#mentor!reader

[onlybeeewrites]

A Change of Plans (2/)

Pairing: Haymitch Abernathy x Fem!reader 

Requested: yes!

Word count: 2k

Warning: Mentions/illusions to SA, mentions of blood, gore, mentions of past games.

A Change of Plans: Previous

A/N: OMG I’m alive??? So many people requested a part two and I finally got around to writing. Between how busy life is plus writers block I promise I’m not ignoring the requests in my inbox <3 i appreciate all of your patience and I really hope you enjoy, this was a lot of fun!

      · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You never for one moment had thought that you’d be back here. Not like this at least. Of course you had been a mentor for years. You had did your best to keep the kids alive, to try to at least bring one home each year. But like many of the other districts, not many did.

You remembered their names. Their faces haunting your dreams every night when dreams of your own arena decided to give you a break. 

The dreams started off kind at first. But then as usual, they turned awful. Dark. Bloodied. Murderous. The smell was thr worst part. It all felt so real, that you could still smell the flesh and blood even after waking up. 

All of it reminding you of the failure to save them. Most of them at least. Celia was one of the ones you were able to save. Now a mother, she had her life ahead of her. At least as much of a life a victor could possibly have. 

But that’s why you always kept to yourself. Always. For the most part at least. You always kept your head down. Did as Snow asked of you. Continued to put out clothing lines the Capital thrived off of. Played the happy shy girl until you grew up and the Capital had new toys to play with.

Like Chasmire. 

Like Finnick.

You had been spared. Too shaken too meek. Not desired enough by the Capital to be sold off to. Though you supposed that was a blessing in disguise. A blessing that you didn’t get called on. Used by greedy hands and dropped back off on the train to go home.

But that didn’t protect you completely. Even now, after so many years after your own victory. You still returned to the Capital often. For parties, fashion shows, interviews, collaborations, meetings, work ups. It was exhausting. 

It was always exhausting.

But it Haymitch soothed it. 

It was rough at first. For a few years at least. Both young and scrambling to learn how to live with the content losses. The loose mentoring as the both of you were kids yourselves. Dealing with the aftermath of your own traumas—though dealing in very different ways.

It had taken years for you and Haymitch to become friends. Even longer to be lovers. With knowing how the Capital worked, you both knew Snow would do anything to use each other against one another for something.

So you both kept it close and quiet. 

Your own little peace. A little get away from the bright lights, and the constant cameras. It was something that was purely your own that no one could take.

But somehow, even without knowing? Snow had exactly done just that by putting you in the Games and not Haymitch.

You had known what was being planned by the rebels. Especially being from District 8, you had seen it yourself how fast that fire is spreading. And once the Quarter Quell had been announced? You knew the poor girl, Katniss, who you had been able to see and meet and call, was being thrown back into the games. And sweet Peeta refusing to let her do it alone.

Snow was trying to kill her. That much was clear to you as well. But what was also clear was how important the two kids from the District 12 were. You knew there was something sort of plan being brewed. You just needed to wait to hear what it was. But a gut feeling told you that that plan, didn’t include you as a priority. 

Not that you mind. You didn’t really if it meant getting the kids out and stopping these Games once and for all. It was Haymitch that you were worried about. And you hoped to whatever power was out there 

    · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The metallic scent of polish and artificial roses hung in the air, sharp and suffocating in the way only the Capitol could be. You stood backstage, shoulders pulled back despite the weight of the dress stitched to your body like armor.

District 8’s stylists had worked you into something stark and hauntingly beautiful — a dress made entirely of thread. Fine lines of black, silver, and deep plum wound tightly around your frame, as though you’d been sewn together by the very fabric of your district. 

The skirt trailed behind you in curling stitches, unraveling and reforming with every step, a visual metaphor for resilience. Your bodice was structured like a corset —though it was amusing considering both your and Woof’s outfit were your own design your stylist borrowed. 

Your hair was swept up into a loose bun, tendrils left to fall and frame your face in soft waves. Silver pins shaped like needles sparkled subtly in the Capitol lighting. Your makeup was more subdued — matte lips the color of dried blood in your opinion, and makeup around the eyes lined with a metallic powder. 

You smoothed your skirt with a quiet exhale, not from nerves, but from weariness. The Capitol made everything feel louder, heavier. But you’d been through this before. You knew how to hold yourself without becoming something else.

A familiar voice broke the hum of prep around you.

“Well, well. Look at you.”

You turned, lips tugging into a smile as Finnick sauntered over in his absurd sea-green netting and too-confident smirk. Though you knew it was all pretend—expect for that fond look in his eye that he saved for his true friends.

“I thought they were supposed to make me the pretty one tonight,” he teased, giving you a slow once-over.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “You look like the garnish on a seafood platter.”

He laughed — loud, bright — and leaned in to bump your shoulder with his. “Good. Then they’ll never see me coming.”

You gave a soft hum, smiling now as he settled beside you. Finnick never stayed still, always pacing or fidgeting. But next to you, he stilled — if only for a few breaths.

“You nervous?” he asked, tone lighter now, but still careful.

You shook your head. “Not for me.”

He nodded, glancing down the hall where all the other tributes laid: older and younger, and the newest additions at the very end of the line. “Yeah,” he said, quieter. “Me neither.”

You reached up, gently adjusting one of the messy strands of hair that fell across his forehead. “Don’t show off too much tonight,” you murmured.

“I make no promises,” he grinned. “But I’ll try — for you.”

You shook your head fondly your heart aching knowing that he, like many here, are hating the fact they they all had to be there agin. Then the horns blared, signaling the parade to begin. 

Taking Woof’s hand, you stepped up into the chariot, and waited to get this over with.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

After the parade was finished you told Woof you’ll catch up with him later on, your heels clicked softly against the floors. You didn’t glance around — not yet. Your eyes found Haymitch immediately, though you pretended they didn’t. They always found him.

Your heart pounded as it had the first time you saw him. And ever time after.

He stood with Katniss and Peeta near the elevators, arms crossed, his usual grim scowl in place. Though he seemed to be talking with him, almost amused.

You kept your pace measured as you walked toward them. Your heart kicked at the sight of him, at the way his eyes swept over you quickly — worried, relieved, proud — before he looked away like it hurt to look too long.

“Smooth ride?” he asked, voice dry.

You nodded. “Crowd still loves a tragedy. All their favorites are in the ring,”

“You’d know,” he said. But there was a faint curl to his lip. Almost a smile. “Though not all their favorites. I’m not in,” he said.

That had earned him an unamused eyebrow raise, “Well unfortunately for you, Abernathy, you haven’t been a capital favorite in a long time. Especially now wi the these two,” 

Katniss’s eyes lit up when she saw you properly, as if the weight on her shoulders lifted for a second. Though it was quickly replaced with that familiar stoic gleam in her eye. The reality that you too, were back in the games.

“Y/N!” she breathed.

You gave her a nod, eyes warm. “Nice to see you again, Katniss. You looked good. Cinna did a great job,”

She laughed under her breath. “You looked terrifying.”

Peeta smiled too, softer. “We are glad to see you. It’ll be good to know someone here,”

You met his eyes reaching and giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Peeta was too good. Too sweet. And especially with his leg gone? These games for him especially would be almost impossible. “I wish I could say the same,” 

The elevator opened then chimed open and you all stepped in. You stood beside Haymitch. You were careful not to brush against him even as your fingers ached to reach for his.

Silence stretched. Capitol gold and steel blurred past the glass walls.

Then the elevator chimed — twelfth floor.

The doors slid open.

You waited until the kids stepped out and headed to their rooms to change before they ate.

“Y/N,” Haymitch started, the moment the two of you were alone. Well, as alone as you could be in those apartments. 

“I’ll find you later. But you know I can’t stay long,” your voice was quiet, but quick as your gaze met your love’s. His eyes, the same tired grey ones Katniss wore. And his messy scruffy dark hair that Effie tried to tame.

How cruel the world was. With how much it look from your Haymitch. And how cruel it was that it just continued to take from him. His friends. His family. You. 

“Nothing changes,”

“Plans change.”

“Do they?” Your eyes, usually so soft, timid were fierce like they had been so long ago. Before the burn out of the games. Before the toll of the losses started to take that light from you one year at a time. 

There was something in your voice that made him turn. His eyes were sharper now, clearer than anyone ever gave him credit for.

“You talk like you’re not part of this.”

You gave him a long look. “I’m not the one that matters in this right now, Hay.”

He flinched. Barely. But you saw it.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching a hovercraft drift past in the distance. Its lights cast brief shadows across your face.

“I know the rules,” you said finally, your voice low, but steady. “I know how this game is played. Who the sponsors will favor. Who else is watching.”

He stared out at the city, jaw clenched. “Don’t make decisions for me.”

“I’m not,” you said gently. “I’m reminding you to make the right ones.”

“You are the right one.” The words escaped before he could stop them. Rough. Unfiltered. Careless.

You glanced around the room. Knowing that all over there are most likely cameras and bugged wires placed and hidden all over. Your eyes fell back to him, and raised your brow slightly, a silent careful.

He let out a breath and shifted, eyes on the horizon now. “There’s a plan,” he said, voice more careful. “A way to keep certain… valuable pieces on the board. To ensure the games win,”

“I know,” you said. “I know the pieces. I don’t need to know all your strategies to know the goal is to win,”

He turned to you, eyes searching. “You’re not just a piece.”

You gave him a small smile. A sad smile that broke his heart. “But I know where I sit on the board.”

Silence stretched again. Not cold — just full of things neither of you could say.

Then, softly:

“They’re good kids,” you murmured, hands tightening on the railing. “Kind. Brave. The kind of good that’s hard to find now. But they’re also incredibly important,”

He nodded once.

“You make sure they win and get out of there,” you said. “You do whatever you have to do.”

“I’d rather not have to choose,” he replied, quiet.

“You won’t have to,” you said, finally looking at him again. “I already did.”

[cloggedarteri]

been thinking about my son jack my sweet baby boy

u kno those time traveling groundhog day fics where arthur or john wake back up in 1899 after dying and then they try to fix the past

yea that but with jack post ross murder

baby finally got what he wanted after looking for trouble and instead of the sweet release of death he's waking up facedown in the dirt

still 19

and in 1899

besides the shenanigans i think he'd get into with john, arthur and the rest of the younger members of the gang

think about how cute i'd be if jack became a brother to himself BECAUSE I KNOW THAT BOY WAS LONELY WHEN HE WAS YOUNGER

omg that's actually so sad...19 y/o jack becoming the safety baby jack needed FUCK ME😭

this was meant to be jack-centric but i cant help but think about mentor reader in this imagine too

just reader finding this kid thats so done with life but hes so determined to get to a town, really any place with people and he's not telling you why

of course the boy isnt gonna tell you that he needs to find his family quickly because without interference they'll violently implode and the only reason he knows that is b/c hes from the future

but you cant watch this boy walk out into civilization when he's so clearly weak and hungry...

so you do what you can. you stick by his side

[crescenthistory]

Haunt Me, Then

Pairing: Sirius Black x Reader

Synopsis: The Hunger Games AU; After your best friend miraculously won his games, you were never to see him again – until your last Reaping as an eligible citizen ends catastrophically for you and another one of your friends.

Words: 6.1k

Warnings/tags: fem!reader, us of y/n, Hunger Games typical warnings, grief, implied loss, heavy hurt/comfort, talk of death and poverty, Capitol Citizen!Bellatrix Lestrange, same for barty sorry, angst, some fluff, childhood best friends (to lovers), physical affection, unwanted physical touches, creepy Capitol behaviour, heavy disassociation, strategically used characters, background bsf!marylene, implied that sirius got the finnick odair treatment, nb! it's a thg au but not thg canon compliant (aka i make the rules here)

A/N: this is sooooo exciting to me. your district is only implied (district 7) in this one and there are a lot of purposefully unresolved threads 🌝 there's more to come, if you want it. and yes – the title is from the wuthering heights quote "you said i killed you – haunt me, then"

Part Two

You hated Reaping day for more reasons than most.

While no person, whether they are of eligible age or not, enjoyed being in that town square annually, watching the Capitol representatives clown away on stage as your heart and ears thundered with anticipatory fear, you were left with the biting pain of the past, present and future all at the same time.

Stood in a sea of people, feeling both as if you were drowning and had a spotlight shining on you, you feared for yourself. You writhed beneath the thought of how many times your name had gone into that bowl in an attempt at keeping your loved ones safe, you winced at the knowledge that it would be just the perfect karmic timing for you to have everything taken from you this one last time.

Clutching onto Mary’s trembling fingers with one hand and Marlene’s little sister, Mabel, with the other, you feared for your loved ones. Your makeshift found family now consisted of the McKinnons, the McDonalds, the Pettigrews and you – and you could not bear the thought of how many of you were jammed into the plaza today. Marlene and her older siblings had aged out, but you, Mary and Peter were still in for your last year. Your mouth ran dry at the thought of how many years Mabel and the McKinnon and Pettigrew boys had left. Children. They were all just children – the very reason why you all kept consistently placing your own name in over and over again, to keep them safe. While you could never decide if you trusted the legitimacy of the arrangement that you could covertly buy someone’s immunity by placing your name in more times, you also could never help but try each year.

Thus far, it had worked. Mabel had at least never been picked. 

But then again, you knew of at least one person who was picked despite their supposed immunity. Odd how the guilt always forced your hand regardless; the risk was worth the potential reward.

You could feel Mabel’s breaths grow shuddering beside you, but could not bring yourself to look down at her. You just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and shoved away the doomsday feelings brewing within your chest.

You felt guilty for even fearing for yourself, because you knew well how out of everyone, your name was in there probably the least amount of times. Apart from buying the immunity of one of your friends’ siblings, you had never needed to buy anything with tickets of your name. You had been financially looked out for to a much larger degree than most could dream, and not had your hand forced. At first, the help came through the direct acts of kindness from your best friend, and then later, you would somehow just always find exactly what you needed. Whenever the Capitol increased ridiculous taxes that felt as if they were specifically designed to wring you dry, there would be a freshly opened position for you to apply for, a wad of cash found in one of the boxes you looked through, even a charity basket by your door that you would always pass on to the rowdy McKinnon home. 

Part of you could hear his whispered promise to you whenever these blessings seemingly fell into your lap, but you pushed it down. It couldn’t be.

“I will always take care of you, princess”.

Above all else, being in the town square tore up your heart because you could only ever think of him. Of Sirius.

Of that day 5 years ago, when you had just started breathing normally after they called some girl’s name you did not know in the Reaping, only for your lungs to be ripped from you permanently at the sound of the reaped boy.

The second “Regulus Arcturus Black” boomed through the scratching speakers, your heart was shattered into a million pieces, never to be recovered, because it was followed up by a small yet firm: “I volunteer.”

When your head whipped to the side to witness your best friend in the whole world square himself against his inevitable death, you had found his sad grey eyes already fixed on you through the massive sea of bodies. You have no recollection of the sounds after that, but you know you were protesting, crying, trashing even, in the firm grip of Marlene as she forced you into a bear hug to stop you from trying to be a human shield for the one person you could not stomach losing. The sight of Sirius kissing Regulus’ head and squeezing Peter's arm before taking to the stage, shoulders squared and jaw lifted, already looking every bit like a child warrior, was burned into your retinas.

It took years before it was not the first image you saw whenever you closed your eyes. It still sometimes was.

That day, you had been certain your best friend was lost. When they let his loved ones bid him a quick goodbye in a solitary room after the ceremony, you had stood to the back with your hiccuping sobs, allowing Regulus the space you knew he needed. Marlene and Mary passed through, so did Peter, until it was just you left.

His parents did not show up.

While Sirius had kept up the facade with the others, his face crumbled when it met yours in your momentary privacy – save the Peacekeepers by the door. You had been hugging your front to keep from falling apart, but the second he slumped back against the desk and opened his arms for you, you were wrapped up in them.

At just 13 and 14 you were each other’s worlds. Grown up as neighbors, surviving just about everything together.

And it was because he was just 14 that you had no belief he could survive the games – at that point, no 14 year old had, and no matter how strong Sirius Black was, it took more than strength to break through that harrowing cycle.

Sirius had let his first few tears slip and fall into your hair, holding onto you for dear life. You can’t remember what you said anymore, just the way he smelled, just the way he held you and the murmurs he whispered into your skin as he swayed you.

“I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you.”

You hoped to the gods you had said it back.

Though you did not know that then, you had been correct. Your best friend was lost that day – but he survived his games. 

It had been a torturous few months, forced to see him paraded around like a piece of meat, only to suffer through one of the longest games anyone had seen. You had sworn you would not watch it, but could not resist taking a peek at a small screen you snuck into your bedroom, crying as you caressed his dirtied face that looked so void of the Sirius you knew. Sometimes he would find a nearby camera and stare into it as he fell asleep, almost as if he could actually see you, feel your touch. You hoped it comforted him; that thought had you returning to the screen almost every night. The only nights you didn’t were the ones where you and Regulus slept in the same bed to keep each other sane, tethered.

When you two eventually woke up to the news that he managed to outlast the final tribute overnight, you cried until you laughed only to laugh until you cried.

On the day of Sirius’ return, you had made everything ready; dusted his room, bought the ingredients for his favourite dessert, orchestrated for his parents to be elsewhere, planned what to say with Regulus, who was equally as teary. Except when the Capitol Carriage swept up by the entrance and you ran out to greet him, only Peacekeepers exited the carriage, forcing you to step back. The blinds of the carriage were shut. 

You stumbled, entirely bewildered by the situation, sharing deeply concerned looks with Regulus. You had tried shouting for Sirius, you had tried asking the Peacekeepers, but you were left with nothing but silence.

While you were dumbfounded, Regulus grew agitated. With months worth of guilt piling up, it was easy work for them to bubble over into anger; he pushed past the Peacekeepers to try and bang on the wall of the carriage, yanking on the locked door handle. His screams of Sirius' name were cut off in an instant when the Head Peacekeeper slammed the back of his rifle against Regulus' neck. He lurched, tried to regain his footing, before he crumbled to the ground.

Acting more on instinct than anything else, you dragged him off to the side and held him tight to your chest, as if that would protect him. With an unconscious Regulus in your lap, you were forced to watch them carry down all of Sirius’ belongings, packed haphazardly in bags, and shove them into the back of the carriage. 

It drove off without you ever even catching a glimpse of Sirius. 

The next time you saw him was a few days later, on a broadcasted interview where he announced his permanent move to the Capitol. Clad in shining black clothes that could have fed the entirety of Districts 11 and 12, he had taken on the persona of the Casanova of the Capitol, the goading gladiator, the wicked victor. At just 14, he had made history.

The day after that, Regulus disappeared without any warning or trace. 

All you had was a seemingly private note slipped beneath your pillow that said “Don’t go looking” – you never told anyone about it. No one seemed willing to talk about him either. You were left completely and utterly alone. 

Grief settled into your veins, and you did the only thing you could: you settled into routine. Sweet, hard-working routine to keep your storms at bay until you had made some sort of life for yourself. With one job as a wooden toy carver and another as a wood sculptor, not to mention the dinner rotation at the McKinnons and the Pettigrews, you kept busy. You could pretend to forget.

Until you couldn’t. Each year when you were forced into that town square, the memories haunted you viciously, cruelly – taunting you with how little you understood, how much time had passed. Beneath it all, there was a simmering of the one emotion you never could get rid of in the grief and confusion; love. It was the singular thing that powered all within you, ranging from the determination to the resentment. Oh, how you loathed how much you loved and missed your Black brothers.

You felt Mabel jump beside you at the crackle of the sound system, as the new Capitol representatives got ready to commence the Reaping. You shared a quick glance with Mary, acknowledging how the younger girl had to be your priority right now.

“It’s alright, Bel,” you whispered, shifting to hold her tighter against your side. “That sound means it’s almost over. Soon we’re done.”

Mary squeezed your own hand in return, almost as if to say take your own advice. You smiled meekly at her, and she rewarded you for your efforts by momentarily placing her forehead on your shoulder.

The younger girl just buried herself into you and you sighed to make yourself softer. It was her second Reaping, which meant it was far from her last. You understood her fear well, but still, you wanted to quell it.

The further the representatives got into their speeches, the longer the same old video droned on for, the more you disappeared from the current moment. It was hard to differentiate between past and present in these few heavy minutes, so you preferred to be in neither, to float up and out of your body. The only thing grounding you was your two friends pressed up against you, and that was all you needed. Nothing they could say up there was of any meaning to you except those two harrowed names.

Sirius never attended the Reapings the way some of the other victors did. They would line up at the front, on occasion even make speeches themselves, but never Sirius. He had yet to be a mentor, but you knew that victors were supposed to have a meeting of sorts before each game, where one of them was selected for the year. You often found yourself wondering where that meeting took place, if it was at the Capitol or nearby, if you unknowingly were standing just a couple hundred metres from him where he waited backstage or on the train.

A part of you hoped to never find out. A part of you hoped to never be near him again.

Most of you knew that was a poisonous lie.

These were thoughts you promptly pushed away. They did you no good – it had been made clear to you that you were not to think of the noble victor Sirius Black anymore.

The muscles in your back tensed tighter, shoulders hiking higher and higher the longer into the speeches the Capitol representatives got. Knowing that a name was soon to be pulled, yet you kept yourself disconnected.

Almost over, almost over.

The sudden outburst of sound and emotion around you – cries of relief, gasps of shock, whispered reactions – alerted you to the fact that a name had been called.

However, it was Mary’s loud sob and her face turning towards yours with nothing short of horror written over it that told you it was someone you knew.

One glance up into her grieving eyes told you that no, it was– it was you.

After so many years of just barely dodging it, you had been reaped. You were reaped. You were reaped. If your thoughts mere moments before had been a cloud, dragging you up above the crowd, they now became an anchor, cementing your feet to the ground.

“Mary…” you began, but were cut off by a static crackle.

“Y/N L/N? Come now love, don’t be scared.” The glee and excitement in the Capitol woman’s voice was nauseating, but it did kick you into action – and everyone else around you too, as the crowd seemed to separate to form a physical beacon on where the three of you stood, pressed together.

Your body moved on instinct; it was as if you were possessed by Sirius’ memory, pulling Mabel's crying form against you and kissing her head much like he had done with Regulus, squeezing Mary’s shoulder with a tight-lipped smile much like he had done with Peter. Ignoring your heart and mind screaming through sobs and anger, you released yourself from both of their grips to walk down the metaphorical red carpet leading up towards the stage. Chin tilted up, face schooled into nothingness. Eyes burning at the lights that suddenly shone upon you, fighting to keep from squinting. Forcing the tremble away from your fingers by balling them up into fists as you began to ascend the steps to the stage. 

“There we are, darling,” the male Capitol representative, who you had yet to bother learning the name of, essentially cooed at you, reaching out a hand for you to take.

You walked past it and assumed the position to the right of them both, staring emptily into the air. 

He chuckled in a low, menacingly lilting tone. “Okay, well, we can see what kind of tribute we just selected, can’t we, Bella?”

“We sure can, Barty,” the woman, Bella, replied with a gleaming smile. “As for her comrade in arms…” she trailed off for dramatic effect before dipping her fingers with their ridiculously long and sharp nails down into the pot.

From a distance, it was easier to distort the sounds of their voices. Now up close, you couldn’t help but hear every word passing between the two representatives, no matter how loud the screaming in your own head was.

No. No, no, no, no.

“... Peter Pettigrew!” Bella shouted cheerily, with a screeching joy that all but punctured your eardrums.

No. 

You squeezed your eyes shut from the first syllable, fighting the shaking taking over your body. Heavily, your shoulders slumped and your face began to fall at the revelation, before you scrambled for any and every piece of strength in your body to square up once again and face the literal sound of the music.

Deep breaths. 

In the corner of your eye, you saw him climb the stairs to stand beside you. For only a brief second, you dared glance over, only to see the pure terror written all over Peter’s face, only to immediately regret it and whip your face forward again. You knew in your heart that you were not making it out of these games – and unlike with Sirius, the feeling settled like wings on your shoulders instead of rocks. If you were honest, you knew Peter would likely not either, but you could at least fight for him, in the hope that he would.

The man Bella had called Barty came up behind you both and placed a strikingly cold hand on your shoulders, twisting you to face one another. It was custom to shake hands with your fellow tribute, but for the Capitol representatives to lay hands on you like this was certainly not. You fought back the urge to shake it off.

“Now if the tributes may shake hands,” Barty said with a wicked grin, speaking loudly enough for the microphone a metre away to pick up on it – thus too loudly. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

Peter’s hand was trembling with such force that he could barely move it away from his body. With a quick sideway glance at the cameras, you reached forward to grab it, steadying it even as you shook it. Peter could not meet your gaze, and not a single part of you could hold it against him; you merely squeezed his hand reassuringly. That had to be enough for now.

As soon as you let go, Bella closed the Reaping Ceremony with a flourish. 

You kept your chin elevated and your gaze empty as you began to move, lest it meet any of your friends and family in the many separated crowds. You weren’t sure if you would be able to keep it up if your eyes locked with Mary’s parents, with Peter’s brothers that he had to leave. Instead, you walked behind the walls with a pin straight back and let the Peacekeepers lead you through the townhouse, room after room, keeping all your emotions balled up. You signed some papers in one room, received a bag with a uniform in another. Finally you walked into the very same room that broke your heart 5 years ago, where your friends and family were already waiting.

The goodbyes were a flurry. Nothing felt real.

You hugged every one of the McKinnon siblings goodbye and nodded weakly when they begged that you would come back home to them, unable to make false promises verbally. The eldest, your Marlene, was the only one who did not plead; she grabbed each side of your face with a determined look and forced you to meet her eyes. “You will come home, Y/N. You will. I am not giving you a choice, you are making it back to us. Do you hear me?”

Even her, you could only spare a nod. But you listened and held her gaze through every word she spoke to make up for it, which seemed to be enough for now. Her hug was even more crushing now than when she kept you from running after Sirius and getting gunned down during his Reaping.

Mary had been silently crying through it all. When she hugged you, your collar was instantly wettened, and you could not help but wonder if this was how it felt for Sirius when you cried into him. You hoped it wasn’t, even as you knew it was. 

When every cheek was kissed and every I love you uttered, you sized them up with a resolved gaze. You let it drag carefully over them all, committing them to memory, one last time. 

Marlene could see what you were doing. With minimal movement, she shook her head – not admonishingly, but the correction was clear nonetheless. You will come back. You gave her a tight-lipped smile, and gave them all a final nod before exiting, allowing Peter to enter for his own goodbyes.

You stopped to say something to him, to hug him or give any reaction, but he scurried past you before you could. Even as you kept walking, your heart was sinking.

There was only one Peacekeeper waiting for you in the hallway. 

“Where do I go now?” You hated how weak your voice sounded, but at least there were no cameras here to catch it this time.

“Mrs. Lestrange is waiting for you around the corner. She will take you to meet your mentor on the train.” Even in your shock, you were baffled by the extreme lack of emotion in his voice. It was almost like talking to a robot, except it had distinctly human eyes. You supposed that was something to get used to.

“Thank you,” you replied, unsure if that was a common custom with Peacekeepers. You were lucky enough in 7 that their presence was limited.

You heard Bella before you saw her, she was excitedly recapping the entire Reaping process to Barty, as if it did not just end and he wasn’t there for the whole thing. He didn't seem to mind; he was twirling around himself, as if your metaphorical dead body was his favourite meadow to frolic through. Her clapping hands and screeching voice made you sick to your stomach, but her eyes might as well be cameras in the court of public opinion, so you picked your facade back up.

“I was told you would take me to the train.” You interrupted one of her tirades, and when her head snapped towards you, there was a second of blazing fire in her expression before she realised that it was you – a new plaything. The glee set back into her within a second.

“Oh, this was the part I was the most excited about.” She smacked a kiss to Barty's cheek before grabbing your elbow to drag you away with her. You had to clench your teeth not to rip it away from her – these Capitol people were handsy. “It’s about time for a reunion, don’t ya’ think?”

You weren’t sure what she was saying most of the time, though you rarely were with Capitol people. Yet the pinching feeling in your stomach did not recede to make space for confusion, nor did your shoulders lower even a fraction.

There was a special entrance to the train that you could access through the townhouse, so that you would not be too swamped by onlookers. Bella was explaining the whole ordeal to you somehow, but as the metallic train came into view through the windows, the blood rushing through your head got louder and louder, even more so than her pitchy voice. 

With this entrance, you only had to walk a meter unsheltered in the transition between the townhouse and the train. Shortly after the first gust of wind hit you was it again shut away as you stepped onto the metallic floorboards.

“Where are we going?” You found yourself asking Bella, unsure if she had already answered this or even if she was in the middle of a sentence.

She looked at you as if you were dumb, but it did not lessen her unnerving smile even a fraction nor stop her quick strides through the many corridors of the train. “Well, to meet your loverboy, duh.”

You stopped in the middle of a step, staring at her incredulously, unsure if you heard her correctly. A frustrated groan escaped her when she had to stop too, looking at you as if you were quite tedious. You knew who she must be referring to, but you had no idea why she would. At least like that.

“Am I not to meet with my potential mentors?” You tried to force any emotion out of your sentence.

“You’re being so silly, did you know that?” Bella took your arm once more, jostling you along with her. “Your mentor has already been decided, stupid. He’s waiting just over there, come on.”

You stumbled slightly in your step from how forcefully she dragged you. You were unsure if she even knew that she was gripping you as hard as she was, or if there was some serious disconnect between her mind and body. 

She only let you go in favour of ripping open a rather large oak door and releasing an unnecessarily loud “ta dah!”. 

The back you were met with was one you would have recognised in every life. 

He stood hunched over a table, hands splayed out so wide they were shaking, black curls hanging messily in his face, breathing ragged. At the sound of Bella’s entrance and you being ushered in, he whipped around.

It was Sirius. Of course it was. Your heart wanted to say it was your Sirius, but you could clearly see that he wasn’t. 

Though he looked different than he had on the occasional glance you stole of him onscreen, he still didn’t look the way you remembered either. No longer was he the scrawny boy you grew up with, the one you messed around in fields with, the one you read books with, the one you cried with and slept beside and walked beside and lived beside. Before you stood a weathered man, sharp in his handsomeness, pointed in every one of his features, guarded by an army of layers yet wearing more emotions than suited him. He had a few tattoos creeping up the side of his neck, the onyx ink shining in contrast to his pale skin.

The one thing that remained the same was the utter heartbreak spelled out in his eyes. It was the same as when you saw him last, only perhaps worse.

No, it was decidedly worse. When the stormy greys landed on your face, flitting about so rapidly that you were unsure how he could even see, lips parting ever so slightly, whatever tormented him settled in deeper. He looked inconsolable.

Sirius opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. As if he didn’t know what to say, as if there were no words.

His attention was abruptly shifted over to Bella when she clapped her hands together in mirth. “Isn’t this exciting!” she exclaimed, looking back and forth between you. “Aren’t you going to hug in greeting? Aren’t you going to ki–”

“Bellatrix.” Sirius spoke through gritted teeth, all of his pain schooled away in favour of a burning fire when he faced her. His voice was so much deeper than you remembered, so much hoarser. “Get lost. This is a meeting between mentor and tribute.”

“Oh, this is hardly a meeting or classified in any way, Siri. Just–”

He cut her off once more. “I won’t tell you again.” He eyed her with a severe glare. “Leave us. Now.”

It looked like Bellatrix wanted to fight him on it, but after looking between you three more times, she evidently decided she had gotten enough out of this endeavour. “You’re too serious, Black,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t bite her face off, you dog, she needs it for the interviews.”

She seemed to all but float out of the room, but closed the door behind her with a loud bang. You kept your head craned sideways, eyes burning a hole through the door where she left, leering. 

The silence in the room felt more deafening than the volume of the plaza had. You had no idea what to say – this was nothing like what you could have imagined.

You and Sirius, alone in a room. Something you had craved more than words could explain, but that you now backed away from with every fibre of your being.

“Princess.” Sirius breathed the word out like he had been choking on it. Before you had the time to turn your head fully back towards him, he had swept you up into a bone-crushing hug. “Y/N,” he whispered into your neck, almost reverently. 

A minute ago you were walking down the hallways with an awful stranger, and now you were embraced by someone who, despite everything, was painfully known to you. It did not compute in your mind, everything was whirring and screeching, and unlike what he once could, Sirius did not quiet the noises.

He almost did, though. Just almost. With his arms around your back, fingers splaying around your ribs, with your nose shoved against his neck as he cradled you, his scent taking over your senses, you could almost fall into it. Could almost fall into him. Your Sirius.

He smelled the same.

You reared backwards out of his touch, back hitting the wall as you stumbled. Your eyes felt wide, almost like a cornered animal, your lips parted as you stared at him. You realised you were breathing heavily. If he was startled by you ripping away from him, his face didn’t show it.

Studying his face now gave you a wave of deja vu so strong, it almost made you dizzy. There was no way you could communicate anything effectively at the minute.

“Sirius, what the fuck?!” 

You hadn’t meant for your voice to be so loud, but not even that drew a reaction from him. Kicking yourself off the wall, you walked past him – leaving a large amount of space between you – dragging your fingers through your hair as you did so. You began a sentence multiple times, but no coherent word came out. “Why are you here? What just happened?” you ended up whispering, feeling pathetic at how close to a whimper it was. “Who–” You stopped. That was a sentence you did not have it in you to complete. 

Who are you?

When you turned around to face him, you found that he had followed after you, keeping a respectable distance but still within arm’s reach, as if he couldn’t allow you to get further than that. For the first time since you stepped into the town square, tears began to fight to well in your eyes. Sirius didn’t look away from them.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper, insistent and imploring. “Y/N, I am so sorry.”

“For what?” You choked out, wrapping your arms around your stomach, not much unlike you had during his Reaping. Sirius’ gaze flitted down to your arms before moving back up, and it was as if you could see the memory playing across his irises.

He heaved a deep breath before rubbing his hands up and down his own face. When he lowered them, he gave you a look of defeat.

“I– let’s start over again,” he said then. He gave you a rueful smile. “Hi, princess.”

You looked at him, uncertain of whether you should start crying or laughing. You settled on a scowl in between. “I’m not sure you get to call me that anymore.” You looked away from his face as you said it, unwilling to see his reaction. “But sure. Hi, Sirius.”

When you dared a glance at him, he had his lips pressed together and a look of remorse in his eyes. You hated that you could still read him like this, for more than one reason.

“I was roughhoused onto the train last night. Told that I was to be the mentor of these games, whether I’d like to or not, no more information.” He said, as if that explained anything.

You couldn’t help the bite in your reply. “Am I meant to feel sorry for you? I was just given a death sentence. And now I have to face my ex best friend who I haven't seen in five years. This is some awful joke.”

This time you didn’t avert your gaze, the simmer within you for once bursting into a flame, however short-lived, and you got to witness how his face jerked backwards as if you had slapped him. In some way, you kind of had.

Your anger was not mirrored in his expression, but a form of determination took over his face as he spoke. “You weren’t. You weren’t.” 

“What?” you asked dumbly, yet uncaring of sounding it.

Sirius stepped towards you, gingerly taking your hands into his own. His touch burned, the new awkwardness of the gesture burned. “You weren’t given a death sentence. I wasn’t and you weren’t. I bloody swear to you, Y/N, you will make it through these games.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from his touch, but you managed to at least not lean into it. There was a dangerous gloss coated over his grey eyes when you met them with your own, and for a second you got lost in them. Your voice cracked as you asked, “Why?”

Sirius let out a humourless laugh and suddenly brought you back into a hug, as if he just couldn’t help himself. Your hands were trapped between you in an embrace with one of his, but he rested his forehead against your temple and seemingly breathed you in.

“I am so, so sorry you have to ask that, princess. I’m so sorry, but I had to go.”

You shivered in his hold. These were words that you dreamed of – but had they not been nightmares? You shook your head but made no other move to remove yourself.

"It's been five years, you know? I'm not sure we even know each other at this point."

Sirius' answer was immediate. "I know you." He pressed his forehead firmer against you. "I know you."

The emotion in his voice rendered you speechless.

He pulled backwards without releasing you from the embrace, leaning away just enough to catch your gaze with his. It felt like the floor was giving way beneath you. His hand on your back travelled up to your cheek. “I'm sorry for it all. Always. And I’m sorry for calling you princess when you just asked me not to,” he added with a hint of the sheepish smile you once loved.

You opened and closed your mouth, absolutely dumbfounded, and he just stared at you patiently. Warmly. Desperately. 

“Sirius–”

You were cut off by the door swinging open once more, causing Sirius to physically spring away from you, suddenly putting multiple metres between you at the sign of new guests. You almost stumbled at the change in positions, and you saw his hand twitch when he cast a glance your way, as if it ached to steady you.

“Now that the lovers have had their private greeting, maybe it’s time to include the other tribute in your strategies, Siri? Or are we just going to let itty bitty Peter die at the cornucopia?”

Bellatrix’s high pitched voice pierced through your ears, and you felt a mountain of guilt fall on top of you when your eyes fell on Peter cowering behind her, his eyes flitting wildly between you and Sirius. In your whirlwind of emotion, you had almost forgotten that he was as doomed as you were.

One glance to your right showed you that Sirius had no idea Peter had been reaped too. His brows furrowed and his lips fell into a decidedly downturned frown. “What– no, Pete,” he breathed out, arms falling to his sides.

“Hi, Sirius,” Peter squeaked, seemingly uncertain about what their dynamic was now, but relieved at at least being acknowledged.

Sirius stepped forward and physically nudged Bellatrix to the side as he pulled Peter in for his own hug. The sight stung in a way you couldn't communicate.

Over Sirius’ back, Bellatrix was grinning at you wickedly.

“Seems like you three have a conundrum or two to work through for us, don’t you?” Barty said cheerily as he emerged from behind Peter, clapping his hands down on his shoulders and making the younger boy jump in fear.

Bellatrix laughed as if that was just the funniest joke, and all but skipped up to you to tug at your cheek while turning to look at Sirius’ face that became increasingly stony at the sight of Bellatrix’s hands on you.

“Don’t you, Siri?” she pushed, giggling in a nearly maniacal manner. “Luckily, the Capitol is still far off. Gives you just loads of time to catch up, yeah?”

Part Two can be found here<3

[easy-there-leftovers]

A Question Unasked

Written with season 1 Spencer in mind

Summary: In which your ambitious, workaholic nature makes Spencer wonder if you've got a crush on Hotch. This slight hitch in his plan causes him to miss a few signs.

[A/N]: Can be seen as a filler from Spencer's perspective of certain scenarios from "Mixed Messages" and a prequel to "As Cool As I Think I Am", but can also just be a standalone

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem! (mentored by Hotch!) reader | cw: slight spoilers for s1e04, allusion to inappropriate workplace dynamics (it's not true, relax lol), slight description of canon-typical violence, mildly inaccurate timeframe | word count: 4k

Spencer looks up from his endless stacks of files on his desk to look at the girl on the other side of his desk. Only a single carpeted walkway really separating them.

He could easily just get up and walk right to her. Ask the burning question that's been on his mind since the Arizona case, but he can't.

Why is that?

He's been your friend for a while, and he's known you for a while longer.

With his eidetic memory, he remembers so clearly when you first started working together. He remembers your starched blazer and pressed blouse, a stark contrast to his swimming-in-sweaters look, and how that alone let anyone know that you were serious about uniform and protocol.

You were, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen, and a fresh graduate just like him.

You were smart, beautiful, and started working at the BAU as early as he did.

And because you were new and young, one of the senior agents had been assigned to supervise your progress. So much like how he was mentored by Gideon, you had been mentored by the unit chief himself; Aaron Hotchner.

He'd like to think that he learned a lot from Gideon. He wasn't the type to hold his hand throughout a case, which he is thankful for, but he had been there to encourage him to think more outside the box. To let his mind be more flexible and creative. To see things from every conceivable angle. Leaving no stone unturned.

He supposed you learned a lot from Hotch as well. With your calm exterior, polite demeanor, and calculating mind that occasionally colored your less polite vocabulary-- He didn't know what Aaron must've been like in his junior years, but he supposed that having you as his colleague was essentially the same experience.

What he does know, however, is how close you are to your boss. Or is it your work?

Either way, you being glued to your work almost always meant that you were glued to him by proxy. You two being the first ones in and the last ones out showed that you spent three-percent more of your time with each other than the rest of the team, and two-percent more than with him.

Granted that had changed as of late, but still!

That didn't leave him a lot of time to ask you if---

"Dr. Reid, if you keep staring at me, I don't think you'll be able to finish your action reports on time." You had said without lifting your eyes from your folder.

Having been caught, he cleared his throat with a small 'sorry,' and directed his head back down to his still endless stack of files. The action earning a couple of chuckles from the bullpen where the rest of your colleagues had certainly seen, or at least heard, the exchange.

Not long after however, he saw Hotch from the corner of his eye lean over the railing outside his office. Calling for you both to meet him inside with his usual stern expression.

Spencer noticed how you got up, eyes still zeroed in on one of your files, and continued on your way up and into the unit chief's open door.

A clear sign that you had been invited there often enough that you didn't need to see where you were going.

You expected it.

He sighs and makes his way into the office as well. Dreading what the meeting could even be for, though he's confident he hasn't done anything wrong.

***

"As you might have noticed in our previous cases, I've paired you two to work on the more analytical aspects of it together. With these changes, we've been able to work twice as fast, and we’re thankful for the help."

Whatever Spencer had been expecting, it was not this. His raised eyebrows evidently agreed with him.

It wasn't everyday that Hotch complimented someone like this, much less in the proper environment. And if your respectful posture, but shining eyes in slight pride were anything to go off of, this was something new for you too.

As he was about to voice his thoughts, you had spoken up.

"Sir, Dr. Reid's knowledge in a wide array of subjects has certainly helped with our investigations. Though I'm afraid I haven't done much aside from ensuring it's accuracy and-"

"No! I mean--," He looked to see you already looking at him in slight confusion before continuing.

"She's been a huge help so far and has allowed me to exchange ideas with her to build a more accurate profile. Not to mention that her ability to mediate between departments has been beneficial to gaining access to pertinent information! So I think she's done plenty for the investigations as well." His voice dwindles as he realizes he's rambling on praises and he suddenly feels warm under the scrutiny of both his boss and his colleague.

He just didn't want anyone thinking you weren't doing anything by being humble. Especially since you're both so young.

Thankfully, it's Hotch who speaks up again after a beat.

"So what I'm hearing is that you're both satisfied with this arrangement?"

You both nod carefully and he smiles a small smile at that.

"Then we'll be carrying on with this pairing into the foreseeable future. Should there be any concerns about this arrangement, see to it that it goes through me. We can't afford to lose either of you." He says it with a finality that prompts both Spencer and you to leave with a nod, but the thought is instantly corrected when he speaks again.

"Oh and agent?" He looks only at you, but Spencer looks back as well out of instinct. "A private word, if you please."

Spencer sees you nod without a second thought and he takes it as his cue to hurriedly leave.

***

It hasn't been that long, Spencer argues with himself, since he left the unit chief's office. The blinds aren't drawn, he would know since he'd been looking at them periodically, so he also knows that nothing untoward is happening.

Yet something is bothering him about it.

From his position on his desk, he can see you and Hotch discussing something on his table very seriously, but he also sees how your eyes rarely leave the face of your superior. He can't quite see your expression due to the distance and the light, but he has this sinking feeling that it's a lot like the one from earlier.

He scoffs at the thought. If he wasn't thinking so rationally, he would've thought-

"Does she like Hotch?"

"Who likes Hotch?"

The new voice makes him whip his head back so fast to see Morgan with a confused face. Upon further examination, he sees him holding something that was definitely supposed to be flicked at him if he hadn't been caught so off guard.

He internally debates to voice his opinion, but he does anyway.

"Do you think that she likes Hotch?" He gestures with his eyes to their supervisor's office.

"You're asking me if I think 'little miss perfect' has a crush on a man that's hitched?" Derek echoes back with the use of your nickname. One that he coined as a playful jab at your no-frills behavior.

Spencer cringes when he hears it back though. He didn't ask this to get you in trouble, but it might come across that way now.

"Who has a crush on married man?" Elle joins in, and he only shrinks into his seat more.

"I'm not asking if she has a crush on him! I just want to know if she might like him and--what it is that she likes about him..."

The two exchange looks before looking back at him. Fully knowing that that's not the reason why he's asking, but they humor him anyway.

"Reid, what makes you think she likes him and not literally anyone else?"

"Well. there's her preference for prolonged eye-contact, a common indicator of interest for one. Her being in constant proximity to him, a sign that shows comfort in certain contexts, and then there's the amount of time they spend together."

The last one might be a bit of a reach, considering how you all work in the same area, but at this point he just wanted someone to tell him that he was either absolutely right, or crazy.

"Kid, that's crazy."

Duly noted.

"I'll say.” Elle chuckles out her response. “I haven't thought about it all, but those signs don't really mean anything. It just sounds like she has a habit of looking at whoever's talking to her." She notes, sharing her experience of being on the receiving end of your rather intense gaze.

His other friend adds onto that.

"And the whole closeness thing? You've seen her, she's like a computer with the way she works. She's a workaholic. And Hotch is another. It's just math, Reid."

Spencer furrows his eyes at the man's statement but before he can ask further, he sees you coming out of the office and staring at the small crowd that has now formed at his desk.

"Is something going on here?" You ask with tense brows. Eyes flickering to and fro.

He couldn't really think of something on the spot, but thankfully Derek had one at the ready. "Was just caught trying add my stack on to pretty boy's plate."

He sees you let out a small 'hm,' and you eventually turn your back to them to reach your desk.

He sighs in relief as he feels a firm pat on his back from Morgan.

"Next time, try looking at what she does when you're the one talking." He says before leaving to go to his own desk as well.

Spencer doesn't know what good that would do, especially now that he's worried one of his colleagues have caught wind of him liking you, but he at least takes note of it.

--------

He does not, in fact, take note of it until very later.

The team had been called to San Diego to deal with someone they had been calling, "The Tommy Killer." An unsub that had a preference for gluing his victims' eyes open.

As they were reviewing the scene in the jet, they had noticed a few stanzas of a literary work had been left behind at the scene.

"It's a ballad from the late 1600s. A Dialogue Betwixt Death and a Lady." Spencer had mentioned from where he stood.

"A 17th Century ballad?" Morgan had asked him incredulously from his seat, but it’s you who answers.

"One where a woman tries to bribe Death with all that she has in exchange for a little more time to live. Naturally, he doesn't allow it. Claiming that she was undeserving of an exception that even kings were denied of."

Spencer looks up from his own copy to see you still looking at your own from beside Hotch. With your brows furrowing in thought, he almost sees the actual gears in your brain turning.

"So what, are we looking at a literature professor of some kind?" Elle asks which immediately perks him right up.

"Well, actually anyone with access to the internet today. You should see what comes up when you type in the word, "Death" into a search engine." He laughed absentmindedly.

"Reid, no wonder you can't get a date."

Morgan's words made him frown, but he brushes it off.

Hotch, as previously discussed, then called on for the both of you to look deeper into the messages. To see if there was anything new that could be inferred.

He nods at him, and looks up. Expecting you to still be looking at Hotch as well.

Instead, your eyes meet his, but you quickly look back onto your file.

Reid thinks it's just a coincidence.

***

"Creepy, huh?" JJ had asked you two as she approached where transcripts of the written messages were tacked onto a board.

Spencer had been focusing so hard that he was caught off gaurd by her sudden appearance. Fully expecting the area to just be for you and him so he told her what first came to mind.

"Actually, conversations between Death and his victims was a fairly popular literary and artistic theme throughout the Renaissance."

Though perhaps the delivery wasn't as as good as he thought it was as JJ only stared back at him with an unreadable expression.

He thought it was interesting, really, but he supposed his slight stutter and breathy laugh at the end must have distracted her from his point.

He turned to look at you for help, but you too had been focusing on the messages and wouldn't be available to do that. So he just agreed with JJ’s sentiment, which seemed to be enough for her to leave.

He sighed out in relief.

"The lady never answers. Have you noticed it yet, Dr. Reid?" You turn to him as you ask.

He immediately refocuses on to the case and tries his best to reply after his prior blunder. "Oh uh-- Right, the dialogue in the ballad seems to be fractured. Well, it's more of a monologue than a dialogue seeing that there is no exchange of information."

A small smile graces your lips at that, and you gesture with a nod to go report your findings.

"So it is. Let's get going."

He follows you to where Hotch and Elle were discussing the sexual aspect of the crime and sees you take your place next to your mentor. The same position you were in when he was blowing out his birthday candles, as he also inserts himself into the discussion.

"Sir, we believe what the unsub has written at the scenes are most of the first three verses of the same ballad." You deliver, prompting your mentor to raise his brow at that.

"Most of?"

"Yeah, it's only one side of the conversation." Spencer adds. "There's no betwixt." He takes pride in your shared effort, which makes itself known by the smile that adorns his face.

Unfortunately, his satisfaction, isn't met with a positive reaction either as he sees Elle desperately trying not to make eye-contact, and your supervisor staring at him very pointedly.

He's thankful though at the little chuckle that you quickly try to hide behind a cough and a cover of your mouth to appear more professional. Quickly looking down at the ground.

He's happy that at least someone thought his joke was well-placed.

He continues to explain your theory about how the Lady in the narrative never answers, and that's enough for both Hotch and Elle to at least think about it.

Their attention is quickly stolen away however at an incoming call about a failed attempt nearby the precinct.

Quickly excusing themselves to get onto the scene as soon as possible, you see them call Gideon on their way out. Watching them as they leave the department doors.

But Spencer keeps his eyes on you as the thought just dawns on him.

You were the first one on the team to laugh at his jokes.

***

The more cases he works for the BAU, the more he realizes how much of his work isn't theoretical anymore. He feels it in the weariness in his eyes, the weight on his chest, and the shake of his hands.

Or maybe the shake is from the cold.

After all, he had dressed for the warm, California air. So now that he was in the cool, air-conditioned jet, he was seriously regretting not packing a sweater, at the very least.

He makes his way to the back of the aircraft after another successful investigation, and that's where sees you.

You had opted to shed your typically structured blazer on the seat beside you, leaving you in a softer blouse, both in color and form, that made everyone around you know that you were officially off duty.

It's a nice look on you, he thinks. A slight departure from your usually stern and hardened exterior. He wouldn't mind seeing a more relaxed version of you every once in a while.

A version of you that looked more your age and not constantly under the pressure of doing well.

He momentarily wonders if that's part of your mentor's influence as well.

He freezes a bit, as if catching himself in some depraved daydream, and takes a few steps back to return to the more vacant areas of the craft.

Before he can get any further though, you see him and beckon for him to come over with a tired wave of your hand.

"How's the flight treating you, Dr. Reid?" You ask, drowsiness lacing your tone as he sits on the seat opposite of you.

"Oh, it's the same as always, I guess. A little colder than usual, but that's to be expected. By the way, we’re actually lucky that we haven't experienced some semblance of turbulence yet on our flights, considering that the likelihood of it has increased by seventeen-percent in the last decade."

You laugh at that. "You really know just what to say, huh?"

He doesn't see it as funny as you do, so it seems. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you or--" "There's no need to apologize, sir. I find everything you have to say interesting, whether you mean it to or not."

He stays silent at that, suddenly nervous, and tries to make himself comfortable. He does so in the hopes that he can finally steel himself to ask you that question.

He talked to Elle earlier when they were waiting for the unsub's call. Asked her if she thought it was weird that he knew what he knew, and if it had anything to do with his inability to get a date. She had reasoned with him that it was because he didn't ask, but it couldn't be that simple, could it?

He mulls it over in his head before sighing. Opting to give up and just wait for a more opportune time.

Besides, jury’s still out that you could very well be pining over his boss.

The action, however, seems to remind you of something.

"Before I forget," You look into your baggage, rummaging around before finally finding what it was you were looking for.

You ask him to close his eyes, which he obediently does, and you place a thick rectangular box into his awaiting lap.

The sudden shift in weight causes his eyes to open, and he is certainly surprised to see what was on there.

"What is this?"

"It's your birthday. There wasn't a good time to give it to you, so might as well."

He takes the box into his hands and shakes it a little.

From the sound alone, or near lack thereof, there could be a multitude of things inside it. He looks at you questioningly and you only smile and gesture for him to open it.

He takes his time in doing so, and he doesn't know how or why, but he finds your reactions to his movements much more amusing than whatever could be in the box. As if you were more excited for him.

He finally peers into the now open box to see some sort of purple cloth. A ribbon of geometric designs cutting through its middle and he stares at it in wonder.

"It's a scarf!"

You smile at him, and he was thankful that the rest of the team were either asleep or just not paying attention as it allowed the both of you to savor the moment with at least some semblance of privacy.

"I've noticed that you had a tendency to wear a lot of layers. I wasn't sure if it was because you were cold, or you just liked dressing that way, so I made an educated guess and got you something practical."

And just like that, he's over the moon.

He immediately goes to put it on with a wide smile, paying no mind that it paired so badly with the short sleeves of his button up.

Not that he would know, nor care.

And just when he had been feeling cold earlier too! "Thank you so much. This means a lot to me, especially since you don't usually give gifts."

You shake your head. "I don't, but it's not everyday one spends their twenty-fourth at the BAU."

He continues to observe the cloth that now hung around him. Smoothing his hands over it as he does with an expression unreadable to you.

You worry a bit and hurriedly mention, "I'm sorry if it isn't your color. I see purple show up on your mismatched socks more than any other color, so I just assumed. If it's any consolation, purple is a great color to contrast the warmer hues in brown eyes?"

He flushes at your admission, but matches your urgency to set you straight. "No! Please, I actually really like it-- It's beautiful."

You breathe out a sigh in relief and nod slowly at that.

"Speaking of the color, did you know the origin of purple dye is actually quite fascinating?" His voice filled with enthusiasm. With his eyes, bright, and filled with a child-like fascination that makes your chest feel warm at the sight.

"Historically, purple dye was incredibly rare and valuable, which is why it became associated with royalty and nobility. The earliest known purple dye, known as Tyrian purple, was produced by the ancient Phoenicians around 1200 BC. It was derived from the secretions of a particular type of sea snail, the bolinus brandaris, found in the Mediterranean Sea."

He paused for a moment, wondering if he was boring you, but sees that you're still very much paying attention to him.

"The process to obtain this dye was incredibly labor-intensive and complex. It required thousands of these sea snails to produce just a small amount of dye. The snails would then be collected and left to decompose in large vats. After several days, a gland from the snail was extracted and crushed to produce a purple mucus. This mucus would then be exposed to sunlight, undergoing a chemical reaction that transformed it into the deep, rich purple dye we commonly associate with our modern day equivalent."

As he kept going, he suddenly remembered what Morgan had told him all those weeks ago.

"Next time, try looking at what she does when you're the one talking."

So he does just that.

He observes the way that your shoulders are more relaxed, how your eyes never stray from him, and how the small upturned curve of your lip makes itself known as you rest your cheek onto your propped up fist.

How he has your undivided attention and yet you don't even look the least bit bored of what he has to say. Only silently appreciating and subtly nodding along with the slow blink of your eyelids.

All clear signs of unguarded comfort, and or interest, in his presence.

Had you really been looking at him like that all this time?

Now the idea of you liking your boss seems silly. Especially when you’re looking at him the way he imagines himself looking at you.

"I did know that, actually, Dr. Reid. At the time, Tyrian purple wasn't only desirable for its rarity, people said it was also incredibly lightfast. That it was resistant to fading under the sun and the weather. Not to mention all that hard work that just to get a single gram of it. Then again, modern studies do claim that its lightfastness was, in fact, not an accurate feature as it's color diminished when it was exposed to light and UV radiation."

You laughed a little again, as if remembering some anecdote, and that sound was steadily becoming one of his favorite sounds. Following only after your speaking voice.

"Fortunately for you, doctor, I could only afford a synthetically purple-dyed scarf. Though that means that you won't ever have to worry about it fading under the sun."

Hands up in faux surrender, you give him a tired smile that he returns with one of his own.

A calming silence enveloped the both of you as you continue to bask in each other's presence.

At some point you doze off, draping your blazer on top of yourself to shield yourself from the cold, and that's when he starts considering Elle's words again.

"Do you ever ask anyone out?"

"No,"

"That's why you can't get a date."

He nods to himself, and reclines a little more into his seat. Snuggling into his new scarf that still has the faintest smell of you.

Maybe he will ask you out on a a date later.

_____________________________

Like my work? Consider tipping me!!

[lushleona]

imagine mentor mattheo teaching reader auto control, fucking her and telling her she can’t cum until he says so

── .✦ mentor!mattheo teaches you self-control

warnings: fem!reader, unprotected p in v, fingering, choking, spanking, biting, praise, slight degradation, power imbalance

“you’ll never survive if you can’t control yourself.”  

his voice is low, dangerous, cutting through the silence of the empty training room. your chest heaves as you stand across from him, sweat slicking your skin, your muscles burning from hours of drills.

“again,” he says, but there’s something else behind it this time. something sharp.  

“that last drill was good enough,” you snap, wiping your face with the back of your hand, your heart still racing—not from exhaustion, but from the way his eyes have been burning into you all day. dark, unrelenting.  

he pushes off the wall, moving closer, his boots soundless against the floor. “no. you’re impatient,” he murmurs, circling you slowly, his breath warm against your neck as he brushes past. “reckless. always wanting to skip to the end. to take what you want without waiting for it.”  

you swallow hard, your pulse thrumming in your throat. “maybe i just don’t see the point in waiting.”  

his fingers ghost over your wrist, tugging you toward the door without another word.  

your room is dark, the digital windows set to an image of the city streets. mattheo’s hand grips your jaw the second the door shuts, his thumb pressing just hard enough to make your breath hitch. his eyes—dark, predatory—roam down your body, lingering on the flush creeping up your chest.

“strip,” he orders, voice a low, dangerous drawl.  

you hesitate, stubborn as ever, and his brow arches.  

“don’t make me ask twice.” his tone is calm, almost amused, which somehow makes it worse. “you’re not in charge here. i am.”  

your fingers tremble as you pull your shirt over your head, stripping down until you’re bare under his gaze. mattheo steps closer, his fingers hooking under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.  

“that’s better,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. “always so fucking defiant… but look at you now. doing exactly what i say.”  

he backs you onto the bed with slow, deliberate steps, his grip never loosening. you expect him to kiss you, but instead, he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear.  

“you’ve got no patience,” he says softly, fingers trailing down your thigh. “no self-control. lucky for you, i’ve got plenty for both of us.”  

his hand snaps between your legs, slapping your inner thigh, and you gasp, your body jerking.  

“hold still,” mattheo growls, his hand coming down again, harder this time, leaving a sting that makes heat bloom low in your belly. “you don’t move until i say.”  

his fingers slide between your folds, gathering your wetness before pressing two fingers inside you. his thumb circles your clit in slow, lazy motions, deliberately not enough, building a tension that has you squirming beneath him.  

“already so fucking desperate,” he taunts, curling his fingers in a way that makes your back arch. “look at you. soaking my hand like a good little tribute.”  

your cheeks burn at his words, but the embarrassment only makes you wetter.  

“please,” you gasp, your hips rocking against his hand.  

“please, what?” he pulls his fingers out, holding them up to your lips. “taste yourself. then maybe i’ll give you what you’re begging for.”  

your tongue flicks out hesitantly, and he groans, his thumb pressing against your chin as he watches you.  

“fuck, you’re filthy,” he mutters, slipping his fingers back into your mouth. “and you’ll do anything i tell you, won’t you?”  

you nod, too far gone to argue, your tongue swirling around his fingers as he presses his knee between your thighs, keeping you spread for him.  

“such a quick learner,” mattheo praises, withdrawing his hand to grip your waist, flipping you onto your stomach in one swift motion. “hands on the headboard.”  

you obey, your breath catching as he presses his cock against you, the blunt head dragging through your wetness. fuck, when did he even take his pants off?

“you want it?” he asks, voice thick with condescension, teasing you with shallow thrusts. “say it. tell me who you belong to.”  

“you,” you gasp, your fingers curling around the headboard as you push back against him. “i belong to you.”  

“damn right you do,” he growls, slamming into you with one brutal thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.  

his hand snakes around to wrap lightly around your throat, not squeezing—just enough to remind you who’s in control. his other hand cracks down on your ass, hard enough to make you yelp.  

“quiet,” mattheo snarls. “you don’t want the boy tribute hearing you from his room, do you? or should i let him see how fucking pretty you look when you’re being ruined?”  

your walls clench around him at his words, and he laughs, dark and breathless.  

“oh, you like that,” he says, his grip tightening around your throat, his hips snapping harder, faster. “filthy little thing. so eager to be fucked by your mentor.”  

the tension coils tight in your core, your body trembling as you teeter on the edge.  

“don’t you dare cum yet,” mattheo warns, his voice a low snarl. “not until i say.”  

“i can’t,” you sob, your head dropping back onto his shoulder. “please, i can’t—”  

“yes, you can.” his teeth sink into your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. “you’ll wait. and if you don’t, i’ll pull out and make you finish yourself while i watch.”  

the threat makes your thighs shake, your breath hitching as you claw at the headboard, holding on for dear life. mattheo’s hand slips between your legs, his fingers rubbing your clit in quick, rough circles.  

“cum for me,” he finally growls, his voice thick with need. “now.”  

your orgasm rips through you, white-hot and all-consuming, your body clenching around him as you scream his name. mattheo’s thrusts grow erratic, his breath ragged as he follows, spilling inside you with a low, guttural curse.  

he stays buried inside you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. for a moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing, the weight of him holding you down.  

“good girl,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “took it so well. didn’t even break.”  

m.list

[aventurineswife]

“Failure Is a Stepping Stone”

Summary: In the quiet hours before a major exam, you’re overwhelmed by period pain and the dread of being unprepared. Anaxagoras — the eccentric, infamous scholar — finds you in your distress. With his unique mix of irreverent wit and unspoken warmth, he comforts you through the night, easing your pain, grounding your panic, and reminding you that even chaos can be a stepping stone to brilliance.

Tags: Anaxagoras x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Period Comfort, Academic Stress, Soft Anaxa, Reader-in-Distress, Eccentric Mentor, Established Relationship or Developing Bond, Protective Anaxagoras, Late-Night Vulnerability, One-Bed Trope (Gentle), Pretty much Self-indulgent.

Warnings: Mentions of Period Cramps/Pain, Academic Anxiety/Stress, Emotional Distress, Brief Mention of Nausea and Insomnia, Soft Angst, Anaxagoras Being Incredibly Tender (Emotional Damage Warning If You're Not Braced for It).

A/N: I kissed the brick this time. ☺️💖🫶

It was past midnight. The moon hung like a pale coin in the black velvet sky, half-shadowed — much like how you felt.

The Grove’s once-lively corridors were still, only the distant hum of magical wards and an occasional echo of an owl punctuating the silence. Everyone else had long buried themselves in their tomes, or fallen asleep atop them.

You, however, sat curled up at the foot of your bed, cradling a heat pack to your stomach, eyes bleary and red. The textbooks lay open around you like a battlefield, pages dog-eared, highlighted, and forgotten.

Your abdomen throbbed with an unforgiving ache, like molten weights swirling inside you. And the panic—

It crept up your spine like a parasite.

Exams. Tomorrow. You're not ready. You're failing.

You pressed your forehead against the cold bedpost.

A knock echoed on your door.

You didn’t respond, hoping the night would swallow you whole instead.

The door creaked open anyway. A familiar voice, laced with exaggerated flourish and an undertone of sincere concern, followed:

“Am I interrupting a ritual of self-destruction, or is this the ‘mourning of motivation’ I’ve read so much about in your kind’s textbooks?”

You groaned. “Anaxa... not now.”

“Oh, perfect. You can still speak. That means the gods haven’t claimed you yet,” he quipped, stepping inside, a glint of mischief in his eye. But then, when he took in the state of your curled posture and tear-streaked cheeks, the humor slipped from his face.

He sat beside you wordlessly, not asking for permission. For someone accused of so much blasphemy, Anaxa knew the sanctity of silence.

“…Cramps?” he asked softly after a while.

You nodded.

“And exams,” you whispered. “I’m… I’m so screwed. I didn’t study half the material. My brain’s mush. Everything hurts. I can’t—”

You didn’t realize you were trembling until his gloved hand took yours, grounding it.

"Shh. Take a breath." His thumb stroked over your knuckles in deliberate, slow circles. “Pain warps the mind, compresses time. Right now, it’s telling you you’re doomed. But that’s a lie, and you know it.”

You shook your head miserably. “I feel doomed.”

“I’m not dismissing the feeling,” he said gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You are hurting. That’s real. But I would not allow any student of mine to be truly doomed — especially not you.”

You looked up at him, eyes glistening. “Anaxa…”

He gave you a soft smirk, but his eye was painfully tender. “Have I ever told you what I did the night before my Divinitas Trials?”

“…Failed spectacularly?”

“Absolutely not. I threw up on my notes, accused my invigilator of divine fraud, and passed with the second-highest score in the cohort.” He tilted his head. “Chaos is the seed of innovation.”

You huffed, a weak laugh spilling out despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet I’m here,” he murmured. “Lie back.”

He helped you onto the bed gently, pulling a pillow under your knees, fetching your heat pack and placing it just right. Then, surprisingly, he took off his jacket and draped it over your blanket, as if adding an extra layer could shield you from the weight of the world.

“…Stay?” you asked softly, almost afraid.

His reply was immediate. “Until the stars forget how to shine.”

He sat cross-legged beside you, muttering small comforts as he summoned a soft, golden projection of your textbook pages into the air, slowly flipping through them. The way he read aloud — softly, dramatically, emphasizing the ridiculous and the relevant — made even dry theory feel like myth and magic.

You watched him between bouts of pain, something deep in your chest loosening. You still felt terrible — but you no longer felt alone.

At some point, your eyes fluttered shut. You weren’t sure when.

But long after you drifted off, Anaxa remained. A pale flame flickered in his visible eye as he looked at you — not with pity, but with reverence.

He whispered, not to wake you, but as a promise to himself.

"Even if the world tries to crush you under divine law and temporal torment, I’ll be here — until you’re ready to set it ablaze."

[rueclfer]

heyy can i request texts with hawks after a hero with a shadow like quirk is helping tokoyami with dark shadow so she’s kinda taking him away from hawks and how he would react, that’d be so funny to imagine. then hawks understands better why tokoyami spends time with you, you’re not so bad after all. thank u so much!!

heeyyy thank you for this silly request this feels like tokoyami and his divorced parents sharing custody HEHE

family fun // hawks

[gallifreyan85]

Keep on dreaming (don't stop breathing)

pairing: mentor!agatha x reader

summary: when a stranger's words make your question your importance in agatha's life, you end up finding out more than you were hoping for.

warnings: one (1) mean witch. agatha taking your money. idk. enjoy.

A/n is all the way down, as always.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆

Westview was always a quiet place. There was chatter, and gossip, people, yes, but it had its own little charm you grew to love. It was peaceful. Comfortable. Safe.

Your morning was a slow one, outside clouds were dull but not gray, and Agatha’s living room was littered with scattered papers, books and scrolls you knew she’d put away with a wave of her hand, all evidence from last night’s lesson that ended up stretching well past midnight. Having Agatha Harkness as a teacher meant lessons were never boring, and listening to her talk about spells in her own, unfiltered Agatha way was nothing like reading a textbook. She always had new plans, ways to subtly get more magic while showing off her skills and teaching you something new in the process. And a more recent addition to your so called studies-- letting you tag along to mysterious places you had no idea existed in such close proximity to the normal lives of such normal, unassuming people.

When you reached the kitchen you had found her already up, sitting at the counter in her pyjamas, a dark floral robe, dark hair spilling over her back, still a little tousled from sleep. She’d been drinking coffee from a mug, halfway through taking a sip when she saw you, and paused for the briefest of seconds just to say, “You’re up early.” and then proceeded to throw an outfit into your face and tell you to get dressed for the day, you’d be staying the night somewhere.

Westview was always quiet, so you had to admit your surprise when Agatha dragged you to a gathering of witches talking in conspicuous voices and casting you odd looks when the two of you walked in. She’d started doing this more, since the whole hassle with the Witches Road, taking you to places of adamant magical power. You expected a forest clearing, the ruins of an old house, some ancient, story-ridden place of forgotten lore and old, withered chaos. But instead you were here. A people-filled, packed space where everyone was odd and busy and the air was thick with deft words and a jumble of protection spells.

“What are we here for, exactly?” you asked Agatha, glancing around in hopes of a clue of some sort. She chuckled lowly and tossed back her hair over one shoulder, leading the way.

“We’re here, student mine, because I’m looking for something.”

“And that is…?”

“Useful.” she said, “And old.”

You stifled a sigh. Old and useful. You were expecting as such, but of course she wouldn’t tell you more than that. So, with a small roll of your eyes, you followed after her, looking around at all the artifacts you couldn’t name and the witches whose heads turned at the sight of Agatha walking by.

She stopped abruptly at a stall draped in dark purple, shawls and robes hanging over the sides, embroidered and colorful with silver and gold stitching, and a dozen or so glittering knick knacks littering the front table. The witch working there turned her head up, glancing at Agatha with a suspicious look, but Agatha smiled, all polite helplessness, and tugged you to her so hard that you stumbled.

“This is my familiar,” she said, raising one hand to glide through your hair lightly, “she’s been feeling ever so lost while I’m gone, and I was hoping you’d have some sort of rune base I can use to cast a binding spell.”

The witch glanced over at you, giving you a suspicious once-over, and then turned back to Agatha, who was shaking her head, still petting your hair with over-the-top-care.

“I need something that’ll keep her inside, poor thing is so attached to me she wants to follow me everywhere.”

The witch gave her a look that made you think she was about to laugh in her face, but then she turned around with a deep sigh and asked,

“What kind are you looking for? We’ve got stone, crystal and obsidian.”

Agatha huffed, offended. “Stone? If I wanted to spell out amateur beginner, have better ones in my backyard, thank you.”

Now the witch looked offended too. “Your inability to train your familiar doesn’t sound like my problem.”

Agatha shook her head briskly, annoyed. “Nevermind. You said obsidian. Give me the best one.”

When the witch turned around to get it, muttering about it being too strong for a ‘simple binding rune’, you turned to Agatha, who had pulled her hand away from your hair and was fixing her coat, glaring daggers at the witch’s back.

“That’s what we’re here for?” you murmured to her, tired, “A slab of fancy rock?”

Agatha shushed you, and smiled most gratefully as the witch handed her a square of wrapped cloth.

“Thank you, madam.” she nodded, gesturing for you to move along as she handed the woman a couple paper bills.

You frowned as she caught up with you, the two of you weaving through the crowd.

“Were those dollars? Since when do witches use mortal money? I thought you’d give her like, gold coins or something.”

She smiled, pocketing the lump of stone. “We do, usually.”

“Why did she take them then? Didn’t she see what you gave her?”

“Oh she did. She’ll realize it in about-” she tilted her head absentmindedly, “three minutes give or take, as soon as the enchantment wears off.”

You frowned. “What enchantment?”

Agatha smirked. “The one I cast while you were asking your curious questions.”

“But-- you could’ve just used leaves or something, I mean why take real money if you already—”

“You have to learn to use what’s nearby.” she smiled innocently.

“Nearby? What do you mean ne-” You dipped a hand into your pocket and did a double take.

“Agatha!”

She continued walking, not batting an eye. “When did you-- did you take my money-”

“A true witch never reveals her secrets.”

You groaned into thin air.

“Hurry up now, familiar, we have more things to get done.”

But even as you hurried after her, shaking your head, there was a smile on your face.

The two of you weaved through the crows of people, occasionally stopping by stalls and tents for Agatha to look around while you busied yourself with trying to count your very real, remaining money. You had just found a stack of blue charms embedded in a velvet cushion at the edge of some tiny outside shop when you felt a tug on your jacket.

“We’re done for today, let’s go.” Agatha said, and while her voice wasn’t annoyed you could see she hadn’t quite found everything she had hoped for. You decided not to question her about it, and followed her down the little valley and into a small, witchy inn that stood by the side of the road, overlooking the convention. You looked around while she argued with the witch at the front desk, and then followed her upstairs into a room on the second floor. It was small, but clean. Two beds, a window, some old, shrivelled string of dried flowers for supposed protection that Agatha tossed out said window before casting a ward on the door and mocking the owners.

Sitting on one of the beds and watching her, you wondered briefly if this was your form of vacation. It was a change from your usual routine, and you supposed it had been sort of fun. When it got dark you went with her downstairs to the open restaurant area outside and ate your dinner. She talked about the way she outsmarted some witches in the 1800s while she was travelling, and stole the last french fries off your plate when you went to get a glass of water.

It wasn’t that that bothered you, but when you were waiting the witch behind the bar poured it slowly, glancing behind you and at Agatha before looking back at you. She slid the glass towards you, then leant against the counter, and said in a far-too-curious voice,

“That’s Agatha Harkness, that is.”

You paused, careful.

“Yes.”

“And you’re with her?” her piercing eyes raked up and down your figure before settling back on your cautious face.

“What’s a little thing like you doing with a witch like that?”

That’s none of your business, you almost replied, but you weren’t going to be rude. You’d gotten used to it by now, people staring at you like you were mad to follow a witch like Agatha. And hell, maybe you were.

“I’m her student.” you said finally. Another lie. Part truth. You were her student. A friend. Maybe her family. Maybe--

The witch laughed in your face.

“Ohh, you sweet summer child. A student, you say? My condolences.”

“Your- what?”

She gave you a cocky grin, amused by the put off look on your face. “You don’t seriously think you’re the first, do you? Don’t you know how many others tried to learn from Agatha Harkenss herself, how many of them died by her hands?”

You swallowed.

The truth was, you hadn’t known. You’d thought about it a few times, yes, but she never mentioned anyone else before you, so you just assumed it was nothing significant. And of course, this witch, whoever she was, could be lying to you, trying to mess with your head. If Agatha taught you one thing about others of your kind it was that you shouldn’t trust anyone outright. You reached for your glass but she pulled it back, out of your reach.

“You didn’t know, did you?” she said, looking intently into your eyes, “The little birdie had no idea she was travelling with a murderer.” She smiled at you. “Your best chance would be to run while you still can.” she fixed her hair, “But then again, maybe you enjoy this. Being her little… pet.”

“I’m not—” but it was your own thoughts that stopped you this time.

You were about to say that she was wrong, you weren’t a pet, even if Agatha did call you that sometimes, but then you thought about earlier, the way she’d pulled you to her, all fake smiles for a stranger, while introducing you as her familiar. But surely that was just- Agatha being herself. You weren’t that, you weren’t some tool for her to use and discard as she pleases, you weren’t--

The witch, seemingly satisfied that she’d rattled you a little, plopped a single ice cube into the glass and took a sip.

“Go back to your owner, little birdie.” she said, turning around, “You’d run if you knew what was good for you.”

And she went back to cleaning the bar. You stood there for a moment, staring at her, feeling your heart thumping uncomfortably in your chest. You didn’t ask for another glass. You didn’t tell her anything else, just turned around and went back outside.

When you sat down, twisting your fingers into the edge of the tablecloth, Agatha gave you a questioning look.

“I thought you went to get a water.” she said flatly.

“I did. They were- uh- out.” you made up awkwardly.

She frowned, shook her head at you as if you were to blame, and then muttered something about the incompetence of this place. She went back to eating her food, while you left the rest of yours untouched and studied her instead. Her face, her clothes, her words. Was this really someone who would leave you to die? No.

You shook your head.

You were being ridiculous. She’d saved you a number of times, gotten the two of your out of dangerous situations and more, and you weren’t about to let some stranger make you question that trust. Make you question the one constant in your life you could outright depend on.

You picked food off your plate in silence until she finished her meal, listening to her talk but not quite following the words, and after she stood to leave you did the same, sparing a glance back inside as you climbed the stairs, but the bar was now empty. You sighed, and got ready for bed.

An hour later, sitting on top of the still folded covers, hair damp and your clothes soft, you couldn’t bring yourself to go to sleep. As much as you hated to admit it you were still turning the witch’s words over in your head, restless and hesitant. You glanced to the side. Agatha was sitting on her own bed, one leg over the other, her long hair like a curtain over her shoulders. She was holding up a book, some old thing in a language you couldn’t read or recognize, and it didn’t seem like she would be asleep anytime soon either.

“Agatha?”

She didn’t turn, but her head went up a little.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever- do this before?”

She paused, halfway through flipping a yellowed page. “Did I ever do what before?”

“This.” you said a little awkwardly, “Taught someone magic. Like this. Like me.”

She hesitated, a brief, barely-there second, and then closed the book with a dusty snap that startled you.

“Yes, I suppose so.” she said slowly, setting the book down on the bed beside her. “Why? What does it matter?”

You looked at her for a moment, feeling an odd sense of disappointment wash over you. You weren’t quite sure what you were expecting her to say, to lie maybe, or tell you that no, no one was like you, you were special, you were different--

“And what- what happened...to them?” you asked tentatively, voice a little shakier than you’d have liked.

Agatha shrugged. “I don’t know. Most of them left. Figured they knew better, or couldn’t keep up, thought I was too demanding—” she waved a hand about dismissively. “They were just nosy little pests, thinking they can handle big magic. It’s not my fault they all gave up.”

They weren’t directed at you, but her words stung you a little. You sat up straighter, fumbling with your fingers.

“Is that what you think about me?” you asked quietly.

She turned at that, her expression somehow sharper, yet also slightly irritated. “No.” she said finally after a stretch of silence, “No, it’s not.”

Something unwound in you a little. Not fully, but halfway.

“Why?”

She sighed, looking at you like you were asking her things that were obvious. They weren’t. They really, really weren’t.

Not right now, at least.

“Why?” she echoed, “Why this sudden interest in whoever came before you? You never asked about this before. And you’ve been eyeing me with that hurt little look of yours all night, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

You shrunk a little, feeling slightly embarrassed.

There you were, watching her the whole evening and thinking she wouldn’t notice just because she kept talking. Of course you were wrong.

Your tried to cross your arms, then brought them around yourself defensively, hesitant.

“It’s nothing. Forget it. Just-”

Agatha shot you a look. She was interested now, you could tell by her eyes, and you knew she wouldn’t drop this until you revealed the truth.

With a half glance to the side, you murmured finally,

“Fine. It’s… It’s nothing, like I said. Just- some witch at dinner- she said-”

Agatha tilted her head. There was another look in her eyes now, a different one.

“What witch? What did she say?” but her words were clipped, angry somehow.

“Nothing.” you shook your head quickly. “Just some- nonsense about- how I shouldn’t stick with you cause I’ll end up dead.” you started, “It really doesn’t--”

“She tried to scare you?” Agatha said, standing up now. You tried to backpedal.

“No, no-”

“No? She thought she’d just- what? Imply that I’ll kill you one day? You think that’s what I’d do that, pet? That you’re only here because I want to—”

She stepped closer, and looked up at her, quiet and open.

“I don’t think that, Agatha.” you murmured. “I don’t.”

She studied your expression and exhaled slowly, blowing out a soft breath.

“You might not,” she said evenly, “but you have questions. I can see it in your face, pet.” With that she turned and sat back down on her bed, back straight, fixing her hair.

“Go on then,” she said briskly, “ask away. I’ll answer whatever you want to know. Can’t have you thinking I’ll murder you.”

You pressed your lips together. She was angry, you could tell, but you didn’t think it was at you. You hoped you were right.

“I don’t...think that, Agatha.” you replied tentatively, “I just-- was wondering. If that’s all true then why am I still here? Aren’t you bored of me, or something?”

A twinge of something shot through her expression. You could see the gears turning in her head, the silent frustration of choosing to either be cold and risk hurting your feelings or be honest and risk saying something disgustingly sweet. It made you want to smile.

“I couldn’t get bored of you.” she said, a little flatly, “because for one you seem to genuinely enjoy my company, which is... odd, and…” she took a breath, not meeting your eyes, “and for another, you’re…” she paused again.

Words weren’t coming to her, which was rare because Agatha usually had a quip for everyone, you included.

“You’re not like them, pet.” she finally said, studying your face. “You’re not like them because I… you know things about me, things I never told them, any of them. And the things I teach you, they aren’t what I taught anyone else.”

That made you pause, and think.

“What do you mean?”

She chuckled, a kind of frustrated laugh.

“You think I show everyone how to break out of a binding rune? You think I told them about spells from the Darkhold? Or how to ward your bedroom for better sleep? Your think too highly of me, darling.”

Her words sent a flow of reassurance washing over you, and made you want to go and hug her. You didn’t. You just sat there, watching her, trying to think of what it was that you did that made her trust you like this.

“That's really sweet.” you murmured.

She made a face, like tasting something bitter.

“Ugh. Don’t start. See this is why I avoid feelings, you just get all mushy and-- adorable. It’s annoying.”

You giggled. She shot you a glare. You smiled.

“Are you gonna tell your familiar why you bought a slab of stone? With my money?” you grinned at her, leaning over to look at her frowning expression.

“Come onnn.” you whined at her continued silence, “You used me to get it, I deserve to know.”

She shook her head, and instead got up and reached beneath her coat that stood flung over the dresser, fishing out a glittery something from a thin paper bag before tossing it at you.

You caught it, inches from your face, and opened your hands to see what it was.

“I was gonna give it to you at home,” she said, shaking her head, “but if it’ll shut you up now…”

It was a blue charm, a piece of glittering crystal, one you were looking at earlier while waiting for her. You smiled. Then you went over and hugged her, saying thank yous. She stiffened and groaned and pretended to be put upon before embracing you back with exaggerated dramatics.

After she sat back down you went over to the window, looking outside. The sky was really dark with no streetlamps you were so used to, and the convention was reduced to a field of tiny glowing specs, warm lanterns that illuminated the now closed stalls and stands.

“I didn’t know you could be sentimental.” you said, smiling.

“I can do a lot of things you don’t know about.” she said, smirking.

You turned. “Like what?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. Just your usual witchy nonsense. Levitation, transmutation, mind control, take your pick.”

You looked at her curiously, fiddling with the charm. “You can read minds?”

She shook her head. “Not quite. That’s more Wanda’s style of expertise.” There was a bitter note in her tone whenever she mentioned Wanda, not that it was hard to miss, seeing as she had a habit of spitting on her empty property every time you happened to pass it back in Westview.

“But you just said mind control. Isn’t that, like, a given?”

“Yes and no.” she said, appraising you carefully. “Think of it like writing a book. Picking it up and reading the pages, that’s taking a peek into someone’s thoughts. When you’re controlling someone you become the author. You decide what gets written down, you control the narrative.”

You paused in thought. This was a side of Agatha you didn’t get to see quite as often.

Sure, she taught you magic, showed you how to do spells that were a bit tricky or controversial, but you hadn’t even scratched the surface of what she could do with her magic. Sometimes you thought she thought it would scare you, knowing what she could make happen, but after tonight, and that witch’s words still vaguely ringing in your head, you wanted to prove those claims wrong.

“But Billy- at the road. That last trial, you did something. You helped him.”

Agatha scoffed, shaking her head. “I didn’t help, I just gave him a nudge in the right direction. He’s as hopeless as you.”

“So you can read minds. Kind of. If someone lets you.”

She nodded.

You circled the dresser and went over to her, quiet and careful, slightly tentative now. “Can you- could you show me?”

She stopped. Looked up. Arched one perfect eyebrow.

“Show you.”

You nodded.

She blinked, looking at you with narrowed eyes like you had just offered her something very suspicious she was sure would end up being a trap. Then she tilted her head, just slightly, and said

“Fine.”

Your eyes widened. You weren’t expecting her to agree, and so quickly at that, too. You weren’t scared. But the prospect of having Agatha Harkness in your head was one that some people, some witches, the one downstairs definitely included, would find downright terrifying.

“Well?” You startled at Agatha’s sharp voice. “Did you change your mind already?”

You quickly shook your head, making your way over to her. “No, no. I’m okay. What do I do?”

She patted the bed, once, turning to sit with one leg over the other so that she was facing you.

“Sit down.”

You did.

In front of her, close, so close you could see each strand of wavy hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. You stayed still, looking up at her as she moved her hands, slowly, so slowly, up towards your head.

You tried to remember what this was like with her and Billy, but he seemed in pain, and upset, and she hadn’t exactly sounded very comforting then. You could only hope she would be different with you.

As if sensing your apprehension, her fingers paused, and instead of going to your temples they brushed your hair back from your face.

“Relax.” she breathed, and you felt some tension in your spine unwind at the softness of her tone.

Her hands found the sides your head, barely touching, barely there.

“Relax…” she said again, and you took a breath, trying to match your breathing to hers. She was looking right at you, making you feel vulnerable and exposed from such a short distance.

“Close your eyes.” she murmured.

You did. Slowly, you let your eyes fall closed, felt the darkness envelop you, let yourself sink into it. It was odd, you thought, how severing one sense could make you feel the others more strongly-- you could feel the room around, could feel Agatha sitting in front of you, the warmth of the air, dry with summer heat, damp from the open window’s gentle night breeze. The bed covers felt soft beneath your legs, your hands folded in your lap, Agatha’s still on your head.

And then--

Purple.

A hazy, tingly burst of it, like a tiny light flickering in the darkness, weaving in and out of in front of you so suddenly that you startled. You wanted to blink but that would mean opening your eyes. You stared at the light.

It was floating, moving around you, and that didn’t make any sense because you weren’t standing you were sitting, but the light had moved so you moved too, you took a step and went towards it, went after it, you reached out a hand, fingers outstretched, and the light…

Snapped you on the wrist.

You jumped, even though the impact was barely there, a faintest whisper of a touch. You tried to pull your hand back but the strand of light got there first, looping gently around your hand, pulling you forwards. You followed, because it was warm and light and unlike anything you had ever touched before, and then-

Hi.

You jumped again. Agatha chuckled, in front of you, you could hear, but you could also somehow feel that she chuckled inside your head.

“How…” you started, but the words were unnecessary and died in your throat, because as you were saying them you could feel their meaning as well, and you knew that she could too.

It was the most peculiar feeling you’d ever felt, and you weren’t even sure if it was real, but Agatha was there, somehow, beside you, in real life and inside your mind, and you smiled at her and she smiled back. Her smile was more of a satisfied grin, but that wasn’t surprising.

What now? you asked her.

Now? she shrugged, You wanted me to read your mind. Think of something. All I can see here is… she thought around, your antsy excitement over the fact that I’m talking to you in your head. Yes, I know, you can hear me. Yes, you can still hear me, this is unsettling now, please stop thinking aloud.

You tried your best to stop any unwanted thoughts from flowing through the forefront of your mind, which you realized now was very hard. You weren’t sure what she’d do if she somehow got to your ‘I wish Agatha would hug me more often’ moments, or ‘what if I wake up tomorrow and she decides I’m a failure’ moments, or the several nights you so vividly remember crying into your pillow about your favorite witch, favorite person, favorite Agatha- being dead. You let her startle you a third time by saying

No, I don’t quite think you’re a failure ...yet.

You hadn’t meant for her to see or hear or know that, so you quickly tried to think of something, anything else, and your mind fell on a random day in Westview, during the Hex.

You were at her house, the same one you lived in now, but you didn’t know her so well then, now like this. You’d been sitting at the table in her kitchen, listening to her ramble about neighbors and gossip from three doors down in that cheerful tone while making you tea. She served it in a polka-dotted mug, white and blue, set a plate of biscuits in front of your and smiled softly at you. It wasn’t anything special per se, nothing unusual happened that day, well, overlooking the fact you had tea at a witch’s house while simultaneously being trapped in another witch’s fake sitcom reality. But something about Agatha from then had stuck with you. The way she made you tea, listened while you spoke, looked at you, really looked at you, it made you feel seen.

Of course you came to know later that she was only looking and listening so well because she was trying to figure out what was going on with Wanda, but something about her attention, that almost care, even if it was fake at the time, it had gotten to you. And now she knew.

You tried to step back, only to remember you couldn’t because this was all happening inside your head. Agatha luckily got the gist, and pulled away.

There was darkness then, so suddenly, just dark and black and nothing, just the inside of your own mind, and you felt a sense of regret thrumming though you, wishing she’d stayed a little longer, because the warmth that was there somehow went away along with her, leaving you cold and alone in the dark. When you felt her hands leave your head, still so gently, you slowly opened your eyes, embarrassment settling in your chest.

What had you achieved?

You let a witch into your head and showed her how much you longed for her attention, that you thought of her as family, and that you selfishly had the audacity to feel insecure if even though you were, quite literally, her only student. You were just thinking it good that she wasn’t there to hear these afterthought parts of your thinking, when she smiled.

“What?” you murmured.

“Nothing." she said, shaking her head. "It’s funny.”

“What is?”

“The inside of your head. It’s so…” she made a face, “You’d think it was just sunshine and rainbows with all that hope you always keep in your eyes.”

You didn’t say anything.

“Do you trust me?” she asked suddenly.

You nodded. Slowly, then more firmly.

“Yes.”

“Good.” she murmured, “Because I’m going to tell you something I’ll probably regret. Ugh.”

She raised one hand, let it hover for a moment as if to cup your cheek, but then thought better of it, and wrapped her arms around you instead. It was a little awkward, with the small distance between you, so you scooted closer, slightly dazed.

“You asked me if I taught other people before you.” you felt her talking against your hair, “Witches know who I am, pet. Some of them wanted power, some of them were after fame. A story to tell others after they got what they wanted. But none of them were as good as you.” you stayed still, not daring to move and break the moment.

“You know, every day I watch you follow me around and listen and I think one day she’s going to come to her senses and run. She’s smart, she’ll realize how- how dangerous I really am.” her voice wavered, just slightly. You’d never heard her talk like that before.

“But you never do. Every day, I get up and you’re still here, waiting for me to teach you new spells and new magic and those silly charms you love so much.”

She smiled, chuckled, but her laugh sounded closer to a sob. “I don’t say this often enough because I always hope you somehow already know, but you mean a lot to me. And I-- I want you to know, I need you to know, pet, I’d never hurt you. Ever. Not for anything. And I- I don’t want you- to be scared.”

You swallowed. Your heart was doing odd things in your chest because did that actually just happen? Was it possible that you were spending your days worrying about Agatha dismissing you and she was doing the same about you leaving her, being scared of her?

“I-” you didn’t know what to say. “I don’t- I’m not.” you made out, “I’m not scared of you. Don’t think that. I don’t think I could be- even if you...if you tried.”

That was a shaky truth. She was very good at being scary when she wanted to be. But for you, somehow, that never meant fear. It always meant safety.

“Your mind is a beautiful place, darling.” she said softly, surprising you again. Her fingers brushed against your temple, and you felt that same warmth brush the edge of your mind, not probing, not pushing, just there. “Keep it safe. Please.”

You nodded.

“And don’t let anyone take that good from you. Not even me.”

You nodded again.

You didn’t think words would do justice to what you were feeling, surprise, confusion, gratitude, relief, but you knew that she knew. That she understood.

With one final brush against your mind she pulled away, both there and literally, and you weakly allowed her to sit back across from you, as if the last ten minutes had never even happened.

You stared at her.

She didn’t say anything.

Then she cleared her throat, and with a sharp look told you, “Stop doubting yourself, pet. Now get off my bed, you’re hogging the blanket.”

That night, you stayed awake a little longer than usual, glancing at the blue charm she’d gotten you and thinking of where you could put it, then at Agatha herself, still reading on her bed like she wasn’t spilling her worries of scaring you away mere hours earlier.

You knew the odds of her mentioning your conversation were small, much less even acknowledging what was said, but when you woke in the morning and followed her downstairs for breakfast, she stopped you when you tried to get up to get more coffee.

“I’ll get it.” she said, already standing up from her seat.

You watched her go inside, getting back to your food and wondering what was taking so long when something clattered to the floor, glass breaking. You turned but couldn’t see anything, now getting increasingly worried despite the fact that Agatha could more than hold her own against a few other witches.

You listened again, fork halfway to your mouth.

Nothing.

Still nothing. You’d just taken another bite of your food, almost cold now, when someone stumbled over to you, heaving.

It was the witch from last night.

Her hair was messy as if she’d been running, and her pupils were blown wide.

“I apologize.” she said, slightly breathless. “Last night, what I said, it was out of line, and—”

she glanced back inside just briefly as if checking for conformation and got none, but went on anyway, “It was-- it was rude of me, s-so rude, and I apologize, I’m so sorry.”

You stared at her, perplexed and biting back a smile that was threatening to eascape. You could count on Agatha to have your back too, it seemed.

“You’re sorry?” you said, tilting your head with an innocently curious tone.

She nodded frantically.

“Well in that case, I suppose I can forgive you.” you said with a small sigh.

The witch didn’t try to shake your hand. She didn’t say anything else, just turned tail and ran, actually ran, out towards the convention and its halfway open shops and tents.

Agatha came back a second later, strolling with her hands full.

She set a glass of water in front of you. Then your steaming coffee. Then she plopped a whole ice bucket next to her plate and fished one cube out to drop into her orange juice.

When she sat back down across from you, leaning back in her chair with a smug smirk, you asked her what happened.

“Oh nothing.” she replied, shaking her head and tossing back her hair, “Just had a little chat with the witch who works here. Nothing you should worry your little head about. Now eat. Your food's getting cold.”

You smiled and took a sip of your coffee, and then snorted into your mug, because Agatha told you to order whatever else you wanted— it was on the house.

A/n: hiiiii y'all. so this took forever to write. it ended up being so long i debated posting it as two parts but i wasn't sure where to split it so there you have it. softie agatha is my favorite... I was thinking of doing the next part of IWNMTT next, but also are there like, familiar!reader fics? but platonic? i feel like it would go agatha thinking she has a pet project and then agatha being far too motherly. idek. I went through every idea possible for inspo lol. If anyone would read that let me know, and send ideas y'all, what do you want agatha to do next. Title is from Afraid by The Neighbourhood. Also if anyone has any playlists or songs they think match agatha lmk. I love y'all and thank you for reading, as always, have a wonderful dayyy!! <33

Taglist 💜 @milflovers4 @senhorita-girassol @dandelions4us @kaymariesworld @ahintofchaos @atlasimagines @eyalovesherbed

[shadowsndaisies]

the beginning

a/n: part one of the brightest of lights white lantern!reader AU!!! im so excited to share this with you as part of my resolution to posting more often, especially the wips that have been sitting stagnant for so long. it's the first time in a while that i get to return to jason todd, my number 1 always.

main masterlist

the brightest of lights masterlist

wc: 4.2k

“Batcave to Outlaws,” Dick Grayson’s voice flooded the speakers of your new hideout and you heard Jason let out a groan.

“What’s up, Batcave?” you smirk, answering the call.

“Why would you answer?” Jason chided as Dick’s face filled the screen. “You know we don’t like them,” he huffs from where he was sharpening one of his blades.

“I’m bored and their calls usually give me something to do,” you muse.

“Ding! Ding! Ding! The lady is correct. I do have something for you guys,” Dick chimes with a playful smile and Jason shakes his head.

“Fine, I’ll play. What do you want?” Jason asked, moving to stand beside where you were seated at the computer.

“Batman is already on-sight but there was a major crash right on the edge of Gotham. It seems like it’s from space,” Dick teases, and your lips part in excitement as you turn to Jason.

“You had to say space, didn’t you?” Jason sighed looking at you and then to Dick.

“C’mon, Jase, please!” you pleaded.

“If you’re going to go, you should hurry, I think Batman’s gonna call Green Lantern,” a new face appeared on screen, Tim Drake, or Red Robin.

“You know you both are enabling her?” Jason says to his brothers as you shot up from your chair to grab your gear.

“Not our fault your partner’s cooler than you,” Tim smirks.

“You keep this shit up, Timbers, watch what happens,” Jason growled.

You slung your leather jacket on and put on your utility belt before moving back to the screen to grab your phone. “I will leave you here Jason,” you tell him as you slip the device into a lined pocket on the inside of your jacket.

“Damnit, (Y/n), just give me a second,” he sighed, moving from the screen.

“Thanks for the tip, Batcave,” you smile at the two.

“We know you’re a bit of an astrophile,” Dick smiled kindly.

“Yeah, you space-loving geek. What a nerd,” Tim snorted, rolling his eyes in amusement.

“See ya, boys,” you smiled into the camera, “Outlaws, out,” you finished before shutting the call off.

“I don’t understand your obsession with space,” Jason commented as you both mounted your bikes.

“My obsession? Really?” you shoot him a look as you tap your choker, the nanotechnology there crawled over your face producing a helmet of sorts.

“Hey some people like Disney, you like space, I’m not judging, I just don’t get it,” he sighed.

Revving your engine you look over to your partner, “What’s not to get?” you ask, voice slightly distorted before taking off.

By the time you arrived at the crash site, Green Lantern was there talking with Batman, “And here I thought I’d be able to get through a week without having to see him,” Jason drawled and your nanotech helmet dissolved once more leaving you with just your domino mask and choker.

“Play nice, I want to see the spaceship,” you warn your best friend.

You couldn’t see his eyes due to the red helmet but you were positive he was rolling them at your antics. Looping your arm with his you pulled Jason over to where GL and B were.

“Red Hood, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Batman’s eyes narrowed on the two of you.

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too, Bats,” you smile at the dark knight.

“What are you doing here?” he pressed, pushing past your antics.

“Why can’t we just be doing our jobs as vigilantes to check in on crashes, like this one?” Jason asked, nonchalantly, and while the two leaguers turned to the man with the red helmet, you carefully slipped away.

You had been learning from Jason a lot lately, watching the way he walked, for someone so large and well built, he made virtually no sound. So, as light as you could, you slunk away from the three in discussion and closer to the crash site. The first thing you noticed was that there was a lot of smoke. You pulled your jacket off your body and bundled it up a bit to make a breathable mask for the moment being as you crept through. You also made a mental note to add filters to your helmet for future events like this. You weren’t really sure what you were looking for, but you kept moving, and all of a sudden you found yourself by what had to be the cockpit of his small ship.

“Damnit, (y/n), you couldn’t wait a few minutes?” Jason’s voice crackled over the comms.

You were about to respond when you saw something shift through the smoke, “Holy shit. Red, I think there’s someone alive in the crash,” you said instead, creeping ever closer to the crash.

“What?” he shot back.

“Someone or something alive is in this wreckage, Jase,” you repeat.

“Wait for me,” Jason pleads.

“Fat chance, Red Hood. Hurry up,” you decide as you find an opening.

Carefully you move through the ship, it was about the size of a shipping container, but it had broken into pieces in the crash.

“Hello?” you shouted, squinting through the smoke. “Is someone there?”

There was a flash of white light and a hushed whisper. Definitely a voice, maybe two, but you couldn’t make out what they were saying. Biting down on your lip you surged forwards. Once you cleared a very thick plume of smoke you found what you had been looking for. A body.

It was alien, without a doubt, and he was clad in a white uniform that you most definitely recognized.

“Jase?” you tapped on the comms line, with wide eyes, as you stared at the creature.

Whatever it was, it was bleeding purple blood and its eyes were shut.

“What? What’d you find?” he asked, you could hear him panting a bit.

“It’s a Lantern, I have absolutely no clue what race, but it’s definitely a Lantern,” you shared, but your eyes were analyzing the suit, it was different from the ones you’d see from the Green Lanterns, this one was white, but the design was basically the same.

“What? GL said that no other members of the Green Lantern Corps were detected on Earth,” Jason’s voice crackled a bit.

“I never said it was green,” you shoot back.

Suddenly the being coughed and its eyes opened wide, you surged forward, towards the being, dropping your jacket and your hands moving to the spots that were bleeding.

“Just hold on, alright, help will be here soon,” you whispered as you tried to help the alien.

It’s vibrant purple eyes, focused on you, as you hoped that their physiology was something like your own.

“A Terran, how unforeseen,” it spoke softly and your eyes widened.

This alien whatever it was, was speaking straight into your head.

“Forgive me, but by connecting us, I can assure a clean understanding without a language barrier,” it continued.

“Oh, okay, sure,” you swallowed, even though you really had no clue what was happening.

“I’m afraid, Terran, I will not make it through this,” the being let out what seemed to be a sigh.

“I don’t really know how to help,” you admit.

“Tell me, Terran, do you love? Have you compassion? Hope? Are there things you fear? Things you wish to claim for yourself? Are you angry? Do you possess the strength to balance all of these emotions?” the creature’s voice was gravelly in your mind but you kept your place.

“I-I mean I guess so?” you offered. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Hmm, show me. Show me the things that you relate to these emotions,” it pushed. “Begin with Anger.”

A memory flashed before your eyes, the night you met Jason. You had just started the vigilante thing when you saw a couple kids getting cornered in crime alley. Some gang that was trying to recruit them had backed them into a dead end. You had left them knocked out and zip tied to a wall with a note for the cops. But those kids, you made sure they were okay, it pissed you off to see good kids stuck in crappy situations, and there were so many of them.

“Hmm, angry for the violence and pain inflicted on others? Interesting,” it hummed, “now, what of greed?” your surprise was definitely clear, this thing, whatever it was, was reading your mind.

This time the memory was the first time you walked through Wayne Manor. It was so huge, and everything you had dreamed about as a kid on the streets. Something that you had always wanted, a life of luxury, and yet it seemed so foreign, it still did.

“What do you fear?”

You saw Jason bleeding on your sofa, two bullet wounds, a cut. You weren’t much better, the two of you had barely made it out of this last fight with your lives. You remembered the day so vividly because Jason had almost died trying to save you.

“And hope, do you possess the purest of all?” he continued.

There’s a little girl on her dad’s shoulders, they’re at the park, she’s giggling and he’s smiling up at her. Jason, Roy, and Kori were with you, the group had decided to take a chill day. There were cups of lemonade, a couple of books, a speaker and you were lounging about in one of the rare sunny days here in Gotham. These were the days that reminded you why you fought so hard, they reminded you of what you were protecting.

“What is compassion, Terran?

It’s almost funny what memory surfaces this time. You’re leaning back against a brick wall in the Narrows, eyes bright as you keep watch. Jason’s crouched down with a bunch of kids around him. He’s giving them lollipops, clothes, blankets; all in all, about a grand’s worth of stuff. You knew that because it was money you had raided from Black Mask a few days earlier.

“Why are you asking me these things? Who are you? What are you?” you interrupted, this thing was reading your mind, and you were trying your best to force it out.

“I will answer your questions, but there is one more. Do you have one to love?” it asked and your breath hitched, because you knew exactly where that would send you.

You saw yourself back at the hideout with Jason; cleaning guns, sharpening blades, watching a movie, and passing out together on the sofa. He was all you needed.

“Hmm, how interesting. Maybe you Terrans have an inaccurate reputation,” it hummed. “You will make an excellent choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“My name is Ophelius, I am the last ring-bearer of the White Lanterns. And you, you will be my successor,” Ophelius shared and your eyes bulged. “What is your name, Terran?

“Woah, what?”

“Your name,” he pushed.

“(Y/n),” you answered and he nodded.

“A white lantern must embody all the emotions, all the spectrums of the light. You must feel everything, and most of all, you must balance them. Your emotions will be your saving grace but lose balance, fall unevenly to any and you will destroy yourself and everything around you,” he warned.

“Ophelius, just hold on. A Green Lantern is on the way, he’ll be able to save you,” you tried to reason.

“No, there is no time to wait for Oa’s warrior. Listen to me Terran, remember these words, they will be your connection to all those before you, to the power of the light, and to the balance within,” Ophelius warned and he raised his hand to you, four fingers of light green skin, one of which was adorned with a white ring.

“In brightest day there will be light,” he said solemnly and the ring began to glow with a bright white light. “To cleanse the soul and set wrongs right,” he continued and the ring slowly lifted from his finger. “When darkness falls, look to the skies,” it spun carefully in the air, enveloping you and Ophelius in this white light. “A new dawn comes,” the ring placed itself on your finger, “let there be light,” Ophelius finished and the light died away, leaving you in white and Ophelius who looked even paler than before.

“Ophelius,” you muttered his name carefully.

“Be the brightest of lights, (y/n),” he whispered once more and he fell back gently against the ground.

“(Y/n)!” you heard Jason shout your name but your eyes stayed glued to the now-dead alien.

“(Y/n)!” that was Green Lantern’s voice.

“Damnit, (Y/n), where are you?” Jason called out again.

“Ophelius?” you whispered his name but there was no response, the alien was dead and he had left you with the last ring of the White Lanterns.

A hand landed on your shoulder and as you turned your eyes met the cowl covered ones of the Batman. His costume was such a stark contrast to what you were now wearing. Your previous attire had been your costume, a black armour-padded halter top, utility belt, military-grade camoflauge-printted dark cargo pants with a kevlar weave and combat boots. Now? Now you were wearing the exact same thing in white, but it felt different somehow, like there was something thrumming in each thread.

“Here,” the Bat’s gravelly voice called out.

A second later Jason came bounding through the smoke, the Green Lantern right behind him. GL’s eyes narrowed on the alien and then on you.

“That’s impossible,” he muttered.

“Woah,” Jason noted.

“He’s dead,” you whispered, staring at the pale alien and straight into his lifeless purple eyes.

“(Y/n)?” Jason crept closer and squatted down beside you.

“I didn’t think he was going to die,” you whispered, looking at the alien and then to your hands which were covered in his purple blood.

“Hey, doll,” Jason said the term softly, forcing you to look at him, “what’s going on in your head?”

“I just wanted to see the spaceship,” you admitted turning to Jason with glassy eyes.

“What did he say?” Green Lantern interrupted.

“Be the light,” you muttered.

“What?” GL pressed.

“He told me to be the light,” you repeated, eyes still glued to the dead alien.

Shakily you reached your hand out, and gently you shut the alien’s eyes, a tear slipping down your cheek, Ophelius had read our life in seconds, but his presence was still so fresh in your mind, it hurt more than you were expecting when he died.

“We need to debrief her at the Watchtower, now,” Green Lantern pushed.

“No, you need to back off,” Jason growled suddenly.

“Hood, stand down,” Batman warned.

“Back off, old man,” Jason threatened, standing back up. “She’s in shock, you robots!”

“Red,” your hand automatically moves towards his side. Gently it rests against his hip and he turns to you. “Hood,” your fingers grip into one of his thigh holsters, needing something to hold onto.

“Let’s go,” Jason huffed.

He grabbed your hand, not caring about the purple blood now on his own hands and suit, and helped you up, one hand went to your back almost immediately as he forced you to move forward.

“Jase,” you said his name softly as he pulled you away from Ophelius’ body. “Jay, stop,” you fight his hand as you force him to stop moving.

“What, doll? What is it?” he asked, hands moving to your arms.

“We have to go with them,” you mutter.

“No way. We’re not doing their dance, not today, not now,” he argued.

Your gaze dropped to your stained hands, and the ring now on your finger, “we have to.”

Safe to say Jason was not pleased to end up in the Batcave twenty minutes later. Sure, it was better than the Watchtower, but it was still more than he wanted. But you were going, and if you were going then so was he. You were his partner and there was no way he was going to leave you in any Justice League madness on your own. Your hands were still stained purple, he hadn’t even given you a chance to clean up before deciding to start the lecture. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Batman, this time it was GL.

“-absolutely reckless, going out on your own into an uncleared sight. Touching an alien that you didn’t know, talking with it instead of calling us? I mean what kind of bullheaded move is that!” you would have laughed if he wasn’t yelling at you. Hal Jordan was usually one of the more relaxed Leaguers, so this was very uncharacteristic.

“Give it a rest, Hal,” Jason finally groaned.

“I haven’t even gotten to you, yet, I mean you let her wander off,” Hal reared.

“I let her?” Jason scoffed. “In case you missed it, she’s a fully grown woman!” Jason shot back.

“Oh, for the love of god,” you interrupted. “Are you going to help me or not, Hal?” you asked him, hands flat on the table while you stood, looking at him definitely, everybody’s masks were off at this point as you addressed each other.

GL seemed taken aback by your abrupt interruption because for a second he just gaped.

“Oh, now he has nothing to say,” Jason scoffed and you leveled your best friend with a look.

“Jason, not helping,” you tell him, he simply sighed and sat back down.

“Look, Hal, this happened and you know better than anyone whether we want it or not, this ring is mine, so you can help me or you can get out of my way,” you lamented, and he sighed, shoulders dropping.

“You don’t understand,” he shared.

“Understand what?” you pressed.

“The White Lantern’s were supposed to be extinct. The power that comes with a White Lantern’s Light is categorically insurmountable,” he explained and your brows furrowed.

“What?” you repeated.

“You encompass all the colors, (y/n)! All of them! As a Green Lantern I focus on the powers of Green. We are the middle of the spectrum, we maintain the balance, but white? White is all the colors, you can’t focus solely on one in risk of losing balance. You have to learn to balance it all.”

“She can do it,” Jason argued.

“It takes years!” Hal shot back, “She doesn’t even know the Lantern’s spectrum!” he negated and your brain made the connection.

“Love, Compassion, Hope, Fear, Greed, and Anger,” you mutter.

“What did you say?” GL’s head snapped back to you in seconds.

“That’s what he asked me about, he read my mind, looked into my memories. Specifically of Love, Compassion, Hope, Fear, Greed, and Anger,” you tell them, and Hal finally shuts his mouth.

“What else did he say?” Batman spoke up for the first time since arriving back at the cave, his cowl was off as he stared at you.

“A mantra,” you tell him.

“A mantra?” Jason repeated, eyebrow quirked.

“In brightest day there will be light, to cleanse the soul, and set wrongs right. When darkness falls, look to the skies. A new dawn comes, let there be light,” you repeat, the words tugging at your gut as your fingers fidget with the new ring.

“Sounds familiar,” Bruce noted, turning his attention back to the Green Lantern.

Hal ran a hand over his face and groaned.

“I don’t get it,” you admit.

“The ring is only part of it,” He begins, unsurely. “It’s powerful, sure, but most of the colored lantern corps need to recharge the ring with a battery. We all have a, how’d you call it, a mantra? Yeah, we all have one. It’s different for each spectrum, and we use it to pull the energy from the battery to the rings, but a white lantern is different, there is no battery,” he explained and your brows furrowed.

“Okay… so how do I recharge?” you asked.

“Through your own energy,” Hal admits and you blink at him.

“What, like draining her own life source?” Jason scoffed.

“Not exactly, it’s supposed to be more like channeling the different emotions into energy for the rings, if done right there should be no negative side effects. But like I stated she’s not prepared, it can take years to learn how to channel your energy the right way, and if she’s not, she could kill herself.”

“That’s not terrifying at all,” you sarcastically assure Hal.

“Hey, I’m not the one who told you to run off!” he countered. “You were irresponsible! And reckless! Honestly, what were you thinking, galavanting off into some crash before the smoke’s even cleared!” he's shouting again and it’s starting to piss you off.

Your fist clenches and then you’re standing up again, “Stop shouting at me!”

Your chest is heaving as you glare at the lantern, but instead of glaring back at you, he’s staring with wide eyes.

“Woah,” Jason's murmur is what pulls your attention.

“What?” you snap, gaze shifting to him.

“Doll,” Jason’s voice was as soft as it’s ever been, “you’re glowing.”

Jason’s eyes were also a bit wide and when you stared down at your hands, you saw that he was right. A sort of white glow seemed to be emanating from your body, in fact it was lighting up the whole cave.

“I- I don’t-” you stuttered.

“This is what I’m talking about, you’re not balancing your emotions!” Hal began again. “You’re letting the Entity take control!”

“Hal,” Bruce finally spoke up, effectively stopping the lantern. He stalked closer to you and a heavy hand came down on your shoulder. You met his eyes and he nodded gently, “take a breath, (Y/n),” he instructed. You nodded and took a deep inhale. “Again,” he told you once you had exhaled, and you followed his instructions.

You repeated the process a few times but you noticed as the light began to fade and your heart rate settled.

He turned to Hal, “Control is teachable, Hal. Curiosity isn’t,” he reminded him.

You stared at Bruce for a second, there were moments when you could see the dad in him showing, and you could never reconcile that version of him with the Bat. They seemed like two completely different people, it was easy to understand Jason’s irritation. Living with someone who could be so different depending on the hour would take a toll on anyone for sure. Your gaze shifted from Bruce to Hal with a furrowed brow, “What Entity?” you press.

“What?” he stuttered.

“You said that the Entity was taking control, what Entity?” you asked.

Hal sighed before finally collapsing in a chair, “The White Lanterns are the physical embodiment of the Entity, which is the power of life itself. White Lanterns are dangerous and unpredictable, Kyle was closest we’ve ever seen to a true White Lantern. But even then, he was a Green Lantern first, and the Entity reverted him back to the Green Lanterns after. You’re wearing the first real White Lantern ring I’ve ever seen. It’s not like the ones Kyle created, and that’s alarming because it just reminds me that there is so much we don’t know about White Lanterns.”

“So you’re saying that the force behind the White Lanterns is life itself, and it manifests as an Entity which has no real form but white light. Which is why it needs me, a ring bearer?” you surmise, squinting at Hal as you put things together.

“Yes,” he nods and you turn back to Bruce.

“What do you think?” you asked him seriously and Bruce just stared at you.

You may not be his biggest fan most days, but there was no doubt that Bruce Wayne was a brilliant critical thinker, and if anyone could help you right now, it was going to be him. “I think the rings choose the wearer. Meaning nothing short of killing you will result in removing the ring’s attachment to you,” he begins and your brow quirked.

“We are not killing her!” Jason interrupted, and the corners of your lips quirked.

“There’s only one thing to do, train,” Bruce agreed with a small smirk.

“Train?” you repeat.

“And who do you think is going to train her?” Hal interrupted.

“I’d expect it to be you, Jordan, or any of your counterparts, though I do feel both you and John Stewart would have better luck when compared to Guy Gardner, Jessica Cruz and Kyle Rayner,” Bruce shot back and Hal’s eyes blew wide.

“Me?” Hal shot back. “What do I know about training anyone?” he scoffed.

“There’s a learning curve,” Bruce shrugged, eyes lingering on Jason for a second.

“Your nonchalance is inspiring,” you muse, eyes darting over to Jason who was now focused on Hal.

“No dead birds, Jordan,” Jason warns, and you almost choke on your responding laugh.

...

a/n: ps: i know i play a little fast and loose with the lantern rules, im open to suggestions!

everything tags: @butterfly-skinnylegend

dc taglist: @batarella @loninctzencarat @escapenightmare @uh-oh-howd-i-get-here

[yeyinde]

i bet Abbot has the biggest corruption kink ever. and it's a tinderbox in a burning room when he finds a sweet, by the books student he slowly ruins with his chaotic warzone medical knowledge and seething disregard for protocol. nudges her into his way of thinking with snide little encouragements and the tantalising idea of saving people without all the red tape wrapped around their necks like a noose.

and maybe the problem is that he sees a little bit of himself in you.

(a bit, of course, because the reality is that he just wants an excuse; needs something to make the clog of day after day a little more bearable after a lifetime of looking over the edge a beat too long. misery needs company, after all—)

and you have all this hunger he can recognise, find kinship with. but unlike him, you have nothing to feed it when you're too busy tripping over red tape. starving yourself on scraps and highlighted text.

you need someone to help you curb that appetite, but you'll never find the answers buried in a book.

so he teaches you how to take protocol between your hands and twist it around until it fits between your fingers, sits on your skin like a glove. and it's a beautiful sight to see the way you look to him for the answer first. always. unquestionably trusting when he shows you something off the cuff. stabs at the heart of the problem instead skirting along the outside as mandated, like helping a teen get an abortion or skipping the line to save a life.

and it's easy to tell himself it's for your own good when he tucks you under his wing, dragging you closer to the edge with him.

[sylusbelovedart]

Netflix & Chill

Sylus is definitely the type of boyfriend you watch cr!mǝ series and thrillers with. Snuggled against each other, eating snacks and drinking wine.

I can totally see him breaking down any inaccuracies or plot holes, while frowning. The annoyed look on his face would make you laugh but you would listen to him with interest.

"You should definitely write a book. "How to murder and lead an underground organisation for beginners and dummies". It will be a hit."

He scoffed at you. 

"Who would read that ?"

"Me" you said smiling at him "I will buy hundreds of copies."

He looked at you softly, his eyes always so gentle.

"Oh ?" he smirked, "I will take your words for it, then." he sipped on his wine "But I'm not sure I am one to be admired, sweetie"

You sit closer to him, your fingers fiddling with his button shirt.

"Well… I don’t agree. I am your number one fan, aside from Luke and Kieran" you said pouting "And as your faithfull fan…" you curled your finger to pull him closer to you "I expect thoughtful advices from you".

One of his hands brushed some of your hair back before cupping your cheek.

"So you want me to be your mentor ?" he asked teasingly.

You tilt your head to the side, smiling sweetly at him, a false innocent look in your eyes. 

"Shouldn’t I know the basics and learn from the best ?" you looked intently at his lips. You wanted to kiss him but felt like teasing him a bit more "Would you be willing to teach me ?" you looked back up at him. 

He brushed your lips with his thumb.

" I think" he voice came out hoarse, his lips carressing your cheek lightly "we could learn" a kiss on your jaw "more interesting things" one on your neck "from each other" another on your collarbone "don’t you think, kitten ?" he asked softly, giving you a pointed look, his lips hovering over yours.

You didn’t answer right away. Every fiber in your body was focused on him, on his lips. Gosh, you wanted him to kiss you so bad. 

"Like what ?" you whispered too dazed out to think properly, needy and weak from his gestures.

He smirked at you, his gaze slowly darkening.

"If you want me to mentor you so bad…" his lips brushed yours "Let’s see how much of my teaching you can actually take first".

———————————————————————————

Note : Please don’t mind the bad writing or the ooc, my Sylus brainrot is hitting me again. I’m sorry it came out this short though… Maybe I will rewrite it again later and make it longer.

I loved the new banner btw. Sylus reading thriller and murder novels before going to bed took me out. It’s so on character of him. He is so dramatic.

The relationship between them in this AU was so sweet but also so frustrating. The pinning was good but I just wanted them to kiss so bad !

[ginervacade]

Honeybee and Ladybug

Sebastian Vettel x Reader

Summary: The Grid Kids wonder why Seb and Reader decorate with Bees and Ladybugs. The answer? Jenson Button and Y/N is a sap. Seb just loves his wife.

Warnings: none that I can think of? There’s a tiny, skippable period joke ( as is customary to this blog)

Author’s Note: My first attempt at RPF! ( it took forever because I was being a chicken about it lol.) I was wanting to use “little ladybug” as a pet name in some sort of writing and the Jenson Button girlie in me said “ I have an idea!”

SECOND, MORE IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE: This fic is heavily inspired by the lovely @pucksandpower and her ADORABLE Grid Kids series. ( particularly Gentlemen: A Short View Back To The Past) I did change the reader’s past occupation Go read her series, it is the cutest thing ever and you will giggle the whole way through!

Onward to the fic!

*****

“ Mom?” Lance said as Y/N sat back down on the couch, watching as she pulled the little pillow into her lap and held it close.

“ What’s up babydoll?” She replied, smiling as he leaned in toward her from his spot in the floor. There were plenty of chairs, she noticed again as she ran her fingers through his hair, yet he always seemed to prefer the floor. She suspected it had to do with being able to stretch out and move around, as Georgie and Lando sometimes did the same.

“ This is not me saying I don’t like it, it’s very cute,” Lance began and Max chuckled, mumbling something along the lines of “This should be interesting.”

“ What’s with the insects theme in your decorating?” As if to prove his point he gestured to the little pillow she held, which was embroidered with a little bumble bee and a lady bug.

Now that the rest of the boys thought about it, they were sort of everywhere. Canisters in the kitchen for Seb’s coffee and Y/Ns tea were a honey bee and ladybug respectively. There were nature photographs of the two on the bathroom walls. Charles remembered the guest room being all done up in bees and ladybugs too. Y/N had a vent clip in her car that was a sparkly ladybug. The key hanger by the door was a pair of flowers and she and Seb had matching key chains of the two insects that slotted into place to light on the flowers. Her favorite blanket, old and worn out by now, the one she wrapped around them all whenever they were feeling overwhelmed, had ladybugs on it too.

“It’s not just insects though Lance,” Mick pointed out.

“ It’s always bees and ladybugs,” said Lando, then the realization seemed to dawn in his eyes, “ Wait, do they represent you and Seb?”

“ Yep,” she replied, smiling fondly at her husband.

“ Aaaw, that’s cute!” George cooed.

“ I get the bees for Seb, everyone does that, but why are you a ladybug?” Charles piped up.

“ Haven’t you guys ever heard Jenson call her “ his little ladybug”?” Max asked, making air quotes around the phrase and mimicking the retiree’s voice.

There was a chorus of laughter at that.

“ You boys up for a story?”

****

“ Why do you always wear dresses to media days?” Jenson asked, looking her up and down in confusion. She was in a short dress, tight at the top and flowy at the skirt, and a simple pair of black heels. Her hair was back, the ends curled and adorned with a large blue bow that matched the dress. She had on pink lipstick. Every media day she showed up looking like this put together little lady, it kind of drove him insane.

“ I just like them. I like feeling pretty.” She replied simply, shrugging her shoulders.

“ You like making me look bad is what it is,” Jenson laughed, gesturing to his jeans and team kit.

The next morning when she walked in for quali day in a red dress with black polka dots Jenson rolled his eyes. Tossing an arm over her shoulder he cheerily announced, “ Good morning my little ladybug. Let’s get a 1-2 today, yeah?”

Y/N giggled a little too much for Sebastian’s liking, leaning into the touch, the bridge of her nose turning pink as she mumbled something like “ That’s always the goal, isn’t it?”

Sebastian hated the little schoolgirl, hero worship crush Y/N didn’t seem to realize she was harboring for her teammate and mentor.

Looking up to him he’d understand. He’s older and more experienced, he looks up to him too. But Jenson is also Jenson Button. Tall, charming, conventionally attractive, but a known playboy and flirt. Sebastian thinks Y/N deserves better than to fall for all that.

***

“ Oh shut up, I did not,” Y/N says, blushing.

“ You definitely did, love.” Seb’s grin has the boys giggly too, “ Does it help knowing I was very jealous?”

“ A little bit,” she concedes, still blushing, leaning into Seb’s side earning Aws and coos from several of the boys.

“ The crush only lasted about half a season, but the name stuck.”

“ And spread like wildfire through the paddock,” Y/N agreed.

****

In Brazil when they did Secret Santa she smiled as she read the little note.

To our little ladybug, since you’re always cold.

“ Oh I love it!” She said, running her fingers over the ladybug adorned blanket. “Seb look, it’s so cute and so fuzzy!”

“ It is.” He said.

She giggled again, then on impulse “ like your hair,” she said, messing it up to make him turn that adorable shade of pink.

They missed the fond smiles they were getting from Micheal and Mark.

****

“ Then half the grid picked it up.”

“ You boys have probably heard more than Jenson use it, just without the possessive marker so you didn’t notice. It used to irk me that he said my with it.” The word sounds icy in Seb’s mouth even now.

“ It was just his name for me originally. Was someone a little possessive, hm?” Y/N teased.

“ Absolutely,” Seb replied, with no shame, “ I did not like anyone else trying to claim my girl.” This gets more giggles and a wolf whistle out of the boys.

“ We weren’t together yet honey,” Y/N said, confused smile on her face.

“ Liebe, I was pining long before you knew.”

Mick, George, Charles, and Lando all awed some more.

“ Like a bee for pollen?” Max joked to a chorus of groans.

“ Actually I do think I’ve heard Nando say it,” Lance said, remembering how Alonso had pecked her on the cheek last time she’d been in the paddock with a “hola mariquita.”

“ Rosberg too,” agreed Charles.

“ And Webber,” Lando added.

“ Lewis too,” George and Mick said at the same time, recalling multiple “ hey there Ladybug! Missed you”s whenever she entered the Mercedes garage.

“ It was cute till Jense devolved it,” Y/N said with a fond eye-roll.

“ Devolved?” Mick asked, peering up at them like a confused puppy.

Seb just laughed.

“ Oh please, you still adored it. He just wanted to have his own special nickname for you.”

“ But I swear it was like he forgot my actual name for a whole season!”

“ That’s true, everything was Bug.” Seb conceded.

“ Easy on the breaks in turn 4, Bug.” She said in a dramatic but better than Max’s impression of the former world champion. “ Where are you going, Bug? Stop staring, Bug. Focus, Bug. Bit understeery today, Bug.”

“ Oi! You’re bleeding, Bug.” Seb added with a chuckle.

“ Oh I about killed him for that! Could you yell it a bit louder Jense? I don’t think the Ferrari garage in Albert Park heard you!”

“ Oo,” George winced, he and Max the only two who seemed to understand. Y/N just laughed.

“ Really though, every sentence. Why’s your hair down, Bug? Ask him out already, Bug! We’re gonna get a 1-2 today, Bug!”

“ Then I made one comment about Bees dying off.”

“ And I called you Honey, exactly one time, and Micheal ran with it.”

“ Honey Bee and Ladybug.” Seb squeezed her shoulders, “ and the rest is history.”

[crescenthistory]

Haunt Me, Then; Part 2

Pairing: Sirius Black x Fem!Reader

Part 1 of the The Hunger Games AU

Chapter Synopsis: On a Capitol Train filled with all the people that might give you answers, in their own unique ways, you find yourself feeling more confused and conflicted than before. Peter isn’t managing well, Sirius wants to talk but remains cryptic when you let him, and Bellatrix and Barty prove to be unpredictable companions to say the least. 

WC: 8.4k

Tags: Fem!Reader, Use of Y/N, Hunger Games typical warnings of corruption, oppression and widespread pain, mentions of imminent and past death, references to loss and grief, heavy hurt/comfort, bittersweet moments, Barty and Bellatrix are their own warnings, disassociation, kind of miscommunication trope, yearning, childhood best friends (to mentor/tribute to lovers), unwanted physical touches

A/N: huge thanks to my darling aimee (@ailoda) for taking on the feat that is beta-reading this series! keep in mind that this thg au is not thg compliant; i do what i want lol. i am open to doing a taglist if people are interested<3

Perhaps it was an odd aspect to focus on, but the chairs on the Capitol train were ridiculously comfortable.

While District 7 was far from the poorest region, there was not an emphasis on luxury goods either. In large families like the McKinnons, it was not uncommon to struggle to make ends meet, and no waiting room you had ever spent time in had plush seating options. The closest you had come to riches was through Sirius’ parents, who moved from District 1 prior to Sirius’ birth on request from the Capitol. They never would say why; they would never really say anything. At least Sirius and Regulus did not have to want for anything, and they gave whatever support they could to their friends. To you.

Yet, the chairs on the train felt like the most abundant lounge you could have pictured. Textured and ruffled like it was designed for angels.

In a few weeks, that was all you could hope to be, really. Angels. 

It felt easier at this moment to focus on the chair. How it felt against your thighs, how it removed aches from your bones, the ones you would have preferred to focus on, because pain was the most distracting thing of all. You wished to place your whole attention, your whole burdened soul inside the soft down of the pillow, to disappear into the microscopic world and not have to face anything.

To hide in your mind was a skill you had always excelled at, especially the past few years. Despite your mastery and best intentions, Sirius broke through.

Even as you blocked out the rest of the room, you were acutely aware of Sirius. You knew he was sitting across from you, table pushed to the side so there were no real barriers between you two. You knew he had his head in his hands, occasionally dragging his fingers through his hair and pulling, as if it would do him any good. You knew he sounded like a man at war; occasionally huffing, grunting, sighing into the nether. 

And because you were so aware of Sirius, you unfortunately remained aware of Peter, as Sirius kept looking his way and occasionally speaking to him. 

Curled up on the sofa a bit to the left of you, Peter laid crying. Not loud wailing, though he would have been well within his rights to do so. Just silent tears and the occasional hiccup. It tore your heart open and made you want to run further away into yourself. 

Bellatrix and Barty – who you had learned seemed to only bring out the worst in each other – sat on the sofa across from Peter, chattering away as if they were not witnesses to this ironic train wreck in motion. Last time you checked in, they were gushing over the potential costumes you and Peter might be dressed in and what dynamics they hoped to see between the tributes in the arena, how their champions would play into it all. Or, at least Bellatrix was talking at Barty with enough enthusiasm to power District 12, You tuned them out long ago, until they became nothing to you.

Like you hoped you would be to them soon.

Sirius nudged your shoe with his. 

Your gaze fell to where his foot laid beside yours. You had matching shoes. Even after 5 years in the Capitol, he still wore black boots, as if he was moments away from heading into a forest.

You trailed up to find his insistent eyes on you already. He seemed to have been studying your face, one corner of his lip twitching into a half-smile. He tilted his head at you, almost in question – you had no answer, so you merely shrugged. 

That seemed to be enough for him. 

Sirius clapped his hands together, loudly enough to disturb Bellatrix and Barty’s conversation – the latter of which sent Sirius a nasty look you had yet to decipher – but not so loud as to startle Peter. “Alright, we have no more time to spare,” Sirius declared, ending the short period he had awarded you all to absorb the shock of the moment. Though, perhaps mostly himself. “Peter, Y/N, why don’t you head to your rooms to breathe or change – there’s rows of clothes to choose from already hung up there – and then the three of us meet up in 30 minutes in the parlor to start talking strategy?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Barty beat you to it.

“What do you mean the three of you, Black?” He somehow managed to snarl and laugh at the same time. “News flash, but your Capitol representatives are meant to be along for the whole ride.”

Sirius didn’t move his gaze to meet Barty’s as he spoke. “You are meant to be just that – representatives. You can join us for meals and public outings, but you have no business joining us outside of that.”

“How lovely of you to think you have a choice, Siri!” Bellatrix purred in a sing-songy tone of voice that did not at all match the contents of her speech. She rose from her seat and began walking in Sirius’ direction. “The parlor in 30 minutes sounds absolutely splendid. We can then discuss how to frame the tragedy that is the three of you in the most entertaining way for the interviews.”

The line of Sirius’ lips was tight and you caught a glimpse of his eyes flashing, but Bellatrix moved in front of him before you could read him further, blocking your view. You could hear him open his mouth, but Bellatrix lifted an arm to place a finger in his face, presumably over his lips. “Sh, sh, sh, little Prince, save the tantrums for the cameras.” 

She flicked the finger over his nose as she moved past him to float towards the door. When you saw Sirius’ face again, his eyes were squeezed shut, head turned to the side.

Bellatrix made a whistling sound that had Barty rolling his eyes and standing up – did she call on him? If that was what she did, he apparently listened for all intents and purposes, striding through the space between you and Sirius. These Capitol people seemed to walk as if it took no effort, as if they weighed next to nothing, movements all tied together in beautiful elegance.

The smirk and wink Barty shot you as he passed was neither.

The door slammed shut with a bang that, though expected, made Peter jump in his seat where he was just beginning to sit up and gather himself. You smiled sadly at him as he stared down into the floor.

Sirius, on the other hand, opened his eyes with a sigh. He took a moment to look between you and Peter, lingering on you when you actually met his eye. There was a miniscule shake of his head, seemingly instinctive, before he cleared his throat. “Alright. I meant what I said. I’ll take you two to your rooms to collect yourselves alone, and then we’ll talk strategy.”

So much for catching up.

There were a hundred things to be said, but the mere thought of raising any of the points made your blood heat uncomfortably. Instead, you nodded and got up from your seat, squaring your shoulders.

Half on instinct, half to make some connection with the one person you truly know in this place, you moved past Sirius to give Peter a hand up. At last, when you stood before him, he looked up to meet your eyes, tears still swimming in his blue irises. 

“C’mon, Petey,” you whispered, squeezing his shoulder with one hand and grabbing his hand with the other. He huffed a breath you wondered if maybe was supposed to be a friendly sign as he clutched onto you in turn, allowing you to help him up. You brushed off the invisible dust on his sleeves and smiled more assuredly this time, before turning on your heel and facing Sirius.

When he didn’t say anything, just stared emptily at the scene before him – your hands hovering over Peter, Peter’s lip audibly quivering – you once again cut through the silence. “Go on then.” Not your most politest, but you did not have it in you to be right now. You figured you should be allowed some sins, now towards the end.

Sirius seemed to snap out of it but merely nodded in turn, gesturing for you both to follow as he made his way out of the room.

The atmosphere was nothing short of awkward as you and Peter trailed behind Sirius through the impossibly long and winding corridors of the train. You had never really felt the age difference between you and Sirius while growing up, it was barely a year and you both assumed the positions of the older kids looking out for younger siblings and friends. Yet now, walking directly behind his broad back, defined with lean muscle that rippled with how tense he was, you felt so impossibly small. Not necessarily physically, just in every sense that mattered. You and Peter were like a set of puppies, stumbling after the seasoned elder, and you despised it. 

You reached out a hand behind you to find Peter’s. Some of the tension seeped out of you when he gripped you in return, his firm fingers settling beside yours like a welcome weight.

“That one there is Peter’s room.” Sirius came to a stop at the end of the hall, four doors on each side. He nodded with his chin towards one that was slightly ajar as he spoke. “And yours is across the hall.” He didn’t say your name, just set his intense eyes on some vague point beside your head.

You looked away. 

Squeezing Peter’s hand, you let go and gestured for him to enter his room first. Though it might not make a difference, you wanted to be with him as he entered, so he didn’t have to do it alone. Peter took small steps towards his room, pushing the door open with the tips of his fingers. To both your and seemingly Peter’s surprise, he gasped, and took a proper step into the room – it was huge, much more so than you would have expected to be possible on a train. Sirius had been right, there was an open closet filled with clothes to the right, and a bed in the middle that looked just as plush as the sofas.

“Yeah, live it up, Petey,” Sirius said dryly, a semblance of that old humour of his you remembered leaking into his voice. “It’ll be even better in the Capitol. See you in a bit.”

With more ushering than perhaps necessary, Sirius encouraged Peter to walk completely in, and shut the door gently behind him.

As Sirius turned to look at you, you turned away from him, hand already placed on your own door handle. You pushed it down and made to enter when you felt Sirius’ cold fingers curl around your elbow. It was a stark contrast to how Bellatrix would grab you, this was a featherlight touch, as if you were delicate, as if you were precious.

It made you look up at him through your lashes to find him already scanning your face.

“Y/N…” He trailed off.

You placed your fingers over his, careful to study how his face seemingly perked up at your touch, only to fall when you peeled his hand off of you. “Later, Sirius. If you want to explain, absolve your soul while you can or whatever, then do it later. Spare me right now. I just want to lay down.”

You took a small step towards the door again. Sirius pressed his lips harshly together before nodding, putting on a forced smile for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, we can talk it out later – but until then, quit talking like that.”

“Like what?”

“About absolution and doing things while you can. Quit talking like you’re dying.” You could tell by the look on his face that he was being serious, but that didn’t ease up the knot in your chest at all.

All you could do was to hum noncommittally and turn around to enter your room. You didn’t lift your eyes to look at Sirius before you shut the door in his face.

You did not have it in you to change; you would rather cling to what you had from home. Instead, you sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of a full body mirror and leaned your forehead against it, slumping in preemptive defeat.

With laboured but increasingly measured breathing, you tried to get an overview of your situation thus far, playing over the past three hours to digest.

You wish your first thought was something poetic, something deep – some grand final words you could write in your diary that would be distributed all throughout your district as an ode to your memory once you’re slaughtered in an arena by some District 2 child for entertainment. You wished that if not your life, at least your mind could be worth something.

Nothing came to you though. Your first and most eloquent thought remained: fuck.

You were truly and genuinely fucked, why would you think of anything else? A part of your mind tried to remind you of Sirius’ request, his near-plea, to not talk like that, but how could you? He didn’t tell you what else to think of if not that.

Staring at your increasingly hollow reflection, you found you were left with more questions than answers.

The events of the day flashed before you and you did your best to file away only what you thought might be of significance to you going forward. Mary’s teary face and Marlene’s insistent eyes were important to you but not helpful, so you pushed them aside. Instead, you tried to bring forth any mention of this year’s games, anything Barty and Bellatrix have said or done that can give you an indication of what lays ahead of you.

It was clear that Bellatrix knew that you and Peter knew Sirius. Reunion, conundrum, loverboy. Her hints were a far cry of subtle, let alone tasteful, though you thought perhaps that was her goal exactly. At this moment, feeling like a young girl stowed away in your room, you had no idea what to do with that knowledge – but you held onto it, knowing you had to gain answers somehow.

The one thing you could do in what felt like an ocean of confusion and despair was to try and grasp onto some form of strategy to carry you through. Not the strategies Sirius was talking about for the games, but a personal strategy, a perhaps feeble but significant attempt at maintaining your sanity. Yourself. 

Thoughts would float by and you would try to keep only those that might help you survive mentally until it is finally your physical life on the line, on the pods in the arena.

Yet, even as you managed to let your hometown and your fears go, your thoughts still snaked away towards Sirius, a miniature betrayal it had committed against you every day for the past 5 years. You didn’t understand him, you didn’t understand how he avoided your every question and statement, yet still seemed so insistent on your survival and his apologies.

It had been years and all you had wanted was to hear his voice again, even hear some of the specific words he said – but now, they felt hollow even in their sweetness.

I had to go, I’m sorry, I know you.

It reminded you painfully of the words that had haunted you up until this day: I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you. 

I bloody swear to you, he had said to you just some hours ago, you will make it through these games. As you envisioned his face when you saw Peter and recalled how you yourself felt when you listened to his quiet cries, you knew he could not mean that anymore. There was more than you on the line.

Whether it was a panic attack or a fit of rage that was brewing, you knew you needed to shake it off. Far from 30 minutes had passed, you thought maximum 10 – you really would need a clock in the arena – but you couldn’t stay put any longer.

Climbing to your feet, you ruffled your hair and squeezed your cheeks to try and feel better, paving away the chaos to instead focus on what is right in front of you. That had to be your strategy then. Moment by moment, step by step.

Opening your door tentatively, you stepped outside it, stopping for a mere moment in front of Peter’s. Wondering if you should go inside, listening to catch whether he was crying. 

You didn’t hear anything distinct, and even if you had, you didn’t think you would be much comfort for him at the moment. 

The corridors you walked through were highly industrial, another stark contrast to your hometown that was mostly built on wood and a few bricks. They felt the perfect amount of inhuman – while you were sure some design and craftsmanship had gone into building even this train, it felt void of interest and love. Just as a Capitol train should be.

The humming of the wheels were distant but ever present as you explored, feeling almost like you were sneaking out past curfew.

Not that you used to have a curfew, but Sirius did, and you would ditch it together. He was never one to be construed by Walburga and Orion’s chains – as he called them – and would ask you to meet him at the corner of their property at midnight. You might run through the woodlands surrounding you, lay down in a field and watch the stars, climb onto the roof of your primary school and point out whatever landmarks you spotted across town, sharing memories even though most of them had been made together.

Sirius’ childlike laughter echoed faintly in your ears when his real voice cut through your thoughts.

At the very end of a hallway that opened up into a larger room filled with seating arrangements and shelves, there was one final door to your right. It was slightly ajar, not enough for you to look in, but enough for you to hear.

“You mean to tell me this is a fucking coincidence?” Sirius’ tone was seething even in its whisper, but the anger didn’t seem to be directed at any one individual.

There was no response in the momentary silence before he continued. “She was never supposed to be picked, which means they did it on purpose. Pete is just the nail in the bloody coffin.”

Your brows furrowed, your hand coming up to steady yourself on the wall. It sounded like he was talking to someone, but you couldn’t hear anyone else.

“I don’t bloody care if they do, I–” He drew a sharp breath, you could picture the slight parting of his lips revealing white teeth. “Sorry. No, I know, fuck. Sorry, gods – I don’t want to keep saying that. Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

His voice faded into indecipherable mumbles.

You knew he was talking about you. He had to be, and the implications hit you like an arrow – both the implications of his words and of him talking about you in the first place.

If you were trying to clear your head, this surely was not helping you in the slightest. With the effort only a tribute must possess, you pushed off the wall and kept walking into what seemed to be the parlor, head keeping straight forward and not trying to steal a glance through the gap in the door.

You set your focus on the chandelier they had somehow managed to squeeze into the middle of this open space in the middle of the train. It cast the room in a light yellow glow, highlighting the different textures in the many pieces of even-more comfortable cushions across the room.

It was a comfort you didn’t want at the moment; you walked towards the window at the end of the room instead, seeing the outskirts of your district disappearing in a haze of browns and greens.

“You’re early.”

You only turned your head slightly to see Sirius walking slowly into the room, putting a small rectangular object into the sidepocket of his sturdy trousers. His face was carefully measured, but his eyes still betrayed him, eyes boring into yours with an underlying current dancing through the grey. 

“Oddly enough I didn’t feel like being cooped up.” You made an active effort to not add some comment about spending your final days in a more worthwhile manner. 

Sirius still felt it based on the way the corners of his lips twitched. He neared you, standing at the edge of the sofa closest to the window you were tracing with your fingertips – it wasn’t as cold as you were hoping. “Even though you said you wanted to lay down?” he asked, a certain mirth mixing into his tone, referring to your excuse from earlier.

You shrugged, nonplussed. “I did. I only needed a minute or two.”

Sirius’ gaze softened as he leaned his weight against the sofa, crossing his arms as he regarded you. “Take as many minutes as you need, princess,” he whispered.

You turned then, mirroring his stance as you leaned against the window. His face was open, laid bare for you even in his continuing torment.

“Can you make this make sense to me?” It wasn’t the question you wanted to ask the most, but it was the one you figured you might gain the most help from. Sirius used to be your clarity in situations like these.

He breathed in deeply, looking down in respite. “Five years ago, I survived the Hunger Games and was asked to stay in the Capitol. I did. Today, against all bloody odds, you and Peter were reaped, and got stuck with me as your mentor, and those two as your Capitol escorts. Together, we have to figure out how to get you through it.”

It was a rehearsed speech, laid prepared on his tongue, the Sparknotes poison you had asked for. His tone was controlled, some bitterness still leaking through

Asked to stay.

“Why?”

Sirius looked up at you then, an exasperated smile teasing his lips. “Which why are you searching for, princess?”

Why did you stay? Why were we reaped, if you don’t think it was a coincidence? 

For some inexplicable reason, you took pity on him and shook your head, trying to reflect his half-smile. “Let’s not. Let’s not.”

If Sirius could soften more with all his muscles and grit on display in his skintight black tshirt, he did. He pushed off the sofa, as if on his way towards you, beginning to speak. “Whatever you wan–”

When a high-pitched giggle made its way down the hall, he cut himself short with a frown and turned his head – you did the same.

“I’m happy to see we’re at a respectable distance this time,” Bellatrix said through a grin as she walked in, swirling down into a seat on the sofa Sirius was leaning against. “Your fans will be much more pleased this way.”

Sirius’ jaw ticked, gaze moving from Bellatrix to Barty who had trailed in behind her and opted to lean against the doorway, arms crossed much like Sirius’ and a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“I thought I told you to stay away for this meeting.” Sirius tried, despite all of you remembering just how that went last time.

“And I thought I told you where to stick it.” Barty’s tone was somehow both teasing and menacing.

Sirius scoffed, but the sound was tight as his eyes twitched at the sight before him. He looked between the two Capitol representatives with disdain. “Try to be of help then, why don’t you? Scaring the tributes is not going to help anyone win.”

Bellatrix twirled her black curls as she grinned. “You don’t want us to upset your sweetheart, Siri?”

“I don’t want you to terrify my friends, no.” Sirius’ tone was cool as he replied. “And we’re still waiting for Peter.”

“Pipsqueak is lost somewhere behind there.” Barty pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Didn’t know where the parlor was.”

Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you didn’t help him?”

Barty snorted. “No, why would I?”

Tired of simply witnessing this miniature battle of wits, you pushed off the wall and began walking towards the doorway Barty was currently blocking. “Don’t bother, I’ll go find him,” you announced. “Then we can get this over with.”

Barty didn’t move. He still filled the doorway, grinning at you like the Cheshire cat. “You need something, sweetheart?”

“Would you move so I could go get Peter?” You were already exhausted by this, not willing to entertain his games.

“Junior,” Sirius warned quietly behind you. It took you a second to realise he was talking to Barty.

Barty’s gaze flitted between the two of you, grin never faltering. “Aren’t you going into the arena? You can’t let someone standing in the doorway stop you. Move me yourself.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have an axe right now. So. Move,” you said dryly, referring to Sirius’ infamous weapon of choice. 

Barty chuckled, but – despite your assumptions – moved to let you pass, instead walking over to plop down on the sofa, sprawled out like he owned the place. “You might make the games less boring for me after all, birdie.” 

You didn’t deign it with a response as you headed down the less-lit hallway to find Peter. You could hear Bellatrix’s voice faintly in the background, grateful for a short reprieve.

It wasn’t hard to find Peter, yet you purposefully stalled on the way back. He had been roaming in the other direction, apparently on advice from Barty, utterly lost and confused. His face when he heard your voice and whipped around was enough to soften the stone in your stomach somewhat and you walked in comfortable silence on the way back.

“Ah! There they are!” Bellatrix sounded elated, clapping her hands together as you and Peter emerged. Sirius’ head picked up too, offering you both a tight smile. He had moved to stand by the window you had been by earlier, fingertips lingering the same way yours had.

As you went in, you moved to drag a chair up beside the two sofas, creating a half circle of sorts, and brought your knees up to your chest. 

“Petey, why don’t you sit with me, mate?” Barty said, faux friendliness dripping all over his sentence. 

“You don’t have to do that Peter.” Your response was immediate.

Peter looked between you for half a second, eyes wide, before smiling nervously. “It’s, erm, alright Y/N. I’ll just sit.” He sat down on the end closest to you, but Barty moved closer, arm over the edge of the sofa, fingertips almost tickling Peter’s hair. He was enjoying this way too much.

Sirius seemingly agreed with you, pushing off the wall with his foot and walking to stand beside your chair where he could see all of you. “Okay then. Let’s talk business.”

“Yes, let us,” Bellatrix said, sitting up in her seat. “We should start with optics. How shall we frame our little triangular tragedy here?”

“There is no more tragedy here than in every other district.” Sirius’ arms were folded, displaying every muscle he had earned over the past five years, and his face was equally as focussed. “We should focus on their strengths as individuals instead. Peter is resourceful and Y/N is–”

“Desirable. That’s how we should market her – if the Capitol’s heartthrob is all sweet on her, then surely everyone else would be too.” Her eyes were gleaming, set dead on Sirius, as if you weren’t there despite the way she was talking about you.

Your breath was caught and there was a twinging of your heart warring with the rage in your stomach, but Sirius beat you to it.

“Stop.” His tone was firm, one that would leave no room for argument had he been addressing any other two people in the world. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Focus on what matters.”

“Stop what?” Barty laughed, inserting himself into the ridicule unfolding before you. “Addressing everyone’s favourite rumours? We would be stupid not to add it to our narrative. Just because you don’t want to say you lov–”

“That. Stop that, right now.” Sirius’ eyes were hardened as he set his sights on the two of them. “I don’t give a fuck about any rumours. These two, Y/N and Peter, are like my siblings. Sister and brother. The younger kids I looked after back home. We grew up together, yes, but we also grew apart when I moved to the Capitol. That is the true narrative and the one we will be sticking to, disproving all others. You want to be a team? You want to join our meetings? Then we must front the same picturesque storyline.”

Your neck felt like it had been snapped and your lungs punctured from the whiplash. It took every last bit of your willpower for your face to remain neutral, even as Sirius metaphorically slapped it. 

You were embarrassed that the cryptic rumours they were referring to was not what spread the most alarm in your head. 

Siblings. It wasn’t even funny how sour that word tasted on your tongue, and it hadn’t even been you who said it.

The Sirius who was speaking now was not one you had grown apart from, it was one you didn’t know. It was evident to you that this was a theatre, a performance, even if it lacked the theatrical joys you had previously associated with this very same boy. His face was firm, disconnected and determined all at the same time, a mix of opposites that only the Capitol could concoct in someone.

Bellatrix barked a laugh, seemingly not buying it. “Siblings? That is the narrative you prefer going with?” She tsked. “You have so many juicy television opportunities here, Black, and you go for the most boring one?”

Sirius sat down on the armrest of the sofa, shoulders squared to look broader. More intimidating. “Television, Lestrange, is supposed to last for the entirety of the games, not just the preparations before it. If you limit these tributes to a storyline that cannot follow into the arena, they are doomed to irrelevance. You don’t want boring tributes do you? You want a victor.”

He leaned back, looking at her with a gaze that told you he knew he had her. “Instead of some irrelevant rumour sob story, we explain their connections to me as a strength. An older brother who taught them, who they learned from. Give them framings and stories within their own rights. It will carry on into the arena through intrigue and comparisons in a way soapbox drama never will. I thought you knew this. It’s basic strategy, Bella.”

He was smirking now, an expression of glee that seemed more for effect, a final push, than a reflection of any genuine mirth. Bellatrix, on the other hand, had lost a lot of her usual fanatics, instead of staring Sirius down in an indiscernible manner.

“While I love that you get to hash out your drama,” you said, irony poison dripping from your words, “would somebody explain what teh fuck we’re talking about? What rumours?” You didn’t care that you were rude, you didn’t care how Sirius’ eyes twitched. You were wounded and frankly irritated to be spoken of and not to.

Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but Barty’s bark of laughter interrupted him. “What, Capitol news doesn't trickle all the way down to 7?” There was no hiding the condescension in his tone, but his glee somehow shone even brighter. “Beloved victor Sirius Black is rumoured to be in love with some girl from his district, much to everyone’s utter heartbreak.”

“Which is ridiculous considering I haven’t even been to 7 since I volunteered.” Sirius was strictly looking at Barty, ignoring your burning gaze. “Tabloids getting bored and sparking up irrelevant drama shouldn’t be involved in the Hunger Games where there is actual action to focus on.”

Bellatrix tsked. “Don’t underestimate the power of a good love story, Siri.”

“This wouldn’t be a good one – it would be far-fetched. Y/N and Peter are like my siblings. I haven’t even seen them in 5 years. Can we focus on strategies that are actually worthwhile, please?”

You felt nauseated and dizzy but nodded to signify that you were in agreement. Anything that would ease the teasing and bring you back to the fact that you were mere days away from the end of a blade.

You were beginning to grow nervous that they would refuse, that they would try to analyse the potential of a love story, when Barty kicked his legs up on the table with a loud bam and folded his hands over his stomach. “Alright, then. Whatever. Big Black and his two woodchippers take on the arena.” 

Bellatrix scoffed.

“If we’re to have learned from Sirius… does that mean we have to use axes like you did?” Peter, to your surprise, piped up, looking uncomfortable with the idea.

Sirius kept his business-face on as he bobbed his head side to side. “Maybe pose with one for a couple of promo shots, depending on the public’s reactions. But in the arena, you use whatever you need whenever you need.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, despite yourself and despite the fire in your veins. 

Siblings. 

You watched Sirius expressionlessly and noticed how his eyebrow closest to you kept twitching. You caught him casting a quick side glance your way, but it didn’t linger enough for you to analyse.

“Have you got no input on this, birdie?” Barty’s voice drawled, and you knew he was talking to you.

Without looking at him, you bobbed your head much the same way Sirius just had. “I don’t really give a shit about rumours or narratives or what anyone thinks of anything. I care about the part where I’m stuck in an arena to fight to the death.”

In a swift movement, Barty lurched up from his seat on the sofa and crossed Peter to sit on its armrest, body leaned forward into your personal space. His fingers were somehow elegant even in their bordering-on violent endeavour as they shot out to grip your chin.

“So you want to die then?”

“Junior,” Sirius hissed, pushing off his opposite armrest at the same time as Barty to stand before the two of you. Ready to intervene. 

The latter shot him a sideway glance with a wicked smirk looking between Sirius’ face and yours. “You are not fooling anyone,” he laughed heartily at Sirius before zeroing his green eyes in on you. “And you are choosing imminent death if you keep up your nonchalant attitude. It’s the Hunger Games. Play your part or get played.”

You held his gaze despite the churning in your stomach, biting back a comment about that choice already haven been taken from you. Instead, you said, in a voice a tad bit quieter than you would have preferred, “What game do you want us to play then, Junior?”

His smirk faltered for only a second before he released you with a huff. Leaning backwards, he let his body tip over the side of the armrest to land on his back on the sofa across Peter’s lap, who froze with his hands hovering in the air. You could just barely see his teeth flash. “I’m the one who gets to not care. I’m here for the circus, not the show, darling, and I’m counting on you to make it interesting. Show a little heart.”

Your eyelashes fluttered in confusion at the biting yet uncaring tone he sported, entirely uncertain where to place him. Bellatrix just scoffed once more, clearly upset with the day’s developments, while Sirius remained overtly tense beside you, fists dangling at his sides, clenched.

“Well, I think–”

Sirius cut Bellatrix off immediately. “Enough! That’s enough, alright? This is a brainstorming session, not a bickering one. The narrative is that the District 7 tributes this year are close friends, two kids I used to train and look after like siblings when we were younger. I will make a plan for how we present Y/N and Peter together and then I will go over individual strategies with them at a later point. Need I remind anyone that all of us rely on a good presentation?”

He spoke to you all, but it was clear it was pointed in the direction of Barty, who was quite literally kicking his feet over the armrest, much to Peter’s heightened nerves, and Bellatrix, who was beginning to look utterly bored with you all.

Their silence was their consent, so Sirius went on to look at Peter, accepting his meek nod. Then he turned to you, almost hesitantly. 

There was a storm in your eyes at how you were being spoken of, how you were being treated – but you didn’t know if Sirius could interpret that anymore. If he could, it didn’t stop him as he nodded to himself as he began to pace around the lot of you.

“Alright. Alright. Any final inputs before we part ways for dinner?”

“What, you don’t want to dine with us, Siri?” At Sirius’ increasing distress, Bellatrix seemed to find her footing once more.

“We don’t have the time to spare. It’s late anyway.” He stopped for a second to look at his two former friends. His siblings. “There’s a dining hall around five rooms down that way. Pick out anything you want. This place is yours, be comfortable.”

Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, I know where– I, uhm, found it… earlier.” He shot Barty a weary look, referring to his earlier diversion, making the older boy nearly giggle with delight.

“Great.” Sirius’ voice was calmer now, tired. He looked between you and Peter, but struggled to let his gaze rest. “Good job today. I– I’ll see you tomorrow.

You swallowed hard and realised you would probably struggle eating any dinner. Yet, you tried to stick to your earlier idea of moment by moment, step by step, so you nodded with your lips tightly pressed together.

“Yeah thanks. Same. Let’s go, Peter.”

It took some time to wrestle an entertained Barty off of Peter, but you headed back down the same hall you retrieved him from earlier, not looking back over your shoulder as you did so.

Just like the seats, the food provided by the Capitol was delicious. It was lush and rich, to an almost too intense degree, making you feel more like cattle fattened up for slaughter and less like important guests. 

You ate what you could as quickly as you could, and then you were left jumping your leg beneath the table as you waited for Peter to finish too – you knew you couldn’t leave him alone lest Barty or Bellatrix found him, but you were suddenly craving being cooped up in your room in the very same way that had stifled you earlier. 

Luckily, it didn’t seem that Barty and Bellatrix wanted to play with you any longer. Maybe it wasn’t as fun when Sirius wasn’t there, or maybe they were just too focussed on plaguing him wherever he was. 

You told yourself you didn’t feel bad for him. You had grown accustomed to lying.

You kept lying to yourself as Peter finished and you went back to your designated rooms, you kept lying as you hugged him goodnight and went each your way, you kept lying as you laid down on your ridiculously soft bed. 

The lies were many and merry; that you didn’t care; that you cared too much; that you were okay; that you were not okay. That you had any hope of sleeping tonight.

Sleeping had never been your forté, so after the violence of the Reaping and the reunion of a lifetime, you had little luck. 

You even lied as you told yourself you had tried for long enough. Truth be told, despite your time blindness you had a feeling you hadn’t been in bed for too long before you got out of it to stand in front of the mirror once more. Memorising yourself. 

You did eventually change into some of the clothes the Capitol provided, though they didn’t seem real. You were wearing what was supposed to be pyjamas, but they were much too reminiscent of normal trousers and shirts for you to feel like you were about to go to sleep. It made you miss your old ratty sleep shirt at home, but even the thought of it worsened your ache. It had been Sirius’.

With a sharp breath, you decided to explore the halls once more. Not for any thrill of adventure, you just had an inexplicable need to find a window to look out of. To watch the world pass by. 

You walked in the opposite direction of the parlor, further and further back, wanting to find the very end of your district’s compartment of the train. To know that behind yours were two tributes from District 8, two people you would soon be pitted against, brought a chill up your spine.

At last you meet a door in the middle of the hallway. The train was long and huge, but it cannot go on for longer than this, you thought. This must be the final room of your compartment, the one with the huge windows you had always noticed when you watched it from the outside.

Your hand falls to the handle. Gently, you open it.

“Oh–” The first thing your eyes landed on when you entered the room was not the landscape you had so longed for, but Sirius’ own staring back at you. Grey like the mountains cornering you but deep like the oceans you would pass in District 4. He was sitting down, as if he had had the same thought as you to come here to watch the windows. The thought pained you.  “Sorry, I didn’t– I’ll go.”

Sirius shot up and out of his seat, taking just one step forward. “No! You don’t… you don’t have to. You shouldn’t. Come sit, I’ll go, if you want.”

There was a lot to decipher in that sentence, a lot that you frankly did not have the energy for. Instead, you regarded him for one more second before slowly closing the door and moving to sit on the opposite side of the sofa from him. It was a cream – also, stupidly comfortable – sofa that stretched out in a half-circle at the very end of your compartment of the train. The wall above it was steel grey, barricading you from the next part of the train, but the walls on either side were wide floor-to-ceiling windows; the ones you had longed for. They were certainly reinforced to a degree you could never even imagine to ensure they wouldn’t break. 

You didn’t tell him whether you wanted him to leave. You just sat sideways on the sofa, leaning your head against the last bit of grey wall and looking out the window closest to you. 

“If you sit down on the floor and stare straight ahead, it’ll feel like you’re flying.��� His voice was softened, a stark contrast to your earlier meeting. 

You still couldn’t help but bite back. “What a nice brother you are, giving out advice to the younger kids.”

It sounded like it pained him when he sighed. “Y/N–”

“Don’t.” You still weren’t looking at him, staring blankly ahead. “Just… don’t.”

You weren’t quite sure why you were upset with him. It was so much and yet nothing at all, stretching out across the past five hours and five years. You were upset with him for leaving, of course you were, and you were upset with him for changing, but of course he had. You were upset with him for confusing you so much, both through his words and actions, and perhaps, through your feelings. 

There was no time or need to address them now, yet they ruled much of your visible dismay as you got caught up on how he wanted to present you to the world.

Siblings.

Sirius was quiet for a moment; then, you heard the soft sound of him walking across the room to settle down on the floor in front of the window closest to you, just like he had said you should. He stared out, but you could feel him observing you in his periphery.

“There is a lot for you to resent me for,” he whispered. “Please don’t let that be one of them.”

Part of your brain wanted to rage against him for being cryptic.

The other just asked, “Why?”

He leaned back on his arms, biceps flexing, looking with an empty gaze into the mountainside. “It’s for your own good.”

“Why?”

Maybe you were being petulant. Maybe he deserved you being petulant if he wanted to cast himself as your older brother. 

Sirius made an exasperated sound and shook his head, turning to look at you – you didn’t return the gesture. “Princess, don’t make me spell it out for you, it’s worse enough as is. Everything will be better if people think we see each other in a familial sense.”

“As opposed to the truth, which is what?” At last, you turned to face him, doing your best to school away your pain, but still being left with an indent between your brows. You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

Evidently, neither did Sirius. All he did was whisper your name, so pleadingly, so achingly it made your throat hurt.

“Being your sibling didn’t make them think any more favourably of Regulus.” The words were out of your mouth before you could help them, though thankfully with less ire than before. Just a mixture of your own confusion and heartache. 

Sirius closed his eyes as if he got nauseated. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, face scrunched up as his muscles tensed. With memories of Sirius throwing Regulus around in circles, their laughter harmonising as they ran after you through the streets, you had no choice but to give him time.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, the first apology you uttered to him. “Is he…?” You trailed off. To ask was insensitive, it was cruel – but it was necessary. You needed to know.

Sirius’ face remained trapped in his pained scrunched up expression. He didn’t seem angry with your question, though you never had seen him angry with you.

“Yes.” 

The word hung heavy in the air between you like a suspended body. It was everything you had expected and nothing you had hoped. You didn’t ask how he knew.

Silently, you slid off the edge of the sofa and scooted over to sit beside Sirius, whose breath hitched. Just like him, you faced the window, but you had your knees hiked up and your arms wrapped around them. You laid your head tentatively down on top of them, turned towards him. Watched as the environments flurrying by cast coloured patterns over his alabaster skin, watched as his eyebrows twitched as if he would start crying.

Watched as silent, warm tears rolled down your own cheeks.

When he peeled his eyes open and met yours, they softened. His brows were still furrowed together and he swallowed heavily.

His hand just barely shook as he reached up to wipe the tear on your right cheek away with his thumb, touch gentle and cool against your skin. You closed your eyes and sighed.

Sirius let his hand drop from your face and it felt like a loss. 

Neither of you said a word for a minute. There were so many things you wanted to say, needed to ask. Yet nothing came to mind. Just two kids sitting beside one another, trying to remember how to breathe. 

“Tomorrow when you arrive at the Capitol…” Sirius whispered, trailing off. You found his eyes to be redrimmed when you opened yours, once again staring out the window emptily. “Just… don’t trust anyone, okay?”

He sounded more haunted than ever. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered in return, half-wanting to lighten his torment.

“And, I know– I know that should include me. I know you don’t trust me. But please, can you try to listen to me anyway?”

You watched him silently. You couldn’t deny him even if you wanted. “I will.”

Sirius nodded once, twice. Then, he shook his head and rose to his feet effortlessly. He looked down at you and reached out a hand, an open invitation. 

You held his gaze for longer than you should have before you turned your head back forward to look out the window, resting your chin on your knees. You were grateful to not have to see his reaction.

Still, you could hear his soft sigh. “Get some sleep soon, alright princess?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled, suddenly fascinated by the granite. “Soon.”

Your every muscle sat at rapt attention, listening to his footsteps as he walked to the door. They ceased for a minute when he reached it, and you almost turned your head to look back at him – before the hinges finally creaked and Sirius disappeared.

You doubted you would get to spend enough time with him before your games to make the aching panic stop seizing your chest whenever he leaves. You reminded yourself that he is headed off to bed to sleep, not to the annual Hunger Games.

This time around, that would be you.

You turn your blurry eyes back to the window and find that when you stare into the middle of it, it does feel like you’re flying. 

[easy-there-leftovers]

As Cool As I Think I Am

Summary: The 5 times Spencer tries to be cool, and the 1 time he doesn't care. 

Alternatively; Spencer never thought he was cool, but he found himself wanting to be just for you. 

[a/n] Recommended to be read after, "A Question Unasked", and is a roundabout sequel to "Mixed Messages."

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem! (mentored by Hotch!) reader| cw: slight spoilers for s1e04, s1e06, s1e08, s1e10, and s1e18 | description of canon-typical violence, timeframe switches because I can, and Spencer being an oblivious, lovesick idiot (can't believe this version of him survived all of this lol) | word count: 7.2k

Amazing. You had called him, “amazing” during the Arizona case and that was all that had been occupying his mind as of late. He had been called brilliant before. Been described as bright, gifted, hell, he was called a genius even. Yet that was the first time anyone had said anything positive about him.

Removed from his intellectual capabilities.

It made him think that there was more that he could offer than just his never-ending stream of knowledge and incessant rambling.

You had seen that in him.

Seen that he was 'amazing.'

But he certainly wasn’t feeling that way now.

“On SWAT we broke shots down into three steps." Spencer nodded as he listened.

"One: Front sight. Focus on the front sight, not on the target. Two: Controlled trigger press. Three: Follow through. After the shot, you come right back to the target. Now, what did you do wrong?”

He sighs with his eyes closed. “I didn't follow through.” 

“Right. You came off the target to see where you hit.”

Hotch had been observing him for the past few minutes to prepare him for his assessment tomorrow, and yet it still felt like he was making no discernable progress. 

He had memorized every trick, every form, every physics interplay that could better the ballistics of his shot and yet he still couldn't do it.

"Hotch, my firearms qualification is tomorrow morning. I barely passed my last one." He had said, putting the gun down.

He feels his unit chief gently push him aside to demonstrate and he gets in position.

"Front sight," He aims his gun.

"Trigger press," He presses down on the trigger, resulting in a gunshot to the target.

"Follow through." He finally says. Keeping his eyes forward with his finger still depressing the trigger until he holsters his gun again.

"You do those three things, you'll hit your target every time." Spencer shakes his head.

He tries to replicate the steps again, but only fails miserably.

He has been doing that. He is doing that. And yet he still keeps missing.

If this wasn't part of his job, maybe he wouldn't have cared all too much about his gun proficiency. Or lack of.

And yet it was.

And it was imperative that he learned it to keep his place on the team, but he had been losing hope.

"They're going to take away my gun."

Sensing his frustration, Hotch empathizes with him.

"Profilers aren't required to carry." He groans at that.

"Yeah, but she does and she's great at it."

God, you must've thought he was pathetic.

Aaron laughs internally at that. He knows exactly who the younger one is talking about.

He had seen the way that Spencer had been watching his 'protege,' and it didn't take being a profiler to know that he was absolutely smitten. If he hadn't known any better, he would've thought that Reid's frustrations stemmed from wanting to seem more experienced in front of you.

And Hotch saw no problem with that, at least for now. On the contrary, the two of you working together seemed to have bolstered his focus on the case. Making the team more efficient with their investigations.

He also thinks that it helped because you seemed to return Reid's sentiment, which is why he had brought you along to help him.

So when Spencer turns and sees you walk in, he blanches.

As much as he really liked your presence (you were friends, right?), he really didn't want to embarrass himself in front of you.

He does that more than enough on his own.

But it seemed like your mentor didn't care.

Hotch says your name with a greeting before excusing himself which tells Spencer that he had planned this from the start. He sighs at that. Chest feeling heavy at the pressure.

He sees you give him a polite smile, which he's come to recognize to be your way of easing him, and he returns it.

"I've heard about your progress." Spencer rolls his eyes at that.

"More like regress. I'm sorry that you have to be here." You snort at his joke but shake your head to assure him.

"I'm right where I want to be. "

His heart fills, even though he knows that not what you meant.

"Why don't you go ahead and show me how you fire that gun?"

He nods and waits for you to put on your ear muffs and goggles before he returns to his position. Calming himself down as he remembers Hotch's words.

Front sight, trigger press, follow through.

He fires three bullets and sees them all hit the whites of the target, which makes him sigh for the umpteenth time.

He puts the gun down and lowers his ear muffs to look at you. Seemingly deep in thought, chin resting on your hand, with eyes travelling slowly up and down his form. Observing.

Scrutinizing.

Assessing.

He can't help but feel naked under your gaze.

He always knew you were smart. The cases you've helped solve were more than proof of just that, but he knew that even you couldn't solve the mystery that was his aim.

He couldn't expect that of you. He relies on you so often already.

He briefly wonders how there's such a different between you and him. You joined the same year, joined the same unit, and worked with the same people on the same cases. How was it that you seemed calmer, cooler, and more prepared for anything more than he ever was?

Spencer firmly believes that intelligence cannot be quantified. And if anyone ever doubted him, he would just point at you and say that you had him beat everywhere despite what any number might have to say otherwise.

Case and point. you had been talking to him about something very important and thoughtful and he had been zoning out the entire time.

"I um,–– what?"

You shake your head and gesture to his gun once more. "Show me your form again."

He takes his gun hesitantly, but readies himself the same way he did earlier. The only exception being that his finger isn't on the trigger.

He hears that telltale, almost bored, 'hm' of yours before you speak again.

"Tuck your chest in."

He's read countless firearm manuals and instructions and he's never heard of that before.

"I'm sorry?"

"Tuck your chest in." You say it again, but it's still not making sense to him.

Unable to voice or even act upon his confusion, he watches as you wait with an impassive face before asking,

"Can I touch you?" He lets out a shaky, but immediate 'yes' and you move to stand beside him.

Given your calm and nonchalant demeanor, he anticipates a more impersonal touch. For lack of a better word. He expects a shove. Maybe a push, to correct him into the right place.

So when your hand comes to softly rest on his stomach, fingers splaying across the expanse of his undefined abdominal muscles, he feels his breath hitch. Upper body slightly crumpling in on himself as he does.

He's surprised he hasn't dropped his gun.

"Dr. Reid,"

He's also surprised that his heart hasn't stopped. With how you said his name, and how close you are– he can already feel your soft breath gracing his ear–

"You're an autodidact, aren't you?"

A self-taught person, he thinks.

"I–– I am." Curse his shaky voice.

"You know, there are some things that can't be learned by just reading textbooks and looking at diagrams."

He feels you tap his stomach and he suddenly feels hot.

"Feel this?" He feels you engulfing his senses, that's for sure. But he nods slowly.

"Remember it. Your center of gravity is different from the subjects in those graphics. So the form you need to take is likewise different."

And just like that, all too quick for his liking, you move away. Hand leaving him just like whatever depraved thought might've been running around his head.

He hesitantly looks back at you, and you gesture to his gun again. Noticing how your free hand is resting on the gun in your holster.

A Glock 19, he remembers.

"Go ahead and shoot like that now."

He does, in the same way that he's compelled to follow your voice like always–

Front sight, trigger press, follow through.

And fires three shots.

To his surprise, he manages to shoot the target's chest. Not quite centered, he admits, but its a vast improvement from his previous attempts.

"I– I did it." He feels the disbelief on his face when he looks at you again. He's expecting you to look just as shocked as he does. After all, you saw just how egregious his aim was. So it surprises him when he turns and is greeted instead with the small smile on your face.

Not the same polite smile that you usually give when you're at work, no. It was a soft, genuine smile, or so he thinks.

"I never doubted your capabilities, Dr. Reid."

He beams under your praise. Blooming like a flower under the warm radiance of the Sun. Once again subject to that brain-freezing sensation from a few weeks ago.

If he just remembers everything you told him today, which wasn't a lot, he theoretically should pass his firearm qualifications with no problem.

And maybe, just maybe, he'll get to see you smile at him again.

After all, he had always wanted for you to look at him. Actually look at him.

Maybe if he passes his test this time, you will.

----

The following day, he doesn’t pass his test.

And he is much more embarrassed now than he ever was before. 

He returns to the bullpen with his head down. Already expecting everyone to know of his failure.

He really didn't want to see if you were one of the ones that had been looking at him.

What he doesn't see is that you were.

But you weren't disappointed at all. You wanted nothing more than to reassure him. To tell him that you could always help him again, and that you didn't mind the extra work if it weren't for the stares that you had been getting back.

Seemingly turning your what-would've-been act of friendship and care into an expectation and responsibility.

"Make a wish!"

"Come on, man. Blow, baby, blow!"

"I thought you were full of hot air, Reid."

"They're trick candles, Spence, okay? They–– They're going to come back on every time."

While Spencer is glad that he’s spending his birthday with actual people, there's one in particular that he's missing.

He also feels sort of embarrassed that he's having a full-on birthday at his workplace. Though he is very thankful that his friends care about him enough to do this.

"Hope you like chocolate." JJ says with a laugh and he is only now recognizing the cake. Previously too caught up in blowing out the undying flames to even notice the festive dessert that supported them.

"Where's the cake from?" The blonde only gives him a look that he can't quite understand, but he is immediately distracted when he feels a draft from where Hotch passes by him.

He looks in the direction he came from and lo and behold, he found the very person he was missing.

He gets up, wanting to at least get a greeting from you, but he's interrupted by Gideon asking him something before he can even try.

"You having fun?"

He knows that he's asking him, but he can also see how his eyes aren't quite addressing him back. Instead, looking up a few inches above him.

He gives a tight lip smile when he realizes just what he's looking at.

God, he felt pathetic.

“Yes, definitely. I am definitely– having fun.” 

"Make a wish?" He asks another question and that’s when Spencer sees what he's doing now.

Ever since he first exhibited signs of interest in you, he knew that his mentor would be the first to clock them. He couldn't even hide it if he tried. If there was anyone on the team that he knew would figure it out this quick, it would've been him.

He expected it.

What he didn't expect was for Gideon to show disapproval for it.

For you.

Back during the Arizona case, he remembers how Gideon had interrupted you when you were explaining something. And that's when he realized you were going to have a hard time.

You were going to have a hard time because of his own rapidly growing interest.

Because he froze when you said one nice thing about him, then proceeded to wow him with your observational skills.

He didn't want Gideon to think that you were being a distraction to him, so he instead chose to show just how well the two of you had worked together. Even going as far as to double down and reiterate your statements to convince him of that.

And it seemed to have worked, but now he wasn't so sure.

"Can I take this hat off?"

He wanted nothing more than to do just that before you notice him, but his mentor just shook his head.

"I wouldn't."

He doesn't know it's because Gideon knew you found it cute.

By the time that he notices the elder doesn't really care about the conversation anymore, probably too distracted by the TV behind him, his gaze finally focuses on you.

The very person that he had intended to talk to.

The one he intended to talk the entire time before he got sidetracked.

You still hadn't turned to look at him though, or make an attempt to greet him. Not even a laugh to mock him for the huge, 'Happy Birthday' hat that sat on his head to make him look like a dunce!

Instead, you were staring at something. Or rather, someone.

He turns his head to look just where you were and there he sees his unit chief, your mentor, on the receiving end of your intense gaze.

Just like always.

He shakes his head and decides to just go talk to you, but he is once again interrupted. This time by Hotch with a solemn expression on his face.

“Sorry guys. Party’s over.”

You immediately spring into action at his words, completely missing his hand that was just about to come up to wave at you. He tightens his lips into a thin smile.

Spencer's starting to doubt Morgan and Elle's words.

–––––––––––––

The sentiment is rectified when he finally receives the one thing he had been looking forward to on his birthday, and it wasn't the gift.

Not even the greeting.

It was being able to be in your presence. Being able to spend time with you. The you that wasn't so stressed or strict about work, or the case, or your boss.

It was just him and you. You and him. And the scarf that seemed to warm him just as much as his heart warmed at the sight of your smiling face.

God, what he would do to have this with you forever.

Spencer is well aware that likes you.

Hell, even the rest of team knows it by now, but he's starting to fear that his unconscious mind is more aware of that than his conscious one.

Case and point, he had been having dreams.

Nightmares, actually.

Nightmares that he can't help but think will happen if he takes his eyes off of you for even a second.

Morgan had asked him earlier when he was making coffee if something was causing him to lose sleep. If you had been causing him to lose sleep, he had asked with a teasing smirk.

And while normally he would've flushed and stumbled at his implication that a night of you had been keeping him up, he admits to what's been plaguing his mind.

Naturally, he doesn't tell him the full nature of his night terrors. But his friend doesn't need him to. Not with the way that his eyes try to find yours every chance he gets, focus going in and out of the conversation like an adjusting lens.

Spencer fears that one day, no matter how strong or smart or clever you are, it's his negligence that'll place you on the receiving end of a killer's weapon.

And that there's nothing that he can do to stop them from landing the finishing blow.

He knows that it's not rational, but he also knows that dreams are rarely, if not never, rational. Studies show that around seventy to eighty-percent of dreams contain bizarre or irrational elements. This included unusual settings, impossible scenarios, and illogical developments to be featured in the unconscious brain.

Doesn't mean that he's alright with seeing it so often, though.

What's worse is that he knows that it can very much happen during the BAU cases. And that he can't even prepare himself for that scenario.

He's practically deadweight on the field with his still erratic aim and bambi legs, he's surprised you aren't sick of him yet.

He laughs a bit at the thought. Clutching a portion of his scarf—the only thing that has been keeping the nightmares at bay— as he promises himself that he won't leave your side.

Especially not in the confounding forest of McAllister, Virginia.

Which is why he's stuck in his current position.

“Dr. Reid, I need you to check back downhill and see if the deputies have returned.” He looks at you incredulously.

“What? No! I can’t leave you here– ” 

He doesn't know what exactly you found in the abandoned house, but he knew that it wasn't wise to leave you with no one but a high schooler.

You might think he's not all that different from the kid, but he's at least trained to be an FBI agent.

“We need the rest of the sheriffs and the crime scene team here.”

You looked dead into his eyes, yet he still didn't relent. No matter how reasonable your request was.

In any other situation, he might've thought you were cool. That you were handling the situation like a natural, and that you were very responsible for taking charge when he was there with his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

But he didn't want to leave you. Not when you looked like you've just seen a ghost.

He grasped your shoulders, firmly but gently, and practically begged for you to come with him.

Stating that what you were feeling was a completely normal physiological response. That your body was sending neropinephrine to your brain to help regulate the stress and compensate for whatever was happening inside of you and that it would be safer to stay together––

But when he sees you ice him out– concealing all remaining traces of shock or fear or worry– he freezes.

His eyes raked across your features, biding his time. Committing every micro-reaction, every hair out of place, every faux-calm movement of your eyes before he had to let you go with a nod. Leaving hurriedly to find anyone that can help and constantly looking back at you to assure his consciousness that you were fine, and that you would be fine.

When he saw that the other sheriff wasn't there yet, much less anyone for that matter, he immediately went back. Running uphill fast to get to you.

To make sure that you were alright, that you were alive, and that no one was coming to hurt you.

Which is how he found himself here.

Gun held to his head by the very high schooler that, he thought, wouldn't have been of help if another dangerous person had shown up.

When you raised your hands and dropped your gun in surrender, he was scared of what would happen to you both if he didn't act quick.

But he was even more scared of what could happen to you if he doesn't talk his way out.

Fast.

So that's what he did.

––––––––––

He didn't get to check on you, he realizes.

He knew you were able to knock the kid out, he was there when he helped you distract him, but he must’ve been wheezing because he was the first one to get ushered out and checked on.

He wants to tell them to check on you. That you had landed pretty badly when the unsub was able to push you back, but he can hardly even hear his own thoughts.

The siren of the police car, the medic talking to him, the rest of the team discussing the case's outcome, and his own heart in his ears were simply too much for him.

By the time that things had settled down, he notices that you still aren't there with him. He worries and whips his head around wildly before his eyes find yours already looking at him.

Doing so with an expression of regret or grief etched onto your face.

He sighs in relief, and gives you the best smile he can give to assure you that he's okay despite having been worried sick.

He needed you to know that he was fine. That it wasn’t your fault. That he was glad you're okay too.

That he was so impressed with what you had done despite the circumstances, and that you had handled the situation way better than he knew anyone on the team ever could.

So when you seem to turn away from him, he briefly wonders if something was actually wrong.

He tries to look back on what might've happened. Wonders if there's something he didn't see when he came back, or when he was away––

And that's when he realizes something.

Could he have put you in more danger when he came back to check on you? That he had accidentally sabotaged your takedown?

He sighs. He must've looked so pathetic in front of you getting grabbed like that–– but he's not sorry.

He had been doing that for your safety and for his own peace of mind–– he wasn't going to apologize for caring about you.

He'll make it up to you somehow.

The next time you go on another case together, which you two inevitably will, he'll make it up to you.

That, he promises.

He actually doesn't get to work with you again. So he decides that he can make it up to you by narrowing down the unsub's identity.

In fact, he hasn't seen you at all since the team first arrived at the crime scene.

You had been working with Hotch and Morgan on more field operations, leaving him with Elle and Penelope doing background checks on possible suspects. And while he wasn't with you, he'd like to think that he's still enjoying the company.

Well, that's what he would like to think.

He has no problems working with Elle. She was a nice colleague that seemed to occasionally humor his rants and got the job done quickly. And Penelope was someone that the both of you really got along with. Occasionally having this back and forth unique to the three of you.

But they weren't you.

Still. What he thought about you can wait later. He still has to think about his escape route if the two break out into a fight.

Right now, the three of them had staked out one Michael Russo who they anticipated would call his hitman, the suspected Unsub. They were hoping to get a name from what they could pick up from his end of the call, and they did.

Problem was,

"Russo's got eleven associates named Vincent." Spencer raised his brows at that.

Vincent is a name of Latin origins. He shouldn't be surprised that the mob had a handful of people with that name, but it was kind of too on the nose at this point.

"Oh, make that ten. Vincent Cellito died last summer. But here's something––Vincent Sartori."

He really wants to find this guy, so he chooses to keep looking through the list. Ignoring the growing tension between the two girls.

"Currently doing six at Dannemora for racketeering."

Spencer then speaks up again, "How about this Perotta? There's not much on him."

Garcia makes quick work to pull up what seemed to be deleted records and that's where they find something interesting.

"Alcohol addiction at 14, violent outbursts, assaults,–– Once threw a Molotov cocktail at someone sitting in their car." She can't believe what she's reading.

"Several notations for aggression," He adds, but this is where he sees something truly wrong.

"He once scheduled a visit to an infirmary to gain access to a–– boy who looked at him for too long?"

He really didn't want to meet this guy.

"No fear, no remorse, quick temper. And he was smart enough to stay off the radar as an adult," Elle interprets. "Paranoid personality. Could be our guy."

And he really didn't want you to meet him either.

All the evidence is stacking up against him though, so you just might have to. He just wished that nothing bad would happen when you did.

––––––––––

While right now they weren't sure if he was the unsub, he was definitely someone who fit their profile. He saw some LEO's bring in a guy who had essentially been cuffed at every limb, accompanied by Hotch and Gideon, but he had yet to see the others.

He sees Morgan, who is walking alongside Elle (she went to see what all the commotion was about) but with who he sees next, he feels his stomach drop. Heart rate spiking in contrast to an all time high that he's practically sure he has tachycardia.

"What happened to you!?"

He got up from his seat to run over but you just shake your head.

You had come back with your clothes and hair in disarray, a bleeding nose, and a a busted lip. A complete disparity to the normally clean-cut and professional look that you had strived to maintain.

Even when you had been tackled to the ground a few cases back, the damage wasn't nearly as bad as this.

It's Derek that answers his question for him though.

"Perotta hit your girl up in the head, Reid." He chooses to ignore the joke. Too worried as he tries to check on your head but you just softly squeeze his hands to reassure him before you push them away.

Still not looking at him as you finally speak.

"It wasn't that bad. He hesitated. It could've been worse."

He doesn't like your answer.

If you had just been hit in the head and yet your nose is bleeding, that was a clear sign of a concussion. And the cut on your lip had to be from a fall. On asphalt or onto another material, it didn't matter to him since both are just as bad.

As he expresses that, you just tell him to drop it and then move away from him.

Before he can say more however, Hotch comes back into the room with his usually stern expression. A bit of worry lacing his tone, Spencer notes, as he orders you.

"Go home."

He's staring you down, but it seemed you had a lot more to say to that.

"Sir Hotchner, I would be of much more use in here. It is imperative that all available resources are focused on the retrieval of James Baker." He sighs because you're right, but that doesn't seem enough to satisfy you.

The boy-genius hates it when you use reason to get your way.

"Fine. Help Reid and the others with the evidence. We can narrow down his area of operation from there. They should be arriving soon."

You shake your head adamantly. "Sir, I can handle the interrogation--"

"No you can't!"

Spencer surprises himself with his outburst, but you don't even turn to look at him.

It's Hotch that gives him a very pointed stare though before continuing,

"Reid is right, agent. We'll handle the interrogation, so please busy yourself here." He says it with a finality that is indicative of his departure but you stop him one last time. Hand going up to rest on your mentor's collar.

He sees you gesture to your own, and Spencer hears an intention in your voice that he can't quite understand.

"Let's not give him a weapon, sir. He's pretty strong."

He sees his boss nod, and he takes off his tie. Putting the cloth into your awaiting hand, and you grip it out of instinct.

Reid zones out as he sees this interaction in disbelief. Did you normally touch the others like this?

You had completely brushed off his concern, not even looking at him. And yet when it was your unit chief that told you to do so, you had simply followed?

He thought he was starting to become an exception to you, but had he been reading the signs wrong? It could very much be a possibility as he was never good at doing so.

Even later when he had been sifting through the bags from the suspect's van, you still didn't respond to him. Even going as far as to ignoring Penelope's offer to watch the tapes they had found in Perotta's van. Shaking your head, 'no' with a faraway look in your eyes.

Just what had exactly happened while he wasn't by your side?

At this point, Spencer’s convinced that you would never like him.

If not for you having eyes on literally anyone else but him, then definitely because he had disappointed you. Desecrated the honor that came with being an FBI agent.

Just because he had been distracted.

A whirlwind of emotions had been flurrying inside him since the very beginning of this case, but he swears that he had never meant for this.

He doesn't even remember how it happened. Which baffled him, given his memory. But he thinks it's because he couldn't have cared less about the past few hours.

He had been stuck babysitting Lila only because you had told him so. Entrusted him with her because you thought that he was the best person to guard her, to comfort her.

He didn’t know it was because you had a feeling he’d be safer by her side.

And some part of him was flattered that you had said all this about him. Especially when all Lila would hear from him were endless praises of your name, of your work, and your caring nature.

But another part of him felt ignored. Pushed aside.

He doesn't know when it had happened, but Hotch had stopped pairing you together some cases ago. Saying something about you needing physical training, though he sincerely doubted that.

He thought that things were going well between you two. He had just been trying to find the perfect window where you would see him in a good enough light.

A good enough light that would make you say 'yes' to going on a date with him.

He didn't even care that the pretty blonde was interested in him. He only agreed because you stressed her safety more than any other target thus far. But the attention that she was giving him?

That was all that he wanted from you.

All he'd been wanting for months.

And when he had kissed her, all he could think about was you. How it would've felt if it was you in his arms, how you would react if it had been you that he was touching.

But then immediately after, how you would react to him kissing another girl.

God, he was pathetic.

He knew that you had been having a hard time lately. And he also knew that it had a lot to do with your work, how he did his, and his safety. That was all you ever stressed about when you were with him.

If he was safe.

You'd think he'd learn that by now, but he hasn't. Which is why even when he knew all this, his heart still ached as he sees you cry into Morgan's arms. Sobbing like no tomorrow. All because of something he did.

All because he took all your hard work, that had been focused on keeping him alive, and essentially throwing it right back at your face.

His negligence did that.

And he supposes that now, he can't do anything to get into your good graces anymore. Not when Derek Morgan seemed to better at doing his job as a federal agent, and his job as your friend.

When he finally gets changed into dry clothes and enters Lila's house, he doesn't miss the way that you turn from him. He also doesn't miss the glare the other agent was giving him. Nor the careful hand that had been rubbing up and down your arm.

Something that he wished he could've been doing instead.

––––––––––

God, he wanted to be anywhere but here, considering this is where it all went downhill.

"Did you give Lila Archer a collage?" Gideon had started the interrogation, so even if he did want to leave, he couldn't.

"What?"

"There's a photographic collage above Lila Archer's sofa. She says you gave it to her."

But the faster that they could get this done, the faster he could apologize to you.

"So? I didn't make the damn thing." Parker had laughed out, clearly not comprehending the severity of the situation.

"So you just happened to give her a work of art containing most of her life in it?" Spencer pushed but was surprised to see his ex-classmate seemingly have no recollection of the situation at all.

Something was wrong.

If it wasn't him, then who––?

"I––no, no. Look, I lied. I just wanted her to like me. I met her here, and she was a fan of art. Someone gave me the piece to give to her, but I told her it was from me."

It can't be––

"I said I found it, and I thought she'd love it."

"And who gave it to you?" Morgan had finally asked.

"Her name's Maggie Lowe. She uh––She works on Lila's show."

When Spencer hears this, he immediately goes to call you on his phone. Maggie Lowe had gone to Juilliard with Lila and was the production assistant that he swore he saw go in and out of her trailer.

If he wasn't so distracted, he would've fucking noticed that.

But his phone doesn't even ring for a few moments before the call is declined.

What the fuck was happening?

Before he could ask anyone else, he heard Derek speak up.

“Sweet girl, listen to me. We have a name, and it’s ‘Maggie Lowe.’ We’re on our wa—" Spencer tries to talk to you through Morgan's phone, but is knocked off balance when the man turns around in shock.

"Christ man—we're on our way back over there, okay? Stay put and we’ll let Hotch and JJ know.” 

"Let me talk to her!" He practically begs, but before anyone could even understand what he was saying, the call is ended from your side.

"Reid, what the hell were you trying to do?"

He's shocked at his own actions too, but that's not what's on his mind right now.

"She dropped my call but she answered yours? And since when did you start calling her that?"

He knew it wasn't fair, especially after what he had done, but just when did you and him happen?

"Since you started being a dumbass. Get over yourself, kid."

Everyone then started making their way to the two SUV's parked outside, but Spencer took the one that Morgan was driving.

He wasn't done with this conversation.

He tries to call you again, but this time, it looks like the line is busy. What was going on, where were you? He tries Lila's phone, even though he's sure she won't pick up and nothing either.

He has half a mind to ask Morgan to call you, in case you were just being petty and ignoring him, but he feels his phone vibrate. He suddenly hears his phone ring, and he hurriedly answers without checking the caller ID.

Hoping that it would be you on the other hand as he called out your name.

"Nope, sorry hon, it's me." It was Garcia's voice, but it sounded like she was shaking. Sensing the urgency in her voice, he instinctively puts his phone on speaker.

"Reid, I need you to listen to me very carefully— I've already alerted officials in the area, but your unsub? Is in Lila Archer's house."

You can't keep doing this, he thinks. You can't keep scaring him like this, because he's starting to feel so sick.

He looks to his friend in the driver's seat and sees him nod when they make eye contact. Speeding up as they thank Penelope before she ended the call.

At this point, he could care less with how pathetic he might've looked. No longer caring about how uncool you thought he was, or whatever might've been going on between you and Morgan, or if you still had a crush on your boss— none of that.

They had left you behind with Lila and no one else.

Spencer had always feared that one day, no matter how strong or smart or clever you are, it's his negligence that'll place you on the receiving end of a killer's weapon. And that there's nothing that he can do to stop them from landing the finishing blow.

If the reason you were alone and held captive by some psychotic shooter was because he had pissed you off enough to even dismiss his help?

He might never forgive himself for it.

When they arrive, he immediately gets out of the car. Ready to run in and ambush Maggie by himself if he has to when Lila runs into his arms. Holding a gun in her hand as if it were a bomb.

A Glock 19 that he's seen you use since his first official cases on the team.

He notices Morgan, Elle, and Gideon were already out, but Hotch and JJ have still yet to arrive.

He knows that he should wait until further instructions. That there wasn't a protocol for this specific situation. Or maybe there was, but his IQ of 187 had always been slashed down to 60 whenever you were involved.

When he hears a gun fire from inside the house, he's the first one that starts running.

He's thankful that he wasn't alone when he did though.

By the time that Maggie had been apprehended, you were already well on your way to the nearest hospital. According to the clock from inside your room, and the news report that had been playing, a full twelve hours at the very least had passed since then.

You tried to remember what had happened. Tried to remember how you screamed for help once you had subdued her. How she shot you when you tackled her.

Probably with the intention to kill you, then herself had you not talked her out of it.

You groan as you feel the blooming pain in your side. Probably from the GSW that you're going to have to note in your action report.

And then you remembered how you realized what you felt for Spencer and the rest of the team.

You shake your head despondently.

When you look back on every situation where you had essentially put yourself on the line for his sake, you notice that you had really been doing that out of your own volition.

That you had been doing it because you didn't want him getting hurt.

You just didn't like that the the team was turning it into some sort of responsibility.

And sure. Maybe the others were complicit in pairing you up, or guilty for giving you odd looks, but they probably wouldn't have done that if it wasn't something you were already going to do.

God, you felt so pathetic.

You don't think you can handle looking at Spencer now. Not after your existential crisis, and certainly not after what you said before he left.

But luck has a way, so it seems, to constantly elude you.

You note this as you see the very man that you had been thinking of slowly opening the door and perking up when he sees your eyes on him.

Well, as perked up as he could be. Given the circumstances.

"How uh—, How are you? A-Are you...okay?"

You take in how he looks when he asks. Dark rings encircling his eyes, (he had been up all night waiting for you), usually neat hair in a mess (he had been running his hands through them nonstop), and shirt all crumpled from being hunched over for so long (a different one, because he just couldn't stand the vague scent on chlorine in his old one.)

Your heart sinks at the sight and you beckon him closer with your strong hand. Echoing his question.

"Are you okay, Dr. Reid?"

He lets out a shaky breath when he finally hears your soft voice again, slowly approaching you as he does. He was so worried that the last words he would hear from you would be your disappointment, but he persists.

"Can you please answer the question? I don't like it when you pretend like you're okay when you're obviously not."

His hand finds its way to trace little patterns on the back of yours. Occasionally looking up at to see if he was hurting you, before continuing when he sees that he isn't. Feeling too shy to do anything more.

You roll your eyes at the gesture. Flipping his hand to rest on the hospital bed and slipping yours on top of his. Giving it a soft squeeze.

"I could be better." You then squeeze his hand again. "Is this what you were trying to do?"

He thinks for a while, as if not really understanding your question, before nodding vigorously.

You smile at the sight but then feel your regret from a few hours ago come rushing back.

"I'm really sorry. For...everything." You don't think he knows what you're apologizing for, but you do it anyway.

If not now, when?

Spencer laughs a little at that but shakes his head. "Morgan told me about what you said. Back at Lila's. Well, more like he told everyone while we were waiting for you to wake up."

You nod. Suddenly feeling guilty for trying to make contact so you try to let go, but he only entangles your fingers once more. Intertwining them as much as he can since this is the closest that he can afford to have you right now.

He feels his lips tightening into a thin smile before he says what's been haunting him for the past few hours.

"I'm sorry that you had to deal with me for so long. I never meant to burden you like that or make your job harder."

"No, Spencer please," you start, rubbing the only part of his hand that you could reach with your thumb.

"You were never a burden. I was just—caught up in a bunch of things."

He doesn't miss how your usual eloquence evades you. Which gives him a bit of an idea as to how unscripted and vulnerable you were being with him right now.

And as much as he should hate this for you, he'd love it if you would learn to be a bit more vulnerable in front of him. Even if it was a departure from your usually starched blazers, pressed blouses, and clean-cut exterior.

He still thought you were cool just like this.

"Have I ever told you that I thought you were really cool?" You weakly snort at that.

"If by 'cool,' you mean constantly worrying about how everything could go wrong, then yeah. I'm super cool."

He shakes his head at that, but it looked like you weren't done.

"I think you looked cooler, though. Especially when you were next to the pool trying to dry your gun. You looked like a wet rat."

He groans at the mention but you continue to tease him.

"Hey, you were a handsome wet rat. Still a rat, but... you know. From Vegas. Arguably not as bad as the ones from New York. Now though, you're a handsome dry rat."

Now that, he just wines at. You weren't being fair.

How could you make him go through all this and then say that?

Did you know what kind of effect you have on him?

The two of you continue to sling back jokes at the other, a common thing you used to do before things went south. And just enjoying each other's presence.

Holding his hand as you absentmindedly started massaging it. He didn't even notice how his hand had been shaking since the moment you first held onto it.

He was so so glad you were alive. That you were still here, with him. And there's no place he would rather be than where you were.

"So. How about you start telling me what you've been up to while I've been knocked out, hm? What have you learned, genius?"

He's learned a quite a lot, while you were away.

He learned that he should probably encourage you to have more breaks. Learned that you should both talk to each other, and everyone, a bit more. And he learned that you two weren't so different after all.

He's also learned how much he really liked your smile, your laugh, your soft touch, and the way that his name fell from your lips.

He doesn't tell you any of this, however.

Opting to instead tell you about the numerous facts he's picked up during the case, and how much he hated Hollywood.

[a/n] And with that, this marks the end of this specific timeline! I've honestly loved writing with this reader's specific personality in mind, and I'm looking forward to how she'll mellow out when she learns to be more honest.

I have a few ideas for one shots regarding this specific dynamic, but if you enjoyed it as much as I did, please tell me what you thought about this short series! And if you have any idea on what you'd like to see next from these dumbasses, send an ask my way!

Thank you so much for liking them thus far.

Like my work? Consider tipping me!!

[lushleona]

── .✦ mentor!mattheo trains you in knife throwing

warnings: usage of knives, tension

“hold it tighter,” mattheo’s voice cuts through the quiet of the training room, sharp and unrelenting. “you’re holding it like you’re scared of it. are you scared of it, sweetheart?”

you grit your teeth, the insult barely disguised as a question lighting a fire under your skin. “no,” you bite out, curling your fingers tighter around the hilt of the knife.

he hums, stepping closer, his shadow swallowing yours as he moves behind you. his hands, rough and calloused, settle over yours, forcing you to adjust your grip. “doesn’t feel like it,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “loosen up your wrist. you’re not chopping vegetables—you’re throwing.”

the proximity sends a shiver down your spine, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting. “i know what i’m doing,” you snap, though the flush crawling up your neck betrays your composure.

“do you?” his tone is mocking, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear as he leans in further. “because all i’ve seen you do so far is miss. but sure, go on. impress me.”

your jaw tightens as you square your stance, trying to ignore the warmth of his hand against yours. the blade feels heavy in your grip, heavier still under his scrutiny. you draw your arm back and throw, the knife slicing through the air before clattering against the target, barely grazing the edge.

“hm.” mattheo’s breath ghosts against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “impressive. if your goal was to piss off a squirrel.”

you inhale sharply, your pride warring with the need to prove him wrong. “maybe if you’d stop breathing down my neck, i could focus.”

his chuckle is low, dark, and it sends heat pooling in your stomach. “you think the arena’s gonna give you space? that the careers are gonna back off and let you focus? no, sweetheart. you learn to work under pressure, or you don’t survive.”

his words hit their mark, the truth of them settling heavy in your chest. still, his hand lingers over yours, guiding your arm back. the heat of his body presses into you, his presence suffocating and intoxicating all at once.

“come on,” he whispers, his voice a challenge. “show me what you’ve got.”

you narrow your eyes, focusing on the target across the room. this knife feels steadier in your grip, though you’re hyper-aware of mattheo’s hand covering yours again, the weight of his gaze burning into the side of your face.

you throw. the blade spins through the air, sinking into the outer edge of the target with a dull thud.

“better,” mattheo mutters, though the approval in his voice is faint, almost begrudging. “but you’re still aiming like you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

you spin to face him, your frustration boiling over. “because i don’t want to,” you snap.

his eyes darken, the amusement in them hardening into something sharper. “then you shouldn’t be here.”

the words cut deeper than they should, and for a moment, the room feels colder. yeah, i shouldn’t have to be here, but i am. mattheo doesn’t look away, his expression unreadable as he steps back, finally giving you space to breathe.

“again,” he says, his tone softer now but no less commanding.

you pick up another knife, your hand steady despite the tremor in your chest. i don’t need his approval, you tell yourself. you don’t need his sharp tongue or his dark eyes pushing you past your limits.

but when the blade sinks into the center of the target on your next throw, the ghost of a smirk tugging at mattheo’s lips sends a traitorous thrill through you.

“not bad, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly as he passes you another knife. “but don’t get cocky. you’re not done yet.”

m.list

[aventurineswife]

Hey! I was wondering if I could request Aventurine, Ratio and maybe Jiaoqiu with an S/O who has a little sister (like, let's say 7 years old) and just them interacting with her and being adorable?

In the Smallest Moments, We Find Our Light

Tags: Aventurine, Ratio, Jiaoqiu, Fluff, Healing, Friendship, Family Bonds, Humor, Lighthearted, Emotional Moments, Healing Journey, Caring, Mentor Figures.

Aventurine had never been particularly good with children. His life had been one of strategy, manipulation, and high-stakes gambles—none of which were qualities a child could appreciate. But when he found himself in the presence of his partner's little sister, a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He wasn't sure why, but there was something about the way she looked at him with wide, curious eyes that made him feel both disarmed and strangely protective.

"Can you teach me how to play cards?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve.

Aventurine chuckled, a sound that was both amused and warm. "Cards, huh?" he mused, flicking his earring absentmindedly. "Well, my dear, you're in luck. I am a master of games."

He motioned to a table, where he set up a small deck of cards. As he dealt the cards with an almost theatrical flair, the little girl watched in awe. "Now, here's the first rule," Aventurine began, his tone shifting from lighthearted to serious. "Life is a gamble, and every decision is a risk. But not all risks are worth taking."

The little girl blinked, processing his words with a furrowed brow. "So... you don't always win?"

He gave her a sly smile. "No, not always. But it's how you play the game that counts."

She thought about it for a moment, then grinned. "I think I'll win this time," she declared confidently, her small fingers holding up a card.

Aventurine's smile softened as he glanced at her. There was something about her optimism—her ability to approach the game with such pure determination—that reminded him of a time before he'd learned to guard his heart. He caught himself, quickly masking the thought with another playful comment.

"Careful, young one," he warned, "I'm a formidable opponent."

The game continued, but Aventurine found himself genuinely enjoying it—not because he was winning, but because for the first time in a long while, he wasn't calculating every move. Instead, he was simply… enjoying the moment.

Ratio had always considered himself a man of intellect, a man above the trivialities of childish things. His life was filled with books, studies, and research, and he never entertained the thought of interacting with children. But when his partner's little sister bounced into the room, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes, something strange stirred in him.

"Dr. Ratio!" she called, her small hands tugging at the sleeve of his vest. "Can you tell me a story?"

He looked at her, mildly annoyed by the interruption, yet his tone softened slightly. "A story?" he repeated. "What, precisely, is it that you wish to hear? A tale of wisdom? A recount of one of my brilliant discoveries?"

"Noooo!" she giggled, shaking her head. "I want a funny one!"

Ratio blinked, momentarily thrown off by her sheer innocence. His gaze shifted as he considered her request. "Funny...?" he muttered under his breath. "You wish for me to be 'funny'?"

"Yes! Please!"

For a moment, he stood there, his hands at his sides, pondering. Finally, after a dramatic pause, he sighed, relenting. "Very well. But understand this: humor is a delicate art, and my style may not be to your taste."

He cleared his throat and began, albeit in a scholarly manner, "Once, there was a very wise owl who—"

She interrupted with a delighted giggle. "Owl? Like your shoulders?" she pointed to his shoulder pieces shaped like owls.

Ratio's lips quirked up slightly. "Ah, yes, exactly. This owl was... let’s say, much like myself—blessed with an intellectual superiority far beyond that of any common bird." He paused dramatically. "However, one day, it made the mistake of—"

"Made a mistake?! A smart owl?!" she gasped, eyes wide with disbelief.

Ratio paused, realizing he had lost her attention. But when he looked down at her face, so innocent and full of wonder, he couldn't help but feel a small chuckle escape him.

He continued the story, weaving in absurdities and gentle humor, and as the little girl laughed uncontrollably at the owl's misadventures, Ratio found himself more relaxed than he'd ever been in her presence. Maybe, just maybe, there was something to this whole "funny" thing after all.

Jiaoqiu had always been a figure of quiet strength, an observer in the background, finding solace in the rhythm of his healing work. However, today, he found himself in a moment of unusual vulnerability as his partner's little sister gently tugged at his sleeve, her voice ringing with innocence.

"Jiaoqiu, can you help me?" Her small voice was filled with curiosity.

Jiaoqiu, who was blind, couldn't see her, but he could feel the gentle tug, and he could sense the slight excitement in her voice. He was used to navigating the world without sight, relying instead on sound, touch, and the subtle energies around him.

"Of course, my dear," he said softly, his voice calm and warm, though his thoughts always lingered on the futility of it all—the constant struggle between healing and death. Still, he couldn't turn away from someone in need, especially not a child. "What do you need help with?"

She placed something small and delicate into his hands, and he carefully cradled it. It was a flower, its petals soft and fragile, but its form was still unfamiliar to him without sight. His fingers traced its outline with practiced precision, and he could sense its delicate beauty despite not being able to see it.

"I think it needs medicine so it can be happy again," she said, her tone full of hope and innocence.

Jiaoqiu smiled gently, though the weight of his own internal struggles hung heavy on his heart. He knew all too well the fleeting nature of life. As his fingers moved over the flower, he focused on its pulse, the slight vibrations of energy it gave off. His expertise in alchemy and food-based medicine had honed his ability to sense the health of an object, living or otherwise, through touch.

"Sometimes, little one," he began softly, "healing is not about what we can see. It's about feeling what is needed, understanding what the heart of the matter truly is."

His hands moved to his pouch, where he kept various healing herbs and potions. He could sense the small vials through the slight metallic sounds of their contents shifting within, and he selected the one that he knew would provide the right remedy for the flower.

He poured a few drops of the potion onto the flower, his movements careful and precise. "Like this," he continued, as he gently cradled the flower in his hands, "healing isn't about making everything perfect. It's about giving something the chance to thrive, even if it's just for a while."

He handed the flower back to her, the slight tremor of her small hands against his own providing a sense of reassurance. "There. Now you must be patient. You must nurture it with care, just like you would any living thing."

The little girl hugged the flower close to her chest. "Thank you, Jiaoqiu! You're the best healer!"

Jiaoqiu's heart fluttered with a mix of tenderness and sorrow. In his mind, he knew that the flower, like the many souls he had tended to, might one day fade away. But for now, in this moment, he had done something good. Perhaps that was enough.

He listened to her soft footsteps as she skipped away, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to let go of the burden that always weighed so heavily on his heart. The world might be full of pain, loss, and uncertainty, but moments like this—moments of connection—were what kept him moving forward.

Jiaoqiu smiled softly, feeling the cool breeze on his face and the warmth of the little girl’s gratitude filling the empty space inside of him. Healing, after all, wasn’t just about mending the body—it was about healing the heart, and sometimes, that was enough.