#Agent-based process management

[kapittx]

Core Modules of Accounts Receivable LLM Agents

[luvvyouforever]

undercover - aaron hotchner x reader

synopsis: in the middle of a case, your worst fear comes true. you have to go on an a date with aaron hotchner, the boss you've been crushing on for months. content: canon-typical violence, tropey, kissing, flirtatious aaron, mentions of alcohol, afab reader who wears a dress. word count: 4k+ a lil bit oops author's note: ahhh my favorite trope in crime shows. enjoy!

"so based on this geographical profile y/n and i worked on, there's only two bars our unsub could frequent with his victims. the first one is more of a nightclub and we don't think it's likely that he'll be bringing them to such a rowdy environment," reid spoke to the crowd of officers and agents awaiting instruction. "the other bar also has a restaurant attached so we'll be keeping our investigation here."

jj grabbed a handful of papers with the bar's information and passed them out to the officers. once reid had stepped to the side, aaron came forward to wrap up their profile.

"he's cunning, yet incredibly violent. do not ambush him. he will escape your grasp and hurt you in the process. be on the lookout officers," he said with a tap to the desk that sent everyone back to work. with a subtle turn, aaron gazed at you and reid. "good work on the mapping. meet back up in the conference room in 5."

"thank you, sir," you and reid echoed before beginning to organize your files back into a folder.

all the while you tried to remain professional, your heart throbbed in your chest at the smallest ounce of praise from your boss. the way he held the room in his hand and demanded respect without ever having to actually ask for it was a part of the reason why you've had a crush on them for the better part of a year.

crush, now, felt too small. it was an infatuation at this point.

it didn't matter much, however, because would you ever confess your feelings for your boss? the boss who has been nothing but stoic your entire time of knowing him? absolutely not.

shrugging the butterflies in your body away, you head over to the impromptu coffee station created for the large number of people inside the police station and pour a cup of stale yet hot and much needed energy. this case was a doozy, one that had every agent just wishing for its end. and it felt like it was soon to come to a close. they had been coming up with some kind of plan. what that plan was, you weren't entirely sure.

when you managed to snap a lid on the coffee cup, you headed into the conference room where the rest of the bau were seated haphazardly around the room. you took a spot between emily and reid, eyes focused on aaron and rossi standing in front of a whiteboard.

"that coffee's not any good, is it?" rossi asked, noting the cup in your hand.

"every sip is somehow worse than the last, but i think we all need it," you said, following your statement up with another pained drink. rossi laughed and out of the corner of your eye, you could've swore that the corner of aaron's lips titled into a smirk. you ignored it, though, and began reading the words on the board.

"so, we're hoping to catch the unsub tonight," aaron started suddenly, turning with his ever-present air of professionalism. "if he's still following his schedule, he'll find his next victim tonight, most likely at the bar reid and y/n found. we've thought about how we're going catch him and i think we'll have to go undercover. two of us."

"under what pretenses, exactly?" derek asked on the other side of the table.

"on a date," rossi answered. just faintly, a red tint appeared on aaron's cheeks. you wondered what could possibly have made him- "we've picked our two already. y/n and aaron."

"oh!" you said surprisedly. "what led to this decision, pray tell?"

aaron looked down at his folders as if they were the most important thing in the world in that very moment. rossi glanced over, shook his head, then looked at you again.

"you two just seem the most likely out of any of us to go on a date. we don't want to look suspicious, no?" rossi answered.

"i-uh-i suppose not," you said. "my go bag isn't really packed with date wear clothes. mostly just pantsuits and academy t-shirts."

aaron finally cleared his throat and met your eyes for the first time since it was announced that you two would technically be going on a date. even if you would be wearing bulletproof vests under your clothes.

"that's okay. we won't be going out till 7pm. it's only three now. you're free to find something. as long as it's easy to move in," he said in a voice that felt an octave deeper than usual. and then he did something that almost made you faint on the spot. aaron dug into his pocket, fished out his wallet, and pulled out a credit card. his credit card. "use this."

sheepishly, you took the card from his hands and placed it into your own bag. "thanks," you muttered. an elbow jabbed its way into your side from beside you and emily was smirking at you. you dismissed her with your hand and stood to exit the room.

"hotel lobby at 7, yeah?" aaron said.

you forced a nervous smile to your face and nodded, then left the room. with aaron's credit card in your bag. about to buy an outfit. for a date with him. you weren't entirely positive you could safely drive.

౨ৎ

with the information you had about the bar, you picked a semi-formal, simple dress that paired well with heels you already packed. aaron was already paying for the dress. you couldn't ask him to also pay for the accessories.

after some test laps up and down your hotel room, you declared the outfit was "easy to move in" and grabbed your bag, ensuring that his credit card was still inside. the time was only 6:45, but you knew aaron would already be there, waiting.

with a check that your holster was properly attached to your thigh, you left the room and took the elevator down to the first floor. your heart was beating irregularly in your chest and your hands were clammy, but the reflective surface of the elevator's walls let you know that you looked good. for a fake date with aaron hotchner.

the elevator dinged when the doors opened and immediately, you saw aaron sitting in a lobby chair. he looked up at the sound and stood. he was dressed impeccably well in a suit with his hair done in its usual middle part. handsome was the only word on the tip of your tongue.

"you look beautiful," he said upon reaching your figure. it seemed like he didn't mean for the words to slip out, but instead of retracting them, he simply held out his arm for yours to wrap around.

your mouth went dry, but you knew you had to say something back. "thank you, hotch. you look handsome yourself."

"i think for the purposes of tonight," he said, "you can just call me aaron."

you nodded, finding words hard to muster up. instead, you allowed him to lead out of the hotel to one of the least suspicious looking SUVs parked outside. when he reached the door, he opened it for you.

you couldn't hold back a little laugh at the gesture. "you know...we're not on the date yet," you said. regardless of the light humor of the situation, you allowed him to help you into the passenger seat. he smirked, shut the door, then walked around to his door.

when he got in, his usual stone expression found its way to his face again. "forgive me for wanting to make this feel as natural as possible. i'm sure it's awkward going on a date with your boss. even if it is undercover."

"oh, no!" you blurted out. his eyebrows raised as he backed out of the parking spot. his arm wound its way around your seat, neglecting the back-up camera for the traditional method. "sorry. it's not awkward. you don't have to worry. promise."

"yeah?" he asked, putting the car back into drive and heading to the downtown area of the small town you were in. at a stop sign, he turned to look at you. if you weren't such a highly trained profiler, you would've certainly missed the way his eyes raked up and down your body, taking in your dress of choice. "you made a good pick."

your cheeks warmed with his flattery. to avoid meeting his gaze, you fished the credit card out of your purse to offer back to him. "thanks," you muttered. "you didn't have to pay for it, you know?"

he took the credit card from your grasp and shoved it into his pants pocket. "don't worry about it," he said with a wave of his hand. "figured if you're forced into going on a date, you should have something nice to wear at least."

you looked over to his body in the driver's seat, his face focused on the road ahead of him. "why do you keep assuming that i'm hating every second of this? i mean...how rare is it that we get to eat somewhere nice while on a case? and i'm getting paid for it while in the presence of a handsome man. could be worse things." you didn't know what compelled you to add on the last bit, but when you saw his cheeks flare up, you didn't regret it.

instead of responding, aaron's body relaxed in the driver's seat.

after several minutes of driving, the bar came into view and you bit your lip in nervousness. this unsub was pretty intense and you were heading directly into the lion's den. you tried to cram the nervousness deep down in the pit of your stomach as aaron pulled into the small parking lot next door.

before turning the car completely off, aaron turned his body towards yours. "now we really need to look as inconspicuous as possible. it might feel weird, but we need to look like a real couple on a date, okay?"

"yes, sir," you responded on impulse. "i mean...yes, aaron."

despite his attempts not to, he breathily chuckled. "already off to a great start," he joked. you chuckled with him and unbuckled your seat. "i'm gonna text the team that we're heading in. don't open your door. let me do it."

a minute of quick texting passed by and aaron shut off the car, then stepped out. a few seconds passed before your door opened and aaron was extending his hand to yours. you took it with a sweet smile and let him lead you out of the car. he shut the door behind you and your arm found his own again.

regardless of the reason being for the case or for just the pure want to be closer to him, you leaned into aaron's strong body. he took to the gesture immediately and held you even closer. it was intoxicating, but you kept your gaze focused on the bar ahead.

after what felt like agonizing hours of walking side by side, you came onto the host stand at the front of the restaurant.

"how many?" the host asked.

"two," aaron responded. the hand that was holding on to your arm began rubbing the skin there up and down. every touch of his fingers left goosebumps.

the host gestured for the two of you to follow her. quicker than you'd like, she led you towards a table in the middle of the restaurant. your eyes surveyed the restaurant and bar around you, scanning for someone that resembled the unsub's profile. once the host walked away, you and aaron looked at each other and shook your heads, signaling that nothing felt out of the ordinary so far.

"order whatever you'd like," aaron said, his head pointing towards the menu in your hand. "hon," he added.

the petname rolled from his tongue naturally, as if it was a name he had been calling you for years. you tried to not show that it affected you much, but aaron noticed the way your breath caught in your throat. despite the nervousness that settled over your body, you decided to take another leap and with a shift in your seat, your heeled foot grazed over his leg. he was shocked at the sudden touch, but spread his legs further nonetheless.

you didn't pull away either when the server came forward.

"welcome, guys. date night tonight, i'm guessing?" she asked with a smile.

"mhm!" you answered first. "decided to get out and dress up for once in a while."

aaron looked at you with an almost impressed look. maybe rossi was right. you did look like a couple.

"isn't that nice? well, what would you two like to drink tonight?"

"an old-fashioned, please," aaron responded. "and a water."

"i'll take a cosmopolitan and a water," you added.

the server noted down the drinks and walked away. your foot continued sliding up and down aaron's legs, becoming a subconscious act at that point. he flipped through the menu once, then glanced around the room again. still nothing.

"an old-fashioned, hmm?" you asked, eyeing one of the meals on the menu that sounded particularly tasty.

"is that shocking?" he asked.

"no," you answered honestly. "just learning more about you, aaron."

aaron hummed, as if he were about to say something, but instead focused on his menu again. a few minutes of comfortable silence passed before the server came over with a tray of your drinks. she sat them down on the table, along with the waters, then pulled out a notepad again.

"had enough time to pick what you'd like?" she asked.

"know what you want, dear?" you asked, looking up at aaron.

"i'll take the steak frites," he said to the server.

both he and the server looked at you. you told her what you'd like from the menu, hoping it wasn't expensive enough for aaron. he barely registered the price, though, and instead collected your menus to hand to the server. if this was what dates were usually like with him, you could definitely tolerate them.

"you look like you're thinking about something," aaron said from the other side of the table where he had been watching both you and the door intently.

you took a sip of your drink and sat it back down. "i thought we said no profiling your coworkers, dear," you teased. "i feel like that applies tenfold when you're on a date."

he chuckled and took a sip of his own drink. you noted just how attractive he was with a glass of whiskey in his hand, laughing.

"pardon me for wanting to know what my beautiful date has in her head," aaron said. his words made you bite your lip and look down at the table. suddenly, though, his demeanor shifted as his eyes connected with someone coming in at the door. "don't turn around."

"is he here?" you whispered.

he nodded and picked up his drink, eyes following him to the bar. almost imperceptibly, he tilted his head towards the bar. "fifth seat," he whispered back.

sure enough, an unsub matching the physical profile had seated himself next to an alone woman at the bar. almost immediately upon sitting down, he began talking to her. the fact that the man you had been trying to catch for a long time, the man who committed some really gruesome murders was that close to you made you almost ill. you passed your emotions off by taking a drink.

"i'm gonna grab another drink, baby. i haven't seen the server around," aaron suddenly said. he nodded to you, perhaps for reassurance, before standing and adjusting his blazer to ensure the holster on his side was covered. luckily, the seat directly next to the woman was empty and he positioned himself on the other side of it. the unsub barely registered his presence, which was good. you took note of his clothes, his hair, everything, just in case she slipped through your grasp again.

eventually, aaron had flagged down the bartender, ordered his second drink, and came back with it in his hand.

"he's just flirting with her," aaron whispered once he was out of earshot. "but she's falling for it. probably not long till he tries to leave with her."

"i won't get to finish my food," you said half-seriously.

"i'll get it boxed up for you, hon," he said. though that time, aaron's voice was a whisper. the petname was for you alone.

just as aaron had expected, the unsub stood from his seat at the bar, the woman next to him following suit. together, they headed towards the back where the bathroom was, along with an exit inside the kitchen which he was likely going to use. both yours and aarons followed them and with a curt nod, you both stood to head towards the back, several paces behind them.

suddenly, they went through a door, to what seemed like a closet first before going into the kitchen. you and aaron paused at the beginning of the hallway. then some noises erupted from the closet, ones that would make an older woman blush and hold her hand to her mouth.

aaron looked back at you with a confused look on his face. at that very moment, the closet door opened. you and aaron looked at each other in panic, but just before they stepped out of the closet, you grabbed aaron by his tie and pulled him closer to you.

within seconds, you had hiked your leg up his own, revealing your thigh in the dress. his hand quickly came to the skin and he squeezed tightly. to add to the scene, you wrapped a hand around the base of aaron's neck and pulled him down. his lips met your own with a rough clash, but then the kiss smoothed out.

at first, he was still, lips unmoving against yours. when your fingers tangled themselves into the short hairs at his neck, he finally kissed you back. acting, he thought to himself as he deepened the kiss and pulled your leg higher up his. undercover, he tried to remind himself when your lips let forth a whimper into his mouth.

neither of you wanted to pull away. you only pulled your head back when you heard the kitchen door swing open and closed. you inhaled a deep breath and met aaron's dark brown eyes. they were wide and his cheeks were flushed.

"sorry. i-it was all i could think to do," you stuttered out.

aaron shook his head. "don't be," he said quickly. "come on, he's about to leave. we'll talk after."

you felt the warmth of aaron's body leave yours as he pulled the gun from his holster. you retrieved your own from your thigh and followed him through the kitchen. he flashed his badge towards the chefs to get them to stop yelling and they pointed towards the exit where the unsub had just left.

both of you picked up your pace. had the kiss deepened for a few more seconds, you would have certainly missed him. however, as soon as you threw open the exit door, the unsub was forcefully shoving the young woman into his car.

"fbi! put your hands up and back away from the car!" aaron yelled. the unsub didn't do immediately as asked, despite two guns pointing in his direction. "i won't ask again! put your hands up and back away from the car!"

in a quick flash, the unsub reached inside his jacket. in the streetlight, you saw the glint of a gun. hardly a second passed before he pulled it out, aimed, but then fell to the asphalt.

your finger came off the trigger and before lodging it back into the holster, you turned the safety back on. you hadn't killed him, only immobilized him in his right leg. it was enough for aaron to run forwards, take the gun and throw it to the side. while he placed handcuffs on the unsub, you ran to the other side of the car and rescued the woman from the passenger seat. crying, she fell into your arms. suddenly, you were surrounded by the town's police department, along with the rest of your team who had been waiting just down the street.

before everything got too hectic to seek each other out, you and aaron took a long look at each other. he nodded with a smile, his form of praise, before hauling the unsub into a police car.

౨ৎ

a few hours had passed before everyone was released from the scene. the bau loaded up into their SUVs, aaron taking the one you had rode together in. much to your chagrin, his car filled up before you could get in with him. instead, you rode with emily and reid on the way back to the hotel to gather your belongings.

when you arrived to the hotel, everyone split off into their rooms. aaron seemed to be speaking privately with rossi so you opted to go upstairs and change out of the outfit you had been wearing for the better half of the night.

as you were unbuckling your heels and placing them back into your go-bag, you heard a faint knock on the door. you rose from the bed, feet aching, and answered it.

there, aaron stood with a white t-shirt on, having had to change out of his clothes from the scene.

"hey," you said.

"can i come in?" he asked.

only then did you notice that he was holding something behind his back. you stepped to the side to allow him to enter and he scooted the item in front of him to prevent you from seeing.

"what do you have there?" you asked. slowly, he brought forth two boxes of food, having kept his promise from earlier.

"it's probably not the freshest anymore, but nothing that a microwave can't fix," he said sheepishly.

you could've cried on the spot. smiling brightly, you took the food from his hands and sat it on the hotel desk. a grunt escaped his lips as your arms engulfed him in a hug. his arms wrapped around your body and your feet lifted from the ground a little.

"thank you," you said genuinely.

aaron watched as you took the food and warmed them up, going for yours first so that he could have the slightly warmer meal. once they were both ready to be ate, you found some plastic silverware in the little coffee tray and handed one set to him.

"round two?" you said with a shrug.

"round two," he agreed. "but...i wouldn't mind a round three, or four, or five, when we get back home." he picked up a fry from his plate and popped it in his mouth.

"glad to know my impulsive gift didn't scare you off," you joked. you paused for a second and set the food down. "which, i mean, i wouldn't mind a round two on that either."

aaron paused too, setting his own box back down on the desk. he stood and offered his hand to help you up from the bed. you took it and rose. then, his hand wrapped around your back where his palm was splayed across the skin there.

"i wouldn't mind a round two either," he said quietly. "but i call the shots this time."

your knees felt weak being so close to aaron. you didn't miss the way his cheeks flared and one of his hands shook nervously. had he been feeling the same way for you for this long too?

"you can call the shots anytime, hon," you teased, echoing the petnames for earlier.

smirking, his free hand ghosted up your side till it met your chin. his fingers titled your head upwards and ever so softly, he leaned in. this kiss was much more romantic, more loving, less rushed. he had time, now. he wasn't kissing you to hide from someone else. he was kissing you because he has been wanting to for oh so long.

minutes must've passed before the two of you pulled away to a pure need to breathe. he smiled. "good round two?"

"i think i'm gonna need a few more just to double check."

[reidsworld]

Disobeyed Orders

Summary: Being married to your boss has its complications, especially when you have a habit of ignoring orders. Based on this request.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff, Angst

Content Warnings: Mild violence, injury, arguing

Word Count: 1.1k

Mars speaks… Thank you so much for the request, I’m sorry that it took so long but I finally found some time to write, I hope I did your request justice!!

Masterlist

The mission had been intense from the start. You knew Aaron — Hotch, here in the field — had ordered you to stay back and cover the rear, but you saw an opening, a chance to catch the unsub off guard. You’d hesitated for a split second, hearing his voice in your earpiece, a mix of command and concern, but the adrenaline took over. You went for it.

Moments later, everything was a blur. The unsub had turned, a knife flashing in his hand, and you’d barely managed to dodge the attack. By the time the team swarmed in, you were grappling on the ground, the unsub subdued but not without a few bruises in the process.

As soon as the cuffs were on, you felt Hotch’s hand on your arm, his grip firm. He pulled you aside, his face unreadable, but his eyes were burning with a quiet fury. “What the hell were you thinking?” he growled under his breath, keeping his voice low so the others wouldn’t hear.

“I saw an opportunity,” you argued, your chest heaving from exertion. “I took it.”

“That’s not your call to make,” he snapped, his hand tightening on your arm. “I gave you an order, and you directly disobeyed it.”

You felt a surge of frustration, tugging your arm free. “I’m not a child, Aaron. I made a decision based on the situation.”

“An incredibly reckless decision,” he countered, his jaw set tight. “You could have been seriously hurt. Or worse.”

You crossed your arms, bristling at the way he was speaking to you like you were just another agent. “I knew what I was doing. I had it under control.”

“Under control?” He almost laughed, but there was no humour in it. “You were pinned down by an armed suspect. That’s not under control, Y/N.”

Your heart pounded, anger simmering beneath the surface. “I’ve been doing this job long enough to know what risks I can handle, Hotch. You don’t get to—”

He cut you off, his voice lowering but still fierce. “Don’t you Hotch me. Not when you just put yourself in danger like that. Not when you’re my—” He stopped himself, glancing around at the team.

You knew what he wanted to say. Not when you’re my wife. But he couldn’t say that here, not in front of everyone. The silence between you was thick with tension, his jaw clenched, and you could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

“Fine,” you muttered, feeling the sting of his words. “Let’s talk about this later.”

He nodded curtly, his expression hard. “Yes. We will.”

Back at the BAU, the air was thick with unspoken tension as you both debriefed with the team. You could feel Hotch’s eyes on you, a steady, burning gaze that only made your irritation grow. You knew the others sensed it too, the way they exchanged glances but said nothing. They all knew you were married to your boss, and while most of the time it didn’t interfere, today was different.

As soon as the debrief was over, Hotch gestured for you to follow him to his office. You walked in, arms crossed, ready for another round. He shut the door behind you, locking it before turning to face you.

“We need to talk,” he began, his voice still low but more controlled now.

“Talk?” you scoffed. “Or are you just going to keep reprimanding me like I’m one of your agents and not your wife?”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y/N, you are one of my agents. And on the field, I am your superior. You need to follow my orders.”

“I understand that,” you shot back, your frustration boiling over. “But you can’t expect me to stand by when I see an opportunity to take down a threat.”

Hotch’s expression softened, just a bit. “It’s not about the threat, Y/N. It’s about you. Do you know what it does to me, to see you put yourself in harm’s way like that? To think I could lose you because you wouldn’t listen?”

You blinked, the raw emotion in his voice catching you off guard. “Aaron…”

He stepped closer, his hands reaching out to grip your shoulders, his thumb brushing against your collarbone. “You’re not just another agent to me,” he murmured, his voice strained. “You’re my wife. My everything. And I need you to understand that when I give an order, it’s not just to keep the team safe — it’s to keep you safe.”

You felt a pang of guilt at the fear in his eyes, the way his hands tightened on you like he was afraid to let go. “I know,” you whispered. “But I can’t just stand back and do nothing, Aaron. It’s not who I am.”

He sighed, his forehead resting against yours. “I don’t want you to change who you are. I just… I need you to trust me. To trust that I’ll always have your back, that I’ll always protect you.

You swallowed hard, the intensity of his gaze making your heart ache. “I do trust you,” you replied softly. “But you have to understand that I’m not going to just sit by and let you carry all the weight. I’m your partner — in life and on the field.”

His eyes softened, his thumb tracing circles on your shoulder. “I know,” he murmured. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just… promise me you’ll be more careful. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you.”

You nodded, feeling the tension slowly dissolve between you. “I promise,” you whispered.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a slow, tender kiss that melted the last of your resistance. You sighed against him, your hands moving to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You drive me crazy, you know that?” he muttered, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You chuckled softly, your fingers tangling in his tie. “It’s part of my charm.”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that made your heart flutter. “I suppose it is.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and you felt all the frustration and fear of the day melt away, leaving only the warmth of his love and the steady reassurance of his presence.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, his voice rough with emotion.

“I love you too,” you replied, your hand cupping his cheek. “And I promise… I’ll try to follow orders. Sometimes.”

He chuckled, pulling you closer. “I’ll take that.”

And in that moment, you knew that no matter how many arguments or tense moments lay ahead, you’d always find your way back to each

Mars speaks… (again) Thank you for reading! Any and all feedback is always appreciated🫶

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy XVI

a yandere art professor John Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) warnings: dark adult themes, violence, sex, drugs, obsession, yandere shit. plz don't read if u can't handle it ->chapter map

XVI.

John Wick adjusts his hold on you, gathering you close with his nose in your hair. “I told you, y/n, I would never hurt you. I won’t let anyone else hurt you either.” 

Your pulse thunders like an angry drum in your chest. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you demand, and he lets you turn in his arms again, lets you pound on his chest for all the good it does. “I’ve been driving myself crazy over this for weeks! Why wouldn’t you just tell me?” 

“I thought it was best.” 

“Best?” you snarl, so frustrated you could scream. “For who?” 

“Both of us,” he answers simply, as though it should be obvious. You think about that, and your next question comes with a quaver in your tone. 

“What did you do with them, John?” 

There is a long pause before he answers, “You don’t want to know.” He actually sounds contrite about it, which surprises you to no end. 

“What if I do?” 

“I’m still not going to tell you.” 

“I could tell the police,” you say, if only to be contrary.  

He might sense this when he answers with zero fear, “You have no evidence.”

“I have your mask.” 

He sighs, like you’re being intentionally difficult. “They’re gone, y/n. That’s all you need to know. They’ll never hurt you or anyone else ever again.” 

Is he saying…he killed them? 

He killed them. 

You’re not stupid. You can read between the lines. This man is a murderer and he’s got you in his arms…and all you want to do is argue with him. 

Maybe your survival instincts could use some work.  

Your heart pounds in your chest, but still you have to ask, “John…how?” 

He levels you with a long and piercing gaze that you feel all the way to the base of your spine, your senses clamoring with alarm. Maybe you knew it all along, deep down, that he was a dangerous man. “I wasn’t always a mild-mannered drawing teacher, y/n. And we’re going to leave it at that.” 

You stare up at him, wide eyed as your brain races to keep up as the bombs keep dropping. What could that mean? Was he a government agent? A cop? A spy? …A criminal?

“Y/n…” He sweeps your hair from your face with those long fingers, and you let him, frozen as you stare up at him like some star-struck idiot, trying to process what is going on. “Please, don’t be afraid of me.” There is a fragility in his voice that moves you to your toes. Even if he’s freaked you out tonight, you hate to admit…that deep down, you don’t believe he would hurt you. 

Foolish, perhaps, but it’s the truth. 

You’d wanted to get away so badly before. Why is it now, that all you want to do is hide from that x-ray gaze against his chest? So…you do, and gladly he lets you. Your head feels like a pinwheel, as you try to suss out your emotions from everything you’ve learned tonight. 

You suppose you should be feeling some sort of guilt or remorse–you find you have none. Is there something missing in you? Or are you allowed to be glad that those two creeps can’t hurt you or anyone else anymore? The system failed you. But your savior balanced the scales of justice in a way The Law never seems to when it comes to abusers of women. You find that all you can really manage is relief, and the growing warm glow inspired by being in this man’s arms. 

“John…” You whisper his name like a prayer, tucked under his chin. “I wanted it to be you.” You find it’s a lot easier to admit this, when you don’t have to look him in those anthracite eyes. 

“Did you?” He actually sounds surprised, and it tears you to shreds all over again. 

You grip fistfuls of his shirt, your fingers like claws as you fight to hold on to something solid while the world feels like it's spinning out of control. 

“Why didn’t you just show me your face that night?” you demand, suddenly so frustrated you could scream. All the bad things that had happened could have been avoided, maybe, if he hadn’t been so bent on toying with you. 

“I was going to, later,” he tells the top of your head. “But you were having fun with your friends. I didn't want to take that from you. When I went to find you again…I found those assholes throwing you into their van.” His voice goes dark as he recalls this, the hairs on your body lifting again. There is definitely something dangerous about this man that swims beneath the surface. Something not to be trifled with, you’re beginning to understand all too well. 

“I don’t remember much at all,” you admit quietly. “The big one, Samson. He hit Matt hard enough to knock him out. Right before that, Matt was trying to tell me something about them.”

“You know I looked up the little town where they're from.”

“Yeah?”

“A few years ago, a girl was found dead on the side of the river there. No arrests were ever made. She was in their class.”

“That doesn't mean–”

“Have you ever looked through Matt’s sketchbook?”

You think of that haunting drawing he’d taken out of your hands. Oh god.

“I can't believe Matt would hurt anyone,” you say meekly, tears in your eyes. 

“Maybe not. But I think he knew, y/n. And he nearly got you killed for it. So yeah. I hate his guts.”

You let out a long sigh, leaning against him, your knees gone weak. The truths keep coming tonight. You're not sure you can handle whatever comes next. Your fingers clench in his shirt, your throat swelling shut as the tears well up. 

Your sweet sad Matthew, the boy with the drowning dark eyes… He knew. He knew all along and he didn’t protect you. Maybe not maliciously, but how much complacency can a girl be expected to forgive? They were probably going to rape you, and murder you, and he practically let you walk right into it.

If not for John… He saved you. The true gravity of this finally sinks in. That if he hadn't been looking for you, watching out for you…you’d be another story on the five o’clock news that people shake their heads at before going back to dinner, muttering about the sad state of the world. 

Maybe initially the scope of his obsession had scared you–but no one else cared for you so much. It leaves you reeling in a freefall, and you try to hold it in, but when the first sob breaks it's like the cracking of a dam. “Shh, you’re alright,” he soothes you, holding you against his chest with one of those big hands on the back of your head as though he can shield you from the world. “I’ve got you. You’re alright.” 

“I feel so stupid!” You hiccup between sobs. “I thought you were just being mean…but it's like you knew all along!”

“I've just been around, y/n. I've seen a lot of bad things.”

I wasn’t always a mild mannered drawing teacher.

Who is this man? You don’t have the courage to ask just now. You don't feel like you have the right, after behaving like such a brat.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper against his chest, feeling impossibly small and dumb and raw after this reality check. What a weird fucking night this has turned out to be.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He holds you against his broad chest, letting you cry it out, and as you listen to his strong heartbeat you feel, for the first time in a long time, like you've finally found some sense of peace. 

In fact, you feel so secure that it's possible you go temporarily insane in this man's strong arms. Where do you get the courage, to turn your face up to his so entreatingly? Just minutes ago you were trying to run from him, and now here you are in his grasp, meek as a lamb. 

You are a ridiculous creature. You know it, but you cannot stop now. 

“You know I do remember…that you kissed me.” 

He caresses your cheek with his thumb, his dark eyes fixed upon your mouth. There is a low-burning hunger in his gaze that takes your breath away. 

“Did you like that?” he asks, his bass rumble of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. 

“It was alright.” 

He narrows his eyes at you with mock indignation, no doubt remembering the way you positively melted in his arms. “Alright?” 

“Mmm hmm.” 

He dares to rub his thumb over your lower lip, as though testing your plump flesh for the proper consistency. You've never been more tempted in your life to bare your teeth and bite. Not out of defence–but for taste.

“Sounds like I should try again.” 

“I’ll think about it.” 

“Brat.” 

He handles you like he owns you now, taking you in hand, turning your face up with his massive paw upon your jaw. Onyx orbs fix upon your mouth, and you close your eyes in anticipation, suddenly certain that you will wither and die if he does not kiss you. 

Yet he doesn’t move, and you are so caught up in the torment of that suspended moment that the most embarrassing little whine squeaks forth from the back of your throat. You open your eyes a sliver, and you realize he’s looking at you, as though he means to memorize every inch of you, down to the pore. It’s flattering, and a little unsettling, and you must make some minute projection that you intend to move away, because his hold tightens upon you. 

“You’re perfect, y/n,” he says gently, as though he knew exactly what you were thinking. 

You are far from it, which you know very well. 

“I’m not, John.” 

“You are, to me.” And finally, he lowers his mouth to yours, sweeping you up in a tooth-counting kiss that curls your toes and at least at the moment, quiets your fears.

TBC...

___

*further analysis of this chapter 😅 ->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[singerwriter04]

The Mission

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff X Fem! Shield Agent Reader

Category: Fluff, fighting, yearning, angst

Summary: (Based in the early days of Natasha being part of/joining shield) You get sent on a mission, in which you end up meeting & fighting a Black Widow, and manage to get her to start the process of leaving the Red Room & joining shield, instead.

Masterlist

Note: This was supposed to be a oneshot, but it's gonna be an (actually) happy series!

Word count: 862

You’re on a mission for S.H.I.E.L.D, and are looking through boxes of evidence when suddenly you hear someone come in, and put up your gun immediately.

“Who the fuck are you?” You question, and she looks just as confused, “Who the fuck are you? I was told no one should be here.” she states, and you buffer on keeping your gun steady, “You don’t look like S.H.I.E.L.D, so once again, who are you?” you breathe out, while closing the box you were trying to look through, which she notices, “I’m not whatever S.H.I.E.L.D it is you’re talking about. I’m something—different.” she explains while looking you up and down, “If you’re not S.H.I.E.L.D then what—” you start, right as she grabs your gun from your hand, and knocks your head against the table.

“Rude” you mutter, while tossing a book at her, and sweeping her legs out from under her, but not before she grabs the book and tosses it to the side. “Nice one, too bad I know better” she chuckles, which ticks you off, so you spit out your blood, and use your gun to try to shoot her, which fails, when she grabs the barrel as you’re about to use it, that in particular shocks you, and she uses it to smack you in the face. You get knocked backward, and roll over onto yourself, onto the ground, and she uses the opportunity to pin you down, and put a knife to your throat with a gun at your temple. 

“I was told to eliminate anyone who got in my way. You’re in my way.” She explains, and you put your hands up, “Look, clearly you’re not with any government agency. But, I am, and surely whatever the fuck you’re in, we can help out with!” you plead, and hear Fury in your ear, “Y/N, what the motherfucking HELL did you just promise!?” but you ignore it, and you can see her thinking about it, “How the hell do you think you can help me?” she asks, but doesn’t let up on the weapons, and you breathe out.

“You look like a trained spy, so I’m assuming you’re contracted by the Russians or some shit.” You question, and it looks like that got through to her, because she softens up a little, “I’m assuming, based on your reaction, I’m close. Are you part of the Black Widow project?” you question again, and that makes her stop in her tracks, and you can see her breathing slightly quicken, “How did you know about that?” she asks, and you smile softly, “We’ve been paying attention, just—didn’t have enough evidence. You’re the first real evidence we have.” you explain, and she nods, before smiling softly, and using her gun to shoot out the cameras. And you have to keep yourself from blushing, because DAMN was that hot.

“You better be able to actually help, or else we’re both severely fucked.” She states, while cutting out her tracker, and you’re slowly realizing your attraction to her, as you see her not even flinching to having to cut her own damn arm. But, you push away your own feelings for the moment, and get ready to let Fury know that you two are good for the extraction.

“Director, we’re good, you can send down the extraction” You say into your earpiece, and hear a “They’re already there, agent Y/N” with a sigh, and laugh, as you give the girl a sign to follow you.

******

“What’s your name, anyway?” You ask, and she breathes before putting out a hand, “Natasha. Natasha Romanoff.” Natasha answers, and you smile while nodding, “The director is gonna like you, a lot actually,” and that makes her smile while looking down.

*******

Eventually, you reach base, walk in with Nat, and reach where Fury is at. And, sit down on the couch.

“Romanoff, if you could, wait outside for a moment” Fury asks, and she obliges, and you sigh, “Y/N, are you planning on explaining—why the FUCK you would bring someone new in?” he asks, and you sigh loudly before answering, “Director, she’s a Black Widow, and we’ve been having shit luck trying to find anything substantial surrounding Widows. So, I figured, what’s the harm in getting on out & on our side?” you question, and he nods while smiling, “And, that’s why she’s now your partner. I’m setting a test-run assignment up for you, Clint Barton, and her to all complete.” he states, and you look at him slightly shocked, “Oh—well shit, alright, I’ll take that, do you want me to try to get information on the Widows, from her?” you ask, and he thinks before answering, “Yes, do that, we need whatever we can get” and you nod before leaving, only to get stopped, “Wait, I want you in here when I talk to her.” he states, and you groan before nodding, and open the door.

“The director will see you now, and I get to watch!” you exclaim, and she chuckles softly before nodding and walking in.

[electric-guillotines]

In The Wake of Fire - Pt.3

"The Woman in White"

WandaNat x F!OC Summary: Natasha and Steve talk to Fury about their walking lightning rod, and an FBI Agent comes forward with information that will shed light on the Boston event, revealing the existence of a secret society and it's mysterious leader...

Content: Hospital setting but nothing in detail Words: 5 ,994

Can also be read over on [Ao3]

Taglist: @bishovapls @queen-of-chaotic-surprises @natashasmuse

<<Start | <Back || Index || Forward> | End>>

Boston, MA 11:40 pm Massachusetts General Hospital

While most of the seriously wounded were sent south many still ended up at Mass General and space was a premium, but by some miracle, the hospital was able to find a secluded room for MacGrath, keeping her separated from the other patients that came and went in a constant flow of bodies, shaken and trembling from the shock of it all, eyes too wide in a vain attempt to process the day.

The constant shuffle left the hallway floors smeared in ash and dust, the janitorial staff working as hard as they could to keep it manageable. Eventually they started having people shake themselves off before they entered.

The doctors made short work of examining MacGrath once she was taken in. No broken bones and no internal damage, the burns on her skin were already healing faster than they had any right to. Pupillary reflex was normal except for the fact that her pupils contracted into vertical slits. Aside from that, they were confident MacGrath didn't have a concussion which was just as well—no one was particularly eager to test if it was even safe to run a CT scan on her let alone an MRI.

“Her vitals are improving every moment but her body is exhausted. Based on what you've told us that's to be expected. I don't need to tell you that we aren't equipped for someone like this so the sooner you can take her off our hands the better.”

For all her training and discipline, Natasha couldn't force herself to relax as the steady sound of a heart monitor reminded her where she was with every beat. Medical settings were a minefield at the best of times and unless she was the one being treated, Wanda knew better than to bring it up, not questioning the decision to go with MacGrath and force Natasha to second-guess what she was doing.

She was a Widow, an Avenger, she could handle being inside a hospital as long as none of the doctors came near her, but she couldn't say that bringing Steve along wasn't something of a fail-safe.

Sitting in the corner chairs across from MacGrath's bed, they quietly searched through a bag of personal belongings one of the nurses brought through.

Most of the items were burnt and tattered. The phone was completely fried, a little metal charm hanging off the corner in the shape of a death's head moth.

A plain black leather wallet seemed to have survived with minimal damage but the cards inside were similarly fried beyond use. Shuffling through them, Natasha noted a couple of bank cards, a library card, and what might have once been a driver's license if it wasn't a melted mess.

The top of a white and blue card caught her eye, tucked into the deepest recess of the wallet behind everything else.

“Anything?” asked Steve, having no luck with the clothes. He folded them neatly into a pile, ignoring that they were almost certainly bound for the trash in such a state and treating them with respect solely because they were still someone's things.

Carefully plucking the card free, Natasha blinked at what she saw.

“Huh, clever girl,” she murmured, holding it up for him.

The card carried similar damage, most of MacGrath's name burned out along with half of her face in the tiny portrait, but what stood out the most were the words printed along the top; 'Massachusetts Institute of Technology,' with faint block letters spelling out 'STUDENT' behind it.

Steve frowned.

Settling back in his chair, he turned his focus to MacGrath, crossing his arms. “How does a student end up in a situation like this?”

She sighed, folding her legs up into her seat, partially to annoy him and partially because it helped her feel more secure. “Definitely not on purpose, this didn't turn out well for her if it was.”

They fell into an uneasy silence, heavy with questions yet to be asked, suspicions festering as they watched the girl sleep.

The nurses had cleaned her up, wiping away the ash and dressing her in a hospital gown without the 'static' issue the EMTs noted.

Natasha's gaze flicked to MacGrath's hands—they hadn't sparked since arriving at the hospital.

She wondered how long that would last.

A knock on the door made them both jump to their feet.

“Evening,” said Fury as he entered, softly closing the door behind him.

Natasha relaxed, trying not to show the tiredness she felt creeping in at the edges. She could have been comfortable snuggled in bed right now but the world's evil rarely waited for convenience.

She stepped aside to let him move deeper into the room. “Nice mess you called us in for, Nick,” she said drily.

Fury threw her a look somewhere between exasperation and understanding. “You know I wouldn't have called for anything less.”

She moved to stand next to him at the girl's bedside, crossing her arms. “Yeah,” she conceded, “doesn't get any easier to look at.”

He glanced between her and Steve. “You all did good work today,” he said firmly. “Your priority going forward will be dealing with the culprits behind this attack, anything else will be delegated through SHIELD. But we can save the full debrief for tomorrow.”

He motioned towards MacGrath. “Tell me about her.”

Steve nodded, hands behind his back. “Name is Kassidy MacGrath. We found her alive at ground zero with lightning erupting from her body. Witness reports said she was holding an unknown device just before the blast. It started glowing and when she couldn't drop it we're told she started screaming at people to get away from her because she had a bomb.”

Fury narrowed his eye. “She couldn't drop it?” he echoed.

Steve gestured politely at her and Natasha answered, “that's what the witness said. He described her bracing her foot against the object hard enough to hurt herself, like it was locked onto her hands.”

“Looks can be deceiving. I'll admit the warning is odd, unless she really was in on this and got cold feet.”

“Maybe, but we won't know anything until she wakes up, and she'll be better off in our hands than here.”

Another knock at the door had them all tense, watching as the door was opened by a tall middle-aged woman in a sharp suit. She had stern, hawkish features and quick eyes, coldly flicking across everyone in the room before landing on Natasha like lasers.

This woman was military, Natasha could tell that much, if not active then an ex-service member probably working for the government. She also knew, immediately, that this woman did not like her.

Fury raised an eyebrow at the intrusion, hand resting comfortably on his hip close to a concealed weapon. “Can we help you?” he asked shortly.

“Yes, and I can help you return, Director Fury,” she said, her voice brusque and to the point with a distinct Tennessee accent.

She calmly closed the door behind her, facing them in a loose parade rest. “I am FBI Agent Mercy Cord and I have been tracking the group responsible for this atrocity for years.”

Fury stepped closer. “If you've been tracking them for so long then why did this happen, Agent Cord?” he asked, scrutinising her from head to toe.

Mercy's jaw flexed. “Because my superiors did not believe them to be threat worth chasing,” she nearly growled, frustration bleeding through. “My concern with them has always been brushed off because they stay under the radar when it comes to American interests.”

She took a steadying breath, something bitter crossing her face. “Besides,” she said, her eyes flicking to Natasha with that laser focus again, “we've all had our hands full chasing snakes in the grass, haven't we?”

Natasha shared a look with Steve.

The ramifications of their renewed fight with Hydra were still being felt even years later, it had shaken US institutions to their core and shattered public perception.

If not for Peggy Carter��s foresight and her refusal to allow in anyone brought over by Operation Paperclip, SHIELD would have been compromised to the point of destruction. As it was, SHIELD was able to do something that left much of the federal apparatus feeling more than a little humiliated; saving it from itself.

With a cold smile, Natasha simply said, “pozhaluysta (you are welcome.)”

Mercy’s glare could have cracked steel but she quickly returned focus to Fury. “Director, I have information you and the Avengers will need going forward,” she said, “but I would much rather discuss the details in a more secure location. I’m sure you understand.”

Nodding slowly, Fury slipped his hand into his coat, relaxing. He met Natasha’s eye and said, “get in touch with Stark and figure out where we need to be.”

At her nod, he turned to face Mercy. “Agent, walk with me.”

Once they left the room, Steve tilted his head. “Do you know her?”

Natasha chuckled. “No.”

At the confused look on Steve’s face, she took pity enough to explain. “I don’t need telepathy to hear someone calling me a ‘fucking Russki’ in their head. She’s FBI, it’s gonna ruffle her feathers that a Russian helped save her country.”

Steve’s face darkened and Natasha waved him off, focusing on the girl. “Put that away,” she said lightly, “you don’t do angry and brooding, that’s Bucky’s job.”

His expression softened. “I can when my friends are disrespected,” he said, low and sincere.

She couldn’t help the small, genuine smile that turned her lips. “Hey, she didn’t say it.”

“No. But you didn’t have to use Russian.”

“It’s funnier that way.”

He snorted, running a hand over his face, and Natasha grinned, pleased with herself for cracking his seriousness, just a little.

People taking issue with her history was nothing new to her and it would never particularly bother her, nothing anyone could say would ever come close to what she said to herself, not when she was her own harshest critic.

For better and often worse, Natasha knew exactly what she’d done throughout her life. Every sordid, murky, awful little detail, and all she could do was try to make up for it, even if those scales would never balance out, even if so much of it was done under duress, under conditioning, brainwashing, with a million little blades correcting her posture, behaviour, ways of thinking, pushing her to be a perfect, unfeeling weapon.

She wasn’t.

She never had been.

But Widows were very good at pretending to be exactly that, wearing a mask was second-nature, etched into their bones. Even now being sincere and vulnerable wasn’t easy, she hated how exposed it made her feel as if she were showing someone exactly where to stab her, but caring about others was nice, and so was being cared about, so she kept trying.

Her thoughts drifted to Wanda and Natasha’s grin softened into something hopelessly tender, something Steve noticed immediately.

He snapped his fingers, breaking her train of thought. “Okay, you can have girlfriend time later, Romanoff,” he teased. “We still have a job to do.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Oh please, like you aren’t going to face-time Bucky as soon as we’re home.”

Steve opened his mouth only to promptly close it, a faint blush creeping up his face.

She smirked, “exactly.”

Sobriety set in quickly, however, as their attention returned to MacGrath. The girl remained asleep, the burns on her skin growing fainter by the minute.

Natasha sighed, opening the team comms. “Tony. Are you still at the crater?”

“Nope! Samples collected, Banner and I are getting them secured for transport. What’s up?”

“MacGrath is stable but you saw what she was capable of. She can’t stay in the hospital, it’s too much of a risk. Not to mention, we just got a visit from an FBI Agent who claimed she had intel on the people responsible. Fury is talking to her right now but considering this was years of work for her I doubt she’ll just hand us the intel and step back.”

There was a pause, and Tony grumbled something unintelligible. “So, the kid needs to be somewhere secure and FBI proof, got it. Alright, Tower it is. Easier to keep an eye on them both.”

Once it was organised, Steve went with the transport carrying MacGrath and Natasha returned to the rallying point, only to be redirected to the jet. Most of the team was ready to leave, only some would stay behind to continue monitoring the crater and help recovery efforts.

Climbing the boarding ramp, Natasha gave the city one last look, her breath misting in the chilly evening air.

The streets weren’t as quiet as they should be at such a late hour, with recovery teams broken into day and night shifts the area would see activity day and night as crews worked to uncover bodies, clear rubble, and begin the slow process of rebuilding.

They had done what they could.

If she repeated it enough times perhaps the leaden feeling in her bones would fade.

Trying to exhale the weight, Natasha entered the cabin proper and closed the ramp behind her.

Sam was sitting in the cockpit with Clint, talking quietly, and Tony was out cold in one of the small bunks built into the cabin walls, his suit standing nearby like a guard dog.

Wanda was in one of the chairs, clearly trying not to fall asleep despite the way her head dipped only for her to jolt.

Natasha smiled, silently approaching her. “That doesn’t look like rest to me,” she said lightly.

Green eyes darted up at that and Wanda immediately grabbed her by the shoulder harness, pulling her down into the seat until Natasha had no choice but to sit in Wanda’s lap, held against her body like a cherished teddy bear.

Despite the heat creeping up her neck, Natasha relaxed enough to settle in a more comfortable position, dropping her head to Wanda’s shoulder. “Yeah,” she murmured, finally allowing the exhaustion into her voice, “I’m ready to go home too, lyubimaya (beloved.)”

---

Manhattan, NY 9:12am Avengers Tower

That it was only a mild headache that greeted her in the morning was as much a surprise to Wanda as it was a mercy. She knew she had overdone it by marching into the crater like that, and it would have been worse if not for the energy gel.

The thought of getting up made her groan and pull the duvet over her head.

“You and I both need food after yesterday,” Natasha grumbled from behind.

Wanda smiled despite the throbbing of her temples, enjoying the way Natasha’s Rs curled, grogginess sending her typically flawless American accent into complete disarray.

She dropped a hand down to the arm around her waist, stroking the smooth, warm skin of Natasha’s forearm.

“Can we not stay here for another hour at least?” she muttered.

As if to spite her, FRIDAY’s voice intruded from above.

“Attention, all Avengers are to report to the conference room by 10am for an official debrief. Repeat, all Avengers are to report to the conference room by 10am for an official debrief.”

Natasha’s arm tightened around her waist and Wanda grumbled a few choice words under her breath.

Apologetically, FRIDAY added, “sorry, ladies. Everyone else is awake already.”

With a squeeze of her hip, Natasha easily slid out of the bed and began stretching. She was almost always the morning person and she had probably been awake for a while, dozing on and off until Wanda showed signs of stirring.

Sighing, Wanda got up and began their routine.

They made the bed, showered, and dressed, moving around each other easily, the space between them familiar and comfortable, filled with playful touches and innocent kisses, avoiding anything more involved because they knew they couldn’t waste time getting distracted. Still, Wanda stole all the warmth and light that she could before the seriousness of the debrief, enjoying the coy little curl to Natasha’s lips every time she felt Wanda’s hand on the small of her back or shoulder. The press of lips to her temple or brow made her eyes sparkle in a way no one else got to see and Wanda cherished it like a delicate secret, holding it close to her heart.

Soon enough, they made their way up to the main floor, finding the rest of the team gathered in the kitchen.

Clint and Sam sat the island with coffee, Steve was cooking what smelled like a breakfast scramble in a large skillet, and Tony was foraging for something between the double doors of the fridge.

“Our sleeping beauties!” announced Clint, smiling over a cup of coffee. “You’re finally awake.”

“Weren’t you the last one awake before them?” asked Sam, nudging his shoulder with a smirk.

Clint shrugged. “Yeah but I wasn’t the last.”

Natasha smirked, leaning on the island. “I know you have a sleep mask, Barton,” she said, “it’s very pretty.”

Clint flushed a little, muttering into his coffee, “it’s Laura’s, the silk feels nice.”

Warm laughter bubbled around the room, brightening the morning mood.

The skyline outside was murky and grey, the streets twinkling faintly with car lights as a thick swaddling fog and watery clouds hid the sun from view.

“Recovery drinks, ladies,” said Tony, pulling a tray of ready made smoothies from the fridge. Two cups of the dark green liquid remained, the rest already downed by their teammates.

Breakfast passed quickly, the chatter light and easy until it was time to head to the conference room.

Steve introduced them to FBI Agent Mercy Cord as they filed in, already waiting for them at the head of the table with a stack of folders marked‘Avengers Eyes Only.’

A cursory pass at Agent Cord’s surface thoughts gave away very little and Wanda suppressed a frown, remaining outwardly neutral as she took in everything she could about this new Agent. She remembered Natasha mentioning the encounter at the hospital, but both of them had been so tired that she only recalled the name.

Agent Cord was stark and taut, her posture precise, every movement exacting, and her grey eyes flicked to each member of the team around the table with calculated chill. The only difference came when she looked at Natasha, a flex of the jaw, a twitch of the brows as if she wanted to scowl, then nothing, her face smoothed back into icy indifference. Yet, even then, nothing rose to the surface of her mind–Cord had an iron grip on everything so unless Wanda wanted to immediately alert the Agent to her surveillance, she would have to wait until something slipped.

Wanda narrowed her eyes, filing the observation away for later.

With everyone settled at the table, they contacted Fury via video call.

“Good morning,” he said evenly, “I trust you all managed to get some sleep.”

They each went over everything that happened, detailing the bodies discovered, the people they talked to, samples taken, evidence found, everything that would go into their official written reports later.

Agent Cord remained silent and Fury listened with intense attention to detail as usual, a trait of his that Wanda had slowly gotten used to. It used to feel as if he was trying to catch her out on something, find where she went wrong and prove why she didn’t belong here after all, now she understood it for what it was, simple professional zeal and more than a little dash of Fury’s desire to keep the Avengers safe and functioning. He needed to know everything down to the last detail if SHIELD wanted to stay ahead of any untoward activity against them.

It was an unfortunate truth that many people in power felt threatened by a group such as theirs, even if they had no interest in overthrowing governments and sending entire countries into chaos. Wanda certainly had no desire to inflict that, a nation’s fate should be its own without external interference, that was the point of accepting Hydra's honeyed poison, before she knew the truth.

No, the Avengers were meant to keep innocent people safe, even if that meant embarrassing government officials. They wouldn’t always succeed, they would make mistakes, but they would always try to do better, and Fury knew that.

With each of their accounts covered, Fury moved on to the next topic of discussion. “As you might expect, the clean-up is projected to take months. SHIELD has locked down access to the crater and its immediate surroundings for study, moving forward those teams will be in constant contact with Stark and Banner.”

Tony leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “Make sure your people aren’t hanging around down there,” he said, frustration creeping into his tone, “I don’t know what effect that energy has on the body long-term, if any.”

Fury nodded. “They’re treating it like a radiological hazard.”

He glanced to the side, tapping in a few commands on a console. “We found plenty of information about your guest, and she was a student at MIT, three years ago. She never finished.”

A file came up on their tablets;

Subject - Kassidy Quinn MacGrath

The file came with pictures from different points in the girl's life, some taken from group pictures, others from school yearbooks, and a few were candid shots where Kassidy seemed unaware she was in the picture, focused on a book or science project.

She had pale olive-tone skin, straight black hair, blue eyes, and wore a crooked half-smile when aware of the camera. A sharp jawline and strong nose paired with soft and subtle features made her a rather distinct and pretty young woman, and it clashed violently with the terrified girl Wanda saw yesterday.

None of the pictures showed her piercings, however, nor the current style of her hair, a wolf cut. The pictures showed an otherwise plain girl dressed in conservatively feminine clothing, not a single sign of rebellion.

Fury spoke as they moved to the first real page of the folder. “Kassidy MacGrath, twenty-five years of age. She was born in Northern Ireland to parents Silvia Jäger and Ronan MacGrath and has a twenty-one year old brother, Arthur. The family moved to Boston here in the states when MacGrath was nine and her father began working with a private security firm called Vanguard Security Services.”

Wanda lingered on a family picture, connecting the names to faces. The picture showed everyone in their Sunday best, primly posed and smiling for the camera. Kassidy clearly took after her mother, only sharing her eye colour with Ronan who sported short, sandy blonde hair and stern, gruff features that struggled to carry warmth.

Something about the picture didn’t sit right with Wanda and it took her a moment to hone in on what was bothering her. After all, it was a normal picture. Ronan and Silvia stood in the middle, Silvia's gloved hands resting on the shoulders of Arthur, standing in front of her wearing a navy suit like his father—the boy looked no older than 13. But then there was Kassidy, standing to her mother's right, wearing a modest green dress to match her mother, her eyes completely untouched by the smile on her face.

Another observation to file away for later.

She returned her attention to Fury’s voice. “By all accounts, she was a model student. Kept out of trouble at every turn, maintained a perfect GPA and went on to study physics at MIT with her sights set on theoretical and experimental physics.”

Steve sent Natasha a look of acknowledgement, getting a nod in return.

Tony leaned on the table, flicking through the document. “Disciplined, intelligent, and not afraid of a challenge,” he said flatly, brow furrowing. “What happened?”

“Two and half years into her studies, MacGrath dropped out and started working as a bike courier. No information on why, professors said she was doing great.”

“What about her parents?”

A flicker of something dark crossed Fury’s face. “We attempted to contact them but all they had to tell us was how much of a disgrace to the family she was before hanging up. They refuse to cooperate with us.”

Sam looked up from his tablet. “There’s a story there,” he said carefully, “any sign its connected to what happened yesterday?”

Fury sighed. “That’s the thing. She hasn’t missed a day of work in three years. There isn’t so much as a mark on her driver’s license. Her digital footprint is clean. She has two friends that we know of and doesn’t step out of line. There’s nothing to indicate she was an active participant.”

Clint spoke up, “good kids only run if you give them a reason.” His voice was quiet and hard, contemplative, like a thought that escaped containment.

No one spoke, weighed down by the implication of his statement.

A sick feeling coiled in Wanda’s stomach and she looked at the family picture again, the same discomfort nagging at her with greater insistence.

It wasn’t just the surliness of a teenager who didn’t want to be there.

Fury broke the uncomfortable silence. “Well, there’s more information in the file for you to review. For now, Kassidy MacGrath is under the care of Dr Cho and her team in the Tower. Consider her in protective custody until we can determine the danger of this situation.”

He looked at Mercy. “Now, I believe Agent Cord has information to share with you.”

“Thank you, Director Fury,” Cord said politely.

She moved with practised efficiency, handing out physical folders to each of them until she stood at the head of the table again where she typed commands into the projector interface. “Now, as I told Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff yesterday, I have been tracking the group responsible for yesterday’s atrocity for years.”

A holographic projection showed them a symbol of scissors cutting through a rope arranged to represent infinity. The scissors weren’t of a modern design, but ancient, more like shears one would see on Greek pottery.

Agent Cord continued. “They’re known as the Severed Society. They were founded in the late 1800s, a secret society of mentalists and occultists, but since the end of World War 2 their focus shifted to experimental sciences and their numbers exploded. They are well funded, well connected, and have operated quietly for decades. Their business in the United States is in pharmaceuticals and the like, for which they use fronts to avoid being connected. Unfortunately for them, they caught my attention.”

Several images came up showing groups of men and women in distinctive dark blue and white combat uniforms, faces covered. Their gear looked custom made rather than surplus, and they were kitted out with enough weaponry for a small army. On the pale chest-plate of each uniform the same symbol of the rope and shears was emblazoned in black.

Cord went on to explain how the Severed Society operated outside the US, engaging in wet work, kidnapping, trafficking, assassinations, and torture, just to name a few. Whatever built them connections, drew in more money and resources for their research projects, they did it with zero remorse or hesitation.

Tony interjected, “what were they researching?”

She paused, lips pursing. “The Shroud.”

At Tony's frown, Agent Cord continued. “There was a scientist in the 80s by the name of Christopher Ray. He believed the neuro-electricity of all sapient beings carried a certain power to it, ‘cardinal’ energy he called it. The Shroud is a dimension where that energy gathers, concentrating in the same places people are like galactic filaments concentrate matter throughout the cosmos.

I wouldn’t have believed it until yesterday. I believed the Severed Society to be dangerous, that they were working towards something big in their mad quest for this thought dimension.”

Cord frowned deeply, ruminating.

Tapping the console, she brought up the holographic projection of an octahedron and what looked to be vastly simplified schematics of its inner workings. A metal casing surrounding complex electronics and crystalline shielding, built around a glowing core of unidentified material.

Tony leaned forward, eyes fixed on the image, taking in every detail he could.

Agent Cord crossed her arms. “This is their crown jewel; the Cardinal Matrix. A tool designed to drain the neuro-electric energy from everyone nearby and concentrate it into an individual. This transfer briefly inundates the surrounding area with cardinal energy, like a little piece of the Shroud bled through. Considering Miss MacGrath was doing her best impression of a lighting rod yesterday, I’d say it worked.”

The phrasing grated and Wanda shifted in her seat, keeping her eyes firmly on the documents showing clearer pictures of the Cardinal Matrix. The holographic display didn’t quite capture the strange wave-like pattern on the metal.

She noticed Natasha looking in her periphery and lightly nudged their boots together, a silent signal that she was fine.

Wordlessly, Natasha returned her attention to Cord.

Steve asked, “who leads them?”

Everyone looked at Agent Cord then, and she brought up new images. Pictures taken from near and afar, footage from what appeared to be body cameras, all showing a figure draped in white.

With a sense of reluctance, Cord admitted, “I don’t know as much as I’d like, but they call her Damocles.”

The woman wore white from head to toe, with a military coat and a tight hood pulled over her head, her face hidden by a snarling metal mask reminiscent of a tiger. Its mouth was full of shining coppery teeth, and the eyes glowed blue, frigid and unfeeling. Metal armour reinforced the legs and her hands were encased in clawed gauntlets.

In the body cam footage she moved with an eerie calm in what seemed to be the aftermath of a fight, smoke wafting through the air around her as she approached the camera. Whoever wore it appeared to already be dead, sprawled on the floor of some old factory judging by the industrial environment.

Damocles crouched over the body, inspecting it, before a digitised voice addressed her by name. She stood up, peering at the body for a moment longer before she lifted her boot and crushed the camera.

Agent Cord’s mouth twisted. “Aside from her name, I know that she has two direct underlings who go by Wraith and Imperatus, and all three of them are enhanced. Damocles is fast, strong, and hard to hurt. Imperatus has telekinetic powers, and Wraith…” she trailed off, sighing. “I don’t know what she can do, specifically. All I’ve been able to gather is that she's a nightmare that Damocles releases on the Society’s enemies. Imperatus is more reserved, a real right hand rather than an attack dog.”

Natasha spoke up, asking a question that had been quietly rattling around everyone’s heads. “How haven’t we noticed these guys before?”

It was less a direct question for Agent Cord and more of an escaped thought, like Clint’s observation, and it was perfectly reasonable. For a group with so much dedication, resources, and history, the fact that none of them had ever heard of them before this attack was alarming.

However, Cord just nodded in understanding. “You begin to see why I fought with my superiors,” she said shortly. “Nothing the Society did threatened American interests, it was always either above board or off in some war torn backwater they could pretend didn’t matter. But weeds grow out of control where you don’t look, we already had to learn that lesson the hard way with Hydra. I did not want to see it happen again with the Severed Society.”

She sighed, hands resting on her hips. “Now thousands of American citizens are dead and suddenly they’re all ears,” she sneered, “would’ve spat in their faces if I didn’t have a duty to fulfil.”

Steve stood up from his chair, leaning on the table as he levelled a serious look at Cord. “Well, this Severed Society has our attention, and I promise we will do everything in our power to bring Damocles down.”

Cord stared at him for a moment, scrutinising his expression as if expecting to find a hint of deception, something that told her his words were nothing but hot air, just trying to appease her concerns like her superiors did. When she didn’t find what she was looking for, her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. “Thank you, Captain.”

Looking at the rest of the team, she offered a very rusty yet polite smile. “I look forward to working with you all.”

Fury closed out the meeting, reminding them all to study the files and log their reports.

Tony disappeared to the lab while Clint showed Agent Cord to the guest quarters, and Natasha split off to get ahead on filing her report. Steve and Sam stayed behind to read and continue talking.

Wanda, however, took the lift up to medical. She needed to see for herself, to settle the mental image of a terrified, broken girl pulled from the wreckage of a devastated city.

The medical bay always struck her as too alienating so she tried not to end up there if she could help it. It was cold and clinical, tinged by the faint smell of bleach that never failed to remind her of Hydra’s frigid hospitality. At least the smell of blood didn’t hang in the air too.

She found Dr Cho in her office, and Helen immediately understood, showing her where they were keeping Kassidy.

The medical bay had one operating theatre, a small ward fitted to hold an entire team of battered Avengers, and an intensive care unit that could double as a secure holding cell should they find themselves in exactly this position, with someone hurt and potentially dangerous on their hands. The room had reinforced walls, a security door, and the observation window could withstand anti-tank rounds, so containing a little lightning should be easy enough.

Surrounded by all manner of machinery to keep track of her vital signs, Kassidy remained peacefully asleep, the burns from yesterday completely gone.

Something loosened in Wanda’s chest at the sight, and she took a breath, slowly releasing it as if she could exhale her anxiety with it.

“She’s very strong,” Helen said. “There’s nothing medically wrong to cause this comatose state, her body has simply gone through an intensely traumatic transformation and needs time to adjust. ”

“The burns–was that you, or?”

“No, whatever happened to her in that crater seems to have accelerated her natural healing. I’m unsure to what extent, but I’d much rather save any tests for when she’s awake and I can discuss them with her. For now, she needs rest, her body will wake when it’s ready.”

Wanda nodded, thanking Helen and allowing her to return to her work.

Standing outside the observation window a while longer, Wanda tried to put the pieces together in her head, the uncomfortable family portrait, dropping out of university, falling into a mess like this, and the terror, the sheer, primal fear she felt in that crater.

She nearly jumped when Steve’s voice greeted her. “Hey.”

Wanda shook the disparate thoughts from her head and smiled, though it felt forced. “Hello, Steve.”

He came to stand beside her, watching Kassidy rest with that furrow to his brow when he was trying to figure out the best way to protect someone. “Didn’t get a chance on the way back,” he started, his voice steady and gentle, “I just wanted to check on you, see how you were doing after a mission like that.”

She let her eyes drop to the floor, sitting with the weight of his words, the care behind them. When he first started to do that, her response had been to clam up, to lift her walls as high as they could go and pretend to be fine, assure him she wasn’t going to be a problem, she wouldn’t be a burden. But over time, Steve began to see through it, began to carefully chip at her defences until she started being honest with him, and he would look at her without judgement, simply listening.

He had the makings of a wonderful older brother.

The thought still stung, warm though it was.

Sighing, Wanda sent him a sad smile. “It’s always going to remind me,” she whispered, simple and to the point.

Steve turned to face her and held out his arms in a silent offer.

Another thing she had gotten used to, and something Wanda accepted gratefully, allowing Steve to wrap her up in a big bear hug that ever so gently squeezed the air out of her lungs.

He let her go, smiling. “Want to go for a run?”

She groaned, shoving him away with no real strength behind it. “You will kill me, Rogers.”

He grinned, offering a bent arm like a gentleman. “I promise I won’t run you ragged. But it’ll do us both good.”

With a dramatic sigh, she linked arms with him as he started walking them to the lifts. “If I drop you can explain yourself to Natasha.”

He chuckled warmly.

---

Please enjoy some visual aids regarding Damocles ✨

<<Start | <Back || Index || Forward> | End>>

[nikoniclove]

Hollow

TW: signs of depression, hopelessness, disassociation

But you’re sitting in the center of the bed in your jeans and your boots. Your holster is still on, your badge in your back pocket. You haven’t managed to scrounge up the energy to take any of it off. There are at least ten things you should be doing right now. Another ten you could be doing.

But you’re just sitting.

Cross legged.

Staring into space, nothing but the occasional hum and whirl of the hotel’s AC unit to punctuate the silence.

Something is wrong with you, but for the life of you, you don’t know what it is. You know the demons that frequently haunt you. To say you’ve made your peace with them is poetic bullshit, but you know the signs when those demons roll into town. Notably, this doesn’t feel like any of that.

It’s just… something.

A hollowness in your chest. It’s not an ache or a sadness. It’s not the shadows of war or what-ifs.

You’re just… empty.

There’s nothing concrete to blame it on. The case is fine. It’s a case. It’s not kids or veterans. It’s not related to any of your usual triggers or stressors. It’s just another string of violent crimes, which sounds crass, but there’s a certain amount of that you’re just used to after the life you’ve lived. This case doesn’t even come close to the top 20, or even 30, that have stuck with you. Sure, that might change as the work continues, but right now, in terms of explaining away your whatever-the-fuck-this-is, it doesn’t seem case related.

Something is just… off.

It’s not dread. It’s not a gut feeling. It’s not whatever agents say sometimes about a premonition before everything goes to shit.

Just hollow. Empty.

You’ve been sitting here in the same position long enough for dusk to give way to night. The quality of the light filtering in underneath the curtain gives it away. The passage of time clearly isn’t enough to make you move.

When the bed dips, a noticeable but small effect on your balance, you blink slowly. You’re not sharing a room, so you’re not expecting anyone. You didn’t hear anyone come in, but you’re obviously not entirely present either. You’ve got a reasonable survival instinct though; you’re still alive after all, and nothing gave you the signal to act. Steady breathing, steady heart rate, no goosebumps or hairs standing up at the base of your neck. Whatever the reason behind the slight shift in the mattress, you know you’re physically safe.

As quickly as your brain processes through all of that, you recognize the blonde hair and blue eyes. Her fingers drift into your peripheral, curling with familiarity against the inside of your wrist. Another slow blink like the world around you is moving in slow motion. Her touch doesn’t spike your anxieties; it never has. It’s curious. You watch the way her skin presses against yours, the curve of her knuckles against the sharpness of your wrist. She’s so soft. With another slow blink, you meet her eyes, those beautiful blue eyes swirling with concern. Her other hand moves just as slowly. Or it seems to. She cradles your cheek, her palm warm and the sweep of her thumb soothing.

“How can I help, baby?”

Help.

You’re not sure what to do with that. Honestly you’re not sure what to do with someone who genuinely seems to want to do that. You’re good on your own. Well. Maybe not right this second because there are clear areas where you’re failing very basic be-a-human requirements, but still.

“No? You don’t want help?”

“M’fine.” You wince at the rough timber of your voice. It came out like a croak of air. An expulsion of sound more than a communication.

“You don’t usually carry in hotel rooms,” JJ points out. “Normally by now, you’d be doing a cooldown jog or stretch not sitting in your work clothes staring at the wall. Normally, you would have found your way to our room.” She’s not wrong. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you sit this still. What’s going on, baby?”

Nothing.

Just… empty.

“Will you come with me,” she asks when the silence drags on. Your knees crack when you straighten them, scooting to the edge of the bed. You don’t ask where. It doesn’t really matter. It’s JJ; you’re as safe as you can be. Her hand weighs against your lower back - leading you, guiding you, keeping you close. The texture of the hallway carpet captures your attention with the pattern of use. The elevator might be moving in slow motion too. “C’mon,” JJ encourages warmly when the doors part to reveal an identical hallway on a different floor.

Green lights flash in threes as her keycard opens a door just like yours. The room is different though. One bed instead of two. Another person. “D’you find her?”

JJ hums a quiet affirmative to Emily’s question, ushering you further into the room. “I’m going to take this off,” she explains patiently as she deftly removes your holster from your belt. It earns a temporary home next to their own weapons. Your badge and phone find spots there too. You could do it. You just haven’t. The motivation to do it, the need to do it, just isn’t there. JJ targets your boots next. Something about seeing her crouched at your feet so ready and willing to do something so basic spurs you to move. You take a few steps back. “Hey, it’s okay,” she soothes like she’s talking to a frightened animal. “You can keep them on. No need to leave. It’s okay.”

Shame quickly replaces empty.

Something is wrong with you, and it’s enough of an inconvenience that JJ noticed a disruption from the norm. It’s enough of a burden that she’s trying to fix it. You swallow thickly around the lump in your throat. “It’s okay, baby. Come in. C’mon. Exactly as you are. It’s okay.”

“I should go,” you mumble, staring at the floor. The toes of your boots seem to mock you. Guilt and embarrassment weaving around your spine, filling every hollow crevice with acidity that churns your stomach. Your anxiety spikes. “Sorry.”

“Hold on,” Emily states. An instruction, not a request. You’ve been in their bed enough to know the difference. Your backward momentum stills, and you’re not sure why your body behaves when your anxiety is getting louder. “Where are you off to?”

“I should go,” you repeat. “Didn’t mean to worry you.” As confusing as the hollowness was, it’s preferential to this aching that you’ve fucked something up because you couldn’t be the slightest bit normal.

“I’m still worried, baby,” JJ admits, perched on the edge of the bed, as she watches you carefully. “If you don’t want me to worry, stay here. Simple as that.”

A rock and a hard place. Like when Emily asks you if being alone helps. Lie and find the safety in isolation. Tell the truth and trust that you can be uncomfortable around them. You shoot for something in the middle. “M’okay. Really. I was disassociating. Processing the day. Thinking about the case.” Well… middle was the intention, even though the words skewed more towards lie.

Rightfully, JJ doesn’t believe you for a second. She and Emily share a silent conversation in nothing but looks and micro expressions. “All the way in,” Emily decides calmly, her arm wrapping around your waist with a confidence you’ve never felt with your own body. “You can absolutely stay dressed like you are if that’s how you’re comfortable. I have sweats and a spare shirt if you want something less restrictive.”

You stammer through a couple of syllables. Tension coils through your shoulders, as your anxiety makes assumptions left and right. Your fingers tremble as you unfasten your belt. Emily stops you, a steady hand on yours. “You can stay dressed,” she repeats. “That’s okay.”

“But how… umm… I’m here for… because you want… I’m not sure how to do that without…”

“Whoa, hold on,” Emily hastens. “No. That’s not what this is. That’s not what this is at all.”

“I don’t understand,” you admit quietly, the shame feeling overwhelming. “That’s what we do, isn’t it? That’s the normal? Why do you… umm…. Why do you want me in here if it’s not for that?”

“Baby, because I’m actually worried about you, because you were catatonic in your hotel room for hours by the looks of it, because we want to help if you’ll let us,” JJ implores. “You’re not just sex, Ace.”

Your calculated exhale shakes like your hands do. At least one of those you can steady by snapping the rubber band sharply along the inside of your wrist. “Okay,” you manage because you don’t know what else to say to that. “So what do you want me to do? What do I do?”

“Whatever feels comfortable,” Emily suggests. “We share space regularly without having sex. You come over to hang out, eat, watch movies, all sorts of things. Not just sex,” she emphasizes explicitly. “Do you want me to go get you some of your own clothes? Would that help?”

“No, umm. I can do it. I’m okay.”

“Are you going to come back?” All you can do is nod, not trusting your voice or your answer. “Because I don’t want you catatonic in your room by yourself thinking we only want your company for sex. That idea plus whatever it was I saw before, that’s not a good combination, baby.”

Emily gathers her extra clothes and offers them to you in a neat stack. “Usually you like to wear my things.” She’s not wrong. Something about it makes you feel wanted and warm. “Go on,” she encourages gently, ushering you into the room’s small bathroom.

When you come out, you fidget nervously in the open space. “Let’s find something easy to watch. C’mon,” JJ pats the center of the bed twice. It’s the spot you usually fill, fitting somewhere between them. You try to keep every body movement contained and minimal. JJ is having none of that and shifts behind you, her legs on either side of your own. She pulls you back against her chest, her arms looping protectively over your hips.

Emily clicks through channels until she finds reruns of an old cartoon. It doesn’t strike you as her kind of show, though it’s always been one you enjoy. “We don’t have to watch this,” you mumble.

“Why not? You like Scooby Doo.”

“I… I mean… yeah,” you agree softly.

“We’re trying to get to know you, love, when you’ll let us. Do you want to watch something else?” You shake your head, willing your body to relax against JJ like it usually does. “Maybe we should get a team dog,” Emily jokes. “JJ is obviously Daphne. Hotch could be Fred.”

“Jesus,” JJ cackles at the idea. “Does that make Rossi or Morgan Shaggy?”

“I didn’t say it was a perfect comparison,” Emily retorts. “Though Pen puts Velma to shame.”

“Penelope Garcia puts everyone to shame,” JJ volleys back.

“We should start calling the jet the Mystery Machine and see how long it takes that vein in Hotch’s neck to bulge,” Emily proposes.

It’s the banter that finally soothes you enough to relax your body. A joke at Morgan’s expense actually makes you laugh. The emptiness and the shame replaced by something else altogether, something safe and calm that you can’t quite name. It’s with that feeling that you fall asleep in their bed, no longer as concerned with the way the night on the road transpired.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61399129/chapters/163188445

[reidmarieprentiss]

Technicalities

Summary: Based on this request! After a complicated friends-with-benefits relationship with Spencer, you confess your true feelings to him in a moment of vulnerability, only for things to fall apart. Both of you struggle with your feelings, leading to silence and regret. When Spencer realizes he can't let you go, he tries to fix things, but is it too late?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x IT fem!reader

Category: smut (18+), angst, fluff

Warnings/Includes: smut (18+) additional warnings under the cut, fwb, alcohol consumption, being drunk, hangover mention, (un)requited feelings, kind of fake dating/keeping up appearances, both Spencer and reader are dumb, happy ending i promise !!, i imagined somewhere season 4–8 Spencer

Word count: 29.2k

a/n: i'm so glad someone put in this request because i mostly had this story figured out but they saveddd my ass with this prompt so thank you !!! and yes i have only been focusing on this one lmao getting back to my other stories now my

main masterlist

Additional warnings: oral (f) receiving, unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), breast play

The BAU bullpen was humming with the usual mid-week activity. Spencer Reid sat at his desk, frustration evident as he jabbed the keyboard of his computer, which remained frozen. A flash of error codes danced across the screen, none of which made sense to him—a rare occurrence, and one that only served to heighten his irritation. He let out a sigh, raking a hand through his hair as the team around him exchanged knowing glances. 

"Reid, you okay there?" Rossi’s voice came from a nearby desk, teasing and lighthearted as he looked up from his case files. 

"No," Spencer huffed, shaking his head. "My computer’s completely unresponsive, and I have a report due in—" he checked his watch for the sixth time in as many minutes "—an hour."

"Kevin's supposed to be here soon," JJ assured him, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "He’ll fix it, don't worry."

Just as she spoke, the doors to the bullpen swung open, revealing someone none of them had seen before. You walked in, holding a laptop under one arm, the ID badge around your neck swinging slightly as you headed toward them with confident strides. A few of the team members exchanged glances, a mix of curiosity and amusement flickering in their eyes. 

Hotch cleared his throat, greeting you with a nod. "You're here for the computer issue?"

"Yeah, I’m the IT support on call while Penelope Garcia is away," you confirmed, offering a polite smile. "I heard there was a problem with Dr. Reid’s computer?" You looked around, trying to spot the agent who was in need of your help. 

Reid, already on edge, looked up with surprise, blinking as if he hadn't quite processed that it wasn't Kevin Lynch who was standing in front of him. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it, clearly unsure how to respond to this unexpected change.

"I, um… expected Kevin," he finally mumbled, his voice betraying his slight unease. "I’ve never seen you before."

"Yeah, I took over his position," you explained, not missing a beat. "Penelope has mentioned you a few times, Dr. Reid." You held back a grin as you said this; she had described the team members in amusingly vivid detail. "She told me you like to keep your computer files meticulously organized."

Reid flushed slightly at the mention of his organization habits, and Derek, leaning back in his chair, raised a brow. “You know, this should be good,” he murmured under his breath, loud enough for the others to hear. Emily, who had taken a break from her own work to watch the scene unfold, leaned against her desk with a sly grin, clearly enjoying every second of it.

Spencer, however, was less amused. “It just stopped working,” he said, gesturing to the screen with a frustrated wave of his hand. “The whole thing’s frozen, and I can’t even get the task manager to open.”

"Sounds like it could be an issue with the registry or a corrupted file," you said, more to yourself than to anyone else, as you moved closer to his desk. "Mind if I take a look?"

Reid hesitated but eventually moved his chair to the side, allowing you access to his computer. As you set your laptop down and began connecting it to his system, the team observed with bated breath. Derek shot JJ a look, one that said he was clearly enjoying watching Spencer’s mild discomfort. 

Within seconds, you were typing furiously, navigating through various system files and directories, your eyes narrowing as you focused. Spencer’s eyes darted between the screen and your hands, trying to follow what you were doing, though he couldn’t quite keep up with your speed. You were faster than Kevin, more direct, and there was no room for small talk—just pure efficiency.

"There," you finally announced, pressing the enter key with a flourish. The screen blinked, flickered, and then—miraculously—sprang back to life, all files intact, and no trace of the error messages that had plagued it before.

Spencer blinked, stunned at how quickly you’d fixed it. He had been prepared for a long, awkward stretch of waiting, and yet you’d solved the problem almost effortlessly. He turned to you, feeling a touch of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck at his earlier impatience. “Wow… that was fast,” he admitted, his voice softer now, clearly humbled by your swift expertise.

“Glad I could help,” you said, your smile warm but professional as you started gathering your things. "It was just a couple of corrupted processes in the background. Shouldn't be an issue anymore, but if it acts up again, let me know."

Hotch nodded approvingly as you packed up, and Rossi gave a little chuckle. “Well, Reid, it looks like you're in good hands.”

Spencer, feeling that flush of gratitude and a bit of self-consciousness, turned back to you. "Thank you, really. I mean—I didn't mean to come off as... Well, thanks."

You nodded, the sincerity of his words clear despite his awkwardness. “No problem, Dr. Reid. I’m always around if you need anything fixed.” You threw a quick wave to the rest of the team before heading out, leaving Spencer sitting there, staring at his now fully functional computer, wondering how you’d made it all look so easy.

Once you were gone, Derek let out a low whistle. “Well, that was something.”

JJ smirked, turning to Spencer. “I’d say she handled you pretty well.”

Spencer huffed, his eyes narrowing playfully as he resumed his work, “I don’t need to be handled.”

—

Over the next few days, it seemed like Spencer was having an unprecedented run of technical issues. And they all, without fail, required your assistance.

It started innocently enough—a “network connectivity problem” that turned out to be nothing more than a loose cable. You had come by quickly, knelt beside his desk to adjust the cord, and, while fixing it, noticed the way his eyes followed your every move. His face had remained composed, but the flush to his cheeks when you stood up and announced the issue had been hard to miss. The team had shared knowing glances behind his back, each one barely concealing their smirks.

Then, just two hours later, his computer's fan started "making an odd noise." Of course, Spencer had once again denied that it could be a false alarm, claiming there was something seriously wrong with it. And you, being the professional you were, had obliged, leaning down to listen to the fan’s soft whirring as your fingers brushed against the side of the machine. He tried to maintain his cool—really, he did—but it was becoming more and more obvious that the fan was just fine. When you turned around, you caught the way his gaze shifted slightly down before flicking back to your face, trying to play it off as if he’d been looking at his notes.

"Spencer," you teased lightly, as you finished the quick check and stood up, "I’m starting to think you're trying to set a record for the number of help tickets submitted in a single week."

His reaction was immediate. "What? No, no, I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, looking slightly flustered but in a way that made your own stomach do a small flip. "I mean, I... really have been having a lot of issues lately." He tried to sound convincing, but his voice wavered just enough for you to know he didn’t even believe himself.

"Of course you have," you said with a playful smile, your voice just low enough that only he could hear the amusement in your tone. "Well, if anything else comes up... you know where to find me."

It didn’t stop there. Later that same day, when the team was preparing for a briefing, Spencer announced that the projector wasn't working. The rest of the team, sitting around the table, didn't even try to hide their grins this time. Hotch covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to cough. Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, and winked at Emily, who was openly chuckling now.

"Projector issues, huh?" you said as you walked in, the teasing lilt in your voice fully on display this time. You gave the machine a once-over, noticing that it was turned off—not broken. You pressed the power button, and, sure enough, the screen flickered to life immediately, the bright display shining against the conference room wall. "Looks like it just... needed to be turned on."

"Rookie mistake," Spencer said quickly, trying to sound like it was a simple oversight. But the way he shifted in his seat, his lips pressing into a thin line, made it clear he knew how obvious his ploy had become. "I... appreciate you coming all the way up here for that."

"Oh, anytime," you replied, flashing him a smile that he swore could melt glass. You took a moment to adjust a cord, bending slightly as you did, and while Spencer’s eyes followed your movement, you couldn’t miss the way his gaze trailed down, lingering for a split second before he caught himself. He quickly straightened in his chair, clearing his throat as he looked back to his teammates, who were all trying their best to act like they weren’t paying attention. 

Once you were done with the projector, you turned back around and leaned against the table, arms folded across your chest, watching him with an amused twinkle in your eyes. You'd expected him to be bumbling and shy—most people warned you of Dr. Reid's reserved nature. But as you looked at him now, there was a new spark in his eyes, a confidence you didn't expect. It was as if he'd picked up on the fact that you didn’t mind his attention. In fact, you welcomed it.

The projector working perfectly now, he got up from his chair, and instead of sitting back down, he stepped closer to where you stood. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice so only you could hear, “I think I’ve run into more technical issues this week than I have all year.”

“Oh really?” you raised an eyebrow, enjoying this new, more self-assured side of him. “Well, if it happens again... you know where to find me.”

“Oh, I do,” he said, his voice just a touch deeper than usual, and his gaze fixed directly on yours. And the way he looked at you, intense yet amused, sent a shiver down your spine. There was nothing shy or bumbling about it—he knew what he was doing.

Just as you felt the tension build between the two of you, Derek’s voice cut through the air, loud and teasing. “Reid, man, I don’t know what’s going on with your computer, but I have a feeling you might need to get a whole new system. You know, one that doesn’t break every day.”

The rest of the team laughed, and you bit your lip, trying not to laugh too openly yourself as you gathered your things and prepared to leave. Spencer, on the other hand, only rolled his eyes, but his lips curved into a small, confident smile as he looked back at you.

“See you around, Dr. Reid,” you said, your voice carrying just enough playfulness to make sure the message was clear.

“Counting on it,” he replied smoothly, that glimmer of confidence shining in his eyes as you turned to leave, feeling his gaze on you the whole way out of the room. And as you walked away, you couldn’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, his computer would stop working again very soon.

—

When Penelope returned from her vacation the following week, it felt like the bullpen lit up with vibrant color. Her laughter and colorful essense filled the space in a way that only she could manage. It was clear that the whole team was happy to have her back—JJ had hugged her so tightly Penelope squealed, Hotch had given her one of his rare, genuine smiles, even Rossi, always a gentleman, had brought her a coffee from her favorite café.

And Spencer, who adored his friend, had a huge smile on his face as she bounced over to his desk to give him a bear hug. However, as he sat back down, his smile faltered ever so slightly. Because, with Penelope back, it meant that all the “technical difficulties” he’d been experiencing for the past week would no longer require your assistance. And, truth be told, he was going to miss those visits—the way you’d walk in with that teasing smile of yours, lean over his desk to fix whatever nonexistent problem he’d concocted, and exchange playful banter that left him feeling... well, giddy.

“Pretty boy,” Derek’s voice called out from across the bullpen, dripping with humor and teasing, “what are you gonna do now? You know Miss Penny’s not going to come running every time you snap your fingers.”

Spencer’s eyes shot daggers at Derek, but that only made Morgan’s grin grow wider, leaning back in his chair with a knowing look. Spencer tried to school his expression into one of mild indifference, but the tips of his ears were already turning red. It was like a beacon—he might as well have hung up a sign that read “Caught.”

“Yeah, Reid,” Emily chimed in, her laughter ringing through the bullpen as she joined in on the teasing. “Is your computer going to start magically working again? Or should we expect another week of ‘emergency’ projector repairs and ‘technical malfunctions’?” 

JJ chuckled, shaking her head as she flipped through case files. “Seriously, Spence, I think your computer had more issues last week than it has since I’ve known you. It's kind of impressive, really.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped just a little as he leaned over his desk, trying to focus on the file in front of him, but the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed his feigned annoyance. “It’s not like I... meant for anything to happen,” he mumbled, a poor attempt at innocence that only made everyone laugh harder.

“Oh, sure, sure, Dr. Reid,” Derek said, his tone dripping with exaggerated belief. “I’m sure it was all just a big ol’ coincidence that your computer broke down every time she walked by.” He stood up and sauntered over to Spencer’s desk, leaning against the side as he grinned. “Admit it—you liked having her around. And don’t even try to deny it. We all saw you staring.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest, but he found himself at a loss for words. He couldn’t exactly say that it wasn’t true—because, well, it was. He had liked having you around, more than he cared to admit, even to himself. But he also wasn’t quite ready to face the full brunt of Derek’s teasing, nor the knowing looks that Emily and JJ were exchanging. He settled for glaring at Morgan instead, trying to look as offended as possible, though it only ended up making him look mildly sheepish.

“What can I say?” Penelope chimed in, swirling over to join the conversation, hands on her hips as she gave Spencer a playful wag of her finger. “Apparently, Dr. Reid’s computer has abandonment issues that only manifest when I'm gone. Who knew?”

The team burst into laughter, and Spencer, resigned to the teasing, just shook his head. “Fine, laugh all you want,” he said, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress his grin. “I can handle my own computer problems from now on, okay?”

“Yeah, right,” Emily scoffed. “Sure you can.”

JJ, still chuckling, gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Well, if you do run into any more issues... I’m sure you know exactly who to call.”

Spencer nodded, the grin finally breaking free across his face, because they were right—he did know who to call. He couldn’t help but replay the last week in his mind, all those moments spent with you at his desk, your quick wit, and how easy it was to talk to you. He wasn’t quite ready to let that go just yet.

The thought sparked something bold inside him—something not unlike the confidence he’d felt when you were around. As the team’s laughter finally died down and they went back to their work, Spencer pulled up his email. He went into his contacts and found your name, saved from the last time you’d fixed his “broken” computer. And as he looked at it, that same spark of confidence urged him to do something he normally wouldn’t have done.

With a grin playing on his lips and a slight blush creeping up his neck, he sent you an email.

Hello–

Dr. Reid, here. Just wanted to let you know that my computer's working perfectly now... though I'd still love to see you again. Maybe for a drink this time, instead of a repair?

Hope to hear from you soon.

—Dr. Spencer Reid

And with that, Spencer leaned back in his chair, waiting for your reply with a flutter in his chest, a small smile tugging at his lips, and the whole team none the wiser.

—

Three days felt like an eternity to Spencer. He had replayed every interaction with you in his mind—every word, every smile, every touch as you fixed his "malfunctioning" devices. He was sure—almost sure—that you liked him. But now, as those days stretched on without any word from you, that confidence wavered, then crumbled. 

It started out as just a bit of hopeful waiting—maybe you were busy. Maybe you hadn’t seen the message. Or maybe you were just figuring out the right way to respond. But by Wednesday, the optimism that had carried him through the week turned into something else entirely. Desperation. Every few minutes, he compulsively checked his phone, or his computer, swiping to refresh his email, pulling up his call logs, checking even his office mailbox just in case he’d missed something. Nothing. Always nothing. 

The team had started to notice, the way his attention darted to his screens every few minutes, the little sighs of disappointment that followed when no message awaited him. 

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek’s voice broke through his distracted thoughts that Wednesday afternoon, his tone still light but tinged with concern. “What’s got you all twitchy? You’ve been staring at that phone like it owes you money.”

Spencer quickly dropped his phone, face burning as if he’d been caught in some embarrassing act. “It’s nothing,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just... waiting for a message.”

JJ, passing by, raised an eyebrow as she handed out case files. “Anyone important?” she asked softly, the concern evident in her voice as she leaned over his desk.

Spencer shook his head, shrugging off their questions. “No one important. It’s nothing, really.” But as soon as their attention drifted away from him, he found his eyes creeping back to his screen, a dull ache settling in his chest. Each time he saw no new message, that ache tightened just a little more, wrapping around his ribs like a cold hand squeezing the life out of him.

By Thursday, he had almost entirely given up hope. He sat at his desk, staring blankly at his work, the notes and case files a jumble of words that he couldn’t seem to make sense of. All he could think about was that email he’d sent, the one you hadn’t answered. He was sure he’d crossed some kind of line—maybe you hadn’t been interested in the first place, maybe he’d completely misread the signals. And God, wouldn’t that just be the most classic Spencer Reid thing? Missing the social cues, seeing things that weren’t there, building up a fantasy in his mind that didn’t actually exist.

A quiet voice whispered in his head, one that had lived there since he was a kid—the voice that said he wasn’t good enough, that he would never be good enough. That maybe he was destined to always fall for people who could never fall for him. Another woman who slipped away, another chance he’d fumbled. 

Hotch’s voice broke through his spiraling thoughts, deep and steady. “Reid, are you alright?” he asked, his gaze steady and concerned.

Spencer looked up, startled to find the whole team watching him, worry etched across their faces. He quickly nodded, trying to pull himself together. “Yeah. I’m fine, just... tired.”

“Right,” Emily said, her voice skeptical as she exchanged a look with Derek, the two of them clearly sharing a silent conversation. But they let it go, turning back to their work, and leaving Spencer to his thoughts once more.

He slumped back in his chair, eyes fixed on the empty email screen before him. And that was when he let it sink in—that gnawing feeling of defeat, that familiar loneliness that had shadowed so much of his life. He closed his eyes, willing himself to forget you, to pretend like he didn’t care. But as much as he tried to shove those feelings down, the truth was undeniable: he had liked you. Really liked you. And now, it was just another reminder of what he couldn’t have.

Typical, he thought bitterly, fingers tapping against the desk as he stared blankly at the computer screen. I’m not good enough.

And so, as Thursday drew to a close, he resolved to let it go, to accept that whatever fleeting hope he’d had for something more was just that—a fleeting hope, nothing real. 

If only he knew how wrong he was. 

By the time Friday rolled around, the BAU team had had just about enough of Spencer's sullen mood. For days, he’d been dragging his feet around the office, sighing dramatically, and staring into space as if the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. He was distracted, more than usual, and his sharp wit had dulled under the cloud of whatever was plaguing him. 

Finally, Derek had had enough. “Reid, man, you need to loosen up,” he declared that afternoon, tossing a ballpoint pen at Spencer, who caught it with a look of mild annoyance. “We’re going to O’Keefe’s tonight. You’re coming with us, and that’s not a suggestion.”

Spencer glanced around the room, seeing the supportive yet firm looks from the others—Emily, JJ, Rossi, and even Hotch, who gave a slight nod of approval. There was no way he was going to get out of it, and frankly, part of him didn’t want to. He had been hoping to spend his weekend taking you out for drinks, but since that clearly wasn’t happening, drinks with his team seemed like the next best thing.

“Alright, fine,” he said, agreeing quickly, much to the surprise of everyone around him. A chorus of cheers and supportive pats on the shoulder met his response, and for a moment, he felt a flicker of something other than that disappointment that had been lodged in his chest all week.

So that evening, they made their way to O’Keefe’s, a no-frills cop bar that had become something of a second home for the team. They settled into a large booth by one of the pool tables, ordering rounds of beers, mixed drinks, and, for Spencer, a hard Arnold Palmer. He sat across from JJ, who nursed her own drink and was trying to keep the conversation light and fun, though she couldn’t quite pull Spencer out of his funk.

“Come on, Spence,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and smiling warmly at him. “It’s Friday and Penelope’s back. Lighten up. You’ll be kicking everyone’s butt at pool soon enough.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Spencer said, forcing a small smile. “I’m fine, JJ, really. Just... tired.” He played with the straw in his drink, his gaze drifting to the pool table where Derek and Emily were embroiled in a heated game, Rossi leaning against the wall and calling out tips that neither of them listened to.

JJ was about to press him further when her eyes went wide, and a grin spread across her face. She leaned forward suddenly, her expression brightening with mischief as she looked just over Spencer’s shoulder. “What?” he asked, furrowing his brows at her sudden change in demeanor, confused by the excitement lighting up her eyes.

JJ just nodded toward the bar, barely able to contain her grin. “Your girl’s here,” she said, in a sing-song voice that only JJ could pull off without sounding ridiculous.

Spencer’s heart nearly stopped, a wave of hope and disbelief washing over him. He turned around quickly, eyes scanning the crowd of off-duty officers, detectives, and FBI agents mingling around the room. And then he saw you. Standing by the bar, chatting casually with the bartender as you waited for your drink, you looked effortlessly stunning, the dim lights of the bar casting a soft glow on your features.

He whipped back around to face JJ, panic and excitement mingling in his expression. “What—what do I do?” He sounded more flustered than he’d meant to, and JJ couldn’t help but laugh at his wide-eyed bewilderment.

“Well, you could start by getting up and talking to her, genius,” she said with a teasing nudge. “I think that’s a pretty good place to start.”

Spencer didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped up from the booth, nearly knocking over his drink in his haste, and made his way over to the bar, trying to gather his composure with each step. His heart pounded in his chest, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind—was this just a coincidence? Had you come here to see him? What if you were here with someone else? He shook his head, trying to push the nervous thoughts away as he closed the gap between you.

You looked up just as he approached, a soft smile spreading across your lips as your eyes met his. “Dr. Reid,” you said in greeting, the warmth in your voice making his nerves settle—just a little.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little breathless as he stood beside you. He struggled for words, trying to find the right thing to say, the right way to act after days of silence. “I, uh... didn’t expect to see you here.”

Spencer’s eyes took in your appearance as you stood before him, and he couldn’t help but let his profiler instincts kick in, analyzing every detail of your outfit. You looked effortlessly polished, your blazer open just enough to be casual yet elegant, paired with a skirt that hit the perfect balance of professional and playful. He couldn’t shake the thought—had you dressed up for someone? The idea made his stomach twist with nerves.

The silence stretched between you, and you shifted slightly on your feet, clearly trying to gauge his reaction. You nodded awkwardly, your voice trailing off, “Yeah…”

Spencer looked at you, trying to make sense of everything. His palms started to sweat, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “Are you... meeting someone here?”

Your eyes widened slightly, and you let out an awkward laugh, your hands playing with the strap of your bag as you shrugged. “You? Hopefully?” You gave a half-smile, one that was both hopeful and embarrassed. “I mean, I never heard back from you, so I was kind of... taking a chance here.”

Spencer's brows furrowed, and he felt his head start to spin. What did you mean you never heard back from him? He felt like the ground was moving beneath him as he tried to piece together what could have happened. “What?” he asked, his voice quiet, uncertainty and panic creeping in.

You let out another nervous laugh, clearly unsure of what to make of his reaction. “It’s okay if you changed your mind,” you said quickly, looking down at your drink as if it held all the answers you needed. “Let’s not make this any more awkward, please. I just... didn’t want to let it be this weird thing hanging over us, y’know?”

The words hit him like a freight train. Changed his mind? No—no, that wasn’t right. He never changed his mind. In fact, he had been waiting on pins and needles for a response from you, thinking that you were the one who had changed your mind. But something clearly had gone wrong, and Spencer’s heart pounded in his chest as he tried to figure out how to salvage the moment, how to explain himself to you without making things worse.

“No, no, no,” he said quickly, shaking his head. “I didn’t change my mind. I... I sent you a message, I swear. I thought you were the one who... didn’t respond.” He could hear how frantic he sounded, and he hated it, hated that he was coming across as desperate, but it was the truth. “I’ve been checking my phone for days, I swear—”

You raised an eyebrow at him, your expression filled with curiosity and sympathy. Spencer’s clear panic, the earnest way he was nearly tripping over his own words, had you leaning towards trusting his side of things. He didn’t seem like the type to play games, and that flicker of hope in his eyes as he watched you seemed genuine—almost too genuine. 

“Can I see your phone, Dr. Reid?” you asked, holding out your hand. Your tone was light but held a hint of authority, like you were about to solve one of his computer problems again, only this time, with a very different sort of error. 

Spencer’s eyes widened, and he immediately fumbled in his pocket, fishing out the device with shaky hands. “Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, handing it over to you without hesitation. He was clearly desperate for an explanation, any explanation that didn’t involve you losing interest in him. 

You took his phone and your fingers flew across the screen, pulling up his email app, your expression turning more focused as you scanned through the settings. He watched you, nervous but fascinated at how deftly you navigated through his phone, a slight furrow forming on his brow as you did... whatever it was you were doing. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he hoped for a miracle. 

Then, all of a sudden, you let out a small, involuntary snort—a sound so genuine and cute that it caught Spencer off guard. His heart did a flip in his chest at how unguarded and... normal it was. It wasn't a laugh of mockery, but a laugh of oh, of course.

“What?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, but unable to hide the edge of panic creeping back in. “What did you find?”

You flipped the phone around to show him the screen, and there, clear as day, was the culprit. “You have your email set to send unknown contacts to spam,” you explained with a bemused smile. Your finger pointed to the tiny, barely noticeable setting, and there, nestled in his spam folder, was your email—unread, unopened, and very much the response he had been waiting for.

Spencer stared at the screen, feeling a mix of relief and embarrassment crash over him like a tidal wave. “Oh my God,” he breathed, looking from his phone to you and back again, his face flushing a deep shade of red. “I... I didn’t— I had no idea that setting was on.” He let out a slightly shaky laugh, and then another, the tension melting from his body as he realized how silly this whole situation had been.

“Yeah, looks like you had a 'filter spam' setting for any emails from unknown contacts,” you said, the teasing tone in your voice unmistakable. “So my email went straight to your spam folder. Not exactly where I wanted it to end up.”

He let out another nervous chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head at himself. “I am... so sorry. I spent the last few days thinking... well, thinking you just didn’t want to respond.”

“Trust me,” you said, smiling as you handed his phone back, “I get it. And for what it’s worth, I was kind of doing the same thing.” You bit your lip, giving him a small, conspiratorial grin. “So... do we get to hit the reset button on that? Maybe... pretend like I never ended up in your spam folder in the first place?”

Spencer nodded eagerly, grateful beyond words for your understanding. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, please. Reset button. I’d like that very much.”

“Good,” you said, lifting your glass in his direction again, that warmth in your eyes making his stomach do another flip. “So... let’s start over.” 

“Yeah,” he replied, meeting your gaze with a smile that finally reached his eyes. “Let’s start over.” And as he raised his own drink to yours, Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he felt so relieved—so genuinely happy—as he did right then.

You grabbed a drink and settled in beside Spencer, sliding into the booth with an ease that immediately lightened the mood. The team noticed the shift instantly. Derek raised his eyebrows, nudging Emily with a smirk as they all watched you laugh, Spencer's posture now more relaxed than they'd seen all week. 

“Hey, guys,” you greeted, giving a wave to the rest of the team as they took you in. “Hope you don’t mind if I crash the party.”

“Mind?” Emily grinned, tossing her pool cue over her shoulder. “We’ve been waiting for you to show up all week.”

“Yeah, and give us a chance to figure out what’s got pretty boy here all tied up in knots,” Derek added with a teasing wink. Spencer flushed but didn’t look away from you, a rare boldness shining through as you held his gaze.

“Well, glad I could make the diagnosis clear,” you joked back, leaning into the banter as if you’d known them for years. You turned to Spencer, who looked slightly flustered but undeniably happy. “So, Dr. Reid, do you play pool, or is that not your style?”

Spencer’s eyes twinkled with that familiar spark of confidence you’d seen before. “I do,” he admitted, leaning in just a touch closer. “But I have to warn you, I'm not exactly an amateur.”

“Oh really?” You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms in mock challenge. “I might have to see that for myself. Maybe you could give me a few pointers?”

The playful energy between you was palpable, and JJ’s laugh cut through the noise of the bar. “Oh, this is going to be good,” she murmured to Rossi, who was sipping his drink with a satisfied smile, clearly enjoying the way the night was unfolding. 

Derek hopped up from his seat, grabbing another cue and handing it over to you. “Alright, newcomer, you're up. Let’s see if you can hold your own against Spencer 'Einstein' Reid here.”

You grinned, accepting the cue as you approached the pool table. “So, any rules I should know about?” you asked, pretending to be oblivious as you leaned over the table to line up a shot.

Spencer stood beside you, his own cue resting against his side as he cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, his voice taking on a soft, instructive tone, “it's all about angles and force. You have to judge the best way to break the rack and control the white cue ball.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your expression playful. “Think you could... show me?” You took your stance, leaning down to take the first shot, but purposefully not quite getting it right, leaving plenty of room for Spencer to join you. 

Spencer, catching on to your flirtation, stepped behind you. He placed his hands over yours, gently guiding your grip on the cue stick, his voice low in your ear as he explained. “Like this,” he said, positioning your hands. “And you want to keep your body steady, like this.” His chest brushed lightly against your back, and you couldn’t help but smile at the closeness, the tension thickening between you.

You let him guide the shot, and as the cue ball cracked against the rack, the other balls scattered across the table in a perfect spread. You both stood back, admiring the shot, and he met your eyes with a triumphant grin. “Not bad, huh?”

You let out a laugh, turning to face him fully. “I think you’re a pretty good teacher, Dr. Reid,” you said, holding his gaze. “Though I get the feeling you're holding back on me. I might need a few more... lessons.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and there was a flicker of challenge in his eyes that you found irresistibly charming. “Oh, don't worry,” he said, leaning just close enough for your shoulders to brush. “I can think of a few more things to show you.”

The rest of the team watched with amusement as the two of you circled around the pool table, trading flirty remarks and friendly taunts, the ease between you growing more natural with every passing minute. The night was fresh, fun, and filled with laughter, and as you leaned in closer to Spencer, both of you barely hiding your smiles, it was clear that this wasn’t just a simple bar game anymore. 

It was the start of something much more promising.

The night at O’Keefe’s stretched on, the hours slipping by in the warm haze of laughter, clinking glasses, and the quiet spark between you and Spencer. As the drinks flowed, so did the stories—Rossi sharing old tales from his early days in the FBI, Emily chiming in with outrageous anecdotes about undercover missions gone wrong, and Derek doing impressions of just about everyone on the team, much to everyone’s amusement.

Slowly, the night began to wind down, the team peeling off one by one. Hotch checked his watch, an apologetic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, Jack’s probably still up waiting for me to get home,” he said, downing the rest of his drink in one smooth motion. “I should get going.”

“Yeah,” JJ added with a sigh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she stood up from the booth. “Henry’s going to be bouncing off the walls early tomorrow morning. Can’t wait to find out what he’s gotten into this time.” She gave Spencer a warm hug and then shot you a quick, friendly smile. “It was great meeting you officially, by the way. Take care of our boy, okay?”

“I will,” you said, grinning back as she squeezed your arm. You watched as JJ and Hotch made their way to the door, exchanging goodbyes with the team, leaving the booth feeling a little emptier.

“Alright,” Rossi said a few moments later, patting Emily on the back and standing to stretch. “I suppose it’s my turn to play chauffeur. Ready, Emily?”

Emily, who had already been halfway through another drink, rolled her eyes dramatically. “Guess that’s my cue.” She gave you a friendly nod. “Don’t let these two tease you too much,” she said, motioning toward Derek and Penelope. “They can be relentless.”

Rossi chuckled, giving Spencer a knowing look. “Behave, kid,” he said with a wink, before guiding Emily toward the exit, the two of them laughing as they disappeared into the night.

That left you, Spencer, Derek, and Penelope at the booth. Penelope, however, had clearly been indulging in a few too many drinks and was staring mournfully into her glass, tears welling up in her eyes. “I just... I can’t stop thinking about... the mom in Bambi,” she hiccuped, her voice cracking with an exaggerated sob. “She didn’t deserve to die, Derek! She... she didn’t even see it coming!”

“Oh, come on, mama,” Derek said with a gentle smile, wrapping his arm around her and pulling her to her feet. “Let’s get you home before you start on The Lion King or we’ll be here all night.”

“Simba...” Penelope wailed as Derek guided her toward the door, waving haphazardly to you and Spencer. “Poor Simba...”

“Alright, that’s our cue,” Derek said as he all but carried Penelope away, glancing back over his shoulder with a wicked grin. “You two lovebirds stay out of trouble now.” He waggled his eyebrows, his voice dropping into a teasing, mock-serious tone. “And remember—use protection. I don’t need to be godfather to any surprise Reid juniors.”

Your face flushed at his words, and you let out an awkward laugh, waving him off. “Jeez!”

Spencer, equally flustered but trying to play it cool, cleared his throat and gave Derek a tight-lipped smile. “Goodnight, Morgan.”

“Night, pretty boy!” Derek called back, dragging Penelope out the door as she continued to mumble something about baby deer and heartbreak.

And then it was just you and Spencer, the bar a little quieter now that most of the team had gone, leaving an intimacy to the moment that hadn’t been there before. He looked at you, the smile on his face softer than it had been all night. “Well,” he said, voice low as he leaned a little closer, “looks like it’s just the two of us now.”

“Yeah,” you replied, meeting his eyes, feeling the warm, heady buzz of the night settling around you. “Just us.” 

Spencer's eyes were locked on yours, and for a moment, it seemed like time stood still around you both. The sounds of the bar, the chatter of remaining patrons, and even the buzz of the city outside faded into a background hum, leaving just you, him, and the heavy sense of something left unsaid. He didn't want another week of doubt, didn't want to leave this up to chance again, and it was that thought—that fear of missing out on whatever this was—that spurred him to do something he never would have considered before tonight.

He took a breath, inching closer to you, and you felt the shift immediately, the way his whole demeanor seemed to change—his usual hesitance giving way to a new, quiet confidence. You watched as his eyes flickered down to your lips, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze again. And then, before you could say anything, before you could second-guess or tease him for the boldness, he leaned in.

The warmth of him enveloped you, and you felt the soft tickle of his breath against your ear, making your skin tingle. His voice was low, intimate, and sent a shiver down your spine as he spoke. “I don’t... I don’t want to let you walk out of here and spend another week wondering if you’re thinking about me the way I’m thinking about you.”

You turned your head slightly, your noses almost brushing as you found yourself face-to-face with him, his eyes so close to yours that you could see every fleck of gold and green in their depths. “Spencer...” you whispered, your voice breathy and light, caught somewhere between surprise and excitement. 

“Come home with me?” he asked, his voice soft but filled with an urgency you’d never heard from him before. 

You nodded, the word catching in your throat as you stared at him, the world around you dissolving into just Spencer—the wild curls falling into his face, the way his eyes held yours as if there was no one else in the room. You half-expected him to kiss you then and there, the air thick with anticipation, your breath mingling, but instead, he did something that made your heart race even faster. 

He pulled back just slightly, that gentle smile never leaving his face, and grabbed your hand firmly in his. It was a simple gesture, but the way he intertwined his fingers with yours felt electric, like everything you'd both been holding back had suddenly found its outlet. And then, without another word, he tugged you along, weaving his way through the crowd, barely giving you a chance to react before he was guiding you out of the bar, his fingers tightening around yours as he dragged you toward the door.

You followed without hesitation, caught up in his momentum, and the night air hit you like a splash of cool water as you both stumbled outside. Spencer’s eyes darted around, searching for a cab, and his breath came fast—not from exertion, but from the sheer thrill of the moment, the heady realization that you were with him, that this was happening. 

As soon as he spotted an empty cab, his hand shot up, flagging it down. He opened the door for you, his eyes meeting yours once more, a question lingering in them—a last, silent “Are you sure?” But the look on your face was answer enough, filled with excitement, nerves, and that same intoxicating certainty.

He followed you into the backseat, and as soon as the door shut, his knee brushed yours, and he laced his fingers with yours again, not letting go for even a second. The cab driver’s voice was a distant hum as Spencer gave his address, and then the car pulled away, the city lights blurring by as you sat side by side, hands clasped together, hearts pounding in sync.

This was the beginning of something you couldn’t quite name, but you knew one thing for sure—there was no way either of you would let it slip through your fingers.

The cab ride felt like an eternity, yet all too brief at the same time. Spencer's hand never let go of yours, fingers entwined tightly as if holding on for dear life. He was trying so hard to stay composed, but you could see it—the way his knee bounced nervously, how his thumb traced tiny circles over your knuckles, his breath quickening each time your shoulders brushed. You were both suspended in that heady anticipation, caught between knowing and not knowing what would happen next, and it made every second feel electric.

When the cab finally pulled up in front of his apartment, Spencer fumbled with his wallet, tossing cash to the driver with an almost frantic urgency. You followed him out into the night, and the minute your feet hit the pavement, he was pulling you along with him again, guiding you up the steps to his building, his grip still tight on your hand. 

You hardly noticed the details of his apartment building as you rushed up the stairs. Every step felt like a race, a heartbeat, and you were both half-running, half-laughing, breaths coming fast from excitement more than exertion. And then you were at his door, and Spencer’s fingers were shaking just slightly as he worked the keys, the metal clinking in his hands before the lock finally clicked open. 

The door swung open, and the two of you tumbled into his apartment, breathless and caught up in the whirlwind of it all. For a split second, the room seemed still, the tension thick as you stood in his entryway, just inches apart. You could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, could see the way his chest rose and fell with every shallow breath, and you waited—waited for that final move, for him to close the space between you.

And then he did.

Spencer's hand cupped your cheek as he leaned in, eyes locking on yours with an intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. And when his lips finally met yours, soft yet urgent, it was like fireworks—white-hot and bright behind your eyes, the world exploding into a thousand colors and sensations. The kiss was everything and nothing like you’d expected: gentle yet hungry, trembling yet sure, like he’d been holding back for so long and finally, finally let the dam break.

You melted into him, your hands finding the front of his shirt, balling up the fabric in your fists to pull him closer. His other hand slid around your waist, drawing you in until there was no space left between your bodies, just heat and breath and the taste of him, sweet and real. You could feel him smile against your lips, a quick exhale of a laugh as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening either, but didn’t want to stop long enough to find out if it was a dream.

The kiss deepened, growing more urgent, and he pulled you even closer, backing you up against the door until you were pressed against it, the wood cool against your back while every inch of him pressed into you. One of his hands tangled in your hair, his fingers threading through the strands as if anchoring himself to you, and you tilted your head, letting him kiss you deeper, letting the kiss say all the things the two of you hadn’t yet put into words.

You could feel the thrill, the longing, the nervousness all at once, but there was also something so simple, so right in the way you fit together.

Spencer’s mind was spinning, like he was trying to piece together a thousand thoughts and sensations all at once. Finally having you in his arms—feeling the warmth of your body pressed to his, the taste of your lips—was like nothing he’d ever felt before. Sure, it had only been two weeks since he met you, but the intensity was overwhelming. Every touch, every kiss was like kindling, igniting a fire in him that burned hotter and brighter than he knew was possible.

And you? Being held so close by him, feeling his desperation and his need, made your heart race with its own frantic rhythm. It was an honor to be desired like this, especially by someone like Spencer—someone so brilliant, so genuinely good, and so intensely captivated by you. And to think that you’d had a secret crush on him for the last six months, ever since you first started at the FBI. You had admired him from a distance—the genius profiler, the man who seemed to know so much yet still carried himself with a gentle shyness that only made him more endearing. You’d never thought he’d even notice you, let alone look at you like this, like you were the only thing in the world he wanted.

When he finally started to notice you—those glances, the excuses for “technical help” that grew more and more frequent—you felt your world tilt on its axis. The way he looked at you was different from how he looked at anyone else, and when his eyes locked with yours, you could feel yourself leaning into that gravitational pull, your heart skipping in time with his.

“Y/N...” Spencer’s voice came out as a whisper against your lips, trembling and rough, like he was fighting to keep control, fighting to hold himself back just enough to give you the choice. “I want you so bad... please say I can have you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you let out a soft, almost breathless laugh, your hands sliding up to cradle his face. The need in his eyes, the raw desire that seemed to consume every part of him—it was everything you’d secretly wished for, everything you’d imagined late at night when your mind wandered to the idea of being his.

“You can,” you breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him, to let him see the truth in your eyes. “You can have me, Spencer. I’m yours.” 

And that was all it took for the dam to break. Spencer’s mouth was on yours again, hungrier this time, a deep, desperate need spilling from his lips to yours as he kissed you like he was starved for you. He pressed you harder against the door, and his hands roamed your body—first up your sides, then down to your waist, finally settling on your hips as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you. 

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on, and he groaned softly into the kiss, the sound vibrating through you and making your knees go weak. You wanted all of him—his intensity, his passion, and the vulnerable tenderness that only made you crave him more.

“Tell me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and ragged. “Tell me what you want. I want to know... I need to know.” His hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the urgency in every movement, every touch, like he was holding on to the very thing he’d dreamed of but never thought he could have.

You looked at him, the intensity of his gaze holding you captive. “I want you, Spencer,” you said softly, your voice filled with all the longing you’d kept hidden for so long. “I want everything with you. Right now.”

Spencer's grin was wicked and hungry, and the look in his eyes left you feeling like you were the only person in the world. You could see the wheels turning behind them—he was trying to make sense of what you wanted, to understand the boundaries, to feel out how much of himself he could give without overstepping. And when you said you wanted "everything," his mind had latched onto one word, one meaning: sex. That was something tangible, something he knew how to give, even if his experience was limited. 

If that was what you were willing to give, he would take it gladly, wholeheartedly—because how could he not? But deep down, beneath all the desire and adrenaline, Spencer craved so much more than just the physical. He had wanted you in ways he couldn’t articulate—ever since you’d started drifting into his orbit. He wanted late-night conversations, sleepy mornings, whispered confessions. He wanted everything you could give him, but if all you meant by "everything" was this, he would be grateful for that, too.

“I’ll give you everything,” he murmured, and his grin grew as he leaned in to kiss you again, nipping at your bottom lip before pulling away just slightly. “But maybe we move to the bedroom first?”

Your breath hitched, and you could feel that flutter of excitement and nerves in your chest—the reality of the moment crashing over you like a wave. His words were laced with promise, but it wasn’t the promise you’d thought you were making. To you, “everything” meant his mornings, his afternoons, his nights. His laugh, his thoughts, his fears. You’d been hoping that what had been building between you would lead to more than just the physical; that it would be the start of something that might change both of your lives.

But he’d taken your words as permission to have you tonight—just tonight—and it stung, deep and sharp, like a thorn pricking at your heart. Maybe you’d been wrong to hope for more, wrong to believe there was something real between you beyond just lust and impulse. But if this was all Spencer wanted, then maybe that was enough for now. Maybe it could be enough to have him like this, to be close to him, even if just for one night.

“Yeah,” you said, swallowing the emotions rising in your throat as you forced a smile, doing your best to mirror his energy, to make it seem like you wanted the same thing he did. “The bedroom sounds good.”

He took your hand, his fingers lacing with yours once again, and you tried to push away the disappointment that sat like a stone in your chest. He led you down the hall, fumbling as you both stumbled through the doorway to his room, all tangled limbs and laughter. Spencer tugged you close as soon as you stepped inside, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him, his mouth finding yours once more in a feverish, open-mouthed kiss. And for a second, just a fleeting moment, you let yourself believe that maybe there was more behind his touch—that maybe this wasn’t just about tonight.

“You’re so gorgeous, darling,” Spencer murmured, his voice thick with desire as his fingers tangled in the fabric of your blazer. His knuckles brushed against your skin, and his eyes were dark, wide, as if taking in every inch of you all at once. He hesitated for a moment, searching your face, and when he found nothing but eagerness in your eyes, he whispered, “Can I take this off?”

You nodded quickly, the movement of your head almost frantic, and Spencer didn’t waste any time. His hands moved to the buttons of your blazer, deft but slightly trembling with anticipation as he worked his way down, one button at a time. And then, as the fabric slipped away, revealing your bare chest, he let out a low, shaky sigh. “Fuck...” he groaned, the word spilling from his lips like he couldn’t help himself, his eyes locked onto you as if he’d never seen anything so perfect in his life.

You couldn’t help but giggle, the sound light and airy as you reveled in the intensity of his gaze, in the way he looked at you like he was worshiping you. But your laughter quickly turned into a sharp gasp as his hands moved to your breasts, gripping them firmly yet tenderly, squeezing just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. His palms were warm against your skin, and the way he touched you—like he was savoring every second, every inch—made heat pool in your belly.

Spencer didn’t give you much time to adjust before he dove back in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was hungrier, rougher than before. His fingers dug into your skin as he pulled you closer, molding your body to his as his mouth moved against yours in frantic desperation. Every movement, every brush of his lips, every squeeze of his hands sent sparks shooting down your spine, and you clung to him, matching his intensity with your own as you kissed him back.

He pressed you back toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, and you let him guide you, your back arching under his touch as you felt the cool air of his apartment against your skin, mixing with the heat of his mouth and hands. And the way he touched you, held you, kissed you, left you breathless—his fingers pinching and pulling at your nipples, making your back arch dramatically. 

"Spencer!" you whined into the darkness, your voice breathy and desperate as you tangled your fingers in his hair, trying to pull him closer and drag him deeper into you. The sound of his name fell from your lips like a plea, and he shuddered at the way it sounded, every syllable dripping with want. 

"Mmm, say my name again," he groaned, loving the way it felt rolling off your tongue—how it made him feel like he was all you needed, all you wanted. 

“Make me,” you challenged, your voice dipping into a teasing taunt as you tugged lightly at his hair, daring him, pushing him to meet you on this knife’s edge between play and need.

Spencer’s eyes flashed, the darkness of the room amplifying the heat in his gaze. His mouth quirked into a dark smile, and he dipped down, kissing a burning path from your collarbone to your chest. He paused there, nipping at the sensitive skin, his teeth scraping against you, catching the bud of your nipple in his mouth. He held your gaze as he did it, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch in your throat. He sucked lightly, just enough to send a jolt of pleasure coursing through your body, your back arching off the bed. But still, you bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds, not willing to give in to him—yet.

"You want to play it like that?" he asked darkly, pulling back to hover over you, his voice a rough whisper that made your stomach flip. The challenge in his eyes, the way they glittered with a mix of hunger and determination, left you breathless, your body buzzing with anticipation.

You nodded, giving him wide, falsely innocent eyes that only spurred him on. "Yeah," you breathed, voice light and taunting, the hint of a smirk on your lips. "What are you gonna do about it, Dr. Reid?"

A growl escaped his throat, low and rough, and his hands moved to your waist, finding the zipper of your skirt. Slowly, methodically, he dragged it down, the sound of the metal teeth parting filling the silence between your racing breaths. He didn’t break eye contact as he did it, his fingers brushing along your hip, pushing the fabric down inch by inch, teasing you, making you wait—making you squirm.

"Let's see how long you can keep up that attitude," he murmured, his voice dark and dripping with promise. "I'm going to make you say my name, over and over, until it's all you can think about." 

And with that, Spencer dropped to his knees, pulling your skirt and underwear off the rest of the way, baring you to him in the darkness of his bedroom. The cool air kissed your skin, sending shivers down your spine as his hands moved to your thighs, parting them gently, your heart pounding so loudly it echoed in your ears. 

“I want to see how long before you’re begging,” he whispered, leaning down, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh as he nipped and kissed his way up. And as you felt the heat of his mouth, the strength of his hands holding you open for him, all you could do was tremble under his touch, knowing that any control you thought you had was about to be undone.

“You still biting that tongue, sweetheart?” Spencer’s voice was husky, the tease wrapped around a threat, and it sent shivers down your spine. He hovered right over your wet, aching core, his breath fanning over you, warm and taunting. You were trying to hold it together, trying to stay strong in this little game you'd started, but it was getting harder and harder with every second that passed, every teasing word that left his lips. 

You nodded, the attempt at maintaining composure faltering as a high-pitched, needy "mhm" escaped your throat—a sound more squeak than word. 

Spencer’s eyes narrowed with dark satisfaction, and he huffed a breath, his laughter rumbling from his chest as it ghosted across your most sensitive skin. The sensation drove you wild, made your thighs tense as you tried desperately to keep your composure, to hold back the moan threatening to tear out of you. But then he spoke again, his voice a teasing lilt as his eyes stayed locked on yours, and it was almost too much to handle. 

“Oh, I’m going to have fun with this,” he said, and without another word, he dove in. 

His tongue licked a long, deliberate stripe through your folds, flattening out as if he were savoring every inch of you, the wetness of his mouth sending heat crashing through your entire body. And then he did it again, his tongue gliding through you like he was on a mission—hungry, eager, like he was trying to win a pie-eating contest. Every movement was frantic yet precise, a perfect blend of urgency and skill, his tongue moving against you in ways that made you see stars.

The laughter melted into pure focus as he went to work, his tongue circling and flicking, finding all the places that made you gasp and arch and shake. And he never stopped, never let up, his mouth relentless in its pursuit, as if he wanted to draw every single sound out of you, to hear his name fall from your lips again and again. 

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging helplessly as the pleasure built and built, and you couldn’t bite back the moans any longer. His name was still held tight behind your teeth, but the noises were free flowing as he sucked on your clit.

Spencer moaned in response, the vibrations adding a whole new level of sensation that made your hips buck against his mouth. He held you steady with his hands, pinning your thighs down as he dove deeper, the wet, obscene sounds of his tongue on you filling the room. And you could feel it, that coil tightening and tightening, your whole body trembling on the edge, Spencer’s mouth pushing you closer and closer.

Spencer pulled back for a second, just enough for you to see the wet shine on his lips, the way his mouth was parted in a smug, wicked grin. “Not gonna break, darling?” he teased, the words slow and taunting as he traced his fingers lazily along your thigh, his eyes never leaving yours.

You shook your head harshly, your hair spreading messily across the pillow, breath coming in quick pants as you tried to maintain some semblance of composure. But it was getting harder. Every nerve was on fire, every inch of your body craving more of his touch, and all you could do was bite your lip and hope you could hold out a little longer.

Spencer let out a deep, dramatic sigh, as if he were genuinely disappointed. “Guess I’ll have to try something else then,” he murmured, and though the words sounded like he was relenting, you could see the glint in his eyes—the one that said he was far from finished with you.

Before you could even process what he meant, before you could prepare yourself for whatever he had planned, your world spun. He flipped your body over effortlessly, your stomach pressed against the mattress, and then he gripped your hips, pulling you up onto your knees. Your breath hitched in surprise, your face buried in the pillow for a second as you tried to brace yourself, your mind struggling to catch up with the sudden shift.

And then, before you could say a word, before you could even think, Spencer dove back in, his mouth finding you again with that same fevered intensity. But this time, he didn’t hold back. His fingers found your clit immediately, and he began rubbing tight, insistent circles, teasing and flicking the sensitive nub with just the right amount of pressure. 

You couldn’t help it—you moaned loudly, your body jerking back against his face, the sensation too overwhelming to contain. The change in position had made everything more intense, more exposed, and the way he was touching you was driving you to the edge so fast you could barely keep up.

“Spencer—” you gasped, your voice muffled as you pressed your face into the pillow, your hands clawing at the sheets for something—anything—to hold on to. But Spencer was relentless, his fingers moving expertly as he licked and sucked, his mouth working you over with a single-minded focus. 

“Louder,” he commanded against your skin between long, slow licks, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Let me hear you.” And with that, he doubled down, his fingers pressing harder, his mouth driving you absolutely wild, the wetness and heat of him pushing you further and further until there was nothing left to hold back.

Your body trembled, and you felt the pressure building, your resolve crumbling, every breath coming out as a desperate plea, a broken cry. And all the while, Spencer kept at it, refusing to let up, determined to make you fall apart completely, to make you cry out his name like it was all you knew.

"Spencer... oh god, Spencer—" His name spilled from your lips over and over, breathy and desperate, unraveling any control you had left. The more you said it, the more it became a mantra, each syllable breaking apart in the waves of pleasure rolling through your body. Spencer’s eyes flickered up, a satisfied grin spreading across his face, so smug and sure as he watched you crumble.

“That’s right, baby,” he groaned, his voice low and dripping with satisfaction. It was all the encouragement you needed and all the power he needed to dive back in, his mouth working you with renewed determination. He gripped your thigh tighter, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, his fingers never relenting as they pressed circles against your clit in perfect rhythm with his tongue.

Every lick, every flick of his tongue sent jolts of pleasure crashing through you, and you felt your body tense and tremble, the pressure inside you building to an unbearable peak. It felt like he was everywhere at once—touching, tasting, teasing—and all you could do was give in to the relentless onslaught, your hands clawing at the sheets as your hips bucked involuntarily against his face.

Spencer moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your core and pulling you closer and closer to the edge. He wanted to make sure you felt every second of this, every ripple of pleasure, his only focus on bringing you to completion—bringing you to the brink and pushing you over, completely undone by him.

“Spencer, please—” You barely recognized your own voice, high and ragged, pleading as that coil of pleasure twisted tighter and tighter in your belly. And he heard you—oh, he heard you loud and clear. His mouth moved with a purpose now, tongue swirling and flicking over your clit with his fingers as they quickened their pace, leaving you nowhere to go but over the edge, no choice but to fall.

And then, all at once, you shattered, your body arching as your orgasm crashed over you, hard and overwhelming. You cried out his name, a desperate, breathless sob of pleasure as waves of ecstasy washed through you, leaving you trembling and gasping under his touch. And through it all, Spencer never let up, his mouth and fingers guiding you through every second, every pulse, every blissful aftershock.

“Too much,” you whimpered, your voice coming out in a broken cry as Spencer’s tongue continued its work, lapping up everything you’d given him like he was savoring the taste of you. “Spencer!” The overstimulation was making your thighs quiver, your whole body twitching under his relentless touch, and you reached down to push at his head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tried to pull away.

Spencer let out a satisfied hum, and then he gave one last slow, deep suck against you, drawing out every ounce of your pleasure until you were gasping and shaking beneath him. He finally pulled back, placing a gentle kiss to your thigh before giving your ass a playful slap, just hard enough to make you flinch and then giggle softly, your breath coming out in a tired, happy sigh.

“Are you still with me, sweetheart?” he asked softly, his voice gentle and full of concern as he moved up the bed, helping you flip back over so you were lying face-up, sprawled across his mattress. He settled in next to you, his body warm and solid against your side, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, his fingers tracing soft, soothing circles against your stomach. 

You nodded, still trying to catch your breath, your body buzzing with the aftershocks of your orgasm. “Yeah,” you managed to say, your voice coming out small and breathless. “I’m... I’m here.” You turned your head to look at him, meeting his eyes, which were full of adoration, his expression soft and open in a way that made your heart swell. 

Spencer smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, his fingers never stopping their gentle stroking against your skin. “Good,” he whispered, his voice low and tender. “You were amazing.” He brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his gaze lingering on you like he was memorizing every detail, every moment. “I hope... I didn’t push too far.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head and giving him a tired but contented smile. “You were perfect.” You reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly over his jawline as you leaned in to press a soft kiss to his lips. 

He kissed you back, slow and sweet, holding you close as the two of you lay there, tangled up in each other, the room still buzzing with the energy of what had just happened. And as he held you, his touch gentle and soothing, you felt safe, wanted, and completely, utterly his.

But then your brain finally caught up with your body, reality rushing in to fill the spaces left by pleasure. You couldn't ignore the truth any longer—this wasn’t a relationship, it was a hookup. You'd wanted everything from him, but right now, it seemed like "everything" only meant the physical. And as much as you wanted to lose yourself in the warmth of his touch, the closeness, the tenderness, you reminded yourself that this was just tonight. That he probably didn’t want to cuddle, or hold you, or whisper sweet words to you in the dark.

So you gently pushed his hand away, your touch soft but firm as you sat up, putting just enough distance between the two of you. You felt his eyes on your back, confusion, maybe even concern, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. It was easier to keep moving, to give yourself a new focus rather than dwell on the ache in your chest.

“Is something wrong?” Spencer asked, his voice gentle but tinged with a hint of worry, like he was afraid he’d done something wrong. He scooted up beside you, trying to catch your eye, the warmth of his body still lingering against your side. 

You shook your head quickly, biting your lip as you steeled yourself, pasting on a smile that you hoped looked genuine. “No, not at all,” you said, your voice a little too bright, a little too eager. “I’m... just returning the favor.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes darkening with arousal at the thought, but there was something else there too—something quieter, sadder. He couldn’t hide the way his expression flickered, the way the tension in his face softened into something more resigned. “Oh,” he breathed out, trying to cover the disappointment in his voice as his stomach twisted. For a moment, he'd thought this could be more than just sex—that maybe you’d want to stay wrapped in his arms, share whispers and touches until the morning. But as he looked at you now, as he saw the way you sat up and turned away, it became clear that wasn’t the case. 

And yet, the feel of your skin, the taste of your lips, and the way you were looking at him now with that determined glint in your eye—he couldn’t deny how much he wanted you. Even if just like this. 

“Right,” he said, shifting slightly to lie back, his voice lower, more hesitant than it had been all night. “Of course. I... I’d love that.” But even as his words hung in the air, he could feel the growing disconnect between what he wanted and what was happening. His erection tightened under the arousal of what was to come but flagged slightly at the realization of what it meant—that this was just sex to you. 

His hand found it’s way to your thigh as he tried to steady himself, to focus on the pleasure and not the ache of being so close to something he couldn’t quite touch. You were right here with him, offering him everything in the only way you thought he wanted it, and for now, he would take it—however he could.

You grinned at Spencer, trying to mask the turmoil swirling inside you, hoping that the sly smile you wore could hide the aching confusion beneath. Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, and you let your eyes flick over his face, memorizing every feature, every little detail—the way his eyes were half-lidded with arousal, the blush dusting his cheeks, the anticipation tightening his body beneath yours. It was easier to focus on that, easier to lose yourself in the thrill of the moment than face the other thoughts circling in your mind.

You leaned down, pressing kisses along the column of his neck, feeling his breath catch as your lips brushed over his pulse, warm and quick beneath your touch. He tasted like salt and skin, and you let yourself revel in it as your hands moved to the buttons of his shirt, fingers working quickly as you popped each one open. You could feel his muscles tensing beneath your touch, his body responding to every kiss, every brush of your fingers.

Spencer’s hands found your hips, and he gripped you tightly as you straddled his lap, the warmth of you pressing down against his erection. His eyes fluttered closed as you kissed a path down his neck, teeth grazing lightly, and a low groan rumbled through his chest. He loved the way you felt on top of him, the way you moved, and the way your hands roamed across his skin.

You felt the way his fingers gripped tighter as if trying to ground himself in the moment, as you focused on how he looked beneath you. How beautiful he was in this light, with his shirt half-open and his chest rising and falling with each breath. You peeled back the fabric slowly, exposing his chest inch by inch, the cool air of the room meeting the warmth of his skin. 

"God, Spencer," you murmured against his collarbone, letting your voice drip with as much seduction as you could muster, your fingers splaying across his chest. “You look so good like this.” You hoped the words would cover the cracks in your voice, that he wouldn’t hear the faint tremor of uncertainty underneath.

Spencer let out a shaky breath, his hands moving up your sides, and he tilted his head back, giving you full access to him as he tried to focus only on you—on the feel of your body against his, on the way you were making him feel. “Yeah?” he whispered, his voice low and rough with want as he tried to keep himself steady. “You have no idea how much I want you.”

Your lips met his again, desperate and heated, trying to drown out any lingering questions with the taste of him and the feeling of his body pressing against yours, every inch of him wanting you, needing you. You could feel the hard length of him straining against his pants, and it only spurred you on more, hands moving quickly to strip him bare. You worked the button open, dragging his pants and boxers down his hips in one swift motion, eager to feel him, to be as close as possible.

When he was finally exposed, you couldn’t help but pause, taking him in for a moment. The sight of him—hard and ready, the flush of arousal painting him beautifully—left you breathless, and a gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it. “Jesus...” you whispered, and it was all you could manage. 

Spencer’s chuckle was soft but nervous, his eyes searching yours, a hint of vulnerability in them despite the heat of the moment. He was waiting, holding back, and you knew he needed to hear something from you, anything that would reassure him, that would let him know you wanted this as much as he did. But the words got caught in your throat, overwhelmed by how badly you needed him, how badly you needed to feel him right then and there.

You didn't say anything else, letting your actions speak for you. With a confident ease, you climbed back up his body, pressing a line of kisses up his torso, then his chest, and finally back to his lips, never letting your eyes leave his as you aligned yourself over him. You reached between your bodies, guiding him to you, and in one smooth movement, you sank down on him, taking him inside, the stretch of him making your head fall back as you moaned low and long.

Spencer’s mouth fell open, a sharp breath escaping as he filled you, his hands gripping your hips with bruising strength, his eyes rolling shut as he fought to steady himself. "Oh my god," he groaned, his voice trembling with pleasure as he felt the warmth of you wrap around him, the way you held him tight, every inch of you fitting perfectly against him. 

You took a second to adjust, feeling the fullness of him, the way he stretched and pressed against every part of you, and then you started to move, slow and teasing at first, rolling your hips against him. The drag of him inside you, the way he fit, had you gasping and shaking, every movement sending sparks through your body.

Spencer looked up at you, his eyes dark and full of reverence, and his fingers dug into your hips, trying to keep himself from losing control too soon. “Y/N... oh god, you feel so—” But the words dissolved into another groan as you started to pick up your pace, the heat between you both building to a wild, frantic rhythm that neither of you could hold back from.

All the tension, all the desire from the past weeks melted into each thrust, each roll of your hips, until there was nothing left but you and him, lost together in the purest, most overwhelming pleasure.

Spencer’s hands gripped you tightly, guiding you down hard and deep with every roll of your hips, each thrust driving him further inside until he hit that perfect spot within you. The pleasure was all-consuming, and you couldn't stop the cries that poured from your lips, his name tumbling out of you over and over again, desperate and broken, as if you’d forgotten how to say anything else. 

“Spencer—oh god, Spencer—” You could feel the pressure building, your body tightening around him, and you rode him harder, faster, chasing that feeling, the peak that you were so close to reaching. Each thrust, each grind of your hips against his, brought you closer, the pleasure crackling through you like electricity, and all you could do was hold on and let it take you.

Spencer’s voice was a rough groan beneath you, his own control slipping as he watched you come undone. “God, sweetheart,” he moaned, his eyes locking on yours, pupils blown wide with lust as he took in the way you moved over him, the way you used him. “You’re just... using me to get off?”

You whined in response, unable to form any coherent words, your head nodding almost frantically as you chased that sweet release, riding him like it was the only thing that mattered. You dug your fingers into his chest, nails scraping lightly against his skin as you arched your back, letting every inch of him fill you, stretch you.

“That’s so goddamn hot,” Spencer groaned, his voice breaking as he thrust up to meet you, matching your rhythm. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, from the way your body rocked against his, the way you came apart with every movement. “God, you’re so... beautiful like this.”

He thrust up into you with even more force, spurred on by the desperate way you moaned his name, the way your body responded to him so perfectly. The feeling of you gripping around him, taking him so completely, had him on the edge, barely holding back, but he wanted to see you come undone first—to make you fall apart while you used him for your own pleasure.

And as you moved above him, both of you lost in the heat of it all, you knew you were close, so close, the pressure building and tightening until it was almost unbearable, every cry of his name pushing you closer to that edge, to the release that was just within your reach.

Spencer watched you intently, his gaze locked on your face as you rode him, taking in every little shift in your expression—the way your eyes squeezed shut, the furrow in your brow, the way your mouth fell open as you chased that high, so close to coming undone. He knew you were getting there, teetering right on the edge, and he wanted to be the one to push you over, to watch you fall apart completely.

He brought his fingers down to where your bodies met, finding your clit again. The touch was gentle at first, a teasing brush of his fingertips, and then he pressed down, rubbing firm, tight circles that matched the rhythm of your movements. The sensation sent shockwaves through you, the sudden stimulation pushing you closer, every nerve lighting up as his fingers worked in tandem with his cock inside you.

“Spencer!” you cried out, your voice cracking with pleasure as you jerked against him, your hips stuttering as you tried to keep up the pace, tried to keep that feeling going. But the way he touched you, the way he filled you, it was all too much, too perfect. You clenched tightly around him, your body trembling as the pressure inside you built to an almost unbearable peak.

“That's it, sweetheart,” Spencer groaned, his voice low and rough with desire as he felt you tightening around him, your walls pulsing, squeezing. “Come on, I’ve got you. Let go for me.”

And that was all you needed—all it took was that extra pressure of his fingers, the way his voice coaxed you, deep and sweet, and you couldn’t hold back any longer. The wave of pleasure crashed over you, and you cried out loudly, your entire body shaking as your orgasm washed through you, overwhelming and all-encompassing. You dug your nails into Spencer’s chest, your head falling back as your hips bucked against his, clenching around him tightly, rhythmically, drawing him even deeper as the pleasure rolled over you in wave after wave.

Spencer watched you come undone, his eyes drinking in every second of your release, feeling every pulse and tremor as you came around him. And God, the way you fell apart in his hands, the sound of your cries, your moans—it drove him wild, pushed him right to the brink of losing control.

Spencer’s own release was close, too close to hold back any longer as he felt you pulsing around him, your cries of pleasure echoing in his ears. He couldn’t last, not with the way you were trembling, the way you were milking him with every pulse of your orgasm. 

With a shaky groan, he quickly pushed your body off of his, the movement almost frantic, and you landed on your back beside him. He wrapped his hand around himself, working his length fast and hard, chasing his own high with ragged breaths. He leaned over you, his eyes never leaving yours as he pumped himself, his strokes quick and desperate as he watched you, your face still flushed and blissed-out from your release.

“Fuck—” he choked out, and then, with a few more rough strokes, he finished, spilling hot across both your stomachs, his eyes squeezing shut as he came undone. His groans were deep and guttural, his hips jerking as he rode out his climax, and he kept pumping himself, milking every last drop as it painted your skin, hot and slick.

He stilled above you, panting heavily as he slowly came back down, his body trembling as he tried to catch his breath. The sticky heat of his release covered both of you, mingling between your skin, and for a moment, all you could hear were the soft gasps of breath between you, the air thick with the heady scent of sweat and sex.

You wanted nothing more than to cuddle up beside Spencer and melt into his warmth, to trace the lines of his face with your fingertips and let yourself fall completely into this moment. But you knew better. You knew that if you stayed, if you let yourself indulge in the comfort of his arms and the soft, gentle post-coital haze that hung between you, you’d only fall for him harder. And you couldn’t do that—couldn’t let yourself want more than what this was supposed to be.

So you forced a laugh, light and casual, as you started to pull yourself up, peeling away from the tangled sheets and the heat of his body. You felt Spencer’s eyes on you, heard the confusion in his voice when he spoke. “Where—where are you going?” he asked, his voice still heavy with exhaustion and bliss, soft and a little vulnerable as he propped himself up on his elbow to look at you.

You turned to him, trying to keep your tone easy, like this wasn’t a big deal, like the moment you just shared didn’t make your heart want to explode with everything you felt for him. “Um, pee,” you said quickly, avoiding his eyes as you reached for your scattered clothes, finding tissues for your stomach before pulling your clothes on. “And then... home.”

“Home?” The word came out small and tired, and he pushed himself up a little further, watching you with a furrowed brow. “But—”

“Where’s your bathroom?” You interrupted, flashing him a quick, forced smile. You could see the slight hurt flash across his face, but you kept going, not letting yourself dwell on it. You couldn’t let him see the hesitation, the way your hands were trembling slightly as you tried to gather yourself.

“Down the hall, to the left,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of that sleepy warmth, a touch of disappointment leaking in.

“Great, thanks,” you replied, already making your way out of the room before he could ask any more questions or before the guilt could creep up and make you stay. Because if you stayed, even for a second longer, you were afraid you’d never leave.

After taking a moment in the bathroom to compose yourself, you splashed some water on your face, staring at your reflection. You tried to convince yourself that this was the right thing to do—that leaving now, before things got any more complicated, was what you both needed. But as you stepped out, walking back down the hall and catching a glimpse of Spencer waiting for you near the front door, the resolve you’d tried to build up wavered. 

He looked... different. Still tousled from your time together, his hair a wild mess, and his shirt half-open, but his expression was carefully neutral, masking whatever he might be feeling behind a tired, gentle smile. You could see the hint of some almost sad in his eyes, the way he was trying to be a gentleman about it all.

“Let me... let me walk you out,” Spencer said softly, moving to open the door for you. He was trying to keep his tone casual, but you could hear the strain in it, the unspoken question in his voice—did this mean anything to you? Were you going to leave and forget what happened?

You nodded, swallowing down the knot in your throat as you stepped closer to him. “Thank you,” you said quietly, not really knowing what else to say. Your words felt small and empty against the weight of everything that had just happened, of everything you were leaving unsaid.

He held the door open for you, the cool air from the hallway washing over both of you. And as you stepped out into that space, Spencer followed you, walking just a little bit behind as if making sure you wouldn't change your mind at the last second and turn back around. The silence between you was heavy, filled with everything you wished you could say, but couldn’t find the words for. 

When you reached the doorway to the building, Spencer hesitated, his hand resting on the doorframe as he turned to you one last time, his eyes searching your face, looking for something—anything—that might give him a reason to ask you to stay. But all he could do was give you that same tired, bittersweet smile, the one that tried to be reassuring, like this was just another night, even though both of you knew it wasn’t.

“So... um, thanks,” you said awkwardly, glancing down at your feet, not wanting to meet his eyes. You could feel the warmth of his gaze on you, the way he was trying so hard to keep his composure, to act like this was okay when it was anything but. “For tonight. It was...”

“Yeah,” Spencer said quickly, nodding as if to cut you off, to spare you from having to finish the thought. “Yeah, of course. Thank you for... everything.”

He was trying to act like it didn’t hurt, like he wasn’t struggling to let you go. He reached out to open the door fully, stepping aside to let you through, and you could see the way he forced himself to smile, to be the gentleman that he always was, no matter how much it stung.

“Goodnight,” he said softly, his voice gentle but edged with something fragile.

You nodded, giving him one last smile before stepping out into the hallway, letting the door close behind you. And as you walked away, hearing the faint click of the lock as Spencer closed the door to his apartment, you couldn’t help but wonder if you were making a mistake by leaving, or if you were saving yourself from the hurt and rejection that you didn’t want to face.

—

Monday morning came with a bustle of energy through the bullpen—the start of a new week and, for the team, the renewed curiosity about what had gone down between Spencer and his "girl." It didn't take long for the teasing to start, either. From the moment Spencer walked in, sipping his coffee and trying his best to shake off the weekend’s melancholy, he could see the glances, the grins that were being traded across the room like secrets.

Derek was the first to pounce, of course. “Well, well, well,” he called out as Spencer passed by his desk. “There he is—the man of the hour. So, pretty boy, how was your weekend? Got any fun stories you want to share?” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and a smirk plastered across his face as if he knew exactly what kind of weekend Spencer had.

JJ joined in, setting her file down and giving Spencer a warm, knowing smile. “Yeah, Spence, you seemed... pretty cozy on Friday night.” She wagged her eyebrows playfully, nudging Emily, who tried to cover a laugh with a sip of her coffee.

Spencer felt his face flush, his mind immediately going back to every detail of the weekend—the feel of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way your voice had wrapped around his name. But that was quickly overshadowed by the stark reality of how it had ended, the way you’d quietly slipped away from his apartment, leaving him standing alone at his door with that empty feeling gnawing at his chest. He tried to push those thoughts away, forcing a smile that he hoped looked genuine.

“It was... good,” he said, his voice strained but steady as he tried to keep things light, to play along. He didn't want to reveal how much it hurt, how much he missed you already, and how little he understood what had gone wrong. “I’m hoping to see her again soon.”

“Good?” Derek chuckled, shaking his head. “That's all you got for us? Come on, Reid, you two were practically eye-fucking all night. Don’t tell me nothing happened after we left.”

Spencer's stomach twisted painfully at the mention, but he kept his smile plastered on, his eyes darting between Derek, JJ, and Emily, who were all watching him like hawks. It stung—the teasing, the jokes, all the assumptions that this was some carefree fling. But he nodded along, chuckling softly, trying to play the part they wanted to see. “Yeah, well... we, uh, definitely had fun,” he said, voice dipping into a joking tone to cover up how much it hurt to talk about. “I mean, we’ll see what happens. But yeah, I’d like to see her again.”

“Yeah, you better,” JJ added with a teasing smile. “Don’t let her get away, Spence. She seemed really into you.”

Spencer could only nod, his jaw clenching as he forced another smile, wishing he could know what was going on in your mind—whether you felt the same tug he did, the same yearning to make this more than just a fleeting encounter. But he didn’t know, and it left him trying to walk the tightrope between hope and disappointment, pretending like he was confident it would all work out when he had no idea if he’d ever see you again. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, more to himself than to anyone else. “I hope so too.” 

And with that, he settled down at his desk, burying himself in case files and paperwork, doing his best to ignore the ache that had settled in his chest—an ache that wouldn’t go away until he knew for sure whether that night was a beginning or just a beautiful, painful end.

—

It was a slow, uneventful morning until Hotch's computer decided to crash—a rare occurrence, almost as if it was a twist of fate. Penelope Garcia had called in sick, leaving the team without their usual tech support, and within minutes, someone had dialed down to IT, asking for assistance. And that someone, by sheer luck or cruel coincidence, was you. 

You hadn't seen Spencer since that night two weeks ago, since you’d slipped out of his apartment with all the confused, conflicting emotions weighing you down. And now, you were walking into the lion’s den again, nervous energy buzzing in your veins as you stepped off the elevator and into the BAU's office. 

You did a quick sweep, your eyes flickering around the bullpen, half hoping to catch sight of him, half praying you wouldn't. But Spencer wasn’t there. Relief flooded you, though it didn't completely ease the tension that coiled in your chest as you made your way to Hotch’s office, trying to keep your head down and your nerves at bay.

Inside the office, Hotch greeted you with his usual calm, professional manner, moving aside to let you work on his computer. You kept your focus on the screen, fingers flying over the keyboard as you tried to fix whatever issue had brought you there. In the background, you could hear the faint chatter of the team, the sounds blending into an indistinct hum as you concentrated on the task at hand.

Unbeknownst to you, Spencer had just returned from the breakroom, a cup of coffee in his hand, his eyes wandering across the bullpen as he made his way to his desk. Emily couldn’t resist the opportunity to stir the pot. “Hey, Reid,” she said with a teasing glint in her eye, leaning over to speak low enough for only him to hear. “Your girl’s here.”

Spencer froze, his heart skipping a beat at her words. “What?” he asked, his voice hitching slightly as he glanced around, searching for you. He’d all but given up hope on seeing you again, the past two weeks of silence gnawing at him more than he cared to admit. And now, suddenly, there you were. His mind raced, torn between the rush of excitement and the cold twinge of nerves that settled in his stomach. What was he supposed to say? Would you even want to see him after how things had ended?

Before he could think too much about it, you emerged from Hotch’s office, closing the door softly behind you. You kept your eyes trained downward, trying to make yourself small, invisible. If you could just get back to the elevators without making a scene, maybe you could get out of there with your dignity intact. But, of course, luck wasn’t on your side today.

“Hey! IT’s finest!” Derek’s booming voice called out from across the bullpen, drawing all eyes to you instantly. You stopped in your tracks, cringing internally as a dozen pairs of eyes turned in your direction. Spencer’s included.

You forced a smile, though you could feel the tension behind it, as you made your way over to Derek, who was wearing a wide, friendly grin. “Hey, uh... how's it going?” you said, trying to sound casual even though your voice wavered slightly. You could feel Spencer’s eyes on you, and it took all your willpower not to look in his direction. Not yet.

“Pretty good, pretty good,” Derek said, leaning back in his chair. “You know, just solving crimes, catching bad guys. The usual.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “So... what's a pretty thing like you doing back here? Finally caved and came to see our boy Reid?”

Your face heated instantly, and you let out an awkward laugh, shaking your head. “No, no, just... just fixing Hotch’s computer,” you said, holding up your hands in mock surrender. “Nothing more exciting than that, I promise.”

“Sure, sure,” Derek said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “But come on, don’t tell me you’re just here for tech support.” 

You could feel the tension in your shoulders tighten, and you stole a quick, hesitant glance at Spencer. He was standing a few feet away, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on you, and there was something soft, almost hopeful in the way he looked at you. It made your heart clench, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“Uh...” You cleared your throat, trying to pull yourself together, to keep things professional. “Yeah, just here for the tech support today. Don’t want to distract you guys from your very important crime-solving.” You flashed another smile, this one a little tighter, hoping that Derek would let it go, that he wouldn’t push any further. 

But it was clear from the look on his face that he wasn’t going to make it that easy. “Right,” he said, leaning back in his chair, dragging out the word and giving Spencer a sidelong glance. “But maybe you could let Reid walk you out. Y’know, since you’re here and all.”

The suggestion hung in the air, and you felt the eyes of the team flicker between you and Spencer, waiting for one of you to say something, to acknowledge the elephant in the room. And there it was—your chance, your opening. But all you could do was stand there, your mouth dry, your heart pounding as you tried to figure out what to do next.

“Sure,” Spencer said quickly, nodding before his nerves could make him hesitate, walking up to you and motioning for you to follow him. The entire bullpen was alive with curiosity, but he just needed to get you out of there, to talk to you without the eyes and teasing of the team on him. You let your feet carry you forward, not thinking too much about what was happening, just moving, as if the mere act of walking with him would help you find the right words.

When the two of you reached the elevators, safely out of earshot of the others, Spencer hit the button, and the metallic doors loomed before you both, a quiet hum in the background as you stood there in a tense, uncertain silence. “How are you?” he asked after a beat, his voice gentle, like he was feeling his way through the dark.

“Good, yeah,” you said with a small smile, nodding, trying to seem relaxed, like seeing him again wasn’t sending your heart into overdrive. “You?”

“Alright,” he said, but the word felt tight on his tongue, and the forced smile on his lips didn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifted on his feet, nervous but determined to get the words out. “Listen... uh, I would love to see you again.” His eyes searched yours, hopeful but guarded, waiting to see how you would respond, the words hanging between you like a fragile thread.

Your heart hammered in your chest at the unexpected proposal, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral. See you again? What did he mean—see you like a date? See you like the last time? The possibility twisted your insides, and you tried to tamp down your excitement, afraid of reading into something that wasn’t there. “Like, um, like a friends with benefits kind of thing?” you asked, your voice dropping to a hush, your eyes darting away from his as you felt your cheeks flush.

Spencer’s eyes widened at the suggestion, and for a moment, he felt his heart crack painfully in his chest. Friends with benefits. The words echoed in his mind, a harsh reminder that maybe that was still all you saw him as—someone to fulfill a physical need, no strings attached. But he cleared his throat quickly, trying to hide the disappointment and keep his voice steady. If that was what you wanted, then he would take it, even if it wasn’t the everything he had hoped for. “If that’s what you want, yeah,” he said, nodding, his tone measured, trying to keep the hurt from creeping in.

You nodded slowly, mulling over the suggestion in your mind, and Spencer could see the wheels turning, the way you bit your lip as you processed. “Here,” you said suddenly, your voice sharper as you reached for your bag. “Let me give you my number. That way, um, we don’t have any more... mix-ups.”

Spencer fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his phone, and as he handed it to you, your fingers brushed for just a second, and he felt that familiar warmth between you, the spark that had drawn you together in the first place. He watched as you entered your number into his contacts, typing quickly, and he couldn’t help the tightness in his throat, that small flare of hope that maybe—just maybe—this could still turn into something more.

—

It didn’t turn into more. Whatever fragile hope Spencer had harbored that morning at the elevators was soon buried beneath a pattern—one that quickly set the boundaries of what you and he were to each other. It became late nights where desire spoke louder than words, where you tangled together in sheets, sweaty limbs intertwining as your bodies moved in frenzied desperation, searching for relief in each other’s touch.

There were stolen moments in showers, hurried, steam-filled exchanges that left the water cold by the end. The couches became your playground, backs arching and cries muffled into cushions. Once, in a fit of passion, you even found yourselves in his car, fogging up the windows until the world outside was nothing but a blurred haze of headlights and stars. And then there was that one reckless, electrifying night when you found yourselves in an empty office at the bureau, your hands gripping the edge of a desk as Spencer pressed into you from behind, your lips swollen from rough, unrestrained kisses.

It was hot, it was desperate, it was everything you could’ve ever asked for physically—but it was also never enough. And that was the problem. 

Each time you met, you felt yourself slipping further, falling harder, wanting more than just his body. It was becoming impossible to ignore the way you longed for the tenderness in his eyes, the way you craved his words, his thoughts, the parts of him he only showed in stolen, fleeting glimpses when you let your guard down for just a moment. And that longing terrified you. So you built up walls, retreating into the comfort of what was familiar and safe, convincing yourself that if you just kept things purely physical, if you kept your heart locked away, you wouldn’t have to feel the ache of wanting more than he was willing to give.

You started avoiding his gaze during your meetings, your eyes focused on the patterns of the ceiling, on the textures of the sheets, anywhere but on the way he looked at you with those wide, searching eyes, like he was begging you for something you knew he didn’t actually want. You chose to face away more often, burying your face in pillows, letting your hair cover the expressions you couldn’t bear to let him see. You kissed him less, keeping the physicality to hurried touches, heated grinding, and the frantic moments just before release. It was easier that way, you told yourself. Easier to pretend this was only sex, that you could handle it, that this was all you needed.

And you focused on the penetration, not intimacy—because that was the safe part, the part you could control. You held back from the slow, lingering touches, from the tender kisses that came after, from the whispered words of comfort and vulnerability that would only make you fall further. 

But Spencer noticed. He noticed every time you turned your face away, every time you shied from his kisses, every time you hurried to get dressed afterward as if you couldn’t stand to linger in his embrace for a second longer. He wanted to hold you, to pull you close, to ask you to stay. But every time he tried, every time he leaned in for more, he felt you pull away, felt you retreat back into that familiar distance, and each time his heart cracked a little bit more.

He tried to tell himself it was fine—that this was what you wanted, that this was all he deserved. He tried to lose himself in the pleasure, to focus on the way you felt around him, the sounds you made, the desperate way you held onto him as you came. But it was getting harder to ignore the ache that settled deep in his chest, the realization that no matter how often you came to him, no matter how many nights you spent tangled together, you would never feel more for him. Not the way he felt for you.

And so every meeting felt bittersweet—a desperate, beautiful lie that neither of you was willing to confront, even as it tore both of you apart piece by piece. You gave Spencer your body, but he wanted your heart. And every time you left his bed, leaving him alone in the darkness, he felt himself break a little more, knowing that, to you, he would never be more than just a hookup.

Even when you hung out with his team, those nights at O’Keefe’s where you and Spencer would laugh, joke, and play along with whatever assumptions the team had about you—those were the nights when everything felt right, even if it was all a pretense. There was an unspoken understanding between you both: in front of the team, you were allowed to touch each other casually, to drape an arm over his shoulder, to tease him playfully. You could let your walls down just enough to give the illusion of a couple, and it made things easier, simpler. And perhaps that was the irony of it all—pretending to be in love felt more real than any of the other moments you shared in the dark, tangled up in each other but hiding everything you really felt.

Those nights were both of your favorites, even if neither of you ever admitted it. You could spend hours at the booth, letting your fingers brush his under the table, leaning into him when he said something that made you laugh, seeing the way his eyes would soften when he looked at you. It felt natural, like you could actually be yourselves without the pressure of whatever complicated mess lay beneath the surface. You could talk—really talk. About books, movies, things you loved, things you hated. You’d tell each other stories, recounting things from your childhoods or sharing jokes that left you breathless with laughter, and you’d feel so comfortable, so close, that it almost felt like everything was normal, like everything was real.

And for Spencer, those were the nights when he could feel you—really feel you—in a way he never could when you were both alone. Because as much as he cherished the physical closeness you shared behind closed doors, the passion and the desperate intimacy of your bodies entwined, it was in these fleeting, stolen moments at O’Keefe’s that he felt closest to your heart. When you would reach for his hand under the table and smile softly at him, or when you would brush a lock of hair behind his ear, your fingers lingering on his skin, he could almost convince himself that you felt the same way he did—that this wasn’t just some elaborate charade.

But those nights would always end the same way: you and Spencer leaving together, waving goodbye to the team as if you were a couple heading home for the night, leaving them with knowing smiles and half-teasing jokes. But the minute you were alone, away from prying eyes, the reality would settle back in. You’d let go of his hand. You’d pull away, your laughter softening into something more guarded, more careful. And eventually, no matter how close the two of you got, no matter how much you both secretly wanted to stay together, you would leave. 

You would leave him alone at the end of the night—because you had to. Because letting things be more, letting things get real, meant giving up the safety of your carefully constructed distance. So you’d walk away, your heart heavy with the knowledge that the moments you cherished most were always fleeting, always just a little too far out of reach.

And Spencer would stand there, alone in the cold night, watching you go, holding on to the ghost of your touch and the bittersweet ache of wanting more. Because he knew, deep down, that these nights were all you would ever have, and he’d take them—even if they were only pretend, even if they left him lonelier than before.

One particular night, after a long day of cases and a gnawing loneliness that seemed to cling to him like a shadow, Spencer found himself needing more than just the physical—he needed to feel loved, to hear the affection you kept locked away in those moments when you were the most vulnerable. He needed something real, something that reminded him that this wasn’t just sex, even if only for a moment. He needed to feel like you were both giving something to each other.

You were on top of him, your bodies pressed tightly together, but Spencer’s mind was far from just the feeling of your skin on his. He craved that intimacy from your first night together—the way you’d whispered his name like a prayer, like it was the only thing you could think of, the only word that existed in that moment. His hands moved to your hips, guiding you in a slow, needy rhythm, his voice catching in his throat as he whispered, “Say my name... please, sweetheart. Just... please.”

But you shook your head, your movements hitching slightly as you tried to keep the steady pace between you, the friction that grounded you in the moment. “No,” you said simply, and it came out firm, leaving no room for ambiguity. It wasn’t a game this time, not a playful challenge like it had been before. It was the truth, and the truth was, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Saying his name made things too real—it cracked open the walls you’d built around your heart, made it harder to keep your feelings for him hidden.

Spencer’s face fell, but he masked it quickly, trying not to let his disappointment show. He gave a small, tight nod, and didn’t push for more, didn’t beg you the way he wanted to. He kept his hands on your hips, holding you close as you rocked against him, but something in him broke fully that night. A bitter realization set in—one that twisted the love he felt for you into something darker, something sharp and painful. 

He began to resent you. He resented you for how much he loved you, how he’d let himself fall so deeply for someone who couldn’t, wouldn’t, give him anything more than her body. He resented the way he craved your touch, the way you had become the person he wanted to see after every case, the person he wanted to come home to. And most of all, he resented how much of himself he was willing to give, only to be met with the cold reminder that this was all it would ever be to you—a hookup, a distraction, never more.

The resentment didn’t come all at once. It crept in like a slow poison, staining every moment you shared, every kiss you almost pressed to his skin, every time you left his bed without a backward glance. He started to pull away, his touches less gentle, his eyes more distant, and it became harder to ignore the walls you’d built between you both. But still, he couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t stop wanting you, couldn’t stop hoping that one day, maybe, you would say his name the way he so desperately wanted you to—like he was more than just a body beneath yours, like he meant something.

And so the nights went on, tangled in bedsheets and longing, both of you pretending not to notice the widening chasm between desire and what lay underneath it. But for Spencer, it became clear—painfully, heartbreakingly clear—that loving you was something he’d have to endure quietly, silently, as you continued to offer him your body but never your heart.

—

The night at O’Keefe’s was supposed to be like any other—one of the rare occasions you still went out with the team, where the drinks flowed freely, and everyone could let loose. You sat at the booth as you tried to laugh at Derek’s jokes, nod at JJ’s stories, pretend that everything was fine. But then you saw it—the way Spencer’s eyes lingered on the bartender as he got another drink, the slight lean-in of his body when they laughed at something he said. The way he flashed them that special smile you thought he reserved for you—the way they winked at him when they passed him his drink.

It broke you. Completely shattered the fragile facade you’d held on to for weeks. Your stomach churned at the sight, your heart feeling like it was being squeezed in a vice. He cares so little about me, you thought bitterly, that he could flirt right in front of me? And then what? Take me home afterward, like nothing had happened? Like I'm just a convenient body? 

As Spencer made his way back to the table, a satisfied, secret smile on his face—one that once would have made your heart flutter but now only made you feel sick—you couldn’t hold it together anymore. You shot up from your seat, brushing past him, barely able to mutter an excuse. He reached out for you, but you shook off his touch, your only focus on getting outside, on breathing, on escaping the sudden wave of tears that threatened to choke you.

“What was that about?” Emily asked, a frown forming as she watched you hurry away.

Spencer shrugged, his smile faltering as he looked back at the table, feeling a pang of anxiety. “I... I don’t know,” he said honestly, staring after you, his brow furrowing.

The team exchanged glances, and JJ leaned over, her voice gentle as she said, “Maybe you should go check on her, Spence. She’s your girlfriend; she probably needs you right now.”

Spencer’s mouth went dry at the word “girlfriend.” They all assumed—had assumed for months—that you were together, that you were a real couple. But in this moment, it didn’t matter what label they had put on it; it only mattered that something was wrong. He didn’t know why, but he needed to find out.

When he got outside, he saw you standing against the wall, your back to him, hands covering your face as you took deep, shaking breaths. The cold air turned every exhale into tiny clouds, and your shoulders trembled slightly as you tried to hold yourself together.

“Y/N?” he asked softly, his voice barely carrying above the nighttime sounds of the city. He didn’t want to startle you, but you whipped your head to look at him instantly, your eyes wide and pained, before you quickly turned away again, swiping at your face like you could erase all evidence of the tears.

“Are you okay?” Spencer tried again, taking a tentative step closer, his voice laced with concern.

“Yup,” you replied, voice wobbling against your hardest attempts to sound steady, your eyes darting upward, desperate to stop the tears from falling again. 

“Why are you out here?” Spencer's tone was gentle, and you hated how much care was in it. You hated how much you still wanted to hear it, even now.

“Just needed some air,” you said with a sniffle, your voice barely above a whisper. But it trembled, and you knew he could hear it. 

Spencer moved closer, finally getting a clear look at your face, at the tear-stained cheeks and red, puffy eyes, and his heart clenched painfully in his chest. “You’re crying,” he said softly, like he couldn't quite believe it.

You nodded slowly, and finally, you faced him fully, unable to hold back the swell of emotions any longer. “Um. I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, wiping the fresh tears away with the back of your hand.

Spencer’s brow furrowed deeper in confusion, and he took a step closer, wanting to reach for you but stopping short. “Why? Did something happen?”

You let out a bitter laugh, one that was more sob than amusement. “Yeah. I—uh, I fell in love with you.” The words tumbled out in a rush, harsh and ragged, and the moment they were out, you regretted it, wished you could take them back, swallow them down. But it was too late.

Spencer stood there, completely stunned, his face paling as he tried to process your words. “What?” he whispered, voice cracking on the word. He felt like the ground had just shifted beneath him, and he was scrambling to understand, to catch up to everything you were saying.

“It’s fine,” you said hurriedly, holding up a hand as if to stop him from saying anything more. “You don’t have to say it back or anything. I know you don’t feel the same. I didn’t mean to... I’m sorry.” Your lip wobbled, and you bit down on it hard, willing the tears to stay at bay. “Just—seeing you flirt with that bartender...”

Spencer’s face tightened, and he shook his head quickly. “I wasn’t,” he said, clearing his throat, trying to find the words. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“It’s okay, Spencer.” You felt another sob rise in your throat, and you pressed your hand over your mouth to stifle it. “You don’t have to lie to me. I’m not your girlfriend.”

Spencer bit his tongue, the words he wanted to say lodged painfully in his throat. He didn’t know how to tell you everything he felt, how to bridge the chasm that had grown between you over these past months. But as he stood there, looking at you with tears streaming down your face, the frustration and hurt bubbled up inside of him, and a bitter anger began to mix with the sadness. You were the one who pushed me away, he thought, the one who kept pretending not to care, and now you wanted to be angry at me?

“Do you...” Spencer started, swallowing thickly, the words like sandpaper on his tongue. “Do you still want to see each other?” He knew it was the wrong thing to ask, that it cut too close to the surface, but he needed to know. Needed to know if you wanted to keep doing this—whatever this was.

“For sex?” you scoffed, your voice cracking as you looked at him, the accusation plain on your face.

He nodded noncommittally, his face tight, unable to mask the frustration that twisted inside him. 

And that was it. You let out a sob, turning your face away from him, your shoulders shaking as you pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle the sounds. Without another word, you walked away quickly, your steps hurried and uneven as if you needed to get as far away from him as possible. 

Spencer stayed rooted to the spot, his feet unwilling to move, his mind racing with everything he should’ve said but didn’t. He wanted to chase after you, to tell you how much he loved you, how he’d been holding back because he was afraid you didn’t feel the same. But he didn’t. He just watched you go, the cold air biting at his cheeks, his breath puffing out in desperate clouds as he let you walk away. 

And he felt that sick, familiar emptiness settle in again—worse than before, knowing he’d just let you slip through his fingers.

Eventually Spencer walked back into O’Keefe’s like he was on autopilot, like someone else was moving his body for him while he watched from a distance. The noise of the bar—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversation—washed over him like static, muted and hollow. All he could feel was the cold emptiness in his chest, the lingering sting of your words echoing in his mind. I fell in love with you... It's fine, you don't have to say it back. 

He sat down at the booth mechanically, his movements jerky and disconnected, and immediately felt the eyes of his team on him. The questions came quickly, concern laced in every voice, but Spencer could hardly focus on any of them, his mind spinning, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

“Hey, kid, what happened?” Derek’s voice cut through the fog, his tone gentle but firm, and Spencer felt the weight of his gaze, the protective instinct of a friend who could sense something was very wrong.

Spencer didn’t look up as he answered, staring blankly at the beer bottle in front of him. “She wasn’t feeling good,” he mumbled, hoping his voice didn’t waver. “She... left.”

“What?” JJ’s voice was soft but urgent, leaning in to catch his eyes. “Did something happen between you two?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer replied quickly, almost too quickly, forcing a tight-lipped smile that looked more like a grimace. He took a sip of his drink, the bitter taste filling his mouth, but it did nothing to dull the ache in his chest. “She just... wasn’t feeling well. Needed to go home.”

The team fell into a tense silence, and he could feel their eyes on him, searching, probing for the real reason behind your sudden departure. Everyone had seen you two together, had seen the way you’d looked at each other. It was an unspoken truth, and now, they could all tell something had changed, something was deeply wrong.

“Spence...” JJ began again, reaching out to touch his arm, but he pulled away slightly, trying to maintain what little composure he still had.

“Really, I’m fine,” he said, the words sharp in a way that was unlike him. He didn't want to talk about it, didn’t want to let the floodgates open and risk breaking down right here, in front of everyone. The team exchanged uneasy glances, but they didn’t push, sensing that this wasn’t just a lovers’ spat, that whatever had happened between you and Spencer was something bigger than they could grasp.

And so they let him be, filling the silence with half-hearted jokes and forced smiles as they tried to keep the night light, but the tension sat heavy between them. All the while, Spencer just sat there, staring into his drink, feeling like he was watching someone else go through the motions of this moment. Like the real him was still outside, staring after you as you walked away, trying to figure out when everything had gone so wrong.

—

You love him?

The words played on a loop in Spencer’s head, each syllable echoing through the empty spaces you’d left behind. You told him that night, outside O’Keefe’s, voice thick with hurt and vulnerability. You, the woman who occupied his thoughts, who made him feel things he’d never felt for anyone else—you loved him. And he’d just let you walk away.

He'd stood there stunned that night, unable to speak, unable to process the revelation that the woman he’d reluctantly, desperately fallen for felt the same way. In the days that followed, he convinced himself that it was for the best, that maybe this was the closure he needed. You’d go back to your separate lives, and he'd be free of the endless cycle of wanting more than you could give. Maybe he'd be able to finally move on.

But that conviction was short-lived. It only took a few days of silence, a few nights spent staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, to realize how hollow that freedom was. And the weeks that passed after that night only twisted the knife deeper. 

When there was an issue with the team’s tech and Penelope wasn’t around, it wasn’t you who showed up to fix it. It was some other IT person—someone with none of your charm, none of your wit. No one who would tease him, brush your fingers lightly against his arm as you leaned over his keyboard. And when they walked in, clipboard in hand, an unfamiliar face staring back at him, the ache in Spencer’s chest grew. He’d check his phone constantly, almost obsessively, hoping for a text, an email, anything. But his inbox remained empty, the silence between you growing deeper and more suffocating each day.

He started noticing the way his team watched him—the way they traded glances when he walked into the bullpen with his usual cup of coffee, the way their conversations dipped into softer tones when he came near. It was pity. Pity for the man who let his girlfriend walk away, who didn’t know how to make it right. They didn't know the truth—that you were never really his girlfriend. That you were never really his at all.

He missed you. He missed you so much that it became unbearable, the absence of you like a phantom limb—something he could still feel, but couldn’t hold, couldn’t touch. He missed the way you’d laugh with the team at O’Keefe’s, the way your eyes would meet his across the table, a secret smile shared between the two of you. He missed the way your hair would brush against his cheek when you leaned in to whisper something in his ear, the way your lips felt on his when the world melted away, leaving only the two of you tangled together.

And suddenly, O’Keefe’s wasn’t fun anymore. It was just another reminder of what he’d lost. Every time he walked in, he’d expect to see you there—half-hoping, half-dreading the sight of you. But you never came. You never showed, and it left an emptiness in the seat beside him that no one else could fill. 

The nights became the worst part. The silence in his apartment was deafening. He would lie in bed, replaying every moment you’d shared, every touch, every laugh, every whispered word. He could still see the way you’d looked at him when you told him you were in love with him—how your voice wavered with fear, how you tried to cover it up with a laugh as if you could take the words back as soon as they left your lips. He’d let you say them, he’d heard the truth in them, and still, he let you walk away. What kind of fool lets the person they love walk away?

And so it hit him, with a force that left him breathless: Even if you kept him at an arm’s length forever, even if you could never give him everything he wanted, he would still want you. He didn’t need you to be perfect, didn’t need you to promise him the world—he just needed you. The way you made him laugh, the way you challenged him, the way you made his life feel full and bright and real. Even if it meant spending more nights pretending and holding back, Spencer would take it all just to have you close.

Because a life without you—without your smile, your laugh, your presence—is a life he no longer wanted to live. He missed you. He loved you. And he was willing to fight for you, even if it meant picking up the broken pieces of what you both had shattered, putting them back together in any way that would keep you from slipping through his fingers again.

Once Spencer made up his mind, there was a fire inside him—a determination to make things right, to get you back, to show you that he was willing to do whatever it took. He’d spent too many weeks stuck in silence, stuck in regret, and if there was even the smallest chance you’d have him back, he was ready to fight for it. He was already forming a plan in his mind, trying to figure out the words to say, the way to make you see that he’d give you everything he had, no matter how messy or complicated it got.

But before he could put that plan into action, it all came crashing down around him.

It was Penelope who stopped him in his tracks. He’d been pacing the bullpen, trying to work up the nerve to figure out how to reach out to you—how to make that first move—when he saw the look on her face. She was standing near her desk, files forgotten in her hands, her eyes fixed on him with that soft, all-too-knowing expression. And it was enough to make his stomach twist uncomfortably, anxiety clawing at his chest.

“What’s up, Garcia?” he asked, hesitantly, trying to keep his voice steady as he approached her.

She gave him a sympathetic smile, the kind of smile that said she knew far more than she was letting on, and it made Spencer's heart sink. He hated that look, the pity, the way it made him feel like he was already defeated. “Did you hear?” she asked, her voice gentle, as if she was trying to break bad news without shattering him completely.

“...hear what?” he replied, suddenly on edge, the nerves tightening in his chest like a vice. He felt like the floor was slipping out from under him, and he braced himself for whatever she was about to say.

“Oh, honey.” Penelope sighed deeply, placing a hand over her heart as if the words hurt her as much as they were about to hurt him. “Tony in IT asked Y/N out.”

And just like that, Spencer felt his entire world tilt, his heart dropping straight to his stomach. It felt like a punch to the gut, knocking the breath out of him, leaving him stunned and spinning. He was too late. 

“Tony?” he whispered, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “They... they asked her out?” 

Penelope nodded, looking at him with that same expression—so much pity, so much sympathy that it made him want to scream. “Yeah,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “I heard it from them this morning. They said she seemed like she could use a night out, so they asked her.” 

Spencer’s mind raced, every thought muddling together, tangled up in the image of you and Tony, smiling, laughing, kissing. He could barely think straight. Tony—some other person—getting the chance to be close to you, to make you happy. Someone else doing what he’d been too afraid to do. And he knew Tony; they were charming, easygoing, exactly the type of person who could sweep you off your feet, and that thought twisted the knife deeper.

“Did she... did she say yes?” Spencer asked, barely recognizing his own voice, which came out quiet and small, barely more than a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Penelope said, her hand gently touching his arm. “But... Spencer, I just thought you should know. In case...” She trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence, because Spencer understood exactly what she meant. In case it was too late. In case Tony had already taken the place he’d left open.

He stood there, numb, the walls of the bullpen closing in on him as reality settled in like a heavy weight on his chest. He was too late, and the plan he’d spent days building up in his mind shattered into pieces at his feet, leaving him standing in the wreckage of what could’ve been.

—

You stood there awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot, not knowing exactly how to respond to Tony’s hopeful smile. Their offer to take you out caught you off guard, and for a moment you just stared at them, trying to form a polite letdown that wouldn’t hurt their feelings. After all, you thought to yourself, Tony was one of the nicest people in the building. 

“Oh, Tony,” you sighed eventually, feeling a wave of guilt for having to reject their offer. “That is so sweet, I’m just... not looking for anything right now.”

Tony’s smile didn’t falter for a second. They nodded their head, understanding written all over their face as if they’d half expected your answer. “That’s alright!” They said quickly, raising their hands in a surrendering gesture. “We could still go out as friends. You seem like you could use one.”

The kindness in their voice, the way they looked at you like they genuinely wanted to help, made your heart warm. You hadn’t expected them to pivot so easily, to offer friendship instead of romance, and it felt... nice. Like maybe you weren’t as alone as you felt. “Thank you,” you said softly, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes for reasons you couldn’t quite pin down. “I—I do need a friend. That would be great.”

It had been a miserable few weeks, a spiral of regret and heartbreak after you’d confessed your love to Spencer. The words had slipped out before you could stop them, unguarded and vulnerable, and you had no idea what you were thinking when you said it. All you knew was that watching him flirt with someone else made something in you snap, and suddenly all those bottled-up emotions had spilled out, uncontrolled. But the second the words were in the air, you’d known it was a mistake. You were perfectly content to hold it back forever, to let your love for him simmer quietly in the background if it meant keeping Spencer in your life. But now? Now you’d ruined everything. Your feelings had scared him away, pushed him to his limits, and left you standing in the wake of it all, heartbroken and alone.

Tony’s kind offer was the first real light you’d had in weeks, and as you met their warm, friendly eyes, you felt a small sense of relief. You could use a friend—someone who didn’t come with all the baggage of unrequited love, someone who just wanted to spend time with you without expectations.

“Do you want to go to O’Keefe’s?” Tony suggested, their smile widening.

You shook your head quickly, feeling a lump form in your throat at the thought of that place. Too many memories, you thought, and the idea of walking in there without Spencer, without pretending you were a couple in front of the team, or, God, running into him, felt like too much. “No, uh, I go there too much,” you said with a forced laugh, trying to keep your tone light. “Let’s try something new, yeah?”

Tony nodded, the same easy smile still on their face, and you felt a flicker of hope—maybe this would be good for you. Maybe spending time with someone who wanted nothing more than friendship would help you heal, help you forget all the mess and confusion that Spencer left behind. Maybe you could start to feel like yourself again. Or at least pretend.

—

You hadn’t gotten dressed up in weeks—not since that night. Ever since then, you hadn’t felt the need to look nice for anyone. After all, who was there to impress when you weren't leaving the house? Your days blurred together in a cycle of work, staying in, and trying to forget the ache that came with remembering. So you fell into a pattern of sweatpants, oversized shirts, and fuzzy socks. 

But tonight was different. You wanted to make an effort, to show Tony that you appreciated their kindness, their willingness to be there for you without expecting anything in return. So you stood in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection as you did your hair, fixed your face and slipped into an outfit that made you feel like yourself again—put together, confident, maybe even a little happy.

When you met Tony at the place they suggested, a new bar called Brandy’s, you couldn’t help but laugh at how different it was from O’Keefe’s. It was sailor-themed, with ropes hanging from the ceiling, ship wheels mounted on the walls, and bartenders dressed in sailor uniforms, stripes and all. The vibe was lighter, more playful, and you were grateful for that. You didn’t need to be weighed down by memories tonight—you just wanted to relax and forget about everything for a little while.

“Hey!” Tony called out when they saw you walking in, waving from the bar. You made your way over, a genuine smile breaking across your face for the first time in what felt like ages.

“Hey,” you greeted back, sliding onto the barstool beside them. “This place is... something.”

Tony grinned, sliding a drink menu your way. “Yeah, thought it’d be a fun change of pace. And, uh, if you’re in the mood for anything fruity or with a silly name, this is definitely the place.”

You chuckled, scanning the menu. “Well, in that case, I might just have to try whatever sounds the most ridiculous.” 

The two of you laughed, and for a brief moment, the pain of the last few weeks faded into the background. You weren’t just the girl who told Spencer Reid she loved him and was left with the silence afterward. Tonight, you were just you—someone who could enjoy a night out with a new friend, a fruity cocktail, and maybe even the chance to find a little bit of joy again.

You sipped your Seas the Day, topped with a tiny paper anchor and an unnecessary but charming amount of fruit garnish—and let the flavors wash over your tongue. It was sweet, tangy, and almost too much, but it was exactly what you needed to cut through the weight that had been pressing down on your chest for weeks. And as Tony launched into another joke, punctuating each punchline with an easy laugh, you could feel that weight start to melt away, just a little bit.

“And then, get this,” Tony continued, eyes bright as they leaned closer, “the guy looks at the bartender and says, ‘You call that a shipwreck? Looks more like a dinghy disaster to me!’” 

You couldn't help but burst out laughing, the ridiculousness of the joke amplified by Tony’s delivery. It was silly, light, and the kind of humor that didn’t require you to overthink or analyze or worry—just laugh. And it felt good. The kind of good that had been missing for so long, you almost forgot what it felt like.

The stress that had been holding your shoulders tight seemed to leave with each sip of your drink, each joke that Tony threw your way. They were a natural storyteller, bringing every moment to life with wild hand gestures and exaggerated voices that made you forget where you were, who you were supposed to be missing. The bar around you blurred into background noise, a sea of laughter and warmth, and for the first time in weeks, you felt like you were floating—untethered from the thoughts of regret, from the sadness of everything that happened with Spencer. 

It was nice, being around someone who didn’t ask for more, who didn’t know the messy, tangled history you were trying to leave behind. Tony’s company was easy, free from expectation. And as you laughed over their jokes and sipped your drink, you let yourself relax into it, letting the night carry you away to a place where your heart didn't feel so heavy. Even if it was just for tonight, it was enough.

You and Tony stumbled out of Brandy’s hours later, practically hanging off each other in a giggling mess. The night had been a perfect distraction, and you were grateful to Tony for every dumb joke, every ridiculous story. The cool night air hit your face, making you laugh even harder as you both swayed down the sidewalk, your head light from the drinks and the company. 

But your laughter stopped cold when you heard your name called out from behind you. You froze, your smile faltering as you turned your head to see Spencer and his team, clustered together on the sidewalk just a short way down. For a second, you just stared, feeling like the world had paused around you. It seemed you weren’t the only one searching for a new spot to drown out reality tonight. You could see the surprise etched on their faces—JJ, Emily, Derek, Penelope—and Spencer, whose eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart jump in your chest. You could practically feel the tension crackling between you, hanging heavy in the air like fog, and it made your stomach twist.

But Tony was blissfully unaware, their good mood carrying them right through the awkwardness as they spotted Penelope. “Penny!” Tony cheered, bounding over to give her a hug, their voice warm and full of excitement. “What are you doing here? Fancy running into you like this!”

Penelope’s expression softened at Tony’s hug, but you could see the uncertainty in her eyes as they flickered between you, Tony, and Spencer. You followed Tony like a shadow, your smile fading into something tight and uncomfortable as you kept your eyes downcast, trailing behind and watching your feet move over the pavement. You couldn't look at Spencer, couldn’t face the way his expression would cut through you. So you just kept your focus on Tony’s shoes, willing the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

“Uh... hey, Tony,” Penelope greeted, a little off-kilter as she glanced over at Spencer, who hadn’t said a word, his face pale and unreadable. You could see her mind racing, torn between wanting to ask Tony about your supposed "date" and trying to protect Spencer from whatever mess was about to unfold. But sweet, tipsy Tony wasn’t picking up on any of it. They were still riding high on the night, blissfully unaware of the tense energy radiating around you all like a storm cloud about to burst.

“Have you guys met Y/N?” Tony asked excitedly, their arm waving in your direction, as if presenting you to a crowd for the first time. “She’s the best—totally fun to go out with. You all should come out with us next time!”

You wanted to sink into the pavement. Your eyes darted up just long enough to see the team's reactions—their hesitant smiles, the uncertainty, the surprise. And Spencer... Spencer just stared, his jaw tight, his eyes dark as they flickered between you and Tony, like he was trying to make sense of the scene in front of him, to piece together how you’d gone from loving him to laughing with someone else. 

Your breath caught in your throat, and all you could do was force a smile and nod along, pretending like this wasn’t the most awkward moment of your life, like you weren’t standing here, your whole heart laid bare and torn apart in front of the very people you’d tried so hard to avoid.

“Yeah, we know Y/N,” JJ said with a smile, trying to keep things light despite the thick tension in the air. She gave a small wave, her eyes soft and encouraging. “Hi.”

“Hey, guys,” you replied, your voice tight and strained, but you managed to look up for just a second, flashing a quick smile at the group. You could see the mix of emotions on their faces—Emily with her raised brow, JJ’s gentle attempt at normalcy, and Derek, his expression far harder to read.

Derek’s face was set in a hardened line as he studied you and Tony, clearly trying to piece together what was going on. “This a date, or something?” he asked bluntly, his tone skeptical as his eyes flicked from you to Spencer, who was standing stiffly to the side, now staring down at the ground.

Tony burst into laughter at that, the sound light and airy, cutting through the tension. “No! I asked Y/N on a date, but she said nooo,” they said, dragging out the word with a playful giggle. “We’re just friends. Really good friends, right?” They turned back to look at you, and their smile was so earnest, so kind, that you felt a small weight lift from your chest.

“Yeah,” you agreed, returning Tony's smile as best you could. “Really good friends.” You were grateful for their lightheartedness, the way they so easily cleared up the misunderstanding without any pressure, any drama. You could almost breathe again.

“Are you ready?” you asked, hoping to get away before the tension could bubble up again, before you had to look at Spencer and face whatever emotions were swirling in his eyes.

Tony nodded enthusiastically, linking their arm through yours as they tugged you gently away, back into the night, in search of a cab. You didn’t look back, even as you could feel the team's eyes burning into your back, the weight of their stares heavy on your shoulders.

As you disappeared around the corner, the team shared glances, murmurs of confusion and disbelief mixing in the cool air. “What the hell was that?” Emily finally said under her breath, crossing her arms and looking at Spencer, who hadn’t moved an inch since you walked away.

“Does anyone know what's going on with them?” JJ asked softly, her concern written plainly on her face as she glanced at each of her teammates.

But Spencer just shook his head, his jaw clenched tight as he stared after you, watching the space you’d disappeared into, as if willing you to come back, to explain, to make everything make sense again. But you were gone, leaving him standing there, alone and uncertain, with the words he wished he’d said still lodged in his throat.

Penelope spoke up, breaking the uneasy silence with a hesitant, thoughtful tone. “Tony told me he asked her out, so I guess it turned out to be a friend date,” she explained, trying to piece together what had happened with as much optimism as she could muster. But her eyes flickered to Spencer, full of concern and an almost desperate need to make things better. “But that’s good, right?” she asked, her voice a little higher than usual, like she was trying to convince herself as much as him.

Every pair of eyes turned to Spencer then, and he felt like he was shrinking under their intense stares. He could sense their silent questions, their confusion, and their concern, all boring into him like a spotlight. He didn’t know what to say, how to make it right—he just knew that something felt very wrong. 

Derek’s sigh broke the tension, and his hand landed heavily on Spencer’s shoulder, grounding him. “Listen, kid,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “We’ve been giving you your space about the breakup, but I think it’s time you talk about it.”

Spencer nodded slowly, knowing deep down that Derek was right. He had kept this locked up for too long, and he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, suffocating him. So, without another word, the five of them made their way into Brandy’s. They found a booth tucked into a quiet corner and ordered a pitcher of beer, the clinking of glasses and hum of the bar settling into the background as Spencer prepared to speak.

It all came spilling out—the truth, the messy, complicated story of what had really happened between you and him. How you’d started as casual hookups, how that grew into something more, how it was all tangled up in silences and unspoken feelings, until finally, you told him you loved him. And how he let you walk away. He felt the vulnerability of it, laying everything bare, every mistake, every regret, and the team’s reactions were a mix of shock, confusion, and sympathy.

“Why didn’t you tell her how you felt?” Penelope asked softly, her eyes wide and filled with empathy, trying to wrap her head around it all.

Spencer shrugged, staring down into his glass. He wished he could explain it better, wished he could pinpoint the exact moment he decided to let you go, but it was all so muddled now. “I guess I was mad at her,” he said, his voice small, and it hurt to say it out loud, to admit it.

“What for?” Emily asked, leaning in closer, her brows knitting together in concern and bewilderment.

Spencer looked up, meeting each of their eyes before letting his gaze drop back down to his hands, which JJ was now holding tightly, her thumbs rubbing gentle circles on his knuckles. “She... she liked me—loved me—the whole time, or at least some of it, and didn’t tell me,” he admitted, the bitterness of those words tasting sour in his mouth. “I... I thought she just wanted sex, that she didn't care about me the way I cared about her. And then, she told me, and it felt like a lie, like... like she’d been hiding something from me all along.”

Penelope’s face softened in understanding, and JJ squeezed his hands tighter. “But, Spencer,” she said gently, “you were doing the same thing, weren’t you? Hiding how you felt?”

Spencer nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping as the weight of it all settled on him. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I guess I was. And by the time she told me... I was too angry to see it for what it was. I let her walk away because... because I thought I had to protect myself. But I think I just... made everything worse.”

The team sat there in silence, absorbing Spencer’s words, trying to make sense of everything that had happened, of everything that had gone unspoken between you and him. It was Derek who finally broke the silence, his voice carrying a note of gentle insistence. “Well, you gotta tell her now,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

The others nodded in agreement, small hums of assent as they turned their eyes back to Spencer, a mixture of encouragement and urgency on their faces. Emily leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, and tried to lift the mood, offering a teasing suggestion. “Maybe take her coffee tomorrow,” she said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “She looked like a precursor to a hangover tonight.” 

The attempt at lightening the mood worked; the table filled with quiet giggles, the tension lifting just enough to let out a shared breath. Even Spencer cracked a smile, the knot in his chest loosening just a little as he let himself imagine it—showing up to see you, holding your favorite coffee in his hands like a peace offering, and finally saying all the things he’d held back for so long.

“Yeah,” Spencer said, the word coming out like a sigh of relief. “I was going to tell her, but then Tony asked her out, and I thought I lost my chance.” His smile faltered as he said it, that same feeling of panic creeping back in, that sinking sensation that he’d already missed his window and that any attempt to reach you would be too late, too little. 

“But Tony’s not a threat,” JJ chimed in gently, squeezing his hand again. “You heard them tonight—they’re just friends.”

“Besides, it doesn’t matter who else asks her out,” Derek said, his voice firm as he looked Spencer straight in the eyes. “What matters is how you feel. You love her, man. You gotta tell her that. Don’t let some hang-up stop you from getting what you really want.”

“Yeah, Reid,” Penelope added softly, her voice carrying that loving, encouraging tone that always managed to make him feel safe. “You two... you need to talk. Really talk.”

Spencer nodded, feeling a swell of determination rising within him, the first real sense of hope he’d felt in months. He knew they were right—he had to try. Even if it meant risking rejection, even if it meant being vulnerable in a way he’d never been before, he needed to tell you how he felt.  

So as he sat there, surrounded by his friends, Spencer began to plan how he would show you that he wanted more than just fleeting nights and tangled sheets—he wanted you. All of you. Everything.

—

You woke up to the unpleasant stickiness of dried drool on your face. Your mouth felt like sandpaper, parched from a night of laughter, late hours, and whatever concoction of sugary alcohol you’d downed at Brandy’s. But, thankfully, your half-drunk self had taken care of the essentials the night before, leaving a full water bottle by your bedside. You reached over, popped it open, and chugged gratefully, the water flooding your senses with relief as you rehydrated.

The hangover was mild, nothing too aggressive—it wasn’t like you’d drunk all that much. You knew deep down you’d mostly been drunk on the fun of the night, on Tony’s kindness, on the fleeting joy of having someone distract you from your thoughts, your heartache. It made waking up easier, even if your head throbbed a little when you sat up.

With a groan, you pulled yourself out of bed, the coolness of the floor grounding you as you stretched, taking your time to shake off the morning fog. You went through the familiar motions: washing your face, brushing your hair, and scrubbing your teeth.

You didn’t have any real plans for the day, just the usual routine of catching up on chores, maybe grabbing coffee later if you felt up for it. But today felt a little lighter, a little easier. And as you made your way into the kitchen, the morning sun spilling through the window and warming the floor beneath your feet, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, this day wouldn’t be so hard after all.

But then a knock sounded from the front door of your apartment, startling you. You paused, trying to figure out who it could be. I don’t remember ordering any packages, you thought, and my neighbors barely know I exist. You waited a moment, hoping maybe whoever it was would just leave, but the knock came again—this time more persistent, the sound echoing through your quiet apartment.

You hated answering the door. Not because you were afraid of who might be there, but because you hated the possibility of small talk, the awkwardness of forced pleasantries, the interruptions to your peaceful solitude. It's one of the reasons you went into IT, the comfort of working with machines and problems that could be solved with logic, not conversation. So you stood there for another beat, hoping to hear the telltale sound of retreating footsteps. But there was nothing. Just silence, and then, annoyingly, another knock. 

“God,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your eyes as you stomped toward the door. Whoever it was, they were persistent, and clearly weren’t getting the hint that you just wanted to be left alone.

You swung open the door, your frustration ready to spill over as you began to speak, “Hello—”

But the words caught in your throat the moment you saw who was standing there.

“Spencer?” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper, the shock hitting you like a splash of cold water. There he was, standing right in front of you, looking just as surprised to see you as you were to see him, his face a mixture of hope, nerves, and something unreadable that made your stomach flip. He was holding two cups of coffee, and it felt surreal, like a scene pulled straight from a dream you hadn’t quite woken up from.

“Hi,” he said, offering a small, hesitant smile, and suddenly the world around you seemed to shrink, leaving just the two of you standing there, the morning hanging heavy with words unspoken. 

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice laced with confusion and something close to disbelief. You were still trying to process the fact that Spencer was standing in front of you, holding coffee like this was something normal—something that happened often.

Spencer shifted his weight nervously, glancing down at the two cups in his hands before looking back up at you, searching your face. “I—uh, I thought I’d bring you coffee,” he stammered, the words sounding more like a question than a statement. “To help with... the hangover?” He trailed off, looking at you with those wide, earnest eyes that made it impossible to be mad, even if you wanted to be.

You raised a brow, not quite sure what to make of this sudden gesture. But after a moment, you stepped aside, holding the door open wider. “Okay,” you said, your voice softer now, and gestured for him to come in.

Spencer hesitated just for a second before walking in, and you watched as his eyes moved across the space, taking it all in. The apartment felt different now, seeing it in the daylight. The wide, almost floor-to-ceiling windows were uncovered, letting the morning light stream in and cast warm shadows on the walls. You’d always liked the way the plants scattered around the room bathed in the sunlight, their leaves turning vibrant shades of green, and the way the fabric of the couch gleamed just a bit in the soft light. But Spencer had never seen it like this. He’d only ever been here at night, when the only illumination was the dim glow of lamps and the city lights outside.

“Those are... nice windows,” he said suddenly, as if noticing them for the first time, his eyes lingering on the bright view of the landscape beyond. He sounded almost surprised, like he hadn’t expected your space to be like this—bright, open, comforting and calm.

“Thank you…” you replied, a little awkwardly, still trying to wrap your head around why Spencer was here, in your apartment, holding coffee and making small talk about windows. You took the cup from his hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and felt that familiar warmth spread up your arm, making your chest feel tight. You wanted to say something—anything—to cut through the tension hanging between you. But you didn’t know where to start. 

You both stood there for a moment, as you searched each other's faces for answers. 

“How are you?” Spencer asked softly, and the simplicity of the question caught you off guard. It was the same question he’d asked months ago, the one that had started everything between you, the beginning of the friends-with-benefits arrangement that had rapidly spiraled. And now, hearing those words again felt like a punch to the gut, bringing all those memories rushing back to the surface.

You froze, trying to decide how to answer. There were a million things you wanted to say, a thousand ways to tell him how hard it had been, how much you missed him, how your heart ached every time you thought about him, and how you’d felt so stupid for letting yourself fall. But the words tangled in your throat, and you didn’t know which to pick.

“I’ve been... better,” you finally said, opting for honesty. What was the point in pretending, anyway? You’d already given up any sense of dignity around this man. You weren’t going to lie to him now, not after everything that had happened, not when he’d come all the way here.

Spencer's eyes softened, his expression turning pained at your words. He took a small step closer, like he wanted to reach out, but his hand hovered just inches from yours before he pulled it back, uncertainty clouding his face. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ve been... pretty awful, too.”

You looked down, the coffee cup warm in your hands, and nodded. “Yeah, well... that's what happens, I guess,” you mumbled. “When you... you know, ruin everything.” Your laugh came out bitter and hollow as you gestured at yourself, and you hated how raw and vulnerable you felt, like every emotion was sitting on the surface, ready to spill over.

“I don't think you ruined anything,” he said softly, his voice so gentle it made you want to cry. “Or at least... not beyond fixing.” Spencer's gaze was steady, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like he was really seeing you—like the walls you’d both built around yourselves were crumbling, leaving nothing but truth between you. 

You shook your head slightly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears from falling. “Then why are you here, Spencer?” You forced the words out, your voice trembling with every question you’d held back for so long. “Why now? What do you want from me?” 

You hadn’t meant to sound so broken, so defeated, but the way Spencer looked at you made it feel like maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be strong anymore. Not with him. And it terrified you, how much you wanted to hear whatever he was going to say next.

“I just want you,” Spencer said, his voice plain and sure, like it was the simplest truth in the world. The words hung between you, raw and unadorned, and for a moment, you could barely breathe, barely process what he'd just said. 

Your eyes met his, searching for any hesitation, any sign that he might take it back—that this was just another moment you’d misread. But there was none. His eyes were steady, intent, and every part of him seemed to lean toward you as if he was ready to close the distance that had kept you apart for so long. 

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pound painfully in your chest. “Spencer...” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words caught somewhere between disbelief and hope. “But... you said you didn’t... I thought—” The excuses tumbled over themselves in your mind, but none of them could erase the way he was looking at you now, with all the longing and tenderness you’d ever wanted to let yourself see.

Spencer shook his head, taking that last step closer, his body just inches from yours, and this time, there was no hesitation, no fear in his touch. He reached out, his hand gently cupping your cheek, and you felt the familiar warmth of his fingers against your skin. It was like everything else in the world faded away, leaving just the two of you, in this tiny pocket of time where all that mattered was what you both felt.

“I never got to say anything,” he said softly, his voice low and rough with emotion. “You left before I could.” His thumb stroked your cheek in a tender, slow rhythm, and the touch was so gentle, so careful, it made your heart ache.

“You asked if I wanted to keep having sex,” you mumbled, your voice cracking as you forced yourself to look at him, to see the truth in his eyes. 

Spencer let out a breath, one that seemed to carry all the frustration and pain of the past few weeks. “You inferred that that’s what I was asking,” he corrected gently. “And maybe it was, in some way... I don’t know what I was going to say then. I was so conflicted, so... scared. Scared of wanting you, scared of losing you, scared of loving you. But... I’m not anymore,” he continued, and there was a steadiness to his voice now, a certainty that wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. “I know what I want. I love you, Y/N.”

The words fell softly between you, but they felt like fireworks going off in your chest, like every broken piece inside you was being stitched back together by the way he said them. And as you stood there, his hand on your cheek, your lips parted in shock and your eyes filled with tears, you could see it—all the love, all the vulnerability, all the things he’d been too afraid to show you before.

Your breath hitched, and you placed your hand over his, pressing his palm tighter against your cheek as you let the truth of his words sink in. “You... you love me?” you asked, as if saying it aloud would make it more real, as if you needed to hear it again to believe that it was really happening. 

Spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as he smiled, a small, fragile thing that grew more certain with every second. “I love you,” he repeated, each word clear and steady. “I have for a long time. And I want to be with you, not just... physically, not just as friends with benefits. I want all of it. I want you. Everything.”

You felt a sob building in your throat, but it wasn’t a sad sound—it was relief, joy, everything you’d been holding back crashing over you all at once. And as you leaned in, your lips finding his in a kiss that was soft, tender, and full of all the love that had gone unspoken between you for so long, you felt something fall into place, something that had been missing finally becoming whole.

The kiss deepened, becoming heated and urgent, both of you rediscovering the taste and feel of each other like it was the first time all over again. You could feel the way Spencer’s body leaned into yours, could feel how badly you both wanted to close every inch of space between you. And for a moment, you let yourself melt into him, your hands tangling in his hair, his arm winding around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

But then you pulled back, breaking the kiss with a shaky breath, pressing your forehead against his as you tried to steady yourself. “Wait, wait,” you managed to say between breaths, “I don’t—don’t want to have sex. Not for a while.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed, the confusion clear on his face, but he didn’t pull away. He stayed close, his eyes searching yours, and you could see the genuine concern there, the way he was listening to every word. “Okay,” he nodded slowly, voice gentle. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Can I... can I ask why?”

You let out a sigh, trying to find the right words. It was hard to say aloud, especially when the temptation to be with him physically was so strong, when every part of your body ached to feel close to him again. But this was important—this was different. “I just... I want to be with you,” you explained softly, meeting his eyes, wanting him to see how much you meant it. “And get to know you in every other way first. No rushing into things. I want... everything to feel right.”

And there it was—the truth that you’d been holding back for so long. That what you wanted with him wasn’t just fleeting, wasn’t just something that could be captured in a night. You wanted the full, messy, beautiful truth of being with Spencer—without the fear that it was only about the physical.

Spencer’s face softened, his confusion melting away into a wide, affectionate grin, one that filled his whole face with light and made your heart do that little flip it always did whenever he smiled like that. “I am completely on board with that,” he said, his voice full of warmth, no hesitation in his tone. “I’ll take all the time you need. And I’ll be here for all of it.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling a surge of joy and relief bubble up in your chest as you wrapped your arms around him again. “Aye aye, captain,” you teased, and the two of you laughed together, the sound filling the quiet morning and making everything feel hopeful and new.

And as you held each other close, and stood together, just soaking in the moment, you knew that for the first time, you were going to do this right—take your time, learn every little thing about each other, and make it real. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

tag list <333 @yokaimoon @khxna @noelliece @dreamsarebig @sleepey-looney @cocobean16 @placidus @criminalmindssworld @lilu842 @greatoperawombategg @charismatic-writer @fxoxo @hearts4spensco @furrybouquettrash @kathrynlakestone @chaneladdicted @time-himself @mentallyunwellsposts @sapph1re @idefktbh17 @gilwm @reggieswriter @loumouse @spencerreidsreads @i-live-in-spite @fanfic-viewer @bootylovers44 @atheniandrinkscoffee @niktwazny303 @dead-universe @hbwrelic @kniselle @cynbx @danielle143 @katemusic @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @laurakirsten0502 @geepinky @mxlviaa @libraprincessfairy @fortheloveofgubler @super-nerd22 @k-illdarlings @softestqueeen @eliscannotdance 

[mariacallous]

It feels like no one should have to say this, and yet we are in a situation where it needs to be said, very loudly and clearly, before it’s too late to do anything about it: The United States is not a startup. If you run it like one, it will break.

The onslaught of news about Elon Musk’s takeover of the federal government’s core institutions is altogether too much—in volume, in magnitude, in the sheer chaotic absurdity of a 19-year-old who goes by “Big Balls” helping the world’s richest man consolidate power. There’s an easy way to process it, though.

Donald Trump may be the president of the United States, but Musk has made himself its CEO.

This is bad on its face. Musk was not elected to any office, has billions of dollars of government contracts, and has radicalized others and himself by elevating conspiratorial X accounts with handles like @redpillsigma420. His allies control the US government’s human resources and information technology departments, and he has deployed a strike force of eager former interns to poke and prod at the data and code bases that are effectively the gears of democracy. None of this should be happening.

It is, though. And while this takeover is unprecedented for the government, it’s standard operating procedure for Musk. It maps almost too neatly to his acquisition of Twitter in 2022: Get rid of most of the workforce. Install loyalists. Rip up safeguards. Remake in your own image.

This is the way of the startup. You’re scrappy, you’re unconventional, you’re iterating. This is the world that Musk’s lieutenants come from, and the one they are imposing on the Office of Personnel Management and the General Services Administration.

What do they want? A lot.

There’s AI, of course. They all want AI. They want it especially at the GSA, where a Tesla engineer runs a key government IT department and thinks AI coding agents are just what bureaucracy needs. Never mind that large language models can be effective but are inherently, definitionally unreliable, or that AI agents—essentially chatbots that can perform certain tasks for you—are especially unproven. Never mind that AI works not just by outputting information but by ingesting it, turning whatever enters its maw into training data for the next frontier model. Never mind that, wouldn’t you know it, Elon Musk happens to own an AI company himself. Go figure.

Speaking of data: They want that, too. DOGE agents are installed at or have visited the Treasury Department, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, the Small Business Administration, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, the Department of Education, the Department of Health and Human Services, the Department of Labor. Probably more. They’ve demanded data, sensitive data, payments data, and in many cases they’ve gotten it—the pursuit of data as an end unto itself but also data that could easily be used as a competitive edge, as a weapon, if you care to wield it.

And savings. They want savings. Specifically they want to subject the federal government to zero-based budgeting, a popular financial planning method in Silicon Valley in which every expenditure needs to be justified from scratch. One way to do that is to offer legally dubious buyouts to almost all federal employees, who collectively make up a low-single-digit percentage of the budget. Another, apparently, is to dismantle USAID just because you can. (If you’re wondering how that’s legal, many, many experts will tell you that it’s not.) The fact that the spending to support these people and programs has been both justified and mandated by Congress is treated as inconvenience, or maybe not even that.

Those are just the goals we know about. They have, by now, so many tentacles in so many agencies that anything is possible. The only certainty is that it’s happening in secret.

Musk’s fans, and many of Trump’s, have cheered all of this. Surely billionaires must know what they’re doing; they’re billionaires, after all. Fresh-faced engineer whiz kids are just what this country needs, not the stodgy, analog thinking of the past. It’s time to nextify the Constitution. Sure, why not, give Big Balls a memecoin while you’re at it.

The thing about most software startups, though, is that they fail. They take big risks and they don’t pay off and they leave the carcass of that failure behind and start cranking out a new pitch deck. This is the process that DOGE is imposing on the United States.

No one would argue that federal bureaucracy is perfect, or especially efficient. Of course it can be improved. Of course it should be. But there is a reason that change comes slowly, methodically, through processes that involve elected officials and civil servants and care and consideration. The stakes are too high, and the cost of failure is total and irrevocable.

Musk will reinvent the US government in the way that the hyperloop reinvented trains, that the Boring company reinvented subways, that Juicero reinvented squeezing. Which is to say he will reinvent nothing at all, fix no problems, offer no solutions beyond those that further consolidate his own power and wealth. He will strip democracy down to the studs and rebuild it in the fractious image of his own companies. He will move fast. He will break things.

[bird-inacage]

Fortpeat Deserve Respect - Thoughts on Recent Events

Admittedly, I have been out of the loop with Fortpeat as of late, so my apologies if I'm not fully clued in on all the nuances. I assume most FP fans will have caught wind of this news. This was brought to my attention via MeMindY's recent public announcement, and Magic Cube have since also issued an apology.

To briefly recap: at FP's recent event 'Magic Snack Party' (8 March), hosted by Magic Cube, a few fans demanded an apology from FP due to alleged grievances and dissatisfaction from the event and others prior. Another group of fans were seeking an apology from the event staff, not FP. Fortpeat were present and apologised at the time.

For context, I am a Chinese speaker and have listened to the audio a few times. A fairly accurate translation is circulating on the internet but I would flag that we don't see which individuals made which comments. Individuals are heard to say 'they' a number of times and it's not absolutely clear in some cases if references are being made to FP, the event staff or both as 'they'.

The main issues I see being raised by the fandom are as follows:

The fans in question acted inappropriately by demanding a personal and private apology from FP.

FP should not have been put in such a position if the complaints or grievances were due to the fault of poor management via event organisers (Magic Cube) or MeMindY, and not misconduct from FP as individuals.

MeMindY have shown a concerning lack of support and protection in acting as FP's agent and facilitator. They have a poor track record in preventing such instances from happening.

I do fear the discourse will get very heated, and I'd like to emphasise that in the audio, there were also fans audibly protesting against this behaviour. Let's please focus on the fact that the instigators were a minority and refrain from any potentially xenophobic comments.

Ultimately, FP were in a really vulnerable position. As the incident mainly involved Chinese-speaking fans, they could only rely on their translator to gauge what was going on. Based on what is generally known of FP's characters as people, it doesn't surprise me that they felt compelled to apologise regardless of whether they were at fault or not. They take their fans very seriously.

A huge degree of responsibility lies with MMY. As their agent, this interaction should have never occurred. They should have acted as the mediator between all involved parties to prevent escalation. One, to protect their artists from any form of intimidation from fans, and two, to maintain a code of conduct amongst the fanbase with due process as to how to raise complaints in a suitable manner.

PARASOCIAL FANS: WHEN ADMIRATION VEERS INTO OWNERSHIP

Sadly, this is yet another example of the underlying risk and side-effect of the BL industry and unhealthy parasocial expectations. With the opportunity to get up close to these artists via a slew of events, promotions, fanmeets, and concerts - inevitably, the fan/artist dynamic can become blurry for some. More so for those who have the finance and means to pay for more exclusive interactions.

One could argue that the BL industry is transactional. The success of these artists rely on fans paying to support and see them. They do a job, they perform a service, fans pay for that entertainment which can eventually harbour a sense of entitlement. What becomes increasingly lost with this mentality is that artists are not being considered as human beings.

I worked in customer service for years and it's a similar story. Customers feel entitled to direct their frustration towards you simply because you represent the goods/services they pay for. The majority of the time the complaints aren't due to anything you've personally done. Yet you are the receiving end of that negativity and aggression.

Now I'd be cautious about making any definitive claims in regards to the fans involved in this particular altercation. For most of us, we weren't present and we are relying on secondhand accounts and just audio to ascertain what happened. As fans, what we can do is our darned best to advocate for better terms and values of respect both within the fandom and to our beloved artists.

AGENT RESPONSIBILITY & ACCOUNTABILITY

There have been rumblings for a long time now about MMY's treatment of FP. I don't know too much about the ins or outs in that respect, but I do believe it's in FP's benefit to consider other options. It's likely they feel indebted to MAME and how their first job with MMY skyrocketed them into such popularity. I imagine this makes it very difficult to consider moving on.

Many are requesting for these particular individuals to be blacklisted from attending events again. If this has been a repeated pattern of behaviour, MMY need to issue adequate consequences. It may even be sensible for agents/companies to have some form of legal code of conduct that fans have to sign before any 1-2-1 or face-to-face activities, so if any violation of these terms do occur, then due action can immediately be taken.

It's worth highlighting that event organisers do also have a duty of care and safety to fans attending (many of which could be travelling long distances or don't speak the local language). Therefore the responsibility is twofold - both to the artists and the fans - to manage that dynamic robustly. I don't want us to overlook any poor handling and mistreatment that the fans with genuine complaints may have been attempting to raise to the organisers.

After all, it's often the agents and event organisers who get the biggest cut of the profits, whereas it's either the artists themselves or the fans who get the brunt of the fallout. Many artists are bound and locked into complex contractual parameters with their companies and any other parties they collaborate with, and actually have very little say in terms of how these things operate.

We need to remind ourselves of who we should be holding accountable in order to raise standards of practice within the industry, to the benefit of all. We can all strive to do better.

[n3ptoonz]

i miss doing blurbs so here's one with 40s bucky! (i'm also drafting a fic rn.)

sneaking into a superior's office at night with bucky blurb

warnings: sergeant james barnes, agent!reader, older fem reader (three years), explicit language and content, "you" used, indigo can't stop staring at this god damn picture of him

It was after hours and the two of you managed to stay on base until you rendezvoused to one of the offices that belonged to a man neither of you took a liking to. Bucky entered the dark room first, your hands clasped together as he held up a single finger to his lips, reminding you to stay quiet. Once fully inside he closed the door and contained his laughter, pulling you in for a tender kiss. You smiled against him and wrapped your arms around his neck.

You told him the uniform stays on, including the hat, to which he had zero protests to as he surveyed the area, deciding where and how to take you...but he really wanted to have fun with this. He suggested roleplaying as boss and secretary. He was gonna sit in that chair, give you an order, but you were supposed to refuse so he could have his way.

Funniest part about all this was the fact that it took so long to get to this point. Long before all this, you were stiff and lived by the rules; knew the book cover to cover. And the fact that you had like three years on him. But he was able to break down those walls someway somehow (he would not stop publicly flirting with you until you agreed to a first date).

Bucky would occasionally shush you if you were getting too vocal, grinning when you attempted a glare. But it wasn't your fault he was so in character that he was fucking you on this semi-cluttered desk like he was actually upset you didn't follow orders. He kept his hand on your stomach to feel his bulge thrusting in and out - the cocky bastard he is. He looked down at you like he was proud, which he was. Look at you, indulging in his mischief and taking him so well in the process.

Since you suggested he keep his uniform on, he insisted you kept your heels on. And only your heels.

[spacemothsota]

Cyberform AU - Part 3

Commune "Diego Garcia" (Autobot base for Cyberformed allies).

Warning: Attention: in this AU, all human allies of the Autobots are in the same universe (reality), for the sake of their psychological well-being.

The human government is not particularly happy about the fact that Cybertronians can change humans. It is quite logical that this scares them, fortunately the Autobots and Decepticons are not very inclined to cyberform just anyone.

In fact, the government was largely unaware of this until 1984 (or later) when Sparkplug and Spike were reported "disappearing" (that's right, they were the first). Also, the Autobots became more protective and closed during the disappearance period, not allowing human agents into part of the ARC. This behavior and unwanted questions created a couple of unpleasant incidents (Optimus was not very happy, he had to regulate the resulting friction and calm everyone down, although he knew what was going on). Later, when the "new bots" appeared for special agents and later the government, the puzzle came together. It was not difficult, since the former humans were still less accustomed to the new realities of their lives, they willingly used human terms, concepts and names. In addition, the Autobots began to request human items, such as pillows and blankets, the size of a Cybertronian. (All in the name of adaptation, so that it would be easier for a person to gradually get used to the new, plus old familiar things were gradually replaced with Cybertronian ones, a slow transition did not allow the former people to get nervous once again).

This was shocking, but it was decided to hide this information, firstly, not to cause panic among the public, and secondly, there were few cyberformed humans, it was easier to turn a blind eye to the disappearance of a couple of people than to question a politically (and not only) advantageous alliance. In addition, the government believed that it could use former people against the Autobots themselves in case of danger (later this resulted in an extremely unpleasant situation for the cyberformed, due to which they quickly left Earth and moved to Cybertron).

It was decided to give the Autobots another place for this process, so as not to disturb the agents and not to cause unnecessary conflicts (the protective nature of the Cybertronians at some stages was quite unpleasant for the joint work of people and bots).

Diego Garcia Island: It is a former military base, but it was completely given to the Autobots to develop it and keep the cyberformed away from the public eye until they are ready to keep their secret. And so that the cyberforming process does not traumatize other people who are not so close to the Cybertronians ("What is not there, does not exist / there are no witnesses, no victims" - said the human government and pointed towards the island).

If a human ally gets to the island, then a special department cleans up all paper or other sources about this person, erasing them from the system as if such a person never existed, since he will not return to the world of people. Sometimes you have to bribe people, but usually threats and money are enough to make them keep quiet. The old data that is not deleted is sent to the island for the cyberformed themselves.

On Diego Garcia, the Cyberform Commune was created, they have their own leader, a management system, they also work to preserve important cultural parts of their lives. In the commune, former humans undergo final processes and treatment (they receive support from those who have already gone through this). They receive an education from the Autobots and a profession if possible (if their human profession has a Cybertronian equivalent). The commune is mostly subordinate to Optimus and other high-ranking Autobots (they mostly do not participate in combat missions, the Autobots collectively decided that their comrades are not yet mentally ready for such things, although some enthusiasts show a desire to fight side by side. However, there are exceptions). Diego Garcia, in a way, serves as a support function for the Autobots, there is also a large laboratory with a medical bay.

In a way, Diego Garcia is practically a Cybertronian city, a small settlement by human standards. Access there is mainly through the air, a ship or a space bridge.

Prev | Next

To understand what Cyberform AU is: Q&A1 Character List

[dizzyjaden]

hihihi soooo. I want this to involve Kaeya, Xiao, and Dottore (heheh) if that’s okay. Pick whoever u want if only one ! But anyways

What if you’re a member of the armed forces (a knight of Favonius, a member of the millelith, and a fatui agent respectively). And you get injured on the job. Like, injured enough to warrant a hospital stay. Pretty *badly* hurt. What are those three doing, yknow? How do they react? Are they helping? How so? That type of stuff

✦ GENSHIN MEN WHEN YOU GET HURT ✦

Thank you for asking, let's find out.

Pairings: Kaeya, Xiao, Dottore x gn! Reader

♤ Summary: You got hurt and need medical assistance.

♤ Warnings: Severe injury (abdominal stab wound, broken arm, various bruises and cuts), slight yummy angst, soft Dottore

♤ A/N: I know this isn't exactly a request but I'm treating it like a request because I wanna get stuff posted. I'm also really not the best at Kaeya, so forgive me in advance if he's fugly. Enjoy!

Kaeya:

As a knight, you know that when an issue arises in Mondstadt, you’re going to stand on the frontlines for your city. It’s what is expected of you, and what you have accepted for yourself. You don’t mind it, your city is important to you. Your job is important to you. It’s actually how you met your boyfriend, Kaeya, who is also very important to you. Perhaps that’s why when the two of you were out fighting off abyss mages to protect a group of civilians, you threw yourself right in front of him as a shard of ice, summoned by a cryo abyss mage, was sent flying straight towards his chest. Instead of his chest, it impaled you in your stomach, right beneath your ribcage.

It takes him a moment to process what just happened, in an instant everything pauses and he’s focused entirely on you. Needless to say, when he sees you fall to your knees, holding your stomach in agony, he practically rips the remaining mages apart and hurries to tend to you.

Thankfully the wound is not horrifically deep, the distance between you and the mage prevented it from flying fast enough, but you are still bleeding from your stomach, which is rather alarming. He hides his panic though, not wanting to upset you further when you’re already injured. He ties his belt tightly around the wound and picks you up, you’ve never been stabbed before so obviously you’re quite concerned with your injury, because of this he chooses to gaslight you while he rushes to get you back to the city. “It’s fine, I’ve seen way worse! You worry too much.” 

Kaeya wants to remain by your side when he does finally get you to a doctor, he is quite irritable when he can’t go back with you but ultimately waits, impatiently so. When you’re all patched up he rushes into the room and gives you a tight, slightly painful hug. When you remind him that you’re freshly injured his face falls and a hurried apology leaves his lips.

The two of you spend the rest of the day laughing and teasing each other about the unfortunate incident, Kaeya is glad it’s already something you can laugh about, but he truthfully feels guilty he let that happen to you when it was such an easy fight. He’ll get you whatever you need until you’re fully recovered.

Xiao:

Honestly, Xiao would just prefer if you called his name before you fought anything. Yes, he knows you’re trained. Yes, he knows you’re strong. But he’s an adeptus and he’s willing to protect you. Why won’t you just utilize that and not put yourself at risk? He doesn’t understand. But he doesn’t ask any questions when he’s called by you in your time of need. He teleports straight to your location, where he finds you gravely injured with multiple gashes and bruises on your body, and a small crowd of ruin guards encircling your fallen figure. He quickly stands in front of you, calculates how much time he has based on the severity of your injuries, and then tears them all to shreds. 

As he fights he counts each second that passes, thinking about your blood loss. He manages to defeat them in thirty-one seconds, but he was planning on thirty. He teleports back to you, picks you up, and then teleports you to the nearest hospital. You’re too weak at this point to really register anything so he hands you over to the doctors wordlessly and then leaves you there.

When you’re fixed up and a bit more conscious, you quickly call his name and he meekly appears with a bouquet of flowers he’d gathered while you were getting treated. “For the single second that I let you bleed.” He explains his intention behind the small gift. He’s convinced you’ve probably been irritated at him since you got to the hospital, but you are entirely unsure of what he means. Xiao is such a perfectionist when it comes to keeping you safe, but you’re just grateful he came at all. When you take his gift, you express this and he isn’t sure what to make of it, but he doesn’t wish to make it a bigger deal than he already has so he simply nods and then lectures you for nearly an hour about not calling sooner.

Dottore:

When Dottore hears from an associate that you’ve been injured while out on a mission, he is right on it. He doesn’t ask any questions about your condition, he can figure that out when he finds you. And when he does, he is livid. Whatever opponent you faced completely broke your arm! It doesn’t matter if you were already about to receive treatment, he trusts nobody but himself to help you. As a harbinger, what he says goes so he’s going to take care of it. 

While he’s fixing your arm he’s asking you questions about who did this to you. He’s disappointed to hear you already managed to defeat them. He was hoping to have the opportunity to make their death so much longer than the merciful quick bullet you gave them. But, at least they aren’t alive anymore.

Once that’s out of the way, he gives you gentle kisses and hushed words of comfort to take care of you. Really, it’s not that big of a deal to a fatui soldier like yourself and you find his reaction dramatic, but he likes taking care of you and he just has to smother you right now so, tough luck I guess.

He makes sure you take it easy for a while, not allowing you to do anything strenuous. If you happen to argue with him about it, he’ll simply order you to stay home and rest. He’s a harbinger, remember?

[singerwriter04]

The Mission - Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff X Fem! Shield Agent Reader

The Mission (Fluff, fighting, yearning, angst)

(Based in the early days of Natasha being part of/joining shield) You get sent on a mission, in which you end up meeting & fighting a Black Widow, and manage to get her to start the process of leaving the Red Room & joining shield, instead.

Early Days (Fluff, yearning, close-call, tension)

As you're training with Nat, you get pulled into start discussing your upcoming mission with her, and Clint, and you end up learning new information in the process.

Early Days Pt. 2 (Fluff, longing, yearning, lust)

You finally get called on to do the mission with Natasha, and Clint. And, in the process, end up realizing your feelings even deeper for Nat, until they burst out.

[cars2-renaissance]

You know what, fuck it

This is Bartholomew Turin, (also B. Turin, Barty T, or just Bart.) He’s an oc of mine. According to my fic lore, this is the guy who found Finn and Leland and recruited them to CHROME in the ‘60s.

I’ve got OODLES of lore for this fic but it’s a massive project and I want to post more about it since the actual writing process is agonisingly slow.

So I’m gonna yap about ol’ Barty T in the meantime.

Bart is based off of a rare sports car manufactured in 1950 called the Abarth 205.

It’s named after the man who built it, an Austrian/Italian, Carlo Abarth. The car fascinated me because of how old it was. At first glance, it looks like a Ferrari from the mid ‘60s. Cars in the ‘50s did not look like this. So I thought an Austrian/Italian race car who does NOT look his age would be an interesting base for an oc. Plus as an agent of CHROME, it would let him have a lot more experience if he was manufactured in 1950 while still having the sleek ‘60s looks.

So having left the racing scene in Italy, Bart became a part of British Intelligence sometime in the ‘50s. He worked a number of missions and made a name for himself.

During some domestic assignments in the mid ‘60s, he came across two characters who would stand out to him: an explosives expert who was pulling ever more impressive bank heists with a crew of crooks until he got caught and a former racing prodigy who had been caught cheating and was left with undeniable skill but too much scandal to use it.

He worked out deals with both of them and managed to bring them together onto an assignment where their respective skills would be useful. Those cars were Finn McMissile and Leland Turbo.

Bart was their mentor for a long time. He was an incredibly successful agent but of my god he was a hot mess at the same time. He took risks no one else would dare, he would pull missions together at the last minute after wreaking absolute chaos, zero self preservation skills, he was a HANDFUL

He’s where Finn got it from.

I might post more about my ocs in the future or smaller plots within the larger fic. I just want to yap about it so bad and screaming into my google docs gets old so I can scream into the void here too lol

[sunshowersanddandelionwine]

au where ghost, by recommendation of his therapist, starts writing as a hobby. its not very helpful, at least at first. it feels like a chore, but ghost is nothing if not tenacious. hes going to prove the doc wrong and show them that he cant be helped. his journals (because he was going to give this thing his all, and handwriting everything was the best way to do it) are mostly a lot of angry scribbled thoughts and self loathing. but slowly, over time, things start to shift. more positive things start peppering the anger and the melancholy. the whole process feels less like a burden and more like a release.

then he starts writing less reality. more little anecdotes sprinkled with a smidge of hyperbole. some outlandish dreams he had the previous night. small fictions that still act as an outlet for his feelings.

as his skills grow, his therapist suggests writing a novel. something long term and sustained to put his little hobby to the test. its a commitment, sure, and a lot of work to get there, but hes never shied away from a challenge before. like with everything in his life, he dives in chest first.

the doc wasnt wrong, writing the thing was rough. borderline impossible sometimes. but slowly, storylines rise and fall. characters grow and change. the manuscript begins, and just as uneventfully it ends. he wrote a novel. now what?

nothing, he decides. it was catharsis, nothing more nothing less. but then some little shits (roach and gaz) find the bound stack of papers in his office (purposefully hidden under some overdue paperwork) and BEG him to let them read it. he isnt sure at first, but the puppydog eyes work and he reluctantly relents.

hes expecting ridicule, maybe some teasing compliments or even critiques. he wasnt expecting the two of them to ambush him the next day, half feral and wanting more. they spent the entire night reading it, nearly missing the start of breakfast because they were too engrossed.

somehow, they convince him to try for an agent. somehow, he manages to snag one. somehow, that agent loves his work enough to pitch it to several publishing houses (under a pseudonym, of course). and somehow, it gets picked up for publication.

holding the glossy hardback all that time later, ghost isnt sure what happened. he isnt sure how in the world he went from alone and angry, grieving and isolated, to this. the book is somehow a bestseller, with rave reviews all over the place. its honestly kind of nerve wracking??? the only people who know about him and it are his team. (price definitely didnt shed a tear when presented with a signed first edition copy. the sergeants absolutely did.)

he isnt sure how to feel when the new sergeant joins, all knife smiles and cutting words, waltzing into his base with a battered copy of that very book under his arm. a battered copy filled to the brim with red pen and tabs, scribbled criticism that cuts the story to the bone and picks apart every little failing scrawled in every margin. it should annoy him. it should make him hate the man, one john mactavish, all that much more.

he cant help but find him fascinating.

(maybe he might even get some ideas for the next book. thats the only reason he cant stop seeking his opinions.)