you clung to him, finding solace in his warmth. he shushed you softly, his voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. gradually, your breathing began to slow, and your body relaxed.

when you finally calmed down, sunghoon gently guided you back to bed. he sat on the edge, running a comforting hand through your hair. you clung to him, your fear slowly dissipating.

in the quiet that followed, you felt a strange urge to confide in him. your voice was barely a whisper when you began, "i dreamt of you... as something... different."

sunghoon stiffened, but his grip on you didn't loosen. something flashed behind his eyes, but he listened intently as you recounted the terrifying details of your nightmare. when you finished, he was silent for a long moment. finally, he whispered, "go back to sleep," and you felt him lean down to kiss your forehead.

with that, he quietly left the room, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts.

the days that followed were a careful ballet of avoidance. you moved through your days with a practised detachment, constructing an invisible wall between yourself and sunghoon. the weight of your decision pressed down on you like a physical burden. despite the burgeoning crush that had blossomed in the quiet corners of your heart, you'd created a formidable wall between yourself and sunghoon. his enigmatic nature, coupled with the unsettling discoveries you'd made, had convinced you to keep him at arm's length. it was a lonely existence, a self-imposed exile that offered a semblance of safety.

your days were a monotonous cycle of lectures, assignments, and solitary meals. you'd found solace in the company of your classmate, lee heeseung, his cheerful demeanour a stark contrast to the storm raging within you. yet, even as you laughed and shared stories with him, a part of you longed for the quiet intensity of sunghoon's presence.

in the vast, impersonal lecture hall, you’d sought refuge in the anonymity of the crowd. but even here, you couldn't escape the weight of your decision. a persistent sense of being watched gnawed at you, a constant reminder of the eyes that followed your every move. and you knew very well who it was. it was during one such lecture that the tension reached a breaking point.

you were engrossed in your notes when a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught your attention. a cold prickle ran down your spine as you slowly turned your head. there, in the row behind you, sat sunghoon, his gaze fixed intently on you. his expression was a complex interplay of emotions - longing, pain, and a flicker of something darker.

your heart pounded in your chest as a wave of guilt washed over you. you'd hurt him, pushed him away without a second thought. in that moment, as his eyes held yours, you realised the depth of your own cowardice.

not to mention, with each passing night your nightmares had intensified. each night a descent into a darker, more terrifying realm. sleep, once a refuge, had transformed into a battlefield, leaving you exhausted and on edge. the physical toll was evident - dark circles shadowed your eyes, and your skin had started to take on a sickly pallor.

despite your deteriorating condition, you continued to maintain your distance from sunghoon. guilt gnawed at you, but fear held you captive. yet, in the aftermath of each nightmare, you found yourself seeking solace in his presence. he’d sit by your bed his silent vigil a comforting anchor in the storm of your nightmares. his touch, gentle and reassuring, had become a lifeline, pulling you back from the brink of despair.

one particularly harrowing night, you woke up screaming, your body drenched in sweat. sunghoon was by your side almost instantly, his arms wrapping around you in a comforting embrace. as your fear subsided, you began to recount the nightmare, your voice trembling.

"i... i dreamt of a place," you managed to say, your words halting. "a dark place, with... with strange symbols."

sunghoon's grip tightened around you. "and you were alone," he finished for you, his voice low and soothing.

your eyes widened in shock. how could he know what you had dreamt about? you hadn’t even managed to complete your story. yet, sunghoon had described it perfectly, as if he had been there with you.

a chill ran down your spine. you pulled away from him, your eyes filled with fear and confusion. sunghoon simply looked at you, his expression unreadable, before turning and leaving the room.

what did this mean? how could sunghoon know about your nightmares? the answers were as elusive as ever, but one thing was certain: the line between the ordinary and the extraordinary was blurring, and you were caught in the crossfire.

the nightmares ceased as abruptly as they had begun. you woke each morning feeling refreshed, the spectre of terror finally lifted from your shoulders. a sense of relief washed over you, but it was tinged with a strange melancholy. the nightly visits from sunghoon, a comforting ritual amidst the chaos, were now absent.

initially, you welcomed the return to normalcy. the constant fear and exhaustion had taken a toll on you, and the ability to sleep soundly was a precious gift. but as days turned into weeks, a nagging sense of unease crept in. sunghoon's absence, once a welcome respite, now felt like a void.

you started noticing subtle changes in him. his eyes, once bright and alert, were now shadowed by dark circles. his once sharp features seemed softened by fatigue. it was as if a weight was pressing down on him, a burden he carried alone.

a pang of guilt struck you. perhaps your avoidance had contributed to his deteriorating condition. you wanted to reach out, to offer support, but fear held you back. what if your presence only made things worse? what if you discovered something terrifying?

you longed to reach out to him, to offer solace and support, but the words remained trapped in your throat. the fear of rejection, of further pushing him away, paralyzed you. it was a cruel irony that the person you yearned to comfort was the one causing you the most pain. 

the afternoon sun beat down on the bustling campus as you made your way towards the nearest convenience store. the promise of a refreshing popsicle was the only thing that could lure you away from the confines of your dorm room. with a popsicle clutched in your hand, you emerged from the store, ready to face the world, one frozen treat at a time.

just as you were about to savour the first bite, heeseung materialised beside you, his infectious grin lighting up his face. "arcade?" he suggested, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. you nodded, the prospect of a distraction proving too tempting to resist.

you split the popsicle down the middle, the sweet, icy treat a welcome respite from the oppressive heat. as you handed one half to heeseung, a strange sensation washed over you. it was as if a cold draft had swept across your skin, a shiver that had nothing to do with the melting popsicle in your hand.

instinctively, you turned around, your heart pounding in your chest. there, on the other side of the road, stood sunghoon, his figure cast in the harsh sunlight. his eyes, usually guarded, were fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on hostility. a scowl marred his usually indifferent features, and his jaw was clenched tightly.

you offered a timid smile, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm between you. but his gaze remained unwavering, cold and unforgiving. with a final, contemptuous glance, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

a wave of guilt and confusion washed over you. you'd hurt him, you knew that. but the intensity of his reaction was unexpected, almost frightening. as you turned back to heeseung, you forced a smile, determined to push the unsettling encounter to the back of your mind.

the encounter with sunghoon left a bitter taste in your mouth. his hostile glare had shattered the fragile peace you'd been cultivating. as you and heeseung made your way to the arcade, your mind raced, trying to decipher the meaning behind sunghoon's outburst. had your avoidance pushed him to the brink? or was there something more sinister at play?

the arcade, with its flashing lights and the cacophony of sound, offered a temporary escape from the turmoil within. you lost yourself in the rhythm of the games, the competitive spirit temporarily drowning out the unsettling incident. yet, even as you laughed and cheered with heeseung, your mind kept drifting back to sunghoon, his angry gaze burning into your memory.

as the afternoon wore on, a sense of unease settled over you. the carefree atmosphere of the arcade couldn't mask the growing storm within. the incident with sunghoon had opened a wound, a raw and painful reminder of the complex dynamics between you.

you glanced at heeseung, his laughter infectious, and felt a pang of guilt. he was doing everything to lift your spirits, to distract you from your troubles. but your mind was elsewhere, trapped in a labyrinth of doubt and fear.

the walk back to your dorm was a solitary affair. the campus, usually bustling with activity, seemed deserted. with each step, the weight of your worries grew heavier. the encounter with sunghoon had forced you to confront the reality of the situation. you couldn't continue to bury your head in the sand, hoping that the problem would resolve itself.

the weight of the day pressed down on you as you unlocked the apartment door. exhaustion tugged at your limbs, but the lingering unease from your encounter with sunghoon kept your mind racing. 

as you stepped into the living room, a jolt of surprise ran through you. sunghoon was standing in the kitchen, his silhouette outlined by the soft glow of the refrigerator.

there was an unnatural stillness to him, a predatory calm that sent a shiver down your spine. his eyes, when they met yours, held a strange intensity, a glint of something dangerous lurking beneath the surface. "fancy seeing you here," he said, his voice low and measured.

you forced a smile, your heart pounding in your chest. "just got back," you replied, your voice barely a whisper.

he approached you slowly, his steps deliberate. "we have that new assignment," he began, his voice low and seductive. "maybe we could work on it together tomorrow?"

your mind raced, trying to come up with an excuse. "i'm... i'm pretty busy," you stammered, avoiding his gaze.

sunghoon's expression darkened. with a swift movement, he closed the distance between you, cornering you against the kitchen counter, his hands grabbing your hips. his proximity was unnerving, his scent, a mix of wood and something faintly sweet, filling your senses. you could feel his breath on your skin, hot and heavy. 

"don't lie to me," he hissed, his voice low and menacing. "i know what's going on."

his grip tightened around you, and you winced. 

"it's nothing," you insisted, your voice trembling. "just... busy."

"busy with heeseung?" he spat out, his jealousy evident in his tone. his eyes narrowed, and you could see the anger simmering beneath the surface.

your face flushed with embarrassment. he was taking this the wrong way. “it’s not like that,” you stammered, your voice barely a whisper.

sunghoon's grip tightened, pinning you against the cool surface of the counter. his breath was warm against your skin, and a strange sensation, a mix of fear and excitement, coursed through your veins.

“don’t lie to me,” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “you're avoiding me.”

you didn't know why, but the power dynamic between you and sunghoon was intoxicating. he had never behaved this way before let alone showcase jealousy so blatantly. it was hot. you felt a blush creeping up your cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. 

before you could respond, you found yourself leaning in, your lips brushing against his. it was an impulsive act, a desperate attempt to silence him, to end the confrontation. but, to your surprise, he responded, his lips moving against yours with a gentle intensity.

the world seemed to slow down as the kiss deepened. but as quickly as it had begun, it ended. you pulled away, your heart pounding in your chest.

overwhelmed by a rush of emotions, you turned and fled to your room, slamming the door behind you. you leaned against the door, panting, your mind racing. 

the realisation of what you had done hit you like a tidal wave. you had kissed your roommate, a person you were actively avoiding due to a growing sense of fear and unease. the implications of your actions were terrifying. you'd crossed a line, a boundary you had carefully constructed to protect yourself.

a series of frantic knocks on the door jolted you out of your stupor. it was sunghoon, his voice muffled through the wood. "open up, please," he pleaded. your heart pounded in your chest. you couldn't face him now. you needed time to process what had happened, to regain control of the situation.

the knocking continued for a few minutes before finally ceasing. silence enveloped the room, heavy and oppressive. you slid down the door, your body trembling. what had you done?

morning arrived with a sense of foreboding. the thought of facing sunghoon filled you with dread, but the need to uncover the truth was stronger. you waited until the sound of his footsteps faded down the hallway, a sign that he had left for his morning jog.

with a deep breath, you crept into sunghoon's room, a sense of trepidation gnawing at you. the room was immaculate, a stark contrast to the chaos that often reigned in your own space. everything had its place, every surface spotless. there were no hidden compartments, no secret drawers, no clues to the enigmatic man who inhabited this space.

disappointment washed over you. you'd hoped to find something, anything that would explain the strange occurrences, the unsettling behaviour. but the room held no secrets, only a sense of emptiness.

your eyes scanned the room, searching for any hidden compartments or secret passages. everything seemed ordinary, almost mundane. disappointment was beginning to creep in when your gaze fell on a small cabinet tucked beneath sunghoon's desk. it was always locked, a tantalising enigma that had piqued your curiosity countless times.

today, however, there was a change. a key was lodged in the lock, an open invitation to delve into the forbidden. a wave of hesitation washed over you. you were invading his privacy, crossing a line you had sworn never to cross. but the allure of the unknown was too strong. curiosity, like a relentless tide, pulled you forward.

with trembling hands, you grasped the key and turned it. the lock clicked open with a satisfyingly smooth sound. you slid open the cabinet door, your heart pounding in your chest. a mini-fridge, small and unassuming, greeted you. a wave of relief washed over you. so this was the secret? a hidden stash of snacks?

you reached out to open the fridge door, a smirk playing on your lips. but as the cool air enveloped you, your blood ran cold.

inside, lined up neatly on the shelves, were rows of blood bags. the crimson liquid glinted in the dim light, a chilling contrast to the sterile white plastic. the sight was so surreal, so utterly horrifying, that for a moment, you thought you were hallucinating.

your mind went blank. a wave of nausea washed over you as you stared at the horrifying contents of the fridge. this couldn't be real. this was a nightmare, a twisted hallucination. but the cold, hard truth stared back at you, undeniable and terrifying.

the world tilted as your legs gave way, sending you crashing to the knees. blood bags. sunghoon kept blood bags. your roommate, the seemingly normal guy you knew, was a… vampire? the very concept seemed absurd, ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel. yet, the evidence sat before you, a stark reality that defied logic.

panic clawed at your throat, but a desperate hope flickered within you. maybe it was a medical condition. maybe he had a strange blood fetish. anything but a vampire!

"vampires don't exist, do they?", you mutter to yourself still in shock.

"yes, they do," a low voice confirmed, sending a tremor through your entire body. you spun around, scream caught in your throat. sunghoon stood in the doorway, his face unreadable, his eyes a bottomless well of emotions.

shame washed over you in a tidal wave. you felt exposed, not just for snooping, but for the fear and disgust that clouded your mind.

jumping out the window, a ridiculous notion moments ago, now seemed like the only way out. here, trapped in this surreal nightmare, your only escape seemed to be a dramatic leap from the fourth floor. it wouldn't kill you, right? you’d only break a few bones at best, which you were absolutely okay with. 

with a burst of adrenaline, you scrambled to your feet and bolted towards the window, desperation fueling your actions. but before you could reach the latch, a hand clamped around your waist, pulling you back with an iron grip. "don't even think about it," sunghoon's voice was a low growl, the air crackling with unspoken emotions.

you were pinned against his chest, his warmth a stark contrast to the chilling terror that gripped you. his eyes, no longer cold and distant, burned with a mix of anger and concern.

his words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the wildness of your actions. you struggled against his hold, your fear fueling your resistance. but there was an undeniable strength in him, a power that held you captive.

"please, let me go," you gasped, your voice trembling.

sunghoon's grip loosened slightly, and he took a step back. his eyes held a mixture of concern and something else, something you couldn't quite decipher. "i won't hurt you," he said, his voice soft. "i need to explain."

your eyes met his, a mixture of fear and confusion swirling in their depths. sunghoon seemed to read your mind, his expression softening as he took a step closer. he sighed, a heavy exhale that seemed to carry the weight of centuries.

"i know this is a lot to take in," he began, his voice low and steady. "but i need you to trust me."

you nodded, your mind racing. there was something about his tone, a vulnerability beneath the hardened exterior, that compelled you to listen.

"i'm a vampire," he said, the words hanging heavy in the air. "it's not how i wanted things to be, but it's the reality i've been forced to live with."

he paused, his eyes searching your face for any signs of revulsion. but to your surprise, a strange sense of calm washed over you. this was the answer, the missing piece to the puzzle.

he went on to explain his existence, the centuries of solitude, and the desperate hope that had brought him to you. he talked about the blood bags, a necessary evil to sustain his life.

he continued, his voice laced with a hint of vulnerability. "i’ve been alone for so long. i've tried to live a normal life, to blend in. and then i met you."

his gaze softened, a tender look replacing the earlier intensity. "you're my anchor, my reason to keep going. your nightmares, the ones you've been having, are a connection between us. we share them, a soulmate bond, if you will. it's the only way for me to experience human emotions, to feel truly alive."

the revelation was mind-boggling. a vampire? your soulmate? it was a story straight out of a gothic novel. yet, as he spoke, a sense of peace washed over you. there was a truth in his eyes, a vulnerability that resonated with your own.

without thinking, you reached out and hugged him. your arms wrapped around him, offering comfort and acceptance. he froze, surprised by your sudden embrace.

"i don't care," you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest. "i'll figure it out. we'll figure it out together."

he returned the hug, his arms tightening around you. his face was buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin. you could feel his heart pounding against your chest, a rhythm that mirrored your own. in that moment, surrounded by the warmth of his embrace, fear and confusion faded, replaced by a sense of hope and possibility.

"i'm so sorry about the nightmares," he murmured, his voice filled with regret. "i stopped sleeping for a while, trying to find a way to stop them. i hated seeing you scared, all because of me."

your heart ached for him. he had sacrificed his own well-being to protect you. anger and concern warred within you. how could he be so selfless, so reckless? you pushed against his chest, needing to see his face, to read the emotions swirling in his eyes.

"don't be stupid," you scolded, your voice stern. "you can't just stop sleeping."

you gently pushed against his chest, trying to create some distance between you. you needed to see his face, to gauge his sincerity.

"stop," he whined, his voice laced with playful annoyance. "just stay like this for a little longer."

his words were a stark contrast to the seriousness of the situation, but they had the desired effect. you froze, your body responding to the unexpected shift in tone. sunghoon's grip tightened around you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. his lips brushed against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. the warmth of his breath mingled with the scent of his skin, creating an intoxicating blend that clouded your senses.

you were caught in a whirlwind of emotions, fear and confusion replaced by a growing sense of intimacy. the line between platonic comfort and something more was blurring, and you were dangerously close to crossing it.

his voice dropped to a low octave, a husky rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "i can't stop thinking about how your lips felt against mine last night," he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. he pulled back, his eyes holding yours, a mischievous glint in their depths. 

"can we do that again?" he asked, his voice laced with playful arrogance.

before you could respond, his lips were on yours, claiming your mouth with a fierce urgency. the kiss was a whirlwind, a tempest of emotions and sensations. his tongue explored your mouth, demanding entrance, while your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. the kiss was different from the one you had shared the night before, filled with a newfound urgency and intensity. his tongue explored your mouth, a dance of desire and longing. you could feel the heat radiating from his body, a warmth that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer. with a swift movement, he lifted you onto the bed, his lips trailing a path of fire down your neck. he nuzzled your skin, his breath creating a tingling sensation. "you smell so good," he murmured, his voice a low growl. "i had to stop myself from pouncing on you the first time i saw you." 

"from now on, you're sleeping in my bed," he declared, his voice firm. "i need to make sure those nightmares don't come back. and besides, i like having you close."

as he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. in this moment, with sunghoon holding you close, everything else seemed to fade away. the line between reality and fantasy blurred, replaced by a single, undeniable truth: you were in the arms of a vampire, and you were dangerously close to falling in love.

his lips trailed down your neck, with such heat that it left you breathless. he nibbled at your skin, his teeth gently scraping against your sensitive flesh. the sensation was both painful and exhilarating, a heady mix of fear and desire. you gasped, your body arching involuntarily. 

"i'm not going to bite you," he promised, his voice laced with a hint of mischief. 

"not yet, at least."

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[luveline]

jade my lovely, i would kill for more early season spencer and bombshell!reader. i love them sm!! (i also love seeing the mentions of elle, like that’s my bbg)

“You aren’t still mad.”

You take a sip of your coffee and refuse to answer. 

Elle rolls her eyes. It’s unrestrained, as is her deep sigh. “Whatever.” 

You drink more coffee. Think about it, can’t contain it, “Whatever yourself, Greenaway.” 

“I want it just as bad as you do.” 

“But I’m better.” 

“You’re not better. You’re less likeable, there’s a difference.” 

You weren’t surprised when they chose Elle for the open BAU position, but you were gutted nonetheless. Pretending it doesn’t bother you comes easily, just not when she’s rubbing it in your face. “Can you leave that?” 

She hands over the stapler she’d been about to put in her cardboard. You don’t own one, and you decide to forgive her when she hands it to you without argument. “You want anything else?” 

“No, it’ll just remind me of you.” You sniff. 

“At least you’ll have an empty desk beside yours for a while. It’ll be good for your afternoon meditation.” 

“Hopefully, they’ll fill your absence with a very attractive new recruit.” You’d like that, a hottie to crush on. Now Elle’s leaving, you’ll have no one to project your fantasies on to make it through the work day. “How will you cope?”

“What, without you?” Elle asks. 

“With all the BAU hotties. Everybody on that team is maddeningly attractive,” you say with a put upon swoon, back of your hand curled and thrown to land against your forehead. 

“I didn’t realise you felt that way about Jason Gideon. Perhaps if you’d made that known, you’d be packing your desk up instead of me,” Elle laughs. 

“Well, maybe not Gideon. But the rest of them. Derek… if you take him seriously, he’s gorgeous. And Hotch–”

“He’s married. And older than us by ten years.” 

“He’s handsome, is what he is. So quietly funny and moody. I’m not telling you to ruin his marriage, I’m just saying he’s distracting.” 

“And Spencer Reid?” she asks. 

You grin. “He’s cute.” 

“Morgan said you asked him out for coffee?” 

“He wanted to tell me about water bugs.” It was sudden but sweet, he’d started a tangent on how they can walk on water because they’re small and hydrophobic, then asked if you really wanted to know, which you did. 

“He’s cute,” Elle says, raising her brows. 

“Have you seen him turn to the side? His jawline is ridiculous.” 

“He looks a little… dorky,” Elle says finally. She isn’t mean-spirited, just honest about her tastes. 

“I like dorks. And I really loved him, he was adorable. Derek’s been hazing him, so maybe you could be nicer? I think he really needs a friend.” 

“You don’t want to be that friend?” 

You smile. “I do. But I can’t exactly do that from Sex Crimes.” 

“Well, you can help me carry my stuff to the BAU. Come on.” 

“And look desperately needy? Is there anything worse than going where you’re not wanted?” 

“Morgan will be happy to see you. Maybe Dorky Spencer will be there to tend your BAU shaped wounds.” 

“You’re heartless, Greenaway.” 

You put your arms out obediently for her box. She grabs her jacket and her bag, gives her desk a last sweep, and turns away. It’s the last time she’ll ever sit at her desk in the Sex Crimes Unit, and it’s the most envious you’ve ever been of a friend. You want more than anything to be in her position. Profiling isn’t mythical to you, it’s a science you’ve studied, and you believe you could do it well if they just gave you time to learn on the job like they’ve done for Elle. 

But the position is filled. There’s no room left on the team. 

No need for a sex crimes expert now they’ve chosen Elle. 

You’re going to have to make yourself useful in other ways, or play politics, or, better, make friends. 

Hotch likes you, you know that, and Derek’s awesome. Gideon is the one you need to convince, but for some reason he’s totally sworn off of you. Luckily for you, he isn’t out in the BAU office when you enter, it’s just Derek, Spencer Reid, and Elle’s waiting desk. 

“Hi boys,” she greets. 

Derek turns. 

Spencer puts down his book. You meet his eyes. 

You’re far more flirty than Elle. “Hi, Derek. Hi, Dr. Reid.” 

Derek grins and takes Elle’s box from your arms. “Hi, girls. Happy moving day.” 

You don’t really want to talk about it, think about it, or come off as a jealous jerk, so you do a little bit of performance. “What are you reading?” you ask Spencer, pretending to be interested, hoping he’ll throw you a rope. You spot a familiar creature on the cover and your smile legitimises. “Is that about pond skaters?” 

“It’s Small Freshwater Creatures,” he says, shy but somehow firm, too. His tone changes as he relays facts. “It’s an identification guide, but it does talk about the specifics.”

“You really like bugs, huh?”

“I wanted to know more about it in case you came back.” 

You can’t help grinning. “That's really sweet,” you say earnestly, “did you learn anything new? You sounded like an expert already.” 

“They’re predators. They eat mosquito larvae.” 

“Oh, awesome, so if we had a few more pond skaters in the world we’d be better off.” 

You prop yourself on Spencer’s desk as he begins to rattle of facts and figures. Not too far away, Elle and Derek talk under their breaths. 

“Is it me, or is she into him?” Derek asks. 

“Maybe more than she realises.” Elle bites back a smile, stealing glances at you from over Derek’s shoulder. You’re more interested in what he has to say than anything she’s seen on you before. You lean in, your eyes bright. A little flirty, ever so slightly teasing, but genuine, too, as Spencer begins a quick spiel. 

“Well, he’s a goner,” Derek laughs. 

Elle doesn’t know about that. You don’t play with people’s hearts. 

There’s a teeny, tiny strand of shyness to you as you touch your neck. You begin rolling the chain links of your necklace along your finger, causing poor Dr. Reid to lose his train of thought. Two people entirely unaware of the road they’re embarking on. 

“Do you guys have a stapler?” Elle asks. “I lost mine in the divorce.” 

[cressidagrey]

Override: Denied

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Five times Bee’s intelligence left kindergarten teachers speechless—and one time they tried to go behind Felicity’s back, only to learn that Oscar Piastri is many things, but a husband who betrays his wife’s trust isn’t one of them.

Warnings and Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

1. The Gruffalo

The whole thing started with The Gruffalo.

Bee had picked it up during free play and started reading it aloud. Slowly, carefully, but without hesitation. Her voice was small, her finger tracking the lines one by one. Half the class had gathered around to listen. One of the assistants had smiled indulgently, assuming she was reciting from memory.

Then she turned the page and kept going.

By the time the final line came — “And now my tummy’s beginning to rumble. My favourite food is—gruffalo crumble!” — the room had gone still.

Apparently, one of the teachers had laughed. Said it was “adorable pretend reading.” Bee had corrected her. Politely. Then read a second book just to prove the point.

Now, Felicity was standing in the cramped hallway outside the kindergarten classroom, still holding Bee’s raincoat, and trying very hard not to lose her temper.

Felicity had never liked the way Miss Caroline looked at Bee.

It wasn’t unkind — not exactly. But it had that edge. That clinical, calculating gleam Felicity knew too well. She’d grown up seeing it in the faces of tutors and family friends, in admissions panels and the polished smiles of dinner guests. The one that said: what can we make of this child?

Like potential was something you could bottle. Like brilliance had to be measured to be made real.

“I think we should consider a formal evaluation,” Miss Caroline said. Tight smile, worried eyes. “It’s highly unusual for a child her age to read like that. We want to make sure she’s getting the right support. Beatrice shows advanced pattern recognition. Abstract language comprehension. Her reading retention is—”

She didn’t say of course I know. She didn’t say I taught her to read before she turned two or I watched her sort herbs in the garden by both function and taxonomy last week. Felicity didn’t say she absorbs the world like light through glass.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Felicity said calmly.

Miss Caroline  blinked. “I understand your hesitation, but identifying her cognitive profile early can help us tailor her learning environment. There’s no harm in—”

“There is, actually,” Felicity interrupted. “There is harm in assigning numbers to children before they have the language to understand what those numbers mean.”

“But Mrs. Piastri, don’t you want to know how advanced Beatrice really is? We’re talking about early gifted indicators. She could—”

“She’s a child. She doesn’t need a label. She needs kindness, and structure, and not being treated like a science experiment because she reads well. She’s three,” Felicity repeated. “And intelligence tests aren’t reliable anyway until at least seven. I assume you know that.”

The teacher had the grace to look uncomfortable.

Miss Caroline’s expression pinched. “I understand your concern, but you’re quite young—”

And there it was.

Felicity blinked. Once. Twice. The hallway was full of the shrieking post-nap chaos of pickup. Bee was sitting near the coat racks, legs swinging, chatting happily to a stuffed duck.

“I’m sorry,” Felicity said, tone like ice cracking underfoot. “My age is… relevant how?”

“I just meant—sometimes younger parents don’t realize how early intervention can benefit —”

“My daughter is three,” Felicity said tightly. “You’re not slapping a number on her.”

“Mrs. Piastri—”

“Doctor Piastri,” she said, before she could stop herself. “PhD. Mechanical Engineering. Oxford,” Felicity said, her voice soft and cutting. “I earned it while raising a medically complex toddler and making all of my daughter’s baby food from scratch. Please don’t mistake my age or my trainers for incompetence.”

The teacher flushed deep pink.

Felicity adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get told their value is how exceptional they are. Who are taught to equate achievement with worth. I will not put Bee through that. I will not let you quantify her.”

Miss Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Felicity’s tone stayed level, but her words landed like a scalpel. “If Beatrice wants to build rockets when she’s ten, I’ll be first in line with the duct tape and codebooks. But right now, she’s three. She wants to make frog houses in the backyard and eat her weight in strawberries. That is more than enough.”

She stepped past her and crouched beside Bee, gently helping her into her coat. “Ready, baby?”

Bee nodded, duck tucked under her arm. “Did you know frogs have teeth on their upper jaws only?”

Felicity smiled. “I did not know that. Thank you for teaching me.”

She stood, lifting Bee’s backpack and taking her hand.

The teacher tried again: “She really is extraordinary.”

Felicity turned back, her expression softening — not for the teacher, but for the child who’d asked this morning if plants ever got tired of growing.

“She is,” Felicity agreed. “But that’s hers. Not yours to catalogue.”

Then she walked out, head high, daughter in hand.

Because if Bee was going to grow into everything she could be, it would be without a chart. Without a score. Without a number that hung over her like a ceiling.

She’d be brilliant.

And free.

***

2. Music Notes

It started — as it always did — with a well-meaning concern.

“Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor at pickup, her cardigan slightly askew and a clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield, “do you have a moment?”

Felicity, who had just arrived after wrestling a leaky chicken feed bag into the boot of the car and still had dirt under her nails, nodded. “Of course.”

“It’s about Beatrice,” the teacher began.

Felicity offered a politely neutral expression, the one she reserved for conversations that were already exhausting before they began. “What about her?”

Miss Eleanor lowered her voice. “During quiet time today, Bee was reading from one of the classroom books — which is lovely, of course — but when I asked what she was doing, she said she was reading the music. Not the words. The sheet music.”

Felicity blinked. “And?”

“Well… it’s just rather unusual, isn’t it?” Miss Eleanor said, shifting uncomfortably. “For a child her age to understand music notation. We just wanted to check she wasn’t, ah… mimicking it, rather than actually reading it. Sometimes gifted children blur the line between memorization and comprehension—”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity said flatly.

Miss Eleanor paused. “I’m sorry?”

“She plays the piano,” Felicity repeated. “She can sight-read simple compositions. Because I taught her. We have a piano in the living room. I have been playing piano and violin since I was two. And we practice for twenty minutes most mornings, because it helps Bee focus.”

The teacher blinked.

“She knows what a treble clef is,” Felicity added. “She can count beats. She prefers Bach to Bartók, and last week she told me Mozart was ‘a bit fussy, but nice.’”

Miss Eleanor gave a slightly strangled laugh. “I see.”

“Do you?”

The words came out sharper than Felicity intended — but she didn’t apologize. She was tired of Bee being treated like a walking warning sign just because she was curious and quick and quiet.

“She’s not showing off,” Felicity said more gently. “She just loves music. It makes her feel steady. And she’s allowed to love it without being flagged for it.”

Miss Eleanor gave a stiff smile. “Of course. Thank you for explaining.”

Felicity crouched down to where Bee was waiting, humming softly and carefully zipping her backpack.

“Ready, sweetheart?” Felicity asked.

Bee nodded. “I was playing the notes in my head. They were from Clair de Lune.”

Miss Eleanor’s mouth twitched.

Felicity stood, offered one last smile — sharp and sweet all at once — and said, “Next time, maybe ask her what she’s doing before assuming it’s a problem.”

She held Bee’s hand as they left the classroom, tiny fingers warm in hers.

“Did I do something bad?” Bee asked quietly once they reached the parking lot.

“No,” Felicity said, squeezing her hand. “You did something beautiful.”

3. The Absence of Tantrums

Felicity didn’t expect much from pick-up anymore. A mild sunburn from the pavement. Bee’s curls plastered to her forehead. Crayons in her pockets and a rock in her sock. Maybe another baffling comment about her “advanced auditory memory” or her “preference for multi-syllabic words.”

What Felicity didn’t expect was to be asked in again.

“Just a quick chat,” Miss Kate said gently, gesturing toward the staff room. “About Beatrice.”

Felicity’s heart stuttered — just a fraction — but she nodded.

Bee, for her part, ran out with her usual boundless enthusiasm, clutching a folded worksheet and humming the melody to some Vivaldi piece she’d overheard last week. Felicity kissed her cheek and passed her a bottle of cold water, then followed Miss Kate inside.

Two other teachers were waiting, seated politely with that expression that said we are deeply concerned and also don’t overreact.

“Bee’s been doing really well,” Miss Eleanor began. “Very well. But we’ve started noticing some things that… well, we wanted to flag.”

Felicity sat. “Such as?”

“She doesn’t… react the way most of the children do,” Miss Kate said delicately. “No tantrums. No outbursts. If someone pushes her, she just… moves. If the class gets loud, she goes quiet.”

“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Felicity said slowly.

“No, of course not,” Moss Caroline jumped in. “But it’s… unusual. Concerning, even. We’re wondering if it might be worth evaluating her emotional range.”

Felicity blinked. “Because she doesn’t scream?”

“Or cry. Or talk over other children. She listens. She waits. She helps clean up when no one asks. At snack time, she shares without being prompted.”

“She’s empathetic,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exceptionally so,” Miss Kate agreed, as if that were a diagnosis.

Felicity’s jaw clenched. “I’m sorry. Are you saying there’s something wrong with her because she’s kind and self-regulates?”

“Not wrong,” Miss Eleanor said quickly. “Just… atypical.”

Felicity had tried. She really had.

She’d bitten her tongue. She had kept her mouth shut. 

But this?

“You think something’s wrong with my daughter because she’s quiet?” she asked, voice sharp.

“Children her age are typically more… expressive—”

“She is expressive. Just because she doesn’t throw herself on the floor doesn’t mean she’s emotionally repressed.”

Miss Kate shifted in her seat. “It’s just something we’d like to observe further. Sometimes these traits stem from environment—”

Felicity’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “Let me save you the speculation. She’s calm because we treat her like a person, not a problem. She’s gentle because she’s never had to scream to be heard. And she listens because we listen to her.”

A pause.

Miss Eleanor blinked rapidly, cheeks pinking.

Felicity stood.

“If Bee was loud and unmanageable, you’d call her disruptive. But because she’s quiet, she must be broken. Do you hear how absurd that is?”

Nobody spoke.

Felicity gathered her bag, expression cool.

“I’m not saying she’s perfect,” she added. “But if you’re going to label a three-year-old as suspiciously well-adjusted, then maybe re-read your developmental psych modules. All of them.”

And with that, she turned and walked out — just in time to find Bee gently rescuing a worm from the pavement and moving it to the grass.

“Ready, love?” Felicity asked, her voice soft again.

Bee nodded, slipping her hand into hers.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked quietly.

Felicity crouched and kissed her temple. “Never.”

Because the world might not understand her daughter’s quiet brilliance.

But Felicity? She would fight for it every single time.

***

Felicity had barely made it past the coat hooks when she was intercepted.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” said Miss Eleanor, with the same clipped tone she always used when she thought she was being subtle. “Do you have a minute to chat about Bee?”

Felicity’s spine stiffened. She offered a neutral smile. “Of course.”

Miss Eleanor led her to the side, just out of earshot of the pickup line. “We’ve been observing Bee’s behaviour over the past few weeks and… well, we’re slightly concerned.”

Felicity blinked. “About what?”

“She’s very… mature for her age.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said flatly.

“Exactly!” Miss Eleanor chirped. “And we’ve noticed she doesn’t… well, engage in the typical behaviors we expect at this age. She doesn’t throw tantrums. She doesn’t shout. She doesn’t interrupt. Sometimes we’re not even sure she’s here until we turn around and she’s just… building an alphabet tower or alphabetizing the nature books.”

Felicity stared at her.

“I’m sorry, are you concerned that my daughter is well-behaved?”

“She’s very… compliant,” Eleanor said, with the faintest wince, as if the word tasted wrong. “She listens too well. Doesn’t push boundaries. Never screams or throws tantrums.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Felicity said slowly. 

“It’s just… unusual,” Eleanor said, lowering her voice like she was revealing something terrible. “She uses complete sentences. She lines up her toys by material and colour. She thanks the classroom aides without prompting. She doesn’t interrupt story time. She’s never once needed a time-out.”

“And this is… bad?”

“It’s atypical,” Eleanor stressed. “Children this age should still be testing limits. We’re wondering if she’s suppressing emotion. Or possibly masking.”

Felicity exhaled. Hard.

“She’s not masking. She’s self-regulating,” she said flatly. “She has a secure attachment style and a predictable environment at home. She has space to feel safe. She doesn’t need to scream to feel seen.She’s just… happy. We do emotional work at home. We talk. We teach. We model. You don’t see tantrums because she’s not trying to earn attention. She already has it.”

Miss Eleanor blinked.

Felicity crossed her arms. “If you ever do notice her in distress—if she starts withdrawing or acting out or going quiet in a different way—I want to know immediately. But please stop treating her self-regulation as a red flag. Not all children need to be loud to be healthy.”

Miss Eleanor flushed. “Of course. Thank you for sharing.”

“I’m sorry she doesn’t fit your expectations,” Felicity said tightly, “but I am not going to apologize for raising a child who understands her own feelings and trusts her environment.”

There was a long silence.

Then Felicity walked past the clipboard, past the chart of developmental milestones, and straight to Bee—who looked up with bright eyes and said, “Mama! I made you a pigeon out of pipe cleaners.”

Felicity knelt and hugged her tight.

“Best pigeon ever,” she whispered, and meant it. 

Bee grinned. “Can we make mushroom soup later?”

“Absolutely.”

She took her daughter’s hand, turned back to Eleanor, and said — as calmly as she could manage — “Please don’t pathologize her calm just because it makes your classroom quieter.”

And with that, she walked out of the building.

4. The Protest

It was nearly pick-up time, and Felicity was early — for once. She lingered outside the classroom with her coat still half-buttoned, scrolling through a work email when Miss Julia waved her over with that careful, tight-lipped smile that meant “We have notes.”

Felicity braced herself.

“Hi, Mrs. Piastri,” Julia began. “Just wanted a quick moment to talk about Bee. Nothing major, just… a few things we’ve been noticing socially.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rose. “Go on.”

“She’s very sweet,” Julia said — the kind of tone people use when they’re about to say but. “She shares well. Listens. Helps clean up. Very mature for her age.”

Another pause.

Felicity waited.

“It’s just — we’ve noticed she lets other kids take toys right out of her hands without standing up for herself. And she doesn’t always speak up when someone skips her turn, or if a game gets too rough. We’re a bit worried she’s not asserting herself. That she’s letting other kids walk all over her.”

Felicity’s mouth tightened.

“Did it occur to you,” she said coolly, “that maybe the other children shouldn’t be walking all over her in the first place?”

Julia blinked. “We just want to make sure she’s building resilience.”

“She is resilient,” Felicity said, voice calm but edged in steel. “She was in the NICU for the first three weeks of her life. She sat through a cardiologist appointment two days before her second birthday without flinching. She’s fluent in kindness, not confrontation — and that’s not a weakness.”

Julia opened her mouth again, but Felicity cut in. “If she’s uncomfortable, she tells me. If she’s overwhelmed, she seeks quiet. She doesn’t scream or shove — she removes herself.”

“I just worry that she’s not developing the ability to self-advocate.”

“She does self-advocate. She just doesn’t do it by yelling. Bee knows her own mind better than most adults I’ve met. And if another child repeatedly ignores her boundaries, maybe the question shouldn’t be about Bee’s assertiveness. Maybe it should be about why that behavior is allowed in the first place.”

Julia frowned. “It’s just important she learns not to be a pushover.”

“She’s not a pushover,” Felicity said, voice cool now. “She’s three, and she has empathy. She doesn’t hit or yell. She shares. She lets things go because they don’t matter to her. But when something does matter — when it’s her stuffed frog or the storybook she loves — she’ll hold her ground.”

“That’s not what we’ve observed—”

“Because she’s smart enough to pick her battles,” Felicity interrupted softly. “And because you don’t see what she’s like at home, when she’s explaining to her father why the frog gets a seat at the table, or insisting we play the same memory game four times in a row until she wins.”

She paused, gaze steady.

“You’re not raising her. We are. And we are teaching her when to hold the line, and when kindness is more powerful than claiming the toy first.”

Miss Julia opened her mouth. Closed it.

Behind them, Bee came skipping down the hall, her curls slightly lopsided from the day, her paper crown from craft time slightly askew.

“Mama!” she beamed. “Guess what? I let Henry borrow my glue stick, even though he never shares his paint.”

Felicity crouched to hug her. “That was generous of you, bumblebee.”

“I think he needed it,” Bee said seriously. “His crown fell apart. Mine didn’t.”

“I bet it didn’t,” Felicity murmured. “Let’s go home.”

She took her daughter’s hand and turned back once, calm and composed. “We’re not raising her to win playground wars. We’re raising her to know her worth doesn’t come from pushing the loudest.”

And that was the end of that.

Bee tugged her hand gently. “Can we go home now?”

“Definitely.”

Felicity stood and gave Miss Julia one final, polite smile.

“She might be soft-spoken,” she said, voice pleasant and sharp as glass, “but make no mistake. Beatrice knows exactly who she is. And that’s not something I’ll ever teach her to shrink.”

Then she took her daughter’s hand and left without another word.

***

Felicity knew something was up the moment she stepped into the classroom. Not from Bee — who was calmly drawing little frogs in a corner with a pink crayon clutched in her left hand — but from the way Miss Julia looked up like she’d been waiting.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said, that same faux-gentle tone wrapped in tight-lipped concern. “Could I have a word?”

Again?

She nodded, stepping aside as Bee waved from her corner, already announcing, “Mama, I gave Hugo a lecture today!” like that was perfectly normal.

Felicity raised a brow. “Oh?”

Miss Julia’s smile tightened. “Yes, about that.”

They moved near the coat hooks. Felicity braced herself.

“There was a small… altercation,” Julia began.

Felicity blinked. “Bee? My child who apologizes to furniture?”

“Hugo took the magnifying glass she was using during nature station,” Julia said. “And when Bee asked for it back and he said no… she didn’t let it go.”

Felicity nodded slowly. “She asserted herself.”

“She told him, and I quote,” Julia said, checking her notes — her notes — “that it wasn’t kind to take something mid-use, and that he could wait his turn like everyone else. When he laughed, she told him she would be speaking to an adult, and that sharing only works if both people agree.”

Felicity’s mouth twitched. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Well, then she… sat down in front of the nature tray and told everyone that until Hugo returned it, she wouldn’t move.”

“So she staged a protest.”

Miss Julia frowned. “It disrupted the flow of the station.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Because she asked for fairness?”

“She was very firm. Quite… unbending.”

“She asked for something politely. Was told no. Stood her ground. Warned she’d escalate. Then followed through.”

“It’s just that—last time, we discussed how she was too passive.”

“Yes,” Felicity said flatly. “And now she’s too assertive?”

“She could’ve come to a teacher immediately instead of creating a stand-off.”

“She tried to resolve it on her own. Respectfully. Which you flagged as a developmental concern the last time. So now that she’s advocating for herself—politely, might I add—it’s a problem again?”

Julia hesitated. “We just want her to strike a balance.”

“She’s three,” Felicity said, voice low and firm. “She doesn’t need to be perfect at conflict navigation. She needs to feel safe enough to say ‘this isn’t fair’ and be taken seriously.”

Julia looked mildly uncomfortable. “It just caught us off guard.”

“She was taught to speak gently first. Then stand her ground if kindness doesn’t work. And frankly, that’s more emotional regulation than I see in most adults.”

There was a pause.

Felicity reached for Bee’s cardigan. “I’m proud of her,” she added, quieter. “And if your takeaway from this is that she was too composed while being mistreated, then maybe your focus is off.”

5. The Mechanic

The first red flag was Miss Caroline’s tone — that overly careful cadence that meant someone was about to say something profoundly stupid with a polite smile.

“Mrs. Piastri,” she said as Felicity arrived at pick-up, Bee’s hoodie slung over one arm and a spare tyre gauge still in her coat pocket. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course,” Felicity replied evenly.

Bee darted ahead toward her cubby. Miss Caroline waited until she was out of earshot before stepping slightly to the side, just enough to imply Serious Educational Concerns™.

“It’s about something Beatrice’s been sharing with the class this week. She’s been telling the other children she helps fix cars.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yes, well…” Caroline’s smile strained. “Yesterday she said she replaced a belt drive on a Daimler and… recalibrated a carburetor?”

“She did,” Felicity said, already irritated.

“She’s three,” Miss Caroline replied, as though that explained everything.

“And Bee’s been coming to work with me since she was a few weeks old. That particular Daimler is a restoration project I’ve had ongoing with a friend. Bee did most of the bolt placement herself. If you want to test her, you can hand her a ratchet set and ask her to identify sizes in metric and imperial.”

“She told one of the boys that she reassembled a gearbox,” Caroline added, as though accusing Felicity’s daughter of claiming she’d flown to the moon.

“She did that too,” Felicity said. “With my supervision. And torque charts.”

There was a brief pause.

Miss Caroline cleared her throat. “It’s just that… some of the children think she’s making things up. We don’t want her getting in trouble for lying.”

Felicity smiled, thin and tight. “She’s not lying. She has excellent recall and a near perfect memory. If Bee says she did something mechanical, odds are, she did.”

“Right,” Caroline said, clearly still trying to compute. “It’s just… unusual. Most children pretend to be mermaids or astronauts—”

“Bee prefers pretending to be a pit lane engineer,” Felicity said. “She likes impact wrenches. And ballast weights. Her father brings her telemetry data to colour in.”

Caroline laughed awkwardly. “Oh — is he a mechanic too?”

Felicity blinked. “No. He’s a driver.”

There was a beat of silence. Then: “…Like a delivery driver? Or a taxi service?”

Felicity inhaled sharply through her nose.

“No. Like a Formula 1 driver. He drives a McLaren at over 300 kilometers an hour while managing energy deployment and brake migration settings,” she said calmly. “He handles complex race engineering telemetry on a regular basis. So — no. Not quite pizza delivery.”

Miss Caroline turned a frankly amazing shade of pink.

“I see.”

“Do you?”

At that moment, Bee came skipping over, waving a drawing with great enthusiasm. “Mama! I drew the brake system from Uncle Mal’s Jag! It’s accurate! I even did the cross-drilled rotors.”

Jenna peeked at the paper, which did indeed feature what looked like a labelled cutaway of a Jaguar brake disc assembly.

“Can we go home?” Bee asked. “I want to check the tyre pressure on the Peugeot. It looked squishy.”

Caroline made a faint choking sound.

Felicity smiled down at her daughter, then looked back at the teacher.

“Yes, love,” she said sweetly. “Let’s go check our PSI.”

As they walked out, Bee held her hand tight.

“Mama?”

“Yes, bumblebee?”

“Do teachers not know Papa is a race car driver?”

Felicity leaned down and kissed her curls. “I think they’re just catching up.”

+1: Oscar 

It started like most drop-offs.

Bee had insisted on wearing her chicken-themed socks and packing three small rocks “for educational purposes.” Oscar had carried her in one arm and her bag in the other, already rehearsing strategy notes in his head for a post-sim debrief. He wasn’t really expecting anything more than a “Have a good day, Papa!” and maybe a small argument about snack order.

Oscar should’ve known something was coming the moment Miss Caroline said, “Mr. Piastri, do you have a moment?”

It was that same tone — the one that made it sound like she was about to gently suggest his child might be possessed.

Oscar turned. Miss Caroline again. Her smile was pleasant, like always — but too polished. Carefully rehearsed. Like the kind PR did before they dropped a ‘concerned’ statement.

He gave her a small nod. “Sure.”

They stepped slightly to the side, out of earshot from Bee, who had already launched herself into a group of kids with all the dramatic flair of a physics demonstration.

“It’s about Beatrice,” she said. “Nothing serious. She’s doing wonderfully — incredibly bright, of course. We’ve just been noticing some recurring markers that suggest she may benefit from formal assessment.”

Oscar blinked, already tired. “What kind of assessment?”

“IQ testing,” she said brightly. “Just to help tailor curriculum options and give us a clearer picture of her developmental profile. It’s quite standard for children who show early gifted tendencies.”

Oscar’s jaw shifted slightly, the muscles tightening.

“She’s three.”

“Yes, and early identification—”

“She’s three,” he repeated, voice low.

“Your wife mentioned she wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cognitive testing for Bee, which of course we understand—but we were hoping perhaps you might… talk to her about reconsidering?”

Oscar stared at her.

Talk to Felicity.

Like she hadn’t made herself very clear. Like she hadn’t already explained — politely, firmly, and with the weight of her own experience — why she didn’t want Bee tested at three years old. 

Oscar smiled. But it was the smile he used in press conferences when someone asked if he thought he should’ve gone for the overtake on Lap 27 and lost his front wing in the process.

“I’m sorry,” he said, tone even. “Are you asking me to override my wife’s decision?”

Miss Caroline blinked. “Not override—just… maybe you could help her understand the benefits—”

“She understands perfectly,” Oscar said, voice still calm. “She speaks three languages, teaches Bee how to calculate G-force with flour, and once wrote a statistical model to predict tomato yields in our garden for fun. If Felicity says no, it’s no. Full stop. Not ‘ask again later,’ not ‘see if her husband agrees.’ Just. No.”

Miss Caroline flushed. “Of course, we didn’t mean—”

“And for what it’s worth?” Oscar said, voice still low but no longer soft. “She’s Bee’s mother. Not just ‘your wife.’ She gets to have the final say.”

A pause.

“Unless Bee needs medical attention or starts dismantling the plumbing system,” he added dryly. “Then I get a vote.”

“Let me be absolutely clear,” he said, voice calm but steady now, like carbon fibre under pressure. “Whatever my wife says goes. She’s not hesitant. She’s informed.”

“She may not realise how helpful a formal measure can be for placement later—”

“She’s got a doctorate,” Oscar snapped, finally. “She’s been teaching Bee how to fix brake calipers since she was two. My wife knows exactly what it means, and she still said no. Which means you don’t get to go around her to try and change that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I… I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t capable,” Miss Caroline said awkwardly. “I just thought perhaps coming from you—”

“She doesn’t need me to speak for her,” Oscar said. “She needs people to stop mistaking quiet for weakness and young for unsure.”

He glanced back at Bee.

“My daughter spent the first few weeks of her life hooked up to machines I can’t even pronounce,” he said quietly. “And if my wife says we’re not slapping an IQ score on our toddler like it’s a bloody badge of honour, then that is the final word. From both of us.”

Miss Caroline looked mildly stunned.

Oscar gave her a polite smile that absolutely wasn’t polite. “Thanks for your concern. I drive a car for a living, but my wife holds our life together. You can guess whose opinion wins.”

And then he turned and walked back toward the car, resisting the urge to punch his steering wheel.

He didn’t need a test to tell him what kind of person Bee was.

And anyone who underestimated Felicity?

Didn’t understand the reason Bee was that person at all.

*** The kettle clicked off with a soft pop. Felicity didn’t move.

She was still curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a blanket, Bee’s tattered picture book in her lap — the one with the loose page that always made Oscar flinch because he kept meaning to fix it properly. Her fingers were idly tracing the corner of the cover, but her eyes were a thousand miles away.

Oscar poured two mugs, dropped a chamomile teabag into hers, and crossed the living room.

“She’s out cold,” he said quietly, setting the mug beside her. “Didn’t even stir when I carried her to bed.”

“Long day,” Felicity murmured. “She was playing rocket launch with a laundry basket and physics blocks after dinner. Something about thrust-to-weight ratios.”

Oscar huffed a laugh and sat down beside her, shoulder to shoulder.

They didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Then he added, “Your favorite teacher cornered me again.”

Felicity didn’t look away from the book. “Caroline?”

“Mhm.”

Her jaw twitched, just slightly. “What now?”

“She wanted me to convince you about the intelligence test.”

That made Felicity look up, brows knitting. “Seriously?”

“She even smiled when she said it. Like she was doing me a favor.”

“And?”

Oscar leaned his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “I told her no.”

Felicity arched a brow. “Just like that?”

“Not exactly.�� He paused. “I said no. Then I told her that if you say no, that means the answer’s final. And that she could stop trying to go around you because I don’t entertain people who undermine my wife.”

Felicity blinked.

Oscar turned to look at her now, calm and clear. “I don’t care if Bee’s the next Einstein. She’s three. Her job is to eat blueberries and invent words and ask impossible questions about the moon.”

“She asked me yesterday if gravity works on dreams,” Felicity muttered.

“Exactly. You think a test helps that?”

Her shoulders sagged a little. “I just hate the idea of someone putting her in a box she didn’t choose.”

“I know,” Oscar said gently. “And I told her that. I told her that you are Bee‘s mother, and that if anyone gets to decide how Bee grows up, it’s you.”

Felicity let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-exhale. “Thank you.”

He bumped his shoulder against hers. “You don’t need to thank me for siding with you. We’re a team.”

“I know. It’s just—some days I feel like I have to justify everything I say to them. Like they’re waiting for me to slip up and prove I’m just… young. Or weird. Or too intense.”

Oscar took her hand and laced their fingers together.

“They don’t get to define what kind of mother you are. You do. And you’re brilliant.”

She went quiet, then leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I didn’t think it would feel like this,” she said after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like protecting Bee would also mean protecting the version of myself I never got to be.”

Oscar kissed the top of her head. “That’s why we’re doing it.”

And on the table, the tea went cold. But neither of them moved.

[hhhwnr]

ꨄThird time’s the charm — S.R

masterlist + navigation

genre: hurt/comfort, angst (with happy ending!)

pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader (established relationship)

warnings: none. word count: 1,7k

summary: Spencer’s always been good at showing up for the world. This time, he’s learning how to show up for you, and a third chance that you give him might be just enough.

author’s note: currently posting daily because I genuinely have nothing better to do. first time writing over 1,5k words, hehe. I’m new to writing on Tumblr and in English (which isn’t my first language), so please be kind. I’m open to suggestions or feedback, as long as it’s respectful :)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You always knew it wouldn’t be easy.

Dating Spencer, that is.

You’d been friends long enough—met at a science conference three years ago, had long conversations about memory and metaphor over plastic coffee cups, and laughed over the mutual awkwardness of hotel mixers. The kind of friendship that came easy, like slipping into an old hoodie: warm, loose, no expectations. And maybe that’s why it lasted so long before either of you admitted there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Friends didn’t owe each other explanations. Friends didn’t have to arrange candlelit dinners or schedule around jet lag and crime scenes.

But love—love was more complicated. Love came with the hope of having someone there, and the quiet ache when they weren’t.

You knew what you were signing up for. You knew Spencer Reid was brilliant and kind and unlike anyone else you’d ever met. You also knew that the BAU didn’t exactly take holidays, not for anniversaries, not for birthdays, not even for Christmas. Still, you thought maybe—with enough time and care—you’d learn to live in the space between his absences.

You hadn’t seen him in three weeks. So when Spencer called to say he was back in D.C. and wanted to finally go on a proper date—just the two of you, no profile reports, no phone calls, no interruptions—you’d said yes without hesitating. You dressed up. Chose a restaurant with dim lighting and a soft jazz quartet in the corner. You smiled into your wine glass when he said you looked beautiful and teased him gently for overanalyzing the appetizer menu.

And then his phone rang. Not just a text. A call.

You saw it in his eyes before he even looked at the screen—the shift from soft to sharp. From yours to theirs.

“I’m so sorry, love,” he whispered, already pulling his wallet out, fumbling through apologies as he stood. “They need me to give an emergency lecture—someone dropped out, and it’s really time-sensitive—”

You nodded, of course. What else could you do? You kissed his cheek, wished him luck, and watched him walk out the door.

You didn’t cry, but you didn’t finish your meal either.

The second time, a week later, was supposed to be the redo. He made the reservation himself this time, texted you little updates throughout the day about how excited he was. It was raining when you met him, your umbrella half-broken and your coat damp from the metro. Still, he looked at you like you were a work of art. And for an hour, it really felt like you were getting your shot. You were halfway through telling him about a new project at work when his phone buzzed on the table.

You saw it again. That same shift. A case. Emergency flight.

He looked wrecked about it, eyes flicking over your face like he already knew he was letting you down. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I swear I didn’t know—if I don’t go—”

You stopped him before he spiraled. Smiled tightly. “It’s okay. I get it.”

But this time, you didn’t wait until the server returned. You gathered your bag, kissed him on the cheek like you were still okay, and left before the hollow feeling in your chest could settle in too deep.

Over the next week, you let the space grow.

You didn’t call as often. Left his texts on read longer than usual. When he tried to video call, you said you were busy. You didn’t bring up another date. You weren’t angry—just tired. Tired of trying to schedule time with someone whose life could be pulled away from you with one phone call. Tired of trying not to make him feel bad for something he couldn’t control. So you made it easier for both of you by stepping back.

Spencer noticed. Of course he did.

He noticed the shift in your voice over text—shorter replies, longer delays. The way you didn’t ask when he was coming back this time. The way your usual “goodnight” didn’t come with a heart emoji, or anything at all. It wasn’t dramatic, not even really pointed. But it was enough. It was enough to make him sit alone in his hotel room three nights into the case, phone resting in his palm, thumb hovering over your contact while he stared at the blinking cursor in the message box, unsure what to type. He’d rewritten the same sentence five different ways before giving up and pressing “call.”

He never liked making phone calls—never liked the way his voice could sound too eager or too nervous when it wasn’t in person. But silence? That was worse.

It rang twice before you picked up.

“Hey,” You sounded small. Tired in a way that didn’t come from sleep.

“Hi, love,” he breathed, sinking back against the headboard. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said. Your voice was quiet — quieter than usual. And cracked just barely at the end, like it had been recently worn thin. From crying, probably. He could tell. Spencer could always tell.

Still, he didn’t ask. Instead, he said, “I saw something today. In the bookstore near the precinct.”

You didn’t respond right away, but he waited. Eventually, your voice came, softer now. “What did you see?”

“They had a copy of The Little Prince. Original French edition.” His voice warmed a little. “It was worn, kind of falling apart. It reminded me of the copy on your shelf.”

That made you smile, just barely. He heard it. Or maybe imagined it. Either way, he kept going.

“I thought about buying it for you. But I wasn’t sure if it’d survive the flight.”

You didn’t answer for a second. Then, softly: “It’s the thought that counts.”

And there it was again — that sadness, thick between the syllables. He could feel it, even through the phone. The weight of all the things you weren’t saying. The heaviness in your throat that didn’t need a name. But he didn’t push. That wasn’t what you needed right now. You didn’t want to talk about why you hadn’t reached out, or how this second failed date in a row had taken the wind out of your hope.

So he told you about a bakery next to the station that made bread shaped like hedgehogs. About the cab driver who insisted on giving him a playlist of 80s jazz fusion. About how the team was tired, but safe, and how JJ had threatened to confiscate his sixth cup of coffee.

He talked gently, letting his voice fill the silence so you didn’t have to.

You didn’t say much. Just murmured in agreement here and there. But Spencer knew you were listening. And you knew that he was choosing every word with care — not to avoid the topic, but to love you without asking anything in return.

Eventually, you said, “I missed your voice.”

Spencer smiled into the receiver. “I missed yours too. A lot.”

Another pause. One of those full ones.

“I think I just need a little time,” you said finally. “Not away. Just… quiet.”

“I get it,” he said. And he did. He always did.

You both fell silent again. Not the heavy kind — this one was soft. Laced with understanding.

Before you hung up, he said, “That book in the window… I’ll see if I can get it shipped. I think it’d be nice on your shelf.”

And you whispered, “Thank you,” like it meant more than he’d ever know.

He didn’t need you to say more. He already knew.

When you turned the key in the lock and tiredly kicked the door of your apartment open, you didn’t expect him to come back early. You didn’t expect to walk into your apartment and find the lights dimmed low, the smell of your favorite takeout wafting from the coffee table, and Spencer sitting on your couch surrounded by a small army of snacks, two soft blankets, and three carefully stacked DVD options: The Princess Bride, Arrival, and Dead Poets Society.

When he heard your keys jingle, he rushed from the couch to wrap his arms around you tightly — warm, steady, and there.

“Surprise,” he whispered into your ear, his voice soft enough to make your knees tremble a little. He held you for a second longer than necessary, like he was making sure you wouldn’t vanish.

You blinked, caught between a breathless laugh and a lump in your throat. “What… is all this?”

Spencer pulled back only enough to look at you, hands still resting gently on your arms. “I figured if restaurants are cursed, maybe the third time’s the charm.” He smiled, a little sheepishly. “I wanted to make it up to you. I know I haven’t been here… really been here, and I hate that. I hate letting you down.”

You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come. Your chest ached with too many emotions trying to surface at once. He reached behind the couch and retrieved a small paper bag. Inside were two of your favorite chocolate bars and a tiny potted plant — slightly crooked, clearly picked out with care. A label stuck out from the soil, handwritten and slanted “Date Night Survivor #3.”

Your throat clenched.

“I know it’s not exactly candlelight and violins,” he added, voice lower now. “But it’s what I’ve got. And I did it because… you deserve someone who shows up. And I want to be that person. Even if I have to keep trying until I get it right.”

Tears rolled down your cheeks before you could stop them — quiet, unannounced, like your body had decided it was safe now to finally let go. Spencer noticed. Of course he did. His eyes flicked briefly to the glint of moisture on your skin, but he didn’t say a word. He just reached for your hand and pulled you in again, gently, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come sit,” he whispered, like you were something precious, breakable, and not already breaking. “Food’s still warm.”

And just like that, the ache inside you softened. It didn’t vanish, but it eased. Because he was here. Because he tried. Because this — all of this — meant something.

It felt like breathing again. Like maybe love wasn’t about perfect plans or unbroken promises—but about choosing each other, over and over again, even when the world gets in the way.

Thank you for reading ♥︎

[cuzxai]

challenger - nsfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: need this real bad… spence fucking the smart out of you in the bureau bathroom

You’re exhausted but sharp. The kind of exhaustion that lives in your shoulders but doesn’t quite dull your brain. It’s the third day of a case that’s left the team running in circles—three abductions, two confirmed murders and a ticking clock no one can afford to ignore. The fluorescent lights in office hum above your head like a warning tone. You’re all gathered around the case board and Spencer is talking.

“There’s a pattern here,” he says, eyes flicking across photos and timelines like they’re just numbers on a chalkboard. “All of them were taken on a Tuesday, between 5 and 7 p.m. Each one from a public area—a park, a parking lot, a bus stop. I think the unsub’s operating in a comfort zone that’s tied to routine. He’s not escalating, he’s repeating.”

You shift your weight onto your other foot, arms crossed. “Or,” you counter, “he’s desperate and trying to regain control by mimicking his own methods. The injuries aren’t the same. Look at the restraint marks on the last victim—they’re erratic. Sloppier.”

Spencer’s head turns slightly, jaw tightening. “That could be due to external pressure. Media coverage, police presence—there are other variables.”

“Sure,” you say, voice even, “but you’re assuming external pressure. What if the pressure’s internal? What if this guy’s unraveling and trying to hold it together by copying his own process?”

Morgan leans back in his chair, muttering something like “here we go,” but you don’t look away from Spencer. He’s bristling. You can see it—subtle but there. His fingers twitch near his temple like he’s restraining the urge to rub at it.

“I’m just saying,” you add, “you’re so focused on the statistics, you’re ignoring the behavioral inconsistencies.”

“And you’re so obsessed with profiling the emotions,” Spencer says, turning toward you now, “that you’re missing the quantitative signs. You can’t draw a conclusion from three data points and call it behavioral science.” Your heart rate ticks up—not from the argument but from him. From the way his voice raises half a decibel, from the way he always assumes he’s right until you force him to consider otherwise. It’s infuriating. It’s also kind of hot. But you’d rather die than admit that.

JJ glances between the two of you with raised brows and Emily mutters under her breath, “This is getting academic.”

“No,” you say firmly, stepping toward the board and pointing at the newest photo. “This? This is him slipping. The duct tape placement here is completely different. Look at the angle—it’s hasty. Rushed.”

Spencer steps closer too, too close really but neither of you move away. “That doesn’t prove unraveling,” he replies. “It proves a change in circumstance.”

“You mean the same thing.”

“I mean exactly not the same thing.” His tone is clipped, your glare sharp. It’s quiet for a beat.

Then Hotch looks up from his tablet and says dryly, “You two. Step out, now.”

Your eyes widen just slightly, heat crawling up the back of your neck. Spencer’s brows shoot up like he didn’t expect to be reprimanded. Morgan smirks into his coffee. Emily lets out a low whistle, not even trying to hide it. “Go cool off,” Hotch adds.

You both leave the room in tense silence, walking too fast, too stiff. The door clicks shut behind you and you’re in the hallway—alone, fluorescent lights buzzing again, echoing against tile and drywall. Spencer’s breathing is tight. Controlled. “You didn’t have to challenge everything I said.”

You blink at him. “I wasn’t challenging. I was correcting.” That’s when it turns. His head tilts slightly. His voice drops low.

“You’re incapable of letting me finish a thought without interruption.”

You raise a brow. “Maybe if your thoughts weren’t so half-formed.”

“Oh, that’s rich—coming from someone who once claimed impulse control was a myth while eating licorice for breakfast.” You step into him without realizing, your shoulder brushing his chest.

“That was one time. And I stand by it.” Spencer exhales, sharp and disbelieving like you’re somehow both beneath and above him. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something but then he doesn’t.

He just looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s trying to study you, like you’re suddenly not the opponent but the hypothesis. Like he’s trying to profile you. And that’s when you both notice the door to the staff bathroom is half open. He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t say a word. He just turns and walks in. And you follow.

The door clicks shut behind you and the silence is thick. Spencer’s already facing you, his expression unreadable—tense, a little breathless, like he’s not sure who’s going to make the next move. So you do. You step up until there’s barely space between your chests, your chin tilted just enough to meet his eyes. “You were saying something about impulse control?” you ask, soft and taunting. His eyes flick to your mouth, fast. Like he didn’t mean to, like it betrayed him.

“You’re impossible,” he breathes, but his voice has lost all edge.

You smile slowly. “You don’t sound like you hate me.”

Spencer exhales a shaky breath through his nose. “I don’t.” There’s no more talking.

His hands are on your face, your waist, your back—everywhere at once. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been biting his tongue for years and now it’s all spilling out, heat and frustration and something deeper. You grab the front of his button-down, half pulling, half clawing at it, and he groans into the kiss like he’s starving. You spin him until his back hits the stall door. It creaks under the weight and he barely manages to flick the lock shut before you’re pulling at his belt. Your fingers are frantic, fumbling but he stills them with one of his own—curling over your wrist, grounding you. “Let me,” he says, low. “You’ll stretch the leather.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter but you let him. And when he works it open with those long, practiced fingers, you barely notice that your back is now pressed to the wall, cold tile seeping through your clothes. Then Spencer drops to his knees. You gasp. “What are you—”

“Don’t stop,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up as his hands move to the waistband of your pants. “You’re always so good at talking back. Keep going.” You open your mouth to say something smart, something biting—but all that comes out is a breathy moan as he pulls your pants down your legs with precision, lips brushing your thigh on the way. His mouth is warm. Skilled. Unrelenting.

You slap a hand over your own mouth, back arching, one leg trembling against his shoulder as he holds it steady. His fingers dig into your thigh, hard enough to leave bruises. And when his eyes flutter shut, he moans like this is about him, like you’re his favorite meal and he’s been starving for weeks. You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard and he groans again—like praise. “God,” you pant. “I—I should’ve—”

“I know,” he whispers against your skin. “You should’ve argued with me earlier.” You let out a shaky laugh. He smiles, going back down. You slap a hand against the tile behind you, the other gripping his hair like a lifeline.

“Fuck—Spencer—” His hands grip your thighs, spreading you just enough, holding you steady as his tongue laps slow, then firm, then teasing again. He shifts a little, then locks eyes with you as he seals his mouth around your clit and sucks.

Your head knocks against the wall. You bite down on a moan so hard your lip might bleed. He doesn’t stop. If anything, the sounds you make just fuel him. He’s greedy with it—licking like you’re a problem he’s solving, a theory he’s proving, something he won’t give up on until you’re falling apart in his hands. One of your legs starts trembling.

“Spencer—God.” your voice breaks as your hips buck against him. He groans again, mouth dragging slow and wet over you, nose brushing where you’re most sensitive. His grip tightens. You can barely stay upright. And just when you think you’re about to come—he pulls back. You whimper, flushed and panting and glare down at him.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lips glossy and red, smirking like the bastard he is. “You’re not getting off that easy,” he says, low and smug. You barely have time to curse him before he stands, kisses you rough and lifts you back into his arms like he never left his knees at all.

He kisses you hard—sloppy and eager, like he can’t decide whether to savor you or consume you whole. His tongue finds yours, tasting the echo of you still lingering on his lips, and you moan into his mouth because god, he’s not playing fair. You barely register the way he lifts you until you feel the cold counter under your ass. His hands are firm on your thighs, dragging you forward until your legs are bracketing his hips. The friction makes you gasp. Your shirt’s still on but your bra is shoved up, his button-up hanging open, his belt clinking with every shift. It’s messy and loud and rushed but the tension between you has been simmering for months—this was never going to be slow.

“You still think you’re smarter than me?” he growls against your neck, nipping hard enough to leave a mark. “Still think you can walk around acting like you know better?”

You choke out a laugh, tilting your head to give him more access. “I am smarter than you.” He bites down harder. You yelp but it turns into a moan as he lines himself up, pushes in—slow, deep—you both gasp. “This is so,” you whisper, breath caught in your throat, “so inappropriate.”

He grins, eyes wild. “Technically we’re on a mandated break.”

The thrusts start slow. Deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the feel of you, like he wants to make this last longer than he knows it can. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging in and his breath stutters when you bite down on his jaw. “You’re so—” he groans, “God, you’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” you whisper.

He replied without hesitation, “I really do.” It’s a rhythm then. Heated, sloppy, completely unprofessional. You both know someone could walk in. That there are voices in the hallway, that the lock isn’t strong—but none of it matters. Not when he’s like this. Not when you’re like this. And not when every thrust makes the wall groan behind you. “Oh my—fuck, Spencer.”

“Say it again,” he grits out, hips snapping into you. “Say you’re smarter.”

You’re breathless, half-laughing through the haze of it all. “You—fuck— need me to stroke your ego that bad?”

He slams into you harder in response. “Need you to shut up before someone hears you.”

“I don’t think you care if they do.”

He doesn’t deny it. His hand snakes up between your bodies, thumb dragging over your clit in tight, perfect circles. You jolt in his grip, hands flying to his hair, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around him. It’s dizzying, relentless, the heat curling low in your stomach growing unbearable. And just when you’re sure you’re about to unravel again—he pulls out.

You blink, dazed. “Huh—?”

He turns you around before you can catch your breath, bending you over the counter. His hand flattens between your shoulder blades, holding you there as he kicks your feet apart and sinks back in from behind. You can see yourself in the mirror. You cry out at the stretch, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.

He’s fucking you now—deep and fast, every thrust knocking the breath out of you, every slap of skin against skin echoing loud in the small bathroom. His hand slips around, rubbing your clit again in sync with his thrusts, you see stars.

“Spencer—” Your voice is shaking, half-strangled with need as he pounds into you from behind, every slap of his hips sending jolts of pleasure down your spine. Your hands are braced on the counter, knuckles white but it’s not enough to keep you steady. Not with the way he’s fucking you like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does. Maybe this is him trying to one-up you in the one arena where he knows he doesn’t have to compete—because you’re already falling apart under him. But he doesn’t let you go over that edge. Not yet.

“What’s wrong?” he breathes low and smug. “You were so confident before and now you can’t form a sentence? Thought you had all the answers.”

You jerk your body up to meet him, head spinning, breath coming in sharp gasps. “Shut up,” you bite out, muscles tightening as you force out a laugh, defiant even as his dick keeps dragging that perfect angle.

“Don’t want to hear me talk, huh?” he mocks. “But you can’t help but listen, can you?”

You try to move your hands but his grip is too tight, fingers digging into your wrists as his pace quickens. His thumb slips under your chin, lifting your face just enough for him to look at you with that insufferable smugness, his own arousal written all over his features.

“Are you really going to argue with me now?” he mutters, voice thick with want but still that level of condescension. “Because last I checked, your body’s telling me everything I need to know.”

“Fuck you,” you manage to snap, even as he angles his hips to hit deeper and it knocks the breath out of you. You almost choke on your words. He doesn’t let up. Instead, he pulls your hair just hard enough that your head tilts back and your throat is exposed.

“You’re dripping for me and you want to tell me you hate me?”

You don’t even know why you answer but you do. “Yeah, I fucking do. I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he mutters, tugging on your hair again, forcing you to look him in the eye. “You can’t hate me when your pussy’s telling me otherwise.” Your jaw clenches, a frustrated growl escaping your lips. You’re so fucking close but he’s pulling back just enough that you can’t come. He’s in control now. He’s always in control. And you hate it. Spencer leans in, his breath brushing against your ear. “I know what you want. Don’t act like you’re not dying for it.” He shifts again and suddenly you feel his fingers slide into your mouth—uninvited but not unwelcome. It’s messy as you suck on his fingers, the taste of him coating your tongue but the position he has you in—helpless, needy, at his mercy—makes it hard to care.

“Still hate me?” he asks again, the words almost teasing.

“I’m so close,” you breathe, and your voice is breaking. “Just let me—”

“You need to ask for it, don’t you?” He pulls his fingers from your mouth, wiping them on your cheek as he watches you, his mouth falls open slightly. “You can’t finish without me telling you to.”

“Let me,” you almost whimper, your body shaking, on the edge of something. “Please. Please.” He grins like he’s won, his grip on your wrists loosening just enough.

“You’ve got such a dirty mouth, I kind of like it,” he mutters, then he finally lets go, his fingers back at your throat, not quite choking, just keeping you where he wants you. “You don’t get to finish just because you ask,” he says, thrusting hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs. “Not yet.”

It’s a mix of sweet relief and pure frustration, your body writhing under him. Every angle is perfect, every inch of him dragging you closer to something you can’t control. He’s fucking you through your angry little comments, through the way you fight him even as you beg for more. Spencer leans in to bite at your neck, growling in your ear as he pulls your hair again, tighter this time.

“God, you’re so fucking stubborn,” he hisses and suddenly, he’s fucking you harder, faster, like he’s punishing you for every dumb word you’ve ever said to him.

“I hate you,” you gasp, hands desperately trying to grip anything to steady yourself but it’s futile. He’s the one in control and you’re too far gone to care about anything else. But when his hand snakes back between your legs, fingers finding your clit with practiced precision, you lose it. You’re falling apart and you don’t care that you’re still supposed to hate him. You don’t care that you’re both too stubborn to admit it.

“Don’t come yet,” he growls. “Not until I say so.” You bite back a scream, his voice still ringing in your ears.

“Fuck, Spencer.” His grip tightens again, fingers digging in and you know he’s close too. He’s holding you, using you and in this moment, you have no power. And you fucking love it.

You don’t know if you ever hated anyone this much. You don’t know if you ever wanted anyone more. Spencer’s breathing is shallow now, hot against the back of your neck as he drives into you from behind, both of you falling apart together—his hand spread over your lower stomach to keep you from moving, his other hand tangled tight in your hair.

“Jesus, you feel so good like this,” he groans, low and rough. “So fucking wet. You gonna come for me now?” You barely manage a response—something choked and shaky, some version of his name that sounds like begging. Your face is red, mouth parted, flushed and panting and he doesn’t slow down. He wants to ruin you. “See?” he murmurs, his voice shaking with effort but his mouth still so fucking smug. “I knew all that attitude was just overcompensation. You were dying for this.” You shake your head weakly, more from the overwhelming heat and pressure than actual disagreement.

“You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore,” he says, thrusting deeper, harder, one hand sliding up your body. “Just so cock-drunk.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe but it comes out weak. Your legs are trembling, fingers scraping against the counter, mind clouded by nothing but the pace of his thrusts and the filthy rhythm of his voice in your ear.

“Mm. You are.” His lips brush the edge of your jaw, voice dark and breathless. “You’re so fucking close, I can feel it. You’re pulsing around me. You wanna come, sweetheart?” Your head nods instinctively, a small sound tumbling from your lips. “You need it, don’t you?” he keeps going, fucking into you like he’s trying to mark his territory, like he wants to fuck the fight right out of you. “You’ve been giving me shit for months and now you’re so dumb on my dick you can’t even talk.”

You’d hit him if your arms weren’t shaking. You’d argue—tell him to shut up, tell him he’s full of shit—but all that leaves you is a needy, whimpering sound. “Come on,” he mutters, his hand sliding down to your clit again, rubbing rough, desperate circles. “Come for me. You want to.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you’re unraveling, your body arching back into his, a sharp cry caught in your throat. Your orgasm hits you hard, hot and fast and blinding and you’re squeezing around him so tight it forces a moan from his chest. “Fuck, just like that,” he groans, slamming into you once, twice more before he follows, burying himself deep as he spills inside you, panting through clenched teeth, his fingers bruising your hips as he holds you still.

The only sounds for a few seconds are ragged breathing, your heart pounding, and the faint, distant hum of a case still happening outside that locked bathroom door. Then he slumps forward slightly, letting go of your hips and leaning his forehead against your shoulder.

“Well,” he breathes, hoarse and wrecked. “That escalated.” You don’t say anything for a moment—still catching your breath, still trying to convince your legs to hold you up.

And then you mutter, “I still think your theory was bullshit.”

Spencer lets out a laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Jesus Christ.” His hands are still on you. You don’t move. Neither of you do. Because as much as you hate each other, neither of you wants to stop touching. It takes a moment before either of you move again.

You’re still pressed up against the counter, legs shaking, heartbeat trying to slow down, when Spencer finally steps back. He’s quiet about it, gentle even, his hands catching your waist like he’s afraid you might tip over. You tug your pants back up, spine still curved, bracing yourself with one hand against the counter. He fixes his pants with shaking fingers, running a hand through his hair like it’ll make any difference. It doesn’t.

You glance over your shoulder, your voice still raw when you say, “You’ve got a scratch on your neck.”

He gives you a look—half amusement, half disbelief. “From you.”

“You were asking for it.”

He huffs. Rolls his eyes. Tries not to smile but fails anyway. You grab some paper towels to clean up, stealing glances in the mirror over the sink. Your mascara’s slightly smudged, your lips kiss-bitten. He’s worse—hair mussed, lips swollen, eyes a little too glassy.

“We look insane,” you mutter.

“We look like we just had sex in the Bureau bathroom,” he says flatly.

“Same thing.”

He catches your eye in the mirror. For a second, it’s awkward. Just enough for the realization to hit—you just fucked Spencer Reid. During work. In the middle of a case. He clears his throat, straightens his tie like that’ll fix anything. “We should get back.” You blink at him. “You think we’re not gonna get ripped to shreds the second we walk in there?”

He shrugs. “We’re both excellent profilers. We’ll gaslight them.”

You smirk despite yourself. “You’re the most unhinged person I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re the most competitive person I’ve ever had sex with.”

You tilt your head. “That wasn’t a competition.”

“It was absolutely a competition.” He opens the door first, checking the hallway. When it’s clear, you both step out like two spies post-mission—subtle, casual or at least trying to be. The bullpen is busy again, everyone preoccupied.

You walk in together, acting natural and you swear no one’s paying attention—until Morgan looks up from his desk with a slow, knowing grin. “Ten bucks says I’m right,” he mutters to JJ, who groans and rolls her eyes.

“Children,” Hotch calls from across the room, not even looking up from his file. “Back to work.” You slip into your chair. Spencer sits beside you, flipping open the nearest file like nothing happened. And maybe nothing did—except now you know exactly how good he sounds when he falls apart for you and he knows exactly what you look like when you’re coming on his cock.

You cross your legs under the desk and he glances at you sideways. You don’t speak. But the tension’s not gone. It’s just different now. And you’re not done fighting yet.

[kaiyunsim]

heartsync —

pairing : loser!jaehyun x gn!reader

summary : boring days lead you to download the stupidly popular ai matchmaking app, 'heartsync,' thinking that you would be matched with a bot. next thing you know, you have to maintain a dating score with this loser guy in order to avoid a hefty cancellation fee

warnings : fluff, slight angst, lowkey embarssing jaehyun, kinda fake dating,

a/n : i am addicted to losers. also writers block lwk hitting me so sorry if this isn't that good :(

— wc : 9.2k — not proof read —

notification !

tired of swiping and second-guessing? 🙄 let HeartSync™ match you based on more than just profiles. whether it’s fate or algorithms, HeartSync™ brings people together in unexpected ways. coffee shops ☕, grocery stores 🛒, or even your favorite songs 🎶. with personalized challenges 🎯 and quirky tasks 😏, it’s the app that makes you question what’s real… and what’s meant to be 💫.

ready to dive into a relationship that’s anything but ordinary? 😏 download now and let your heart sync ❤️‍🔥

you should’ve known something was up the second kazuha slid her phone across the table with a sly grin.

"you need this," she says, all too pleased with herself.

sungho leans in beside her, chin resting on his hand. "oh, absolutely. it’s the next big thing."

you glance down at the screen, unimpressed. "heartsync™? that sounds like a scam."

"it’s not," kazuha insists. "it's a revolution."

you narrow your eyes at her. "revolution is a strong word for a dating app."

sungho gestures wildly. "no, listen! this isn’t some basic swiping app. heartsync is, like, the future. ai-driven, hyper-accurate matchmaking." he wiggles his fingers in an attempt to look mysterious. "it scans all your online activity, text patterns, subconscious preferences—"

"wait, subconscious preferences?" you interrupt. "how the hell does it know what i subconsciously want?"

"science," kazuha says, as if that explains anything.

you stare at them, unimpressed. "so you’re telling me this thing invades my privacy, judges me, and then picks out some rando for me to date?"

"yep," sungho grins.

"hard pass."

kazhua sighs dramatically. "you’re so boring. come on, think about it. what if it actually works?"

"it won’t."

"but what if it does?"

you cross your arms. "i give it a week before i get matched with some weird middle-aged man who lives in his mom’s basement."

sungho gasps. "have a little faith, will you?!"

you snort, but kazuha suddenly looks too smug for your liking. before you can question it, your phone buzzes. you glance down.

"your friends are looking out for you! 💖 kazuha has sent you an invite to join heartsync™! experience true compatibility today. 💘"

you slowly raise your head. "zuha, did you just—"

"yep," she says.

"you—"

"it’s already downloading," sungho chimes in.

you look down at your phone in horror. sure enough, the app is installing.

"oh my god.”

jaehyun doesn’t even look up from his drink when taesan slides into the seat across from him, grinning like he’s about to be a menace.

"bro," taesan says, setting his phone down dramatically. "i found the solution to your dry-ass dating life."

jaehyun finally glances up. "i have a dating life."

woonhak, sitting beside him, lets out an exaggerated cough.

jaehyun glares. "shut up."

"he's not wrong," taesan snickers. "c’mon, look at this." he turns his phone around, revealing a sleek interface. jaehyun squints.

"heartsync?"

"ai-powered matchmaking, man. scientifically proven to find your perfect match."

jaehyun raises an eyebrow. "you sound like a bad infomercial."

woonhak leans in. "we already signed up. it’s, like, next-level tech. the app literally studies your habits, patterns, even your subconscious preferences."

jaehyun blinks. "that sounds illegal."

"nah, nah, just invasive," taesan says. "but in a good way."

jaehyun scoffs. "no such thing."

"just try it," woonhak says. "worst case, you get matched with someone weird and you ghost them."

"oh, so now i’m ghosting people?"

"what, like you don’t?" taesan smirks.

jaehyun rolls his eyes, but his phone suddenly buzzes.

"your best bros have your back! 💙 taesan has invited you to join heartsync™! what are you waiting for? your perfect match is waiting! 😉"

he looks up slowly. "you did not just—"

"i did," taesan grins.

woonhak claps him on the back. "welcome to the future, buddy."

jaehyun sighs. "you guys are the worst."

"and yet, here you are, downloading it," taesan singsongs.

jaehyun looks down at his phone. the app is downloading.

"...i hate you both."

setting up the app is way too easy. after a quick sign-up, a series of personality quizzes appear. you answer them halfheartedly, picking whatever feels right in the moment.

you expect a generic dating profile, but instead, a contract pops up.

"welcome to heartsync™'s exclusive perfect pair program! 💖 congratulations! by signing up, you agree to a 30-day trial relationship with your most compatible match. failure to complete the program will result in a penalty fee. please review the terms carefully. 📝"

you frown. "wait. penalty fee?"

kazhua leans over. "probably just a deterrent. no way they actually charge people."

"i don’t like this."

"it’s fine, just hit accept."

you squint at her, but against your better judgment, you press the button.

jaehyun does the same thing across town, equally suspicious.

then, both your phones buzz simultaneously.

"congratulations! 🎉 you’ve been matched! meet your perfect pair: myung jaehyun."

"congratulations! 🎉 you’ve been matched! meet your perfect pair: y/n."

jaehyun squints at his screen. "who the hell is y/n?"

you stare at yours. "who the hell is myung jaehyun?"

then, another notification.

"your first date has been scheduled! 🥰 see you at [reastaurant] tomorrow at 7 PM! remember: love is about commitment! 💞 failure to attend will result in a violation of your contract. 😘"

your stomach drops.

"...i think i just got scammed."

jaehyun, staring at the exact same message, mutters, "what the fuck?"

sungho and kazuha are dying.

"you’re stuck in a relationship for 30 days?!" sungho wheezes. "oh my god, i’m crying."

"this is the best thing that’s ever happened," kazuha says, wiping a fake tear.

you glare. "it’s not funny!"

"it’s hilarious," sungho corrects.

you groan. "this is the worst decision of my life."

kazhua gasps. "are you saying you regret trusting me?"

"yes."

"rude."

meanwhile, jaehyun is getting absolutely clowned on by his friends.

"so let me get this straight," taesan says, grinning like an idiot. "you’re contractually obligated to date this person?"

jaehyun rubs his temples. "apparently."

woonhak snickers. "bro. you’re trapped."

"i hate you both."

"nah," taesan says. "you love us. just like you’re about to love your new partner."

jaehyun looks up with dead eyes. "i hope the app malfunctions and matches you with each other."

woonhak gasps. "how dare you!"

"that would be so tragic," taesan grins. "imagine getting stuck in a relationship with woonhak."

woonhak shoves him. "shut up! i’d be a great boyfriend!"

jaehyun groans. "i cannot believe i let you guys talk me into this."

but before either of them can reply, his phone buzzes again.

"just a reminder! ❤️ your first date is TOMORROW at 7 PM! 💕 don’t keep your perfect match waiting! 😘 failure to attend will result in consequences. 🔥"

jaehyun stares at it.

"...i think i just signed my soul away."

you, staring at the exact same notification, sigh deeply.

what have you gotten yourself into?

...what?

you quickly scroll down. there’s a long wall of text in tiny font. definitely the terms and conditions you skimmed through without reading.

"effective immediately, you are required to actively participate in this relationship for the full 30-day duration. early termination will result in a penalty fee of—"

you freeze.

oh, hell no.

the penalty fee is HOW MUCH?!

"guys," you say, voice flat. "i think i just got scammed."

kazuh and sungho exchange glances. kazuha grabs your phone again and scrolls. her eyebrows shoot up. "holy shit. you’re stuck?"

"define stuck," you say, already dreading the answer.

sungho reads further. "...yep. stuck. you gotta go on dates, talk to this guy, and if you try to ignore him, the app gets passive-aggressive about it."

as if on cue, a new notification pops up.

"ghosting is unhealthy! say hi to your partner within the next 12 hours to maintain a positive relationship score. 💕"

you stare at the screen in horror.

kazuha and sungho? already laughing their asses off.

"this is the best thing that’s ever happened," sungho wheezes.

"no, no, this is cursed," you say, shaking your head. "there has to be a way out of this."

sungho grins. "you could pay the fee."

"i’m not paying that much just to escape some ai-manufactured relationship," you grumble.

kazuh, still laughing, pats your shoulder. "guess you’re dating myung jaehyun now."

somewhere else, jaehyun is also freaking out.

"taesan, what the hell did you make me sign up for?"

jaehyun stares at his phone like it just personally betrayed him.

"you got matched?" taesan asks, amused. he leans over jaehyun’s shoulder to check. "ohhh. wait. you actually got someone decent-looking. nice."

"not nice!" jaehyun exclaims, shoving his phone in taesan’s face. "look at this! it’s a contract. i have to date this person for 30 days or i have to pay an insane fee."

taesan reads for a second, then bursts out laughing. "holy shit. you’re trapped."

"why didn’t you tell me this could happen?!"

"because i didn’t think you’d actually get a match."

"what do i do?" jaehyun groans, scratching the back of his head.

"just go with it," taesan says. "it’s only a month. fake-date them, get some free meals, and worst-case scenario, you make a new friend."

jaehyun grumbles. "what if they suck?"

"what if you suck?"

"i mean, yeah, probably," jaehyun admits. "but still."

his phone buzzes.

"say hi to your partner within 12 hours to maintain a positive relationship score! 💕"

jaehyun stares blankly at the notification. then he looks at taesan.

"okay, but, like… do i get a refund if i cry?"

taesan cackles. "nope. no refunds, buddy. enjoy your new relationship."

jaehyun groans and flops onto the couch, phone balanced on his chest, already regretting everything.

you’re still convinced you’ve been scammed.

it’s not just the fact that you’re contractually obligated to go on this date, it’s the restaurant.

"how the hell did it know?" you mutter, staring at the notification again.

sungho leans over your shoulder, reading it for the tenth time. "i mean… it’s a little creepy."

"it’s very creepy," you correct. "i’ve never put this place in my location history, never mentioned it online, never even texted about it."

kazuha hums, sipping her drink. "maybe you thought about it too hard and the app just knew."

you look at her like she’s insane. "you’re telling me heartsync can read my mind now?"

"i mean, why not? it already owns your soul."

"not helping."

sungho suddenly perks up, squinting at the name on your screen. "wait. myung jaehyun?"

"yeah?"

he snaps his fingers. "oh! i had a class with him last year."

you blink. "and you’re only mentioning this now?"

sungho shrugs. "i forgot. but, uh…" he pauses. "he’s kinda a loser. in a cute way."

you stare at him. "define cute loser."

"like, y’know. a little awkward. kinda clumsy. but he’s not a bad guy."

kazuha raises an eyebrow. "so what i’m hearing is, you’ve already got an advantage."

"what advantage?" you ask flatly.

"you can be the cool one in this relationship," she says, smirking.

sungho grins. "oh yeah, you’ve already won."

you groan, sinking into your seat. "why am i even doing this?"

"because you’re legally bound by a contract," kazuha reminds you.

"right. love that for me."

jaehyun has the same problem.

"this is weird," he mutters, staring at his phone.

woonhak peeks over his shoulder. "dude, how did it know your favorite restaurant?"

"i don’t know."

"have you ever posted about it?" taesan asks.

"nope."

"checked in there?"

"never."

woonhak whistles. "yeah, that’s terrifying."

jaehyun groans. "why am i even going?"

taesan pats his shoulder. "because you’re legally bound by a contract."

jaehyun glares. "i hate you."

you arrive at the restaurant five minutes early, because despite your skepticism, you do respect punctuality.

what you don’t expect is to see someone already waiting at the entrance.

he's tall, a little awkward in the way he shifts on his feet, checking his phone. glasses slipping down his nose.

you approach cautiously. "...myung jaehyun?"

he looks up, blinking.

oh.

he’s kinda cute. in a loser-y way.

"oh," he says. "uh. hey."

you stare at each other for a beat.

jaehyun scratches the back of his neck. "so, uh… this is weird, right?"

"extremely."

he lets out a short laugh. "cool, just making sure."

you glance at the restaurant. "wanna get this over with?"

"yep."

you head inside together.

the weirdness doesn’t stop there.

you both open the menu, and your phones buzz at the same time.

"feeling indecisive? 💡 you both love the same dish! try the spicy seafood pasta! 🍝💖"

you slowly look up at jaehyun.

he looks back, expression unreadable.

"...so, uh," you start.

"are we just gonna ignore that?" he asks.

"we could."

jaehyun nods. "cool. because that was terrifying."

you both order the pasta anyway.

somewhere between the appetizer and the main course, the awkwardness starts to fade.

you’re still skeptical, but… conversation with jaehyun is weirdly easy.

he’s funny in an unintentional way. a little clumsy with his words, but quick to laugh at himself. it’s not what you expected.

"so," he says between bites, "are you, like, willingly doing this, or were you also tricked by your so-called friends?"

you groan. "tricked. sungho and kazuha set me up."

"ah," jaehyun nods. "taesan and woonhak did the same to me."

"so we’re both victims."

"basically."

you clink your glasses in mutual suffering.

then, another notification.

"running out of things to talk about? try reminiscing about your childhood talent show disaster! 😆✨"

you both freeze.

jaehyun slowly looks up. "...did your phone just say—?"

"yep," you cut in.

"what the hell?"

"no idea."

you stare at each other.

then jaehyun cautiously asks, "...did you actually have a childhood talent show disaster?"

you hesitate. "...maybe."

his eyes widen. "no way."

"look, it wasn’t that bad—"

"tell me everything."

you sigh, defeated. "i was seven, okay? i was supposed to sing. i got up there, forgot all the words, panicked, and ended up just dancing instead."

jaehyun claps. "improv! i respect that."

"bad improv," you correct.

"still, you committed. that’s what matters.”

and just like that, the skepticism eases.

then the app sends another notification.

"bonding over past failures? we love to see it! 😍💕 by the way, your partner thinks the nickname 'woonbaby' is hilarious. go ahead, try it! 😏"

you blink.

jaehyun reads his own notification.

then he looks at you, face slowly turning red.

"...what the fuck?"

you can’t help it. you laugh. "what the hell is woonbaby?"

jaehyun groans, covering his face. "it’s—it’s stupid. my friend woonhak. someone called him that once and it just stuck."

"oh my god," you grin. "you definitely still call him that."

"i do not," jaehyun lies.

you raise an eyebrow. "so if you text him right now and ask, he won’t confirm?"

jaehyun opens his mouth, then closes it.

"...no comment."

you cackle.

"oh my god," jaehyun mutters, slumping in his seat. "i hate this app."

"i love this app," you say gleefully.

by the time the bill arrives, you have to admit something.

this was not a disaster.

you’re still weirded out by the app’s accuracy. it’s unsettling how well it seems to know you both.

but jaehyun?

...he’s not so bad.

"so," he says as you both step outside, hands in pockets. "same time next week?"

you blink. "what?"

he holds up his phone.

"congrats! 🎉 your next date is scheduled for next friday! love takes consistency! 💖 ditching is not an option. 😉"

you groan. "again?"

"yep."

"...fine."

jaehyun grins. "see you then, partner."

you shake your head, but you can’t help the small smile forming.

what the hell have you gotten yourself into?

—

you’re in the middle of something important when your phone buzzes.

"surprise! 🎉 we’ve scheduled a spontaneous date night for you and jaehyun! quality time is crucial for growing relationships! 💕 see you at 7PM! 😘"

you stare at the screen.

then you glance at the time.

6:20PM.

"are you kidding me?" you say aloud.

sungho and kazuha look up from where they’re sprawled across your couch, watching a drama. "what?" kazuha asks.

"this stupid app just scheduled a date."

"wait, i thought your next one wasn’t until friday," sungho says.

"it was," you emphasize. "now it’s tonight. at seven."

sungho winces. "oh, that’s rough."

kazuha squints. "can’t you just cancel?"

you shake your head and turn your screen to them.

"cancelling is NOT an option! 🫵😤 love takes EFFORT! 💖"

kazuha snorts. "damn. that app is really holding you hostage."

you sigh. "i hate this."

sungho shrugs. "on the bright side, at least jaehyun is fun to mess with."

you scowl, but you don’t argue.

jaehyun is having an equally miserable time.

"you have got to be kidding me," he groans.

taesan and woonhak glance up from where they’re messing around on the studio couch. "what?" woonhak asks.

jaehyun turns his phone to them.

taesan squints. "another date? bro, you just had one."

"i know," jaehyun says, exasperated. "i have work to do!"

"just reschedule," woonhak suggests.

jaehyun gives him a deadpan look and flips his phone back around.

"cancelling is NOT an option! 🫵😤 love takes EFFORT! 💖"

woonhak bursts out laughing. "nah, this is hilarious."

"i hate this app," jaehyun mutters.

"okay, but like," taesan leans forward, "where are you even supposed to take them? don’t you have to finish your demo?"

jaehyun groans, rubbing his face. "yeah. i do."

he stares at his screen for a second, then sighs. "i guess they’re just coming here."

woonhak and taesan exchange glances.

"bold," woonhak comments.

"risky," taesan adds.

jaehyun throws a notebook at them.

you’re about five seconds away from ghosting when your phone buzzes.

myung jaehyun: uh. slight change of plans myung jaehyun: i’m stuck in the studio bc i have work to finish myung jaehyun: so if you’re cool with it, you can just come here?

you stare at the message.

then you sigh.

you: send me the address

a moment later, it comes through.

you grab your things and head out, still half-annoyed, half-curious about what you’re walking into.

jaehyun’s studio is tucked away in a quieter part of the city, the kind of place you’d probably never stumble upon unless you were looking for it.

the building itself is older, but inside, it’s got that warm, slightly chaotic energy of a space that’s lived in.

post-it notes are stuck to random surfaces. half-full water bottles clutter the desks. a worn couch sits against the wall, surrounded by tangled cables and spare equipment.

jaehyun is hunched over the desk, headphones around his neck, messy hair even messier than usual. he spins in his chair when you walk in, eyes slightly wide.

"oh. hey."

"hey," you say, glancing around. "so this is where the magic happens?"

"uh," jaehyun scratches the back of his neck, "something like that."

you step further inside, taking in the mix of instruments, wires, and open project files on the screen.

"you work here alone?"

"nah," jaehyun gestures vaguely. "woonhak and taesan share this space with me, but they’re not here right now."

"cool."

an awkward pause.

jaehyun clears his throat. "so, uh… i do have to work, but you can hang out? there’s snacks in that cabinet, and the couch is—"

you flop onto the couch before he can finish his sentence.

jaehyun blinks. "—yeah. okay. make yourself at home."

you grin. "thanks, host."

jaehyun groans but turns back to his screen, muttering something about "stupid app forcing dates at the worst times."

you watch him for a moment as he scrolls through his project.

his sleeves are pushed up, revealing the faint ink stains on his fingers. his foot taps absently against the floor as he listens to the playback.

you close your eyes and let the soft hum of music fill the space.

time passes.

jaehyun works. you scroll through your phone, occasionally glancing up to watch him tweak something in his file.

it’s… oddly peaceful.

you get up and sit down at the desk next to him, he’s too immersed to acknowldge you.

despite the forced nature of this whole situation, there’s something nice about sitting in a space where someone is just doing what they love.

you start to relax.

and at some point, without even meaning to, you start to drift off.

jaehyun only notices when he turns around to say something and sees you slumped over the desk next to him, head resting on your arms.

he freezes.

stares.

panics.

oh shit oh shit oh shit.

you’re asleep.

here. in his studio.

jaehyun is hyperaware of everything. the quiet rise and fall of your breathing. the way your fingers are curled slightly, like you were mid-scroll before you passed out.

he has no idea what to do.

should he wake you up? would that be rude? but if he doesn’t, is that weirder?

he’s still spiraling when the door swings open.

"forgot my charger," taesan says, stepping inside. "also, i’m stealing your—"

he stops.

jaehyun can feel the moment taesan processes the scene in front of him.

then—

"holy shit."

jaehyun whips around. "shut up."

taesan grins. "no way. you’re actually—"

"shut. up."

taesan snickers. "oh, this is amazing."

jaehyun glares. "don’t. start."

but it’s too late. taesan is already pulling out his phone.

"bro," he whispers, cackling, "you’re literally watching them like they’re a rare bird species."

"i am not," jaehyun hisses.

"you so are. oh my god."

jaehyun is about to throw something when you shift slightly, letting out a soft sigh.

both of them freeze.

taesan vibrates with silent laughter.

jaehyun, who is now very much contemplating murder, snaps, "get your stupid charger and leave."

taesan holds his hands up in surrender, still grinning. "alright, alright. relax, lover boy."

jaehyun throws a notebook at him.

taesan leaves.

jaehyun exhales, running a hand through his hair.

he turns back to you.

you’re still asleep, breathing steady, face relaxed.

he sighs.

and despite himself, despite the utter embarrassment of this entire situation…

he can’t help the small, stupid smile that tugs at his lips.

this app is so dumb.

but maybe…

just maybe…

it’s onto something.

you wake up slowly, the kind of hazy drift between sleep and awareness where you don’t quite remember where you are.

there’s the soft hum of music. the faint scratch of a pen. the scent of something vaguely citrusy, mixed with the underlying warmth of a well-used space.

then—

"finally awake?"

you blink blearily. jaehyun is sitting at the desk, spinning a pen between his fingers, watching you with an amused expression.

reality clicks into place.

the studio. the forced date. you, falling asleep like an idiot.

you groan, rubbing your face. "how long was i out?"

jaehyun shrugs. "an hour? maybe more?"

you wince. "why didn’t you wake me up?"

"you looked comfortable," he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you stare at him.

jaehyun stares back.

heat creeps up the back of your neck. you push it down and scowl instead. "so you just let me drool all over your desk?"

"you didn’t drool," jaehyun says. then, after a pause, "probably."

you groan again and stretch, the stiffness in your neck making you regret everything. "well, thanks for that. i guess."

jaehyun chuckles, spinning back to his screen. "anytime."

you roll your eyes but don’t fight the small smile threatening to form.

you end up staying.

it’s not like you planned to, but the vibe is easy, and jaehyun is… well.

he’s kind of nice to be around.

he works while you scroll through your phone, occasionally showing him something stupid that makes him snort. at one point, he grabs a bag of chips from a shelf and wordlessly hands it to you.

"what’s this for?" you ask.

"you skipped dinner."

you blink. "how do you know?"

jaehyun raises an eyebrow. "because i also skipped dinner, and i didn’t see you eat anything either."

…fair point.

you take the bag and mumble a thanks. jaehyun just shrugs like it’s no big deal.

somewhere between talking about absolutely nothing, watching him edit his project, and accidentally getting crumbs all over the desk, you start to forget that this whole thing was a forced date.

it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

and you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.

it’s nearly midnight when you check your phone and realize how late it’s gotten.

"shit," you mutter.

jaehyun glances up. "huh?"

"i should probably go."

he blinks, like he just processed the time himself. "oh. right."

you stand, stretching again, then glance at him. "you gonna keep working?"

"for a bit," jaehyun says, rubbing his neck. "i’m almost done."

you nod, then hesitate.

you’re not sure why you hesitate.

but before you can overthink it, you blurt out, "this wasn’t that bad."

jaehyun raises an eyebrow. "wow. high praise."

"shut up," you say, rolling your eyes.

he grins. "but yeah. wasn’t that bad."

you huff, grabbing your things. "see you friday, loser."

"see you, drooler."

you flip him off as you walk out the door.

jaehyun just laughs.

as you head home, your phone buzzes.

"congrats! 🎉 you’ve just completed an unplanned date! we bet you had a GREAT time 😘💖 can’t wait for friday! 😍"

you stare at the notification.

then you scoff, shaking your head.

stupid app.

—

you just want your morning coffee.

that’s it. just a simple, peaceful start to your day before dealing with actual responsibilities.

but when you step into the coffee shop, your usual one, the one you’ve been going to for years, you freeze.

because sitting right there, hunched over his phone with slight dark circles under his eyes and a half-finished iced americano in front of him, is myung jaehyun.

he doesn’t notice you at first. he just stares blankly at his screen, blinking slow like a loading error. he’s so out of it that when the barista calls out his order, he doesn’t even react.

so, naturally, you decide to make his life harder.

"myung jaehyun," you say, loud enough for half the café to hear.

he flinches like you just smacked him.

"huh?!"

"your coffee," you deadpan, nodding towards the counter.

he follows your gaze, then blinks again. "oh. right."

you snort as he stumbles up to grab it, still looking half-asleep.

when he returns to his seat, you’re still standing there, arms crossed.

"what?" he mumbles.

"this is my coffee shop."

jaehyun squints at you. "…what?"

"i come here every morning," you say, pointing at the barista like they can somehow confirm this.

jaehyun shrugs. "cool. i came here because my app said it had ‘the best morning recharge.’"

you frown. "your app?"

"heartsync," he says, yawning. "you know. the app that ruined our lives?"

your stomach drops. "you’re kidding."

jaehyun pulls out his phone and flashes the notification at you. sure enough.

"rise and shine! 🌞 grab your perfect morning pick-me-up at caffeine fix! ☕✨"

your jaw clenches. you also got a similar notification this morning.

slowly, your eyes meet. "okay," you say. "this is weird."

jaehyun hums, sipping his coffee. "yeah. but whatever. i needed caffeine."

you stare at him, offended. "so you’re just accepting this?"

"i mean, if the app is forcing me to get good coffee, i won’t complain," he says, completely unserious.

you hate that he’s taking this so lightly. you hate that he doesn’t even seem surprised.

you snatch his coffee and take a sip.

"hey!" jaehyun protests.

you smack it back down on the table. "that’s for being weirdly okay with this."

he just glares at you, rubbing his temples. "i just woke up. can you at least let me suffer in peace?"

you sigh, pulling out a chair. "fine. but i’m sitting here now. just to make sure you don’t pass out or something."

jaehyun looks at you, surprised. then he grins. "aww. you care."

you grab a sugar packet and chuck it at his forehead.

after that, you make a decision.

you’re not going to see jaehyun for a while.

not because you mind him. he’s fine. whatever. but because there’s something unnerving about the way this stupid app is leading you to each other like rats in some kind of romantic lab experiment.

so the next morning, you take a different route to work.

and by "different," you mean you add twenty minutes to your commute just to be safe.

you’re feeling pretty good about yourself until you stop by a grocery store later that evening—

and jaehyun is right there, staring at a shelf of instant ramen like it personally betrayed him.

you freeze. he looks up.

silence.

"are you kidding me?" you groan, dragging a hand down your face.

jaehyun just stares at you. "you’re the one who just walked in."

"yeah, but i specifically avoided my usual route just to make sure this wouldn’t happen," you argue.

"okay, well, i was just trying to get food," he says, exasperated. "i ran out of ramen."

you narrow your eyes. "don’t tell me your app told you to come here."

he hesitates.

then he holds up his phone.

"craving a late-night snack? 🤤🍜 don’t worry, we got you! swing by mart express—you never know who you might run into! 😉"

you want to throw something.

instead, you march up to him, grab his phone, and put it on airplane mode.

jaehyun blinks. "…what are you doing."

"fixing our problem," you say, pulling out your own phone and doing the same.

jaehyun stares at you for a moment. then, to your surprise, he actually nods. "okay," he says. "good plan."

you blink. "wait. you’re not gonna fight me on this?"

he shrugs. "nah. the app is getting creepy."

you fold your arms. "so you do think it’s weird?"

"i always thought it was weird," jaehyun says. "i just don’t care as much as you do."

you glare at him, but he’s already turning back to the ramen shelf like this whole conversation didn’t just happen.

unbelievable.

you leave the store together, mostly because your places are in the same general direction.

except five minutes in, jaehyun suddenly stops walking.

"shit," he mutters.

"what?" you ask.

he sighs. "i don’t know how to get home."

you stare at him. "you what."

"i always use my phone for directions!" he says, waving his arms. "but i turned it off, and now i’m lost."

you pinch the bridge of your nose. "you’re unbelievable."

"hey, you told me to turn it off!"

"because we were being manipulated!"

"well, congrats, now i’m gonna die on the street because of you."

"oh my god," you groan. "just—fine. where do you live?"

jaehyun tells you the address. you stare at him.

"jaehyun," you say. "that’s literally ten minutes from my place."

jaehyun blinks. "…oh."

you squint at him. "have you been taking the long way home this entire time?"

he scratches his head. "maybe?"

you don’t know whether to laugh or hit him.

instead, you just sigh and grab his wrist.

"come on," you say, dragging him in the right direction. "i’ll walk you."

jaehyun doesn’t protest.

but when you glance at him, he’s smiling.

you get him home without issue.

when you stop in front of his building, jaehyun turns to you.

"thanks," he says, rubbing his neck. "and, uh. good job fighting the system, i guess."

you snort. "yeah. whatever."

he grins, but there’s something softer in it this time.

"see you around?" he asks.

you hesitate.

then you sigh. "probably."

jaehyun laughs. "probably."

you don’t check your phone again until you’re home.

when you do, you have one new notification.

"aw, how sweet! 🥰 you make such a great team! 💕"

you groan, rolling your eyes. the off the grid mode didn’t work.

“so,” sungho says, dragging out the word like he’s about to be annoying.

you look up from your phone, raising an eyebrow. “so?”

sungho smirks. “how’s myung jaehyun?”

you blink. “why are you asking like that?”

“oh, no reason,” he says, very unconvincingly. “you just seem to see him a lot.”

you scoff. “that’s because this stupid app won’t leave us alone.”

“mhm.”

“it literally forced us to meet up.”

“sure.”

you glare at him. “i don’t like him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

sungho just hums. “never said you did.”

you hate him.

“anyway,” you say, aggressively changing the subject. “when are you free? let’s get dinner or something.”

sungho shrugs. “ask jaehyun. you seem to hang out with him more than me these days.”

you chuck a pillow at his face.

on jaehyun’s end, taesan is just as bad.

“so, you and your soulmate have been seeing each other a lot.”

jaehyun groans. “don’t call them that.”

“why not? isn’t that what the app says?” taesan teases.

jaehyun sighs, tilting his head back against the couch. “we don’t even take it seriously.”

“and yet you still see them outside of what the app says.”

“it just happens,” jaehyun defends.

“right.”

jaehyun doesn’t even bother arguing. it’s taesan. nothing he says will change his mind once he starts being annoying.

instead, he just mutters, “i don’t even like them like that.”

taesan snorts. “yeah. okay.”

jaehyun scowls at him. “i don’t.”

taesan grins. “never said you did.”

jaehyun glares at him.

taesan only laughs.

but the truth is—

neither of you mind seeing each other.

the notification hits your phone at the worst possible time, mid-bite into a sandwich, your mouth too full to properly react as you stare at the bolded text on the screen.

💖 heartsync™ challenge: surprise your match with a meaningful gift! don’t forget! thoughtfulness is key! 🎁

you narrow your eyes. a meaningful gift?

sungho, sitting across from you, glances at your phone and snorts. “oh, this is good. what are you gonna get him?”

you finish chewing before deadpanning, “a rock.”

sungho almost chokes on his drink.

jaehyun gets the same notification while lying on his bed, aimlessly scrolling through his phone. he barely processes it at first, but then—

a meaningful gift.

he groans, rubbing his face. "why is this starting to feel like a real relationship?"

“because it is a real relationship,” taesan says from his desk, not looking up from his laptop.

“it’s not,” jaehyun argues immediately.

“sure,” taesan replies, unconvinced.

jaehyun sighs. “what even counts as meaningful?”

taesan finally looks at him, unimpressed. “you’re the one dating them.”

“fake dating,” jaehyun corrects.

“sure,” taesan repeats.

jaehyun groans again.

you decide to put some effort into it.

not because you care or anything, but because you know jaehyun will definitely try, and you don’t want to look like an asshole in comparison.

you wander through a store, scanning the shelves for something that could count as thoughtful.

jaehyun gives off dog energy, doesn’t he?

you frown. that’s weird to think about. but it’s true. he’s clumsy, a little dumb, but weirdly endearing.

then, you spot it.

a plush keychain. a little golden retriever with floppy ears and big, round eyes.

you hesitate before picking it up.

it’s stupid. but it’s also… kind of perfect.

you buy it before you can second-guess yourself.

jaehyun, meanwhile, is just as lost.

he walks through a store with woonhak, who has been absolutely no help.

“why don’t you just get them a candle?” woonhak suggests.

jaehyun sighs. “that’s not meaningful.”

“depends on the scent.”

“woonhak.”

“fine.” woonhak gestures vaguely. “what do they even like?”

jaehyun pauses.

he… actually knows quite a bit. their favorite color, the snacks they always buy, the way they take their coffee—

he stops. when did he start noticing so much?

woonhak stares at him. “dude, you’re so gone.”

jaehyun immediately shakes his head. “shut up.”

but he grabs something off the shelf anyway, a small coffee cup for the coffee addict that is you.

just because it makes sense. not because he cares.

you agree to meet at the studio.

it’s not that weird, jaehyun spends most of his time there anyway, and you’ve been there before.

when you walk in, however, you’re met with the sight of woonhak sitting at the desk, staring intensely at his laptop screen.

you blink. “you’re here?”

woonhak looks up. “you’re here?”

“uh. yeah?”

jaehyun walks in behind you, closing the door. “we’re doing that stupid challenge.”

woonhak frowns. “what challenge?”

you smirk. “the one that made him tell me about woonbaby.”

there’s a beat of silence.

“YOU TOLD THEM?!” woonhak exclaims, turning to jaehyun with betrayal in his eyes.

jaehyun looks genuinely alarmed. “IT WASN’T MY FAULT! THE APP TOLD THEM.”

woonhak glares. “i don’t care! you let it happen.”

you watch, amused, as they bicker.

eventually, jaehyun gives up with an exasperated sigh. “whatever, let’s just do this.”

you sit down, pulling out the little plush keychain.

jaehyun stares at it.

“what?” you say.

he blinks. “…is that a dog?”

you nod. “it reminded me of you.”

woonhak howls with laughter.

jaehyun scowls. “what does that mean?”

you shrug. “you figure it out.”

woonhak is practically crying. “bro, you’re literally a golden retriever.”

jaehyun grumbles, but you catch the way he turns the keychain over in his hands, quietly pressing at the plush fabric.

then, he clears his throat, pulling out his own gift.

a simple and cute coffee cup, one you can reuse for your favorite coffee shop.

you pause.

you recognize this brand. it’s the one you always buy from.

“…how did you know i like these?” you ask.

jaehyun hesitates. “you mentioned it once.”

you stare at him. that was days ago.

woonhak, clearly sensing something, slowly scoots away.

“uh,” he mutters, “i’ll leave you guys to it.”

he exits the room.

leaving you alone with jaehyun.

you turn back to him, suddenly unsure what to say.

he shifts in his seat. “so. we did the challenge.”

you nod. “yeah.”

there’s a silence.

“…i actually really like this,” jaehyun admits, still holding the plush keychain.

you blink. the silence is loud.

he glances at you, a little sheepish. “i know you probably just picked it because it’s funny, but… i like it.”

you feel something unfamiliar stir in your chest.

“…i like mine too,” you say.

he looks up, a little surprised.

you clear your throat. “it’s thoughtful.”

a small smile tugs at his lips.

“good,” he says.

later that night, you add the keychain to your bag.

and jaehyun clips his onto his.

not that it means anything.

—

💖 heartsync challenge: write a letter to your partner about what this experience meant to you. be honest! no holding back! 💌

you stare at your phone.

your stomach turns.

this is different from the other challenges. those were fun, stupid, even. buying a gift? easy. going on a last-minute date? frustrating but manageable.

but this?

you put your phone down and ignore it.

jaehyun, on the other hand, groans dramatically and flops onto his bed.

taesan and woonhak glance at each other.

“what now?” taesan asks.

jaehyun lifts his phone, showing them the notification.

woonhak snorts. “damn. that’s deep.”

“yeah,” jaehyun mutters. “stupid app.”

taesan raises a brow. “you’re actually gonna do it?”

jaehyun pauses. “...it’s just a challenge.”

woonhak smirks. “uh-huh.”

jaehyun rolls onto his stomach, hiding his face.

taesan leans back in his chair. “so… what has this experience meant to you?”

jaehyun groans into his pillow.

woonhak cackles. “this is hilarious.”

jaehyun throws a pillow at him.

you don’t write the letter.

you could.

but you don’t.

because writing it down makes it real. and you don’t want to think about what this actually means.

so, you pretend it doesn’t exist.

the app can’t force you, right?

right.

jaehyun stares at the blank page in front of him.

just write something dumb and get it over with.

but when he tries to start, nothing feels right.

so, he sighs, taps his pen against the desk, and just… writes what comes naturally.

woonhak picks up the folded letter before jaehyun can stop him.

jaehyun nearly tackles him.

“GIVE IT BACK.”

woonhak dances out of reach, grinning. “ooooh, what’s this?”

“IT’S NOTHING.”

taesan, completely unbothered, takes a sip of his drink. “so you did write one.”

jaehyun glares. “it’s just a stupid challenge.”

woonhak dodges another grab. “damn, you really poured your heart into this, huh?”

jaehyun huffs. “i hate both of you.”

woonhak finally tosses it back, laughing.

jaehyun stuffs it into his bag, scowling.

“…so when are you giving it to them?” taesan asks.

jaehyun freezes.

“uh.”

“…you are giving it to them, right?” woonhak says, amused.

jaehyun looks away. “i don’t know.”

“…bro.”

“i just—” jaehyun sighs. “what if they don’t care?”

woonhak and taesan exchange a look.

then, woonhak shrugs. “i guess you’ll find out.”

you don’t ask if jaehyun wrote his letter.

you don’t want to know.

because if he did, then you’d have to think about why you didn’t.

when jaehyun sees you next, he almost gives it to you.

almost.

but then he sees the way you act like nothing is different.

so, he keeps it in his bag.

not that it matters.

—

💖 heartsync update: your 30-day trial is almost over! it’s time for your final compatibility assessment!

will you renew? yes or no? make your choice carefully! 😘

your thumb hovers over the screen.

your chest feels tight.

final compatibility assessment.

it’s just a stupid button. just a choice.

but it feels heavier than that.

yes or no. stay or leave.

do you want this to continue?

and that’s the problem, isn’t it?

because you do. but you also don’t.

or rather, you can’t.

if you say yes, what does that mean? that the app was right? that this was real? that you’re willing to risk whatever this has become?

that’s too much.

that’s terrifying.

so, instead of thinking, instead of wondering, instead of feeling—

you press no.

and just like that, it’s over.

jaehyun gets the notification when he’s halfway to the café.

he’d planned to meet you there, casually slipping you the letter like it wasn’t a big deal. but then—

💔 heartsync update: your trial has ended. thanks for participating! your match has chosen not to renew. we’ve removed them from your contacts. no hard feelings! 💕

he stops walking.

stares at the screen.

his stomach sinks.

his heart—

no renewal.

he scrolls through his messages, but your contact is gone. every conversation, every stupid joke, every awkward late-night text—erased.

like you were never there at all.

like he imagined it.

like it meant nothing.

he swallows.

turns on his heel.

walks away.

when you check your phone again, it’s like jaehyun never existed.

your chat history? gone.

your notifications? empty.

you type his name into your contacts. nothing.

it feels like a punch to the stomach. you should’ve expected this. you did expect this.

but it still hurts.

did he pick no, too?

…or did you delete something that he actually wanted?

you close your phone.

this is for the best.

you keep telling yourself that. so why doesn’t it feel true?

jaehyun stares at the letter in his hands.

it’s stupid.

he shouldn’t care.

but he does. and that pisses him off.

woonhak notices. “what’s up with you?”

jaehyun doesn’t answer.

taesan glances over. “hey. you good?”

jaehyun laughs, but it’s hollow. “yeah.”

woonhak raises a brow.

jaehyun crumples the letter in his fist.

“i just wasted my time, that’s all.”

he gets up.

leaves before they can ask anything else.

you tell sungho and kazuha that it’s fine.

that you’re fine.

sungho doesn’t buy it. “so, you just… ended it?”

you shrug. “it was gonna end anyway.”

kazuha frowns. “but… did you want it to?”

you open your mouth. hesitate.

sungho sighs. “you’re an idiot.”

you glare. “thanks.”

“i’m serious. if you actually liked him—”

“i don’t.”

“…right,” kazuha says, unconvinced.

sungho crosses his arms. “you know, he could’ve said yes.”

you look away.

because that thought is the worst one of all.

jaehyun avoids the café.

he avoids the places he might see you.

he pretends it doesn’t sting.

but when he’s alone, when the studio is quiet, when there’s nothing left to distract him.

he pulls out the letter.

the one you’ll never read.

and he wonders if he had given it to you, would it have made a difference?

—

jaehyun is not the kind of guy who does this.

he’s not the type to chase after people. he doesn’t do big confrontations. he doesn’t throw himself into situations where his feelings are laid bare, where rejection is a very real possibility.

but here he is.

sitting in a café across from woonhak, gripping a coffee cup like it’s a lifeline, his foot tapping against the floor so fast it’s a miracle the ground isn’t shaking.

woonhak, for his part, is staring at him like he’s experiencing secondhand embarrassment in real time.

“so… let me get this straight,” woonhak says, setting his drink down. “you got matched with someone on a dating app. spent a whole month with them. actually liked them. and now, instead of talking to them like a normal person, you’re here, asking me to help you find them?”

jaehyun scowls. “when you say it like that, it sounds weird.”

woonhak leans back in his chair. “because it is weird.”

jaehyun groans, running a hand through his hair. “i just—” he hesitates, voice quieter. “they pressed no.”

woonhak’s eyebrows lift.

jaehyun clenches his jaw. “they chose to end it.”

woonhak watches him for a moment. then, slowly, he folds his arms.

“so? that’s it? you’re just gonna let the app decide how this ends?”

jaehyun exhales sharply. “no.”

“good.” woonhak cracks his knuckles. “let’s find them.”

jaehyun blinks. “wait, you’re actually helping?”

woonhak smirks. “are you kidding? this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

jaehyun rolls his eyes, but his heart is beating a little faster now.

step one: figure out where you work.

woonhak, surprisingly, is really good at this. almost too good.

“didn’t you mention that sungho is their friend?” he asks, scrolling through his phone.

jaehyun blinks. “uh. yeah?”

woonhak hums. “i think i saw something on his page last week. something about dropping off lunch at their job.”

jaehyun leans over. “you can find that?”

“duh. i have skills.”

jaehyun doesn’t question it.

a few minutes later, woonhak tilts his screen toward jaehyun. “bingo. looks like they work at that bookstore near the subway station.”

jaehyun’s stomach twists.

this is actually happening.

woonhak smirks. “you ready?”

jaehyun doesn’t answer. just grabs his jacket and walks out the door.

the bookstore is quiet when jaehyun steps inside.

the warm scent of paper and ink fills the air. soft lighting casts golden hues against the wooden bookshelves. the faint sound of pages turning and the occasional murmur of conversation drifts through the space.

he scans the store, heart hammering.

there.

you’re stacking books near the back, moving with the easy rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

jaehyun’s feet move before he can think.

you don’t notice him at first.

but then you glance up.

your hands still. your eyes widen.

“…jaehyun?”

his throat is dry. he almost forgets why he’s here.

almost.

“you really didn’t care, huh?”

your expression falters. “what?”

jaehyun exhales sharply. “you didn’t even hesitate. you just—” he gestures vaguely, frustration bleeding into his voice. “you pressed no.”

you swallow. “i—”

jaehyun reaches into his pocket.

pulls out a crumpled piece of paper.

your breath catches.

“you didn’t read mine,” jaehyun says.

his voice is quieter now. rough around the edges.

you stare at the letter.

the ink is smudged. the paper is creased, worn like he’s been holding onto it for days.

like he was going to give it to you, like he wanted to stay.

your stomach twists.

“jaehyun.”

he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “i just don’t get it.”

his voice cracks on the last word.

you don’t know what to say. you don’t know how to fix this.

but maybe… maybe it’s not too late.

silence stretches between you.

you don’t look away from the letter.

jaehyun doesn’t either.

there’s a tension in the air, thick and heavy. you try to swallow it down, but it doesn’t go away.

finally, jaehyun exhales.

he shoves a hand into his jacket pocket, gaze dropping to the floor. “you don’t have to say anything,” he mutters. “i just—i needed you to know.”

your throat is tight. your fingers twitch at your sides.

you didn’t read mine.

he said it so simply, like it wasn’t the most painful realization of all. because you should have.

you should have waited.

you should have listened.

but you were afraid.

afraid that reading it would mean accepting something real. afraid that pressing yes would mean opening yourself up to something you weren’t sure you could handle.

but now, looking at him, his tense shoulders, his furrowed brows, the way his hands grip the letter like it’s the only thing holding him together. he’s so cute.

you wonder if you made the wrong choice.

you take a shaky breath. “jaehyun…”

he lifts his gaze.

your fingers brush against the edge of the letter. hesitating.

you take it.

jaehyun stills.

you smooth it out carefully, trying not to focus on the places where the ink has bled.

you glance up. “can i—?”

jaehyun nods, once.

so you read.

jaehyun’s letter is messy.

his handwriting is uneven, like he kept pausing, rewriting, second-guessing.

but the words—

the words hit you like a punch to the chest.

it’s not poetic. not perfectly structured.

but it’s real.

and for some reason, that makes it hurt even more.

hey. i don’t really know what to say, which is probably a bad start to a letter. i don’t know what i was expecting when i signed up for this. definitely not this. i thought it’d be a joke. just something dumb i’d try and then delete. but then, somehow, it was you. and i don’t know how that happened, but i’m not really mad about it. it was weird at first. and sometimes it still is. but somewhere along the way, i stopped thinking about it like an “experiment” or a “trial.” it just became normal. i don’t know if that means anything. but i think i like this. i think i like… you. not that it matters. but yeah. that’s it. - jaehyun.

you can tell when he started to get frustrated. some sentences trail off, like he wasn’t sure how to end them. some are underlined, like he wanted to make sure you understood.

but the part that makes your breath catch, the part that makes your fingers tighten around the page—

is near the end.

"i don’t know if that means anything. but i think i like this. i think i like… you."

you stare at the words.

your hands shake.

your vision blurs.

you blink rapidly, forcing yourself to look up.

jaehyun is watching you, expression unreadable.

you open your mouth. but no words come out.

so you do the only thing you can.

you fold the letter carefully. tuck it into your pocket.

and whisper, “i think i made a mistake.”

jaehyun exhales.

his lips press into a thin line.

“yeah,” he says softly. “i think so, too.”

it should be easier than this.

it should be simple. if you like someone, you tell them. if you want to stay, you stay.

but it’s never that easy, is it?

because standing here, in the quiet of the bookstore, with jaehyun staring at you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, it feels impossible to say what you want to say.

your heart is in your throat.

your fingers tighten around the crumpled letter in your pocket.

“so,” jaehyun says, voice quiet. “what now?”

you don’t know.

but you do know one thing:

you don’t want to walk away again.

you meet his gaze.

hesitate.

“i think i liked you before i even realized.”

jaehyun’s breath catches.

your chest feels tight.

you swallow, forcing yourself to keep going.

“i just… i didn’t want to admit it,” you say, voice softer now. “because if i did, then it wouldn’t be because of the app. it wouldn’t be because of some stupid algorithm. it would just be me.”

you take a shaky breath.

“and that scared me.”

jaehyun exhales sharply.

he’s quiet for a long moment, and just when you think he’s going to say something,

he takes a step closer.

then another.

your heart stutters.

he stops just a few inches away.

when he speaks, his voice is steadier than before.

“i don’t care what the app says,” he murmurs.

his gaze is unwavering.

“i like you.”

your stomach flips.

your fingers twitch at your sides.

you want to say something.

but before you can, jaehyun suddenly exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

“god, that was so embarrassing,” he groans. “i can’t believe i actually said that out loud.”

you blink.

a laugh bursts out of you, unexpected and unfiltered.

jaehyun groans again, covering his face. “no, don’t laugh. i was trying to be cool.”

“cool?” you wheeze. “you?”

he glares at you from between his fingers. “i take it back. i don’t like you.”

you grin. “too late.”

jaehyun groans dramatically, but there’s no real frustration in it.

just warmth. just relief.

and when your laughter fades, when the bookstore falls quiet again—

he looks at you. and you look back.

something shifts.

something settles.

and just like that—

it doesn’t feel so impossible anymore.

later, at a coffee shop.

“so,” you say, stirring your drink. “was any of it real?”

jaehyun blinks. “huh?”

“the app,” you clarify. “the ‘fated’ moments. was any of it real?”

jaehyun thinks about it.

“well.” he tilts his head. “the coffee shop thing was definitely on purpose.”

you nod. “and the grocery store?”

“i think you just have bad luck.”

“excuse me?”

jaehyun shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “i mean, statistically speaking, you were bound to run into me eventually.”

you narrow your eyes. “statistically speaking, i should throw my drink at you.”

jaehyun grins. “you could. but then you’d have to buy me another one.”

you stare at him for a long moment.

then you sigh, leaning back in your chair.

“so… no magic algorithm,” you murmur.

“no magic algorithm,” jaehyun agrees.

it’s strange.

you spent so much time wondering if any of it was real, if the app had manipulated you, if the connection was artificial, if your feelings were manufactured.

but now, sitting here, watching jaehyun poke at the ice in his drink with his straw, you realize something.

you don’t care.

because maybe the app pushed you together. maybe it forced you into situations that you wouldn’t have chosen otherwise.

but the moments you shared?

the conversations, the laughter, the quiet nights at the studio—

that was real. and that’s enough.

and that's something you like the sound of.

—

tysm for reading :>

bnd taglist : @bxnedo

perm taglist : @s0shroe @minoouz @the0p @mon2sunjinsuver

[burymagdalene]

Heat Lightning: Part I – Smyster - S. Reid x Reader

When the team joins another behavioral analysis unit in an attempt to help them track down a serial killer attacking throughout Texas, Spencer finds himself drawn to the new profiler aiding in the investigation. Working alongside her, Spencer begins to feel a deeper connection, both professionally and personally as he yearns to know her more intimately.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: Angst (Criminal minds thriller themes) & fluff tags: Spencer Reid x bau!female reader, bloodsplatteranalyst!reader, reader has bruises from a case, a tad suggestive, Spencer is horny and scared, murder, kidnappings, graphic depictions of yearning, dangerous heat wave, reader is a little cold and misunderstood… not by Spencer though! wc: 6.2k a/n: Part 1/2 of my bau!reader duology! I really wanted to give myself enough space to be able to write all the build up and the longing and the pining that I wanted and that Spencer is capable of!

Smyster

Scots; to smile to yourself while you daydream.

The first time Spencer saw you was when you exhibited a brutal beauty– a bloody nose and black eye as you walked out of the room he had just entered with quick feet as you rudely bump into his shoulder upon your exit.

The BAU was called in to help alongside your team in a case in Texas, though the department you worked for had credible merit, whatever psychopaths you were working with needed the folks in Quantico for extra help. 

Only slightly vexed (overdressed for the unrelenting sun), more confused, Spencer does a double take at your unit chief in his bewilderment.

“Don’t worry. She’s fussy about needing extra help even though her face looks worse than the unsub’s partner, and he’s dead.”

“A profiler?” Spencer mutters and looks behind him through the small glass window of the door to see you sitting on a desk talking to someone else on your team, arms crossed.

“Yeah. Came from forensic science, blood splatter analyst, decided to keep her around. Weird chick, definitely a hemophiliac.”

“Hm. I think you mean hematolagniac.” Spencer makes eye contact with you through the window. “Do you usually criticize your team behind their back?” 

“Whatever, kid. You’ll get it when you talk to her.”

Head aching, and sweat prickling his hairline, Hotchner interrupts their strange first impression.

“SSA, Hotchner. This is Dr. Reid, our expert on well- everything. SSA Morgan, Greenaway, and our communication liaison Jennifer Jareau. We understand that these mass serial murders are being enacted in a killing team, but the dominant partner is yet to be found?” 

One last up and down at Spencer and the other unit chief replies, “Correct. Seems like they were working as a pair in serial-turned-spree killings all over Houston. Caught the submissive earlier today and nearly wiped out a couple members of our team. We barely have a handle on the media, it’s absolute pandemonium all over Texas. Too much for us to handle alone, so we called you in.”

Hotchner nods curtly, Spencer can tell by the way his eyebrows pinch that he’s already overwhelmed. "We'll take a look over the behavioral profile you’ve begun. Let’s get the details on the submissive’s history, who they’ve interacted with, and what we can learn about their relationship dynamic. We need to understand what keeps them tethered to the dominant. We’ll also help control the media fallout. Get ahead of the narrative before it spirals further. JJ, meet with the folks with the Texas Tribune, we need to stave off mass panic.”

The door swings open, Spencer can feel eyes on the back of his neck before speaking, “I’m guessing the ‘spree’ part is the hard part. The submissive may be trying to protect the dominant. Any intel on him?”

The unit chief exhales sharply, eyes narrowed. "The dominant? They’re careful. Smart. And best believe the submissive may be the key to finding them. But he was shot before he gave us any information. We need leverage.”

Hotchner looks at each of them, then turns back to the chief. “We’ll start with your submissive. They’re our first lead.”

After setting up shop, Spencer has heard enough gossip from his team and yours to have his interest increasingly heightened and to be thoroughly frightened. Fifteen men and women have died in the past three days, bodies scattered in no recognizable pattern, and five currently missing. The missing persons billboard was enough to churn his stomach. 

Battered and bruised, he looks at you pouring coffee from the corner of the office. He now has more of an explanation for your crudeness, not that it even affected him. He doesn’t know you. Once cornered, unsub number 1, Darren Hawthorn, responded with immediate hostility, butcher knife in hand approaching you before being shot by another member on your team.

A clusterfuck of a case.

Not that he’s profiling you, but he is. Your self confidence is shot after your boss called the Quantico BAU in. Shell Shocked by the attack and humiliated by the call for help- you had no desire to talk to this new team that is making you feel less than adequate. 

But if he was going to help with this case, the two teams are going to have to trust each other. Spencer is going to have to understand the person with the most interaction with Hawthorn before his passing, you.

Tapping his fingernails anxiously on the wooden desk, Spencer stands to approach where you’re languidly sipping the black coffee.

“Ahem. Excuse me? I’m Dr. Reid. Um, Dr. Spencer Reid. I thought to introduce myself and ask you a few questions about Darren Hawthorn, if that’s ok?”

With a brutally slow turn, you look over your shoulder with a scowl, albeit, one that was smaller than the scowl you gave him when he first walked in. The sensitive skin under your right eye is bruised, matching the bruise on your cheek. Lip swollen and cut.  

“I don’t really think we need any help.” You settle on after a beat of silence.

Tell that to your black eye, he thinks.

“Um. Regardless if you do… we’re here and I’m willing to help. You’re hurt pretty badly too. Is there anything specific you noticed about the manner Hawthorn attacked, he used his fists, which was obviously different from the butcher knife wounds on the victims. He was armed with one too, right?”

“Yeah, well he wasn’t trying to kill me. Kicked my ribs really hard too. Some sort of humiliation ritual, I think. Now there’s a whole new team here, and we have to spend precious time explaining the details to you all when we can handle it. Embarrassing.”

You turn around to face him, placing your mug on the table.

“Ha, hot coffee is an interesting choice, it’s so hot out here.”

Spencer is met with two wide eyed and expressionless blinks. He has a desperate nagging feeling to start off on a good foot with you, he tries again.

“I don’t think you should be embarrassed. A-actually. A few months ago we were working with um, an LDSK, a long distance-”

“I know what it is.”

“S-sorry, of course you do. Um. A LDSK, and he held me and my unit chief hostage. In order to manipulate him, SSA Hotchner had to pretend to have all these grievances towards me. Asked to kick the crap out of me so I could grab his gun from his leg. Anyway, I got a faux belittling session and a few hard kicks to the ribs. We all go through embarrassing stuff.” He punctuates his story with a tight-lipped smile. 

She smiles!

A small up-turn to the corner of your cut lip after he finishes. He feels himself getting uncomfortably nervous. Spencer realizes he finds you incredibly beautiful.

A wince– the smile you cracked making your cut lip sting. You bring a finger to touch the wound lightly, checking for blood.

“That make you feel better?” Spencer can’t help but continue. The conversation ending is stressing him out, words coming out in an unconscious stream.

“It did. I can imagine that. Vividly.”

“Okay. Well I’m going to try to not take offense to that.”

You smile again, awkwardly, trying to keep one side of your mouth from turning up and sequentially wincing another time while laughing. It makes Spencer’s heart flutter. 

It makes him laugh.

“W-what?” Your brows furrow to their defensive default mode again.

Spencer fumbles. He’s not sure what to say. Hurting your feelings is the exact opposite reaction he wants from you.

“You just- um. I hope your lip heals quickly.”

He’s forgetting he’s also talking to a profiler. You read him quickly, social cues sharper than Spencers by a long shot. Like bells ringing in your ears, you know what he was smiling at.

“It kind of makes me look tough. Um. Ha, searing pain still though.”

“Well, lips heal relatively fast. They have a rich blood supply-”

You cut him off with a laugh.

“You’re singing to the choir, Dr. Reid. I know.”

Shame creeps up his spine. Twice now he’s rambled off on things it would be considered foolish of you not to know, he can’t help himself from running his mouth. Forensic science, Spencer. Blood splatter analyst, Spencer! 

“Your unit chief did mention forensic science, I apologize.”

“That’s alright.” you move and pick up your mug of coffee again, “It tastes better when it’s incredibly hot out.”

“I don’t- that can’t be true, it’s unbearable in here.”

“Because you’re wearing a shirt, vest, and blazer. Try it.” Your hands push out your cup as an offering. Spencer's gaze flickers over your knuckles rubbed raw before anxiety settles in his limbs about what was happening before him. 

Spencer takes your mug. The rim has a small chip that makes him think, just like its owner's lip. He lifts to his mouth and takes a scalding sip. The flavor is what offends him first, no sugar either. The warmth is second to it, Spencer just wanting to chug water after to rinse the murky taste out of his mouth.

He must’ve been wearing a disgraced look on his face as you start laughing at his reaction. He’s never had much control over his facial expressions. Before he can reply, Derek has sauntered over. 

“He usually takes about a gallon of sugar in his coffee. I wonder why he’d be so open to sharing like that. Complex guy.” Voice coated in sarcasm, Spencer’s embarrassed pink flush develops at the top of his chest.

“It- it’s just two teaspoons usually!”

“Two teaspoons, where?”

Unnaturally offended by Morgan’s teasing in the face of somebody he was trying to impress, he shifts his gaze over to scan your face for judgment. A small exhale of relief through his nose when there’s not. Just your fingers pressed slightly to your cut as you smile a wide grin looking over to him. 

“Dr. Reid, you have to stop making me smile or my cut is going to reopen.”

𓆱

Spencer is cursing himself for his attire as he’s posted in a junkyard with an uncompromising sun shining down on him. As he looks into the distance he can see the heat moving against the air in small swirls and currents. 

There was a report from the junkyard's owner that a car model that matched the unsub’s license plate was dropped off earlier today to be crushed. Since ​​the junkyard might be linked to the suspect in some way, Spencer and Derek are watching for any suspicious activity around the junkyard to see if the unsub returns, attempts to retrieve something, or communicates with anyone. 

While Derek and another member from your team are looking at the car for any evidence left behind; blood, weapons, fingerprints, Spencer sits on an old lawn chair from the yard as he squints through his sunglasses for any suspicious activity. 

The second day on the case trumps the first in terms of heat. Spencer picks at the skin of his thumb to avoid focusing all his attention on the inescapable summer heatwave clogging his lungs.

His mind feels heavy and hazy. Waiting is the worst part. Beside him plays an old radio that’s reporting live news updates, he’s listening through the static to hear if any confidential information gets released after JJ’s meeting with them. Damage control playing the role of short form entertainment. 

“Hey! Come here, we found something!”

Rolling out of the chair he was sitting on painfully stiff as the percentages of germs on unused junk rattle off in his brain like atoms bouncing off each other’s repulsive electromagnetic forces, Spencer makes his way to the pried open trunk.

“Yeesh.” Is all he can make out upon first glance. Different patterns of wet to dry splotches of blood adorned the fabric upholstery and rusted metal of the roof. There must have been way more victims than what he anticipated.

So the unsub has never even been bothered to clean where he has stored endless wounded bodies. Interesting. This clearly showcases how blasé it all has been to him, how certain he is in never being caught. 

“Let me call Hotchner, he can notify any medical examiners on sight.” Derek adds with an affronted groan. He turns away from the trunk, avoiding its Pollock of gore. 

The other profiler Spencer has yet to be introduced to speaks up, “No need,” a slight laugh forming in his tone, “We can handle this ourselves. We’ve got forensic pathology on our team.”

Spencer’s head snaps to your teammates fingers dialing your number. His heart starts pounding. He hasn’t seen you since yesterday, Spencer nearly forgot that he went up to you to console you about his being there. This is indeed that being there.

With a few items left on the floor of the car being placed into plastic baggies for evidence, Spencer’s skin flushes underneath his rubber gloves as he hears the tell-tale sound of a car grinding over compacted dirt as you enter the crime scene. 

Riddled with nerves, when he looks over to the sound of the door closing, he keeps his head low as if not to seem too eager to see you. Backfiring immediately, Spencer is met with brown boots and jean shorts that make him move his eyes up to your face in fear of staring too long and seeming inappropriate. 

“Hey.” you start, walking briskly over to the trunk, shooting Spencer a look from above your sunglasses that makes his stomach tumble over itself.

He tries to blink away the stars in his eyes at your personalized greeting towards him. Spencer does not need you to think he’s the freak on the team who grins ear to ear next to a car trunk covered in blood.

You step forward, leaning over the trunk briefly, carefully eyeing a particularly grotesque smear that leads to a dark corner of the space. The layers are thick, chock-full and stacked upon each other, creating shadows of different shades etched everywhere. 

The darkest areas are so thick that there is a noticeable protrusion due to the layering that juts out from the wall. Dark and oppressive, the red bleeds so inky that they appear to be holding secrets– secrets about the victims' last moments– secrets like dark corners closing in around Spencer. A deep red akin to the darkness he stares into at night that mobilizes his fears and plays tricks on his eyes. 

Spencer’s gut tightens, woozy and sweaty from the suffocating heat and dreary images in front of him.

Trying to focus through the dizziness swirling in his head, his throat tightens, but he forces himself to speak. “What do you think happened here?”

A soft hum, a gentle noise that acts as a soothing cool across his warmed forehead– “Yeah. This suggests they were either dragged or forced to move here after the initial injury, look. The pooling blood… it’s like it didn’t just happen all at once. It layers overtime. The peeling here shows that it’s not new. It could be a week or days old, it’s hard to tell because it’s so hot out, that could impact the drying process.”

Spencer forces his burning gaze off your cheek to the protruding splotch on the wall, where the blood has dried in almost mutilated ridges. 

“It looks like something was… lodged there. Like someone fell against it.” He takes a slow breath, trying to steady his shaking hands. “Sorry.”

“Right,” you comfort, “So obviously his drive to take victims to their specific drop off points to die entails there’s significance in the different locations. Even though they’ve all been different.”

Derek clears his throat, “What do you make of the really dark places? It’s like there’s intention in having the wound bleed out over the same spot, nowhere else looks like that corner. Surely it’d be difficult and out of his way to position them to be bleeding out in identical areas of the trunk.”

You exhale softly, your tone dry. “Mhm. And it's not just about the blood. It’s about what the blood’s telling us about what happened before. Whoever left this, they didn’t just hurt the victim… they tried to erase something, cover something up in my opinion.”

Spencer picks anxiously at his skin again, “So, they wanted the victim’s last moments to disappear. Have every ending the exact same way to remove individuality.”

Meeting his eyes, you smile softly, seeing through this inopportune moment of weakness for Spencer. “Nasty stuff. That's what we need to figure out. What they were hiding in this before the blood.”

𓆱

Both teams called in, the junkyard is swarming with agents and police officers. Spencer’s back on the longchair he wished he’d seen the last of, but with this heat he has no other choice but to sit down.

Standing, no, looming over where his bad posture droops him over his knees, you cast an observant and protective eye on him.

“You alright?”

Despite the swelling in his throat, he has no qualms with responding to you. 

“I’m really hot.”

“It gets pretty dangerous being outside for extended periods of time in this heat wave. How long have you been out here?”

“Hm. Four hours and twelve minutes.”

You smack your lips at him, “You’re going to get a sunburn.”

Spencer's eyes crack open then. He wasn’t even thinking about that. 

“Actually,” you begin, a teasing voice beginning to take over your usual cadence, “I think I can see some pink already on the back of your neck.”

Before Spencer can retaliate, mutter something along the lines of: No! I’m just blushing! or No! A sunburn on top of everything would send me spiralling!, he feels the gentle pressure of your nail pointing, grazing, against the back of his neck.

Out of a flustered reflex, he brings his hand to swap away your finger. Instead of getting offended, you giggle at him, the same finger checking your lip again. Within 48 hours you’ve developed a nervous tick– checking that cut religiously. Spencer is reminded that just the other day you could’ve been killed, he feels guilty about whapping your hand like a stuck up cat.

“Sorry. I didn’t hurt you did I?” He mumbles to his feet, too shy to meet your gaze all of a sudden.

“Are you kidding? You’re fine, I’m not made of glass.”

The tone of your sentence decrescendos into a smaller, less confident delivery. Halfway through realizing the irony in your statement being muttered through battered lips. You sigh gently, reminded how indicative your bruising is of what you went through, walking around with a scarlet letter that demands unwanted remorseful attention. 

Trying to change the topic as soon as you are able you start up again, “I have some. In the car. Would you like-”

“Yes. Yeah, please.” Spencer does a gentle laugh in return. He does not know how to act around you, it pains him like for the first time he has no knowledge on a subject that he deeply longs to– you. 

Spencer’s tongue runs languidly over his bottom lip, as a balm or as an anticipatory reflex, could be anybody’s guess, as he watches you speed walk to your car.

He starts to roll up his sleeves, sacrificing sun protection for the release of built up heat that seems to engulf him more as you’re around. It’s frustrating, he thought living through the childhood crushes he’s had on girls damaging his esteem would be enough to release him from these encompassing thoughts of touch. Of skin on skin contact.

That’s what it is too, childish. The way he’s fawning and fidgeting with tension around you— it’s taking him back to being fifteen and irritable with hormones. Yet here he is, unprepared and floundering once again in the presence of a pretty face, pretty mind, worst of all. 

Spencer, like it or not, is back where he promised himself never to be again after he was tied to a goalpost and humiliated for believing a girl had a crush on him. 

Indeed back, he scratches his arm and curiously eyes you under the hidden confines of his dark sunglasses. If he slips, the staring could be seen as a gaze towards you as if you were a popsicle that he could be licking to placate his whirling sun kissed skin. Maybe it would be mango? No, lime. Sour and sweet that not everyone has a taste for. Licking and licking as it melts under the woozy rays of sun, dripping down Spencer’s fingers.

But that’s definitely not what his staring is about…

Just before Spencer’s thoughts can get into uncharted territory you’re walking back over to where he’s sitting, SPF 50 shining in front of him so confrontational he gets awkward thinking about everyone on site seeing his unfortunate need for it. 

Making eye contact with it momentarily, he shifts his eyes up to your face, your eyebrows raised slightly. Hand still holding it out for Spencer to take.

A second passes, then, “Are you going to take it?”

Shaking his head to reset his social battery, Spencer laughs at himself and takes it from your hand. “Sorry, thank you, I just…”

“Dr. Reid, did you think I was going to put it on for you?”

“What? No!” His voice raising in pitch, maybe he was waiting for that. “It’s just- too hot to think straight. It’s Spencer. Ahem.”

“Huh?”

“Um, it’s Spencer. You should call me Spencer. Not Dr. Reid.”

“Okay, Spencer.”

Then, something strange happens. For the first time since you’ve met, Spencer notices a dip in your steadfast manner. A small glimpse into a shy response that gives him a sense of hope that he can’t quite identify. 

He can make you nervous?

𓆱

Out of harm's way from the steady calefaction in which the temperature has been loyal to all day, Spencer and his team are sitting inside a muggy office eating sandwiches. Your team is paralleled and eating across the room, a less personable and warm way about them.

Placing his sandwich down, Spencer rattles off more of his thoughts on the case that have been plaguing him, “The unsub’s apparent desire to control and avoid leaving traces of himself could indicate a need for perfection, but also a desire for power over life and death. This could be a psychopathic personality with deep narcissistic tendencies.”

Spencer’s not the only one sensitive to the incapacitating heat, he gets nods and hums of acknowledgement in return.

Elle breaks the silence, “Look at that. Don’t you think it’s weird that we’re not all sitting together? Aren’t we supposed to be working as a team?”

With a nod of agreement JJ confirms some of her suspicions, “I’ve never seen a unit work together like this. They don’t work well with each other, or some do and some don’t. I can’t imagine having to work in that environment.”

He casts his eyes across the room, seeing the group of men give each other the cold shoulder. Eyebrows furrowing, he realizes you’re not with them. Like his thoughts manifested you, there’s a soft yet unmistakable clatter of your boots as you approach their table, lunch in hand.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

As if you had asked Spencer directly, and not the entirety of the table, every member turns and looks over to Spencer.

“Y-yeah. Of course.”

“Thanks. They’re tough to be around sometimes.”

Sitting down next to Spencer you begin to eat. A slight brush of your knee against his has him slowing his eating to not choke and die in front of everybody he knows. 

Elle smiles, “I can imagine. I noticed the all-male team. How’s that?”

Groaning around your sandwich you roll your eyes, “Miserable. You are so lucky I swear-”

Breaking any illusion of teamwork and solidarity, your unit chief appears with a deep frown. He clears his throat to interrupt you, “When this is over we need to have a discussion about your attire.”

“W-what?”

Eyebrows around the table shoot up in disbelief at the public scolding. Spencer recalls earlier, your unit chief describing you as weird. He definitely has a one-sided reservation towards you, oozing misogyny.

“We’re working on a murder case. There needs to be professional boundaries to follow. Shorts and a tanktop do not qualify.”

“Sir, it’s 110 degrees out, if I wore pants I could pass out when I’m on the field.” Spencer watches you fall into yourself, demeanor and confidence dwindling.

“Well. I’m not making a scene in front of these lovely folks here. Just keep that in mind, please.”

With a spin of his heels he retreats back into a smaller office, discusses with police officers working the case as they shake their heads, probably in reprimand.

“S-sorry. Wow. I don’t know what that was. I apologize.” Your eyes fall to your hands on your lap, embarrassment creasing into your previously bright eyes.

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. Do not apologize to us, please.” Elle supplies with a wave of her hand trying to dissipate the tension.

Spencer knocks his knee into yours again, “He seems like he doesn’t understand how important you are to the team.”

“I don’t know if I’d say that-”

“I would. They’d be utterly lost without your help. Seriously.” Spencer finalizes.

Without a second thought, he gets an idea. A stupid, smitten, and gooey with intent idea that pulls the strings to make his fingers move without his brain consenting fully. With idle fingers he begins loosening his tie, fingers smoothly pulling it down and over his head as he removes it fully.

A small smile tugs his lips as he places his tie around your neck. A silence falls at the table that flies over Spencer’s head– his focus stuck on cheering you up. Quickly, he fastens it around your neck again, trying to avoid brushing his fingers against your throat, but failing a couple times. The electricity from the miniscule contact intimidating him. 

“There. Professional enough now.”

Slight goosebumps raise on your neck, as you laugh with a shocked expression. Way too much attention towards you in the past five minutes to know what to do with.

Spencer’s tie is now properly fixed around your exposed neck, your tanktop and shorts are completed into pseudo-professional garb, alerting the ridiculousness of the situation. More important, alerting the team of Spencer’s infatuation towards a certain blood splatter analysis.

Running a soft hand down the expanse of his tie you speak through your grin, “Yeah, I definitely feel more status-quo. Thank you.” Finishing with a giggle, you look away from Spencer and towards the widened eyes around you.

Not able to contain himself, Derek finishes sipping his drink and blurts, “Man, you really aren’t hiding anything.”

“Well, I... it’s just...” Spencer starts, before cutting himself off with a deep breath. “I mean, it’s not…look, it's just a tie, okay?” 

He can barely even move let alone glance at your face, though he can feel your eyes looking at him. 

“Sure, loverboy.” Derek adds, leaning back in his chair with a raised eyebrow. “It’s just a tie. Keep telling yourself that. Never seen you so affectionate.”

Embarrassment gripping his throat and strangling him, Spencer knows he’s overreacting but he can’t help the feeling of betrayal, even if it was teasing. So he can avoid spilling a defense or risk another trembling response, Spencer gets up silently to go to the bathroom. Through the ringing in his ears he hears Elle’s simple scolding, “Derek.”

Turning on the faucet he splashes freezing water over his skin, hoping that this can possibly wash away his feelings over the past few days. His obsession, his yearning, all the fascination and disgust. Spencer wants the chrysalis he’s developed during this case to peel off and roll down with the droplets of water to spiral into the sewage drains. Leaving who he was before meeting you, before coming to Texas. 

Face framing pieces of his hair are becoming increasingly more wet as he continues his washing, face pink from the bitterly cold water repeatedly splashed. 

Spencer gets only a few moments with his face in the sink before the bathroom door swings open. He sees the tie first, a mocking symbol now instead of a cute peace offering as he expected. Then, 

“Spencer?” Your soft voice echoes off the walls in the empty bathroom creating a sensual reverberation, it’s painstaking for him. 

“Wh- what? You can’t be in here. This is the men’s-”

“Are you being serious?”

You make eye contact through the mirror. 

“I’m. I don’t know what I’m being.” Spencer acquiesced once catching your eyeline.

“You’re being silly.” You maneuver yourself so your backside is pushed against the sink where Spencer is leaning over.

With how the vulnerability of showing his feelings has led him to punishment in the past, Spencer can’t help but feel a looming cloud over him at his twice removed confession of enamorment. He feels like he’s crossed a professional boundary, like he’s made you uncomfortable. Spencer could’ve gone the rest of his life hiding these feelings that have lit a fire in his stomach, and now they’re out in the open.

“I’m sorry. I am- I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.” He settles on as a response.

“Oh. You’ve misread the situation. You haven’t made me uncomfortable in the slightest. If anything, maybe I’ve-”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable. I mean, you do. But in a way that feels good.”

You laugh briefly and cover your mouth with your hand, you don’t think laughing in his face would serve him any good right now.

“So, that’s settled. Truce?”

Spencer’s grin comes back, shakes his head while muttering, “Truce.”

You stretch out a hand- “Oh come on, we have to shake on it.” 

Without noticing how this moment would be Spencer’s point of no return, he brings up his hand and wraps it in yours. The spark that he’s gotten small flickers of while brushing against you or staring in your eyes when you explain something widens enough to engulf him fully.

The handshake lingers longer than any “truce” handshake in all of history, Spencer thinks. The air shifts in a way he’s not ready for, and suddenly, the playful tension you’ve been riding on seems to have deepened. 

You flash him the same smile you’ve always given him, full of expression he’s never been exposed to before. An adoration he’s been too scared to dwell on but now something’s changed. You both know it. Neither of you address it, but its presence is unavoidable now, hanging between you now like a concaving sinkhole.

Both of your eyes glimmer with the raw intimacy of sharing an unspoken secret.

𓆱

The following day a pressure washer was used on the inside of the car trunk after the blood covering everything was properly analyzed, a process in which he watched you perform with wide eyes across the brutally air conditioned lab. 

The rubbery smack of medical gloves being removed from your skin breaks the silence of the room, “It’s incredible that all the different splatters match the victims, and he never managed to leave one drop of blood from himself. Crazy odds.”

“Could be a clean freak, or just meticulous. The odds of him not leaving any fingerprints in a controlled space where they’ve been actively moving around and committing murders is extremely low.”

“The chances go up too when working with this much blood, a fingerprint would be bound to show up with all of it spread around, especially if he’s maneuvering them into a specific area.”

Before the five missing bodies could even be found, you were able to discern a match of blood between them and all five people vanished. Though this may point to their return being shot to shit, before locating the bodies, all bets are still on. 

With an abrupt swing of the lab door, Hotchner is walking in with printed photographs of the contents in the trunk.

Deep engravings of various symbols and a repeated latin phrase hidden under the soft carpeted trunk:

Daemonium Imperium, Fides aeterna

Seemingly carved with a knife or some other metal tool, the trunk devoid of blood incites the same amount of fear as it did bloodied. 

You gaze over the photographs intently, speaking first, “Is that latin? Do you know what it means?”

Spencer nods, “The Devil's Dominion, Eternal Faith.” 

Your eyebrows raise, impressed and scared at the underlying message alike. “So we’re dealing with a religious cult now?”

Hotchner nods curtly, “We need to expand the profile. Two unsubs is not nearly enough, which is why there’s so many drop off sites and why they all have a meaning to the collective group.”

“What, like a twisted hazing ritual?”

Spencer looks up from the photographs, his brow furrowed as he considers your question, “A-almost, yeah. It seems more like a form of symbolic initiation or perhaps a purification ritual. The ‘Daemonium Imperium’ could represent a kingdom or reign of darkness, while ‘Fides aeterna’ could signify an unwavering faith in something beyond this world. I think I recognize this symbol- it’s common in occult practices, specifically in some of the more obscure, pre-Christian traditions. There’s a connection to ancient rituals, especially those that involve sacrifice or the offering of blood.”

Your eyes shift to Hotcher as he begins again, “You recognize this?”

“Yeah… I think I read about a Texan theology professor a while back causing a disturbance in one of his classes when introducing occult themes to his study. That was in… Jefferson.”

“Well, if he’s in Jefferson we’re going to have to leave as soon as possible, it’s almost a four hour drive.”

Hotchner collects the photos together again, “You need to notify the rest of the teams, we can take a few cars and head out in 15.”

Luck seemingly against him, (understandably) the cars were separated by the two teams working the case, meaning that the duration of the car ride to Jefferson Spencer was stuck looking at the back of your car instead of you in it. 

Squished in the backseat Spencer grimaces as the radio shouts it's eerie weather report that silences the car as they listen in quiet bewilderment.

Watch out Texas, today will be the hottest temperature in recorded history, with highs up to 120 degrees fahrenheit. Stay inside today folks, heat exposure at these temperatures can lead to heat exhaustion and heat stroke.

“They can’t be serious. What are we going to do?” Elle mutters behind the steering wheel.

“We’ll do what we can when we get there, discuss with local police. Obviously we want everybody in good shape for us to properly help potential victims.” Hotchner replies with a deep sigh, outwardly frustrated with the nonstop trials and tribulations of this case.

They arrived around 3:00 pm to the Jefferson police department. Though it’s a small town, the building usually holds more than two people, who are only here because of the urgency for this unsub. The chief of police and the lieutenant debrief everyone on locals that might’ve been in contact with the professor and of other strange occurrences that might have been happening around town; two missing people of their own.

After being filled in on important parameters by both teams the chief of police gives a sullen face to Hotchner as he explains the difficulty of performing anything in this heatwave.

“We’re trying to keep people inside with these temperatures and with a curfew after those girls went missing, there’s going to be nobody outside, that includes your killer.”

Your unit chief replies, “What do you suggest?”

“Well. I suggest that you stay at my buddies motel until tomorrow morning. You mentioned they’re killing on a schedule- you still have time from what you’re telling me.”

As if crows were cawing in an attempt to scream “turn back” at kids walking into the wrong neck of the woods, a sharp bright whip of heat lightning from a far away storm emphasizes your need to hunker down.

“Alright. We can set up shop at the motel till morning,” Hotchner relents, “Does he know we want to stay there?”

“Called him about it when you were driving up. Said he had six open rooms with how little people are travelling today.”

Spencer's demeanor changes at this- “But there’s ten of us here.” He offers like it wasn’t apparent.

Shooting him a glance, Hotchner’s face has a bit of amusement in his expression now. “Looks like we’re doubling up.”

An instinctive reflex pulls Spencer’s eyes to meet yours, which were already glued where he was standing. Tilting your head to the side, a simple acquisition that tightens Spencer’s throat and sends electricity through his bloodstream.  

All his life, the concept of looking at someone and knowing what they were thinking without saying any words seemed like an overrated notion to Spencer. Words were his everything, they drive his life, they’re the foundation of his passions. 

While he’s reading paragraphs in your eyes from across the room, Spencer understands now how the intimate words he’s been missing out on were those unspoken, only comprehended through a coalition of hearts.

Which is his exact reasoning for closing your car door behind him later. 

[waterrinmelonn]

I've been itching to read a fanfic of LaDS characters as modern rich kids going to College. It was at a point where I actually started drawing the thought in my previous post but that's still not enough to quench my mind so here's the idea. For anyone who wants to take this idea and actually make something out of it be my guest!✨

So I wanted to change things up a notch. My idea for this AU is that all of them are international students studying in the same Prestigious University but with different degrees:

Zayne - Bachelor of Medicine.

He'd be a chinese international student and follow in his parents footsteps of becoming a Doctor. He's actually around the same age as MC Here. He's famous for participating and winning many international competitions (e.g. math olympiad, chess championships, international science fairs, etc). He eventually got many scholarships and was accepted to many other prestigious schools but ultimately decided to settle for something unexpected. Many of his relatives are proud of him but he found very few things to enjoy during his youth thanks to the pressure he felt so it was hard for him to show or experience enjoyment in his life. His achievements go beyond his age and if he wanted, he could have actually probably graduated and become a doctor much younger than this. But he had a feeling that being patient would reward him with something more fulfilling.

Sylus - Bachelor of Mechanical Engineering

I think we can all agree he'd be a Chaebol but like, in a good way. His father is a Korean businessman(who he doesn't get along with) and his mother was a Russian model(he loves his strong-willed mother). He ultimately decided to go study abroad to piss off his dad who was trying to force him to follow in his shoes by studying under business. Everyone in his family back in Korea saw him as a thorn but they couldn't really do anything about his decisions since he was the only heir to his Father's company. His aura feels charismatic and assertive but he's surprisingly quiet and distant unless he's spoken to, he's also a nerd despite not looking the parts. He's running out of time and excuses to keep him from getting sent back to korea, but he was determined to not let go of his fulfilling life just yet.

Rafayel - Bachelor of Fine Arts

I don't really need to explain much about why he'd choose that degree in the first place. His Japanese Mom(Famous Architect) and Indonesian Dad(Business Man) would raise him in Indonesia for the majority of his childhood, but move back to Japan during his teens. He's actually already a pretty famous painter and has had his work displayed in art galleries during his youth, many of his paintings had already been exhibited but he tends to keep a low profile when it comes to himself due to a past incident he committed. He wanted to take it up a notch and see how far his passion for the arts could go so he decided to study abroad to find more inspiration as a fine arts students. Who knows, he might even find his muse if luck is on his side.

Xavier - Bachelor of Astrophysics

Though he doesn't act like it and doesn't seem to like talking about it, he is in-fact royalty by blood. You'd think he'd be part of the Brits when I mentioned he was royalty but you're wrong. He's a Spanish Baddie. His Mother is a Spanish Princess and his Father is a Chief Police Inspector. He didn't really have much freedom either considering his parents' positions. He grew up with strict discipline by both sides. He finally snapped and rebelled against his parents, ran away from home and stayed with his uncle and aunt(his temporary guardians) for the meantime after getting an approved scholarship at the university he aimed for. He always had an interest for space, stars, and the cosmic frontier. Now that he was no longer bound as "Prince Lumiere of Spain" he could be anything he wanted for the meantime. And he wanted to savor that as much as he could.

Caleb - Bachelor of Aerospace Engineering

I don't have to explain this all that much either. The concept of him still being MCs childhood friend is still there. His Filipino Mother(Aircraft Pilot) and Chinese Father(NASA Scientist) were previously immigrants who grew up in the country they immigrated im. They moved into a nice neighborhood after having Caleb, eventually meeting the neighbors(MCs parent). His love for the skies was always in his heart since childhood so when he received a scholarship to go to his dream school he was livid. He became very popular around the campus pretty quickly. By the time MC entered the same school he already had a lot of connections, secrets, admirers, and was actually part of a fraternity. So many things changed but one thing was for sure, his memories with the ones he loved will stay forever.

Plot wise it can honestly lead to anything but the main idea is they're all studying in the same university with different passions they're pursuing but despite everything, they still manage to get themselves intertwined with her whether they like it or not. It's a concept that's full of drama with a hint of romance, in-depth understanding of each character, how far they're willing to go to reach their goals, and how they show what kind of person they are with handling each situation they're in. I'm not gonna put MCs degree so people can have creative freedom with her based on their interest lol.

[vaginalvr]

Spencer x fem!reader who grew up next to each other until she moved away. Both had a crush on e/o (still do) and they meet again (she aided as witness for their case or something) it’d be (s1-s2) Spencer just being oblivious to every move she makes on him that has his team cringing. + Morgan needing to step in and help.

Smut or not idc. It’s just be a funny situation. 😭

Also your work is AWESOME! ❤️🙇🏻‍♀️

I don't typically write fluff very well but I loveee a good challenge! lmk what you think :)

cw: light flirting, romantic tension, eventual kissing, lots of awkward cuteness

You didn’t expect to see him again — not in this life, not in this world.

You certainly didn’t expect to find him standing in a bulletproof vest and FBI windbreaker, glancing down at a tablet, muttering statistics under his breath like it was second nature.

You knew that profile anywhere, even from twenty feet away. The posture, the hair, the fact that he’d somehow grown into his limbs and out of those god-awful oversized hoodies.

“Spencer?” you called, half-laughing in disbelief.

He looked up sharply, brow furrowed. His mouth opened.

Then—recognition bloomed.

“…Y/N?”

He blinked once. Then again. “Oh my god. Y/N Y/L/N?”

You grinned and ran up to him without a second thought, throwing your arms around him.

He froze for a beat before hugging you back, his hand awkwardly finding the small of your back.

“You grew up,” you teased into his shoulder.

“You—uh. You too,” he said, pulling away with a flustered smile.

You were a witness, not a victim — a library tech who happened to see something crucial before the unsub fled. You weren’t supposed to be there long. But Garcia got excited about your background in archival science, Hotch appreciated your clarity, and Gideon seemed to actually smile when you talked about obscure bookbinding.

Still. It was Spencer you kept coming back to.

And Spencer?

Was dense as hell.

You sat beside him at the precinct’s temporary set-up, “accidentally” brushing your arm against his every few minutes, tucking your hair behind your ear with a soft laugh, complimenting the way he explained behavioral patterns like it was magic.

“God,” you sighed dreamily one afternoon. “I forgot how smart you are, Spence. I always loved listening to you ramble when we were kids.”

He glanced up. “Really? Most people thought I was annoying.”

You tilted your head. “I didn’t.”

He just blinked. “Oh. Well, thanks.”

In the corner of the room, Emily raised an eyebrow. Morgan groaned into his hand.

You brought him coffee the next day. With a heart doodled on the sleeve.

He handed it back without noticing.

“You must’ve grabbed mine by mistake,” he said politely. “I usually get plain drip, no sugar.”

You stared at him, dumbfounded. “Spencer. That was for you.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Are you trying to increase my dopamine levels to combat case-related stress? That’s… thoughtful.”

Morgan choked on his water.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. “I can’t watch this anymore.”

Later, Morgan cornered him in the hallway. Arms crossed. Serious face on.

“You do realize she’s into you, right?”

Spencer blinked. “Into… me?”

“Yes. You. With the hair and the five PhDs and the oblivious golden retriever energy. She’s been flirting with you nonstop.”

“That doesn’t seem accurate. She’s just… nice.”

Morgan gave him a look. “Reid. The other day she said ‘I bet you’re even smarter in bed’. And you said ‘I’ve never tested my IQ there, but technically intelligence is neurologically constant.’”

Spencer flushed beet red. “…I thought she was making a metaphor.”

“She was making a move.”

It wasn’t until that night, after the case closed and everyone headed out for drinks, that Spencer caught you alone on the patio outside the bar. You leaned against the railing, sipping a cocktail, your dress light in the warm breeze.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You smiled. “Hey, Spence.”

“I… I didn’t realize. Before. That you…”

Your gaze met his, hopeful.

“That I what?”

He swallowed. “That you liked me. Like that.”

You arched a brow. “What gave it away? The compliments, the coffee, or the borderline indecent daydream I narrated for you over lunch?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Morgan had to explain.”

You laughed. “Of course he did.”

Spencer took a tentative step forward. “Can I make up for it?”

You tilted your head. “How?”

He reached out, fingers brushing your cheek like he was still unsure he was allowed.

Then, softly, “Can I kiss you?”

You leaned in and answered with your lips.

It was gentle at first — all slow warmth and shared air — but when his hands slid around your waist and yours into his hair, the months and years of pining finally burst loose.

When you pulled back, breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“You know,” he murmured, “I had the biggest crush on you when we were kids.”

You grinned.

“I know.”

[maryrouille]

Toxic romanticization of studying

In a word of introduction, my profile partly shows that studying and exploring is wonderful. But as a person involved in science*, I would like to show healthy and true patterns of this beautiful adventure in acquiring knowledge.

The inspiration for writing this post this time was not the phenomenon from Tumblr (although you can also observe it here), but from Pinterest. There you can come across cycles composed of quotes and photos whose aim is to motivate young girls to learn, succeed and get good grades. These images often also show examples of characters from movies, TV series or real life that you can aspire to be like. Overall, I have to agree that it really works! But I would like to draw attention to certain elements that need to be verified.

1. You shouldn't get up at 5am

First of all, the correct amount of sleep is one of the most important factors affecting the proper and effective functioning of our brain. During sleep, nerve cells regenerate, organize information acquired during the day and consolidate memory traces, which is directly related to learning. Lack of sleep increases impulsivity, deepens negative thinking and slows down the body's reaction time!

2. You can be a genius without good grades

Of course, good grades are a pleasant confirmation of our knowledge and praise for hard work. However, sometimes it is worth considering whether the structure of exams themselves, especially those with closed questions, affects the results. We often study for one specific exam, the knowledge of which may be very… limited and sometimes not useful, so it is worth prioritizing the topics that we study hard.

3. It's not cool to think you're better than others

We are different and have different priorities in life. It is also worth considering how many people escape from the rat race and start a slow, stress-free life. So we have to agree that judging people based on grades or responses under stress (sic!) is not cool.

The good thing about romanticizing studying

As I have already said, these types of collages are really motivating. So let's talk about what's great about them and what's worth highlighting and saving for later.

1. Knowledge is beautiful, but your outfit and surroundings can also be

We know that we should never judge a book by its cover, but… the issue of social perception painfully confirms that we do and will continue to do so because this is how our brains work. And isn't it nice when someone looks at us and thinks this girl is so classy?

Moreover, a nice outfit that makes us feel good gives us a lot of self-confidence. There are also many studies confirming the positive impact on motivation and concentration of a neat and aesthetic workplace.

2. Not just cramming, but also discovering

Broadening your horizons is easier with passion and real commitment. And to achieve this, the topics must really interest us. Not everyone has yet found something that they are extremely passionate about in science, so that is why you have to dig deeper and discover different areas.

3. Don't be afraid to use your knowledge in practice

Schools and universities, unfortunately, have their own rules and they do not always allow you to show your 100% potential. Thus, share your knowledge with others externally, write essays, blog and social media. This form of activity also makes you learn things faster and easier. In addition, contacts with others will expand your knowledge.

Therefore, I must say that it is worth choosing your inspirations carefully. Nothing helps you enjoy studying better than a clear head and lack of prejudices.

*This post was inspired by my own experience with studying. If anyone is interested, I think I can share my mistakes that did not help me in an academic adventure :)

[oligbia]

It Will Come Back Kei Tsukishima X Reader

NSFW under the fold, MDNI (I will block u if i catch u) Tags: Kei Tsukishima X fem!reader, denial, timeskip/college AU Based on "It will come back" by Hozier

⠀˳ ˳ . ⋅ ॱ ˙ ॱ ⋅ . I take requests! Visit my profile to submit!˳ ˳ . ⋅ ॱ ˙ ॱ ⋅ .

writing this directly into my tumblr drafts like a freak bc that's how unhinged i am right now. don't worry about it. and this may be so ooc but I don't even gaf. I just needed this out of my system like yesterday. this also got no editing. good luck.

You know better, babe, than to smile at me like that The lecture hall was going to be full to capacity for the 10am economy lecture; one of those classes everyone was forced to take and 10am was really the ideal time to take it. Not too early you're forced out of bed before you wanted to be, but early enough you could have the rest of your day to decompress from such an awful class. The warm morning of late summer was a nice greeting to Tsukishima Kei as he walked down the sidewalk on the way to the economy lecture on the first day of classes that semester, turning the corner to walk into the class building. He kept his head down, headphones on. The only thing pulling him from his thoughts was his hand finding yours on the handle to the building. He glares at you before quickly removing his hand. But you don't flinch, you just smile. A wide, toothy grin that he couldn't quite decide if it was sarcastic or genuine. But either way, he was not prepared for the way his cheeks turned red and he was caught off guard by you. Oh, you were going to be something dangerous this semester.

You should never know, how easy you are to need

The economy lecture turned to be harder than Tsukishima wanted to admit. He was always a good student, never having to try too hard to do well, but this class was going to be the thing to break the streak if he wasn't careful. So when he got that email from the professor that you were organizing a study group, he joined. That was a decision he regreted. Because no one else joined- no one else cared enough. It turned to just the two of you on dorm room floors, alternating week to week on who hosted. The thing he hated the most was how easy it got to be around you. He hated the way that it was easy to like you, the way that he often caught himself holding his tongue with you, when he never would have done that with anyone before. But what was really bad- is you never held your tongue with him, and he liked it. "It's really not that hard, Tuskishima. It's just the way money moves. When people don't have money, they don't spend it, so things change in price to encourage people to spend." You look at him, pointing at something in the textbook with your lavender pen. He wasn't looking at the textbook, though, he was watching your fingers. They look so small compared to his. He just huffs in response. "Im starting to think you've taken one too many volleyballs to the head and you're becoming a dumb jock," You tease him, looking up at him and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His ears turn pink. "You're such an ass sometimes," he says in a hushed annoyance, looking away as he bites on the cap of his highlighter. He was getting frustrated with the word problem, you could tell. You soften your approach this time, feeling a little bad for him. You knew he'd help you with your science homework after this, so you scoot a little closer, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. "here, let me help-" You start scribbling down some numbers for him, showing him the problem and how to solve it. He should really be watching the notes you're giving him, but he's too busy watching the side of your face. He needed you in his life. You complimented his rigidness nicely, balancing him out while also challenging him. He needed you to be a permanent fixture to his side, even after this semester ended. He needed you next to him when he went to museums, he needed you at his games. At a minimum, he needed your lavender-colored scribbles next to the black and blue ink in his notebook. I warn you, babe, each night, as sure as you're born, you'll hear me howling outside your door After the semester ended and finals were taken, Tsukishima was left sitting in his room alone on the night that would have been your study night. You called them "study dates" because it got a reaction from him, which was what you were always chasing. He started at his wall, debating what to do. He missed you- which was disgusting. But he really did, he wanted to see you. He got so used to seeing you twice a week for months that not seeing you now was something of a frustration for him. But it wasn't because he wanted to study. No, he wanted to be in your presence. He liked you. He couldn't stop thinking about you. He wanted to be in your orbit all of the time. He wanted to take you to coffee, he wanted to watch stupid science fiction movies with you- hell, he'd even watch a romantic comedy if you asked him to. He wanted you to tease him, he wanted you to give him shit. He wanted to wrap his arms around your body and let his chin rest on your head. Disgusting.

"fuck it," he mumbled out loud to himself, grabbing his jacket and keys. He had to tell you. If it went poorly, you'd never see him again, the semester was over and you had different majors that were sure to never overlap again When you heard the knocking at your door you looked at the time, a little surprised someone would be here this late- it was past 10 p.m, especially during finals week. You paused the movie you had on and open the door, "Tsukishima?" Now that he was here and you were in front of him, he was not sure what to do or say. He just looked down at you, his ears pink and his hair a little disheveled. He exhaled. "I don't want to stop being around you." You smile a little and look at him like he's a little crazy. He wasn't though, you also wanted to be around him. But this vulnerability- or vulnerable-ish behavior, was new for him. "Do you want to come in? I'm just watching a movie-" He nods, stepping into your room. He's been in here a hundred times before, but it feels different now. Different because he has something to say but isn't sure how to say it. "What movie?" "When Harry Met Sally." You hopped onto your lofted Twin XL facing opposite of the tv and patted the spot next to you so he'd join. And he does, your shoulders pressed next to each other, his legs dangling off the side and yours crisscrossed, knees touching. Any other person, any other time he'd protest the movie. But he had craved your company so desperately that he didn't care. He just needed to be near you. "Why did you come by, Tsukishima?" You asked without looking at him. "If you wanted to hang out, you could have texted. Why come by unannounced?" He fidgets with his glasses, unsure of what to say. He finally just spits it out, his ears and cheeks pink, his eyes avoiding yours. "I think I like you." You turn to look at him, take his face in your hands, and kiss him. The kind of kiss that he sees in the stupid rom-coms he hates, one that feels sweet with a tinge of desperation for something more. You're intoxicating. It drives him crazy.

Don't you hear me howling, babe?

"When Harry Met Sally" plays on in the background, but neither of are paying attention. How could you when he was thrusting into you with a teasing rhythm that starts slow, speeds up, then slows down again right when you almost get what you wanted. "C'mon sweetheart, you know I can't make it easy for you," He says as he slows his pace down again, making you whine. His slender fingers find their way up and down your sides, caressing and tracing every curve. Your face down in the pillow, your moans and whimpers lost in hushed mumbles. He had to keep you quiet, he said when he flipped you over and pushed your face into the pillow, he didn't want the neighbors to hear. He picks up his pace again, his fingers sprawled across your back and hips as he hits a fast pace. You may be vocal, but somehow he was even more so. Grunting and moaning every time he felt your walls flutter around him, mumbling little comments about how pretty you looked for him and how pefect you felt. "If you want to cum, you have to work for it," He says between heavy breaths, "Show me how much you want it Y/N. Tell me,"

God the way you beg is the best thing he'd ever heard. He could listen to it on a loop, for years. Seeing you like this, hearing you and feeling you like this, it was everything he had ever wanted since he saw that big grin you gave him the first day of classes. His hand finds your hair and tugs your head back to look at him, his relentless thrusting never stopping, "Cum for me then, sweetheart. And don't hold back. Show me how good it feels."

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[reidsapplelady]

PAST IS PAST (part I) — /S. Reid/ & /R. Chase/

SUMMARY: when your ex, Robert Chase, and House's team, is brought in to consult on a case, old feelings start to surface. Caught between Chase's flirting and Reid's quiet affection, you find yourself caught between a love triangle, and a choice that you have to make.

spencer x psych!bau!reader x chase ⸝⸝ fluff & slight angst ⸝⸝ co-workers to lovers

WARNINGS: reader has attachment and commitment issues! wow!!, house being sassy as always (i cant tell if i made him too sassy), past!ppth!reader x chase, present!psych!bau!reader x spencer, use of y/n

WC: 1.5k+

There was a different kind of tension in the air, usually there's no tension at all. It reminded you of your old memories that you have put in the back of your mind, all because he was here. Your old love.

You called House to assist you guys in a case alongside with the CDC, you didn't know he'd be bringing the entire team.

You tried to not show the fact that you were tense. You'd survive UnSubs threatening or flirting at you, but the thought of seeing him again, after all this time, left your breath a little shorter.

You made your way into the briefing room, as soon as you walked in, you locked eyes with him. Robert Chase, who was leaning against the other doorway, his arms crossed against his chest, his blonde hair a little longer than the last you've seen him.

"I called House only, why're you guys here." You inquired as you looked at House, who was sitting down on a chair like he owned the entire place.

"I leapt at the chance to work with a bunch of people who think behavioral profiling is a science. And I thought, 'Wow! a little reunion could shake things up!' and then I forcefully dragged them here." House teased as he set his cane on his lap, his legs were set on the table. you did not hesitate to give him the finger before sitting down right next to Spencer, as Chase sat right next to you. What a great way to start this briefing.

"So, my favorite emotionally stunted overachiever, how are you doing?" He asks with genuine curiosity, "You traded white coats with black vests, what a downgrade."

"I'm fine, House." You roll your eyes.

The briefing room felt too full. Hotch stood where the screen was with Garcia, Reid was playing with his whiteboard marker that he grabbed not too long ago, Morgan kept glancing at House, as if waiting for him to start chaos, and everyone else was doing their own thing.

"This is cute," House stated as he peered at the organized folders on the table. "Did the behavioral pixies color-code the victims too?"

"That's enough." Hotch said curtly, Cameron just smiled politely, while Foreman rolled his eyes and looked like he regretted the entire trip.

House ignored Hotch, "Three victims." House said as he swiped through the tablet screen like they bored him. "All died horribly with consistent symptoms. Question is: Was it mother nature or a very enthusiastic bioterrorist?"

"You called me because you guys are desperate, well good news: I love desperate." House puts emphasis on the word 'love', he certainly knew himself well.

Rossi narrowed his eyes as he stared at House. "Do you always talk like this?"

"Only when I'm awake." House replies.

Morgan raised an eyebrow at House's reply to Rossi. "You always this subtle?”

"No, but I can turn it down if your fragile ego needs coddling." House replies as his gaze falls on Morgan, who was now trying to hold back the urge to argue with House.

Hotch rubbed his temple as he spoke, "How long is this gonna take?"

House looks at him dead in the eye. "Depends. How long is your team gonna stop ignoring the tension between boy genius and girl wond—"

You cut him off, "House."

"What? I'm just saying." He says as he shrugged.

You looked at Spencer beside you, he was trying to cover his face with the file, but you could see his ears reddening. Which made your cheeks heat up too. What you didn't know was Chase was looking at you.

"Can we focus." You request, your eyes now landed on the floor as you shifted uncomfortably in your chair.

"Sure," House then turns his head to face Chase, "Remember when they used to cry during night shifts at the cafeteria? Good times."

"House," Chase snaps

Spencer's gaze looked at you before turning to House. "You were under him?" He asks you as he was staring at House

"Yeah, and these two, right here, were practically walking HR violations, they did more than teamwork alright." House overshares as he pointed at you and Chase, he then noticed Spencer's little frown that he had plastered on his face but ignored it.

Cameron made a strangled noise, Foreman sighed deeply and Spencer looked like someone had punched him in the gut.

"The past is past." You say as you set the tablet on the table.

"I was just giving context." House put the two of his hands up as you just sighed.

After that, Spencer's gaze never met you again, of course, House notices this, "I love federal drama," he said brightly, but only Cameron and Foreman heard him. "better than HBO." He snickers.

You roll your eyes before Hotch speaks up again, "Okay, JJ and Prentiss, go talk to the victims' families, get any background that may be useful, Morgan, Rossi and I will go investigate the crime scenes, while you and Reid stay here and help them." Hotch's gaze were set on you as he mentions you and Spencer.

Chase chuckled before turning to you, "Is your boss this broody?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Kind of, but he's nice, I swear." You smile at him. You then turn to your old colleagues in front of you.

"Nice to see you again, Y/N." Cameron flashes a small smile at you.

"Nice to see you guys again, too." You turn to face Spencer "Spence, you alright?" You say. You noticed that Spencer has been zoning out for a bit.

He snaps out of it before he mutters, "Hm? Oh yeah." before shifting in his seat to a more comfortable position as he avoids your gaze.

"Let's take a look at victimology first, the three victims all have brown hair. It's highly likely they're surrogates." Spencer says as he flips through his case file, you just nod at his words.

"Surrogates?" Foreman asks.

"Surrogates are victims that represents or looks similar to someone that the UnSub hates or loves and over time they'll evolve eventually to kill that person." Spencer rambled, as his hands were making gestures as he explained.

"Of course. Foreman, you're dumb." House stated as he looks at Foreman, Foreman just bit his inner cheek and ignored him.

"Aside from you know, obvious details. Is there anything else in common? Like do they have a dead beat husband? Or are they having an affair with the smoking hot next-door-neighbor?" House inquires as he taps his finger against his cane, Spencer found his use of inappropriate terms very unnecessary but he ignored it.

"Mm, we don't have that much information yet, I'm sure Prentiss and JJ would give us some sort of background before we could actually dive in." You say as you look at House.

"This is gonna be one hell of a case." Chase says as his eyes darts to his team that was in front of him before to you and Spencer. "I mean, using airborne diseases as a method to kill someone? Atleast we know it has to be someone with a science background."

"The CDC's already investigating the disease, I called you guys because you're here to lend a helping hand." You purse your lips as you cross your arms on your chest.

As you guys kept talking, at one point you guys decided to end the meeting and try to figure out what the disease may be based off of the symptoms.

You were looking out the window in the briefing room, you notice a figure slowly approaching you, which is why you turn around. And you see Chase. Right in front of you. He gives you a small smile before sitting at the couch right next to where you're standing.

"So.. It's been a while." He spoke up, which caught your attention.

"I guess so." You shrug as your gaze go back to the view of the city.

He paused before speaking up, "I got you coffee, by the way." Your gaze then landed on him, then on his hands. You didn't notice he was holding two mugs.

"Two teaspoons of sugar? Like how you liked it back then." He smiles as he offered you the coffee, you took it before taking a sip.

"You remembered." You gave him a small smile.

"Well it's hard to forget, especially when it became routine for 2 years." He replies before taking a sip of his coffee.

"Oh." You pause.

"Yeah."

"Well, that's nice. I guess." You now try to avoid eye contact with him, your gaze wandered back on the city.

"Stop." He says.

You raised an eyebrow but your eyes never met his gaze. "Stop what?"

"Stop pretending that you don't care, I can still see that you do. It's just... not in the same way." He frowned as he took another sip of his coffee. "You left without a goodbye and I didn't say enough to you, I didn't say how much I loved you."

"You didn't have to."

"Yeah, well, it felt like I needed to."

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[luveline]

could we get more bombshell!reader and spencer please?

for you lovely ♡ fem!reader

"Hi, gorgeous." 

Spencer should've known it was you from the soft, sweet-hinted smell of your perfume, but he was distracted by the book in his hands. "Hey, Y/N," he says.

"You realise you've stopped walking? And that we're both quite late?" 

Spencer blows out a confused breath, looking over his shoulders. He'd known where he was when he started but obviously overestimated his ability to walk and read at the same time. "I do now. Thank you." 

"Oh, you're welcome," you say, voice like angora silk. "Let's walk together, yeah? That way you won't get lost again." 

Spencer stammers at your fingers slotting between his, your palm as soft as your voice. Your touch, even, is soft. You curl your fingers around his like he's something precious and the two of you set off together toward the elevator for the BAU floor. "I'm sorry I didn't text you back last night, I was catching up on my beauty sleep, something you clearly don't need to do, and when I saw it this morning I thought I'd rather hear it in person." 

"No, don't be sorry, I knew it was a long shot," he says, momentarily distracted by the (frankly insane) feeling of your hands swinging in tandem. You're probably the last person alive he wants a sorry from. You're beautiful, and you're always sweet, always interested in what he has to say.

You prove it. "I was sorry I missed it, Spence, I thought the whole lactic acid theory sounded interesting. Think you can squeeze it in before the round table?" 

Spencer gives it a try. It's impressive how he manages to focus on two things at once, freaking out about your hand in his —so casual and so unreal— while explaining the twisting science of muscle soreness and fatigue. He nearly doesn't notice you pulling him from the elevator and into the office, but then he gets that sixth sense feeling like there are eyes on him, and he pulls his gaze from your (again, frankly insanely) pretty face to investigate. 

Working with his team, the agents in the BAU office have gotten good at subtlety, but half don't even try to pretend they aren't looking at you. You, in your fancy coat with your cute handbag, and Spencer, ragged in a cardigan and shoes with worn soles, holding hands. You rub the back of his hand with your thumb, your usual sunny smile flickering.

"Sorry," Spencer says. "Uh, sorry, I didn't… People are looking."

"I know." You take your hand from his. "It's not professional, huh?" You force a smile, trying to seem unbothered, as though this whole holding hands thing doesn't mean more to you.

Spencer hates to play the profiler card, but it's what he is. He knows you genuinely wanted to hold his hand from the twitch of your index finger alone. 

You've always had a way about you. You're confident and fun no matter how many knocks you take, but you're serious when you need to be and a brilliant agent. Spencer can count on one hand the amount of times he's seen that confidence knocked. He hates that it's because of something he did. 

"I mean, it's not hurting anyone," he says unsurely, trying hard to keep his attention solely on you. 

Your eyes widen, your perfectly powdered face alight. It knocks the air out of him. "Until Hotch tells me off." 

"I'll defend you," he says. It's supposed to be a joke but his words come out honey thick, practically sticky with promise. 

Spencer offers you his hand again. As soon as you take it, he starts pulling you with more confidence than he feels across the office and up to the conference room. 

"Oh, come on, Y/N," Morgan says with a grin when he sees you both, tethered and smiling as you make your way to your adjacent seats. "You're torturing my boy." 

Hotch raises his eyebrows just a touch. 

"It's fine," Spencer says. "I asked her to."

Hotch's eyebrows rise higher. He stares for a moment before glancing back to the case file. "Well, fraternisation between employees isn't permitted. But I'm more worried that you're both late. Let's get back to the case details, please, JJ." 

As much permission as you're going to get, Spencer squeezes your fingers under the desk. You can't hold in a laugh. The team shares a moment of disbelief at the disruption. 

"Spencer Reid," Emily drawls, breaking the short silence with a smirk, "you rake."