#spring fic

[jazziesanura]

Petrichor

Poly Pairing: Hitoshi x Denki x Reader

Summa: Sheltered at home during a thunderstorm, the trio reflect, encounter their fears, and treasure the warm touch they all provide.

Word Count: 694

Alarum: Fluffy cuddles and innermost thoughts. Fear of lighting, light trauma. All characters are in their twenties. Minors skedaddle!

Author's Note: This is the first of two parts that will later be released. Petrichor is the smell before the rain. The more you know. The song used is Rain by BTS. Well worth the listen and I'd highly suggest, reading the translation also.

Hitoshi's arms held them both to his chest, both on each side of him. He couldn't sleep. At this point, neither of them could. They'd quit trying after the first grumblings of the storm. He was the first to smell it arriving. He knew their night would be long. It was a smell he'd come to love as a boy. It made the walls of his house all the sweeter in the dreary weather.

Other kids, they'd call him weird. Why would he like it when the sun was gone? It stopped their playing and showing off their quirks. He could breathe when the rain came. He didn't have to be afraid of accidentally manipulating someone just by words he carelessly spoke. It allowed him to think.

Hitoshi held his little partners closer to himself, pressing a kiss to both of their heads—lingering a while. Sleepless as he was, he was warm. Just as he was those days in his youth all alone.

Crack.

Denki thought it was impossible. How do you smell rain coming? Hitoshi had tried to describe the aroma to him and for the longest time he thought that his own nose was broken or his boyfriend had another quirk that he wasn't telling him about. Earthy, he described it. But anytime he thought of earthy smells was when he'd played in mud years ago, making mud cakes for his Pops. Nonetheless, Denki and {Y/N} found themselves countless times dependent on the nose of their very tired boyfriend. Hitoshi often times was always able to tell the certainty of rain better than the meteorologist on the TV.

Drip drop drip.

Denki's golden eyes stared through the window with a bulgy pout. Rain. It rendered him useless. Each flash of light that illuminated their faces, disrupting the erratic pattern of rain, made him hold his breath. It burned in his lungs, made his nerves crackle and pop. Denki shifts around and tucks his face into the crook of Hitoshi's neck as his heart silently races in his chest. Even if his partners couldn't hear it, he sang the one song that rain often reminded him of.

"Rain, in this rain, in this rain..."

Drip drop crack drip.

{Y/N} stared at their entangled limbs and wondered to herself how exactly they fit together as they did. She took turns tracing the lines on their palms and compared their sizes. She traced both of her palms, her own touch tickled her skin—small and soft, almost mistaken for a baby's.

She traced Denki's palm lines and grazed over the feathering marks of electricity speckled on all around his fingers. They adorned his slender and long fingers with their fern-like patterns, spreading round and round. {Y/N} pressed her palm against his and watched Denki close his hand around hers, giving her a small squeeze. He was so warm.

Once her blond boyfriend began to snore, she pries her hand from his and fights the sleep weighing down on her eyelids. She blinks slowly and traces the lines on Hitoshi's palm. So calloused and large, it could easily swallow both of their hands all together. And yet, she felt safer than ever with his eyes looking down at her. Distracting herself like this was just what she needed.

Silence.

Could it—would this rain shower be the last or the first of many?

On and on, it came day after day. None of their ears could catch on to any rhyme or rhythm of the raindrops. It came heavy, it came light. At times the couple wanted to do nothing but sing together under the sweet shower of rain as it kissed their skin in more ways than their lips ever could. Thunder cracked his whip and shook their apartment.

The one thing about the insufferable thunderstorm was the cold it brought; bringing them closer together.

Crack.

The sound roared, but none of them jolted at the sound. It wasn't something that they had grown out of at a young age, to brave the mean ol’ storm that ruined the beauty of the day and her sunshine. It wasn't just that. They were one another’s peace.

[megneato]

Post canon jayvik yearning in a hot spring, inspired by the lovely fic The Line is Covered in Jellyfish by @yunuen

[todayis-snowy]

It’s Kuras. Of course it’s Kuras. If anything, Vere is surprised it took him this long to find them.

[strangergraphics]

daisy themed dividers part two:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[madychi]

… okay I can’t explain this one chief-

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58214944/chapters/148236853

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

✬'Look at me'- how the TS LI lift your chin✬

A/N: this is my first work for this fandom! Hope someone will like it!🖤

✬Preference✬

✬Vere:

"Why so shy all of a sudden? What is it? Can't even look at me in the eye now?"

✬Ais:

"I'm right here, little sparrow, right in front of you...why don't you look at me?"

✬Leander:

"Eyes up here... Let me see those beautiful eyes of yours"

✬Kuras:

"Look up... open up with me,please. Tell me what's wrong"

✬Mhin:

"Let me see you. Don't ever hide your face from me. "

My 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔳����𝔡 materialist here

[reddtulips]

something something ghoap staying at johnny’s family farm that’s less than two hours away from glasgow.

they barely reach the damn place because simon insists on driving and takes a wrong exit on the highway and johnny has to piss a hundred times during the drive.

the air is crisp and cold and frosts the tips of their noses and simon forces indifference when johnny’s fingers brush simon’s to hold the duffel bag so he can close the trunk of the car.

johnny knocks on the front door and his mother rips it open, hugging his son and without a second to think, hugs simon as well and ushers them inside.

johnny’s father is a simple man and gives simon a firm handshake and a pat on his back and shows him the dining room, a feast set on the table and every salad under the sun overflowing in hand painted bowls that johnny’s mother made when she did pottery ten years ago.

johnny’s sisters are there, his niece and nephews as well, all children and simon sweats thinking how in the hell he is supposed to talk to them. are the boys at the appropriate age to know about guns and knives? or do they look at encyclopedias of greek mythology and dinosaurs? does the niece like barbie and dress up? or is she one of those girls that like to collect bugs and draw hopscotch on the pavement with colorful chalk and wipe the excess from her fingers onto her pants?

they watch him with eager eyes and giggles smothered behind tiny hands, and watch in awe when he lifts his balaclava to expose his mouth so he can eat.

johnny does the talking at the table and simon can’t understand a fucking word he’s saying because he’s gone full scottish with his family, only hums and nods occasionally. he wolfs down every piece of food, the human trashcan that he is (and because he doesn’t remember the last time he had a home-cooked meal), and nearly combusts for a second time that day as johnny’s mam places a plate with a thick slice of apple pie in front of him, vanilla ice cream melting over it and puts a hand on his shoulder, “johnny told me ye have a sweet tooth, so i made it especially for ye.”

simon who does silent breathing exercises so he doesn’t cry because he misses this so fucking much. to sit down with a family and enjoy a meal together with loved ones and not fight, nor scream nor yell nor cry nor throw food nor break plates and it’s just laughter upon laughter upon claps on the shoulders and clutching at arms and pulling each other into side hugs and light jabs that mean nothing and don’t break into full blown fights and simon thinks he’s going to vomit.

simon who gets to see johnny’s childhood bedroom. it’s decorated in superhero posters and hanging medals and trophies from gymnastics and competitive shooting competitions. johnny turns sheepish when simon points them out, teases him and likes and fears the swirl of warmth in his chest when johnny’s ears and neck turn red. he’s told “still a better shot than you,” and if johnny were anyone else, he’s be given toilet cleaning duties for the next three months.

simon who wants to pull out and empty every drawer, check every nook and cranny and learn and suck in every single piece of information and story there is about johnny and what — there’s pictures of you as a kid? with a mohawk? fuck off, soap, lemme see.

johnny opens the left door of his wardrobe and it’s covered in baby pictures of him and his family and simon’s chest tightens but he doesn’t break his gaze. Lo and behold, Johnny points out a picture on top and holy shit, it’s him holding a fat, orange cat the size of half his body and he’s sporting a long mohawk. His cheeks are stained with tears but there’s a forced grin on his face and blood on his chin. johnny explains it was his 7th birthday, he fell off a swing, hit his chin and his mam still wanted a photo. the cat’s named ‘fergus’ and he’s still alive and has lost most of the weight. he explains more photos but simon’s eyes keep coming back to the first one and he just wants to lean down and leave a gentle kiss on the scar covering johnny’s chin.

the kids don’t leave simon alone, as much as uncle johnny protests and tells them to get tae and let ‘em rest, he’s been drivin’ all mornin’ but watches them from the kitchen with a soft smile as simon walks around with the kids hanging and clutching at his strong arms like they’re monkeys and simon can’t get enough of their giggles and ooh’s and ahh’s when he tells them heroic and child-friendly war stories about their uncle. he also tells them that he sucks ass at taking orders and sharing his MREs and that they should listen to their parents and respect their elders and share with each other. johnny smothers a grin behind his hand as simon uses his lieutenant’s voice when speaking to the kids about these things.

johnny steals simon away then, “gotta show ‘em the horses”, and simon keeps his distance and doesn’t dare get up on one of them. the cockiest, “scared, Lt.?” with a shit-eating grin from johnny makes him grab the reigns and climb on. johnny leads the horse down the field and they fall into a comfortable silence. simon can’t get enough of the peace and quiet and chirping of birds and gentle yet chilly breeze on his hands and johnny is suddenly coming to a halt.

simon looks down at his sergeant, and his cheeks are flushed red and there’s determination and well-masked hesitation in his blue eyes and before simon knows it, he’s being pulled down by the sleeve of his jacket and johnny is cupping the sides of his face and pressing a gentle kiss over the material of simon’s mask. it’s innocent, quick, almost like it doesn’t even happen and isn’t registered. but their gazes meet when they part and it’s over for both of them because simon is fervently pushing his mask up and cupping johnny’s cheeks and they’re both leaning forward again and pressing kiss upon kiss upon kiss on each other’s lips and simon finally thinks,

i’ve found it. i’ve found home.

[sirenpearldust]

Found you 2

Baby Daddy Azriel!

Series masterlist ⋆ Part one ⋆ Part three

Pair: Azriel x Spring Court! Reader

Word count: 3.050

Warning: fluff

Summary: conditions are set

Azriel sat up straighter in his seat, he cleaned up, looked more put together. He wanted to make a better impression on his son than last time. The memory of his terrified face hasn’t left him, it has been haunting his dreams. Just the reminder unsettled him. 

A hint of nervousness crept in, what if one misstep meant he wouldn’t be allowed to see his son again?

Meanwhile, you watched him as he sat across from you, dressed in black pants and a blouse that accentuated every defined muscle he had honed through years of training in the illyrian camps.

His piercing hazel eyes wandered intensely as he surveyed the room. Until they locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. His knuckles repeatedly tightened until they turned white before he forced himself to let go. Black massive wings folded tightly against his back, his shadows swirling around him, still inspecting the unfamiliar space. 

Instead of his usual cold, detached demeanor, irritation flickered across his features. 

That’s a first, you thought. 

For once, he wasn’t emotionless.

For once, he was unraveling and it was because of you.

You had to hand it to his genes, you had basically birthed his twin. Amias was the spitting image of him, inheriting the same elegant planes of his face, a beauty that was almost otherworldly. He had his hair, his wings and even his skin tone.  The only feature that set him apart were his eyes. Those were yours, a striking reminder of your Spring Court legacy shining through.

You still remembered the sadness, the ache in your chest as you watched your son grow into the features of his father. 

The same scowl, the same smile, the same dimples. 

It felt like a cruel twist of fate that your son had to look so much like the man who had caused you so much pain.

Sipping your tea, you deliberately avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the view outside.               He didn’t deserve an ounce of your attention, not anymore. 

You two were here for one reason and one reason only; to discuss Amias.                                        You had to push your feelings aside, no matter how difficult it was.

It hadn’t been part of your plan for Amias to get to know Azriel. He wasn’t supposed to find out about him, he was meant to be raised by you, away from any danger.

Azriel’s presence now posed a threat to your role as a parent and as a noble in Spring. His work was dangerous enough and his ties to the Inner Circle only added more risks. The already volatile situation in Spring was bad enough already. You didn’t need to be accused of treason or colluding with the enemy, you’ve already had enough problems.

“Are you going to sit there silent again and not say anything?” Azriel asked, his shadows darkening around him.

Your lip curled in a faint smile. It was almost amusing, holding something over him, having a semblance of power for once. You might have felt guilty for using your son in this way, but Amias didn’t even know his father, not really, not the way you did.

He had no idea of the darkness and cruelty Azriel was capable of.

“You’re too loud,” you said softly, setting your tea cup down. His wings bristled, and you could tell it had pissed him off.

“I’ll lay the conditions out for you,” you continued, calm and unwavering. 

“Be against even one of them and you’ll have no right to see my son.”

“Our son,” Azriel corrected, his jaw tightening as his knuckles turned white again. He knew, he knew you had set traps, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared to navigate them.

“He’s my son too, Y/N,” Azriel said, frustration lacing his voice as his hand ran through his hair roughly.

“I only want what’s best for him.”

You ignored him. 

Without a glance in his direction, you opened the folder and slid the sheet in front of him, wordlessly demanding his attention to what truly mattered now.

The conditions were clear and non-negotiable. They were there to protect Amias and you.

1. You are not allowed to take Amias without my permission.

2. Wherever you go with him, you must inform me first.

3. He’s my heir and will receive his education in Spring.

4. He will not train in the Illyrian camps unless he is of age and wishes to do so.

5. You will have no authority over me as his mother.

6. You will be a present father unless he chooses not to see you.

7. Your highest priority is to protect him, cherish him and ensure his safety.

8. You will treat him with respect, kindness and love.

9. You will not arrange or force any marriage upon him.

10. You will not harm me, kill me, or order anyone else to do so in order to have Amias.

11. You will not inform your family of his existence without my permission.

12. You will protect Amias before anyone else, this includes you protecting and serving your High Lord or your mate.

13. You will protect what is mine and what is automatically our son’s legacy.

14. In the event of my death, you will safeguard his wealth, inheritance and well-being. No one shall touch it.

15. You will not take Amias out of Spring unless he is in grave danger, or I am dead.

16. If you choose to have any other children, you are to treat them the same as Amias.

17. Any woman you decide to stay in a relationship with and who is to get to know our son, you will introduce to me first.

18. In the case of a mating bond between us, you will not force it upon me and will let it go if I do not want it.

19. You will not disturb my private life, you will treat me with respect and courtesy.

Azriel rubbed his temples, clearly irritated. 

Most of the conditions were reasonable, but the restrictions on when and how he could see Amias gnawed at him. 

Why did you have to control every aspect? Why did you have to approve when and if he could spend time alone with his son, or when his family could know about his existence?

“Can I introduce him to my family?” Azriel asked, his voice tight with frustration.

“No,” you replied coldly, your gaze unwavering. You hated the Night Court, they were the reason for Spring’s ruin and had caused multiple issues in Prythian across almost every court.

“He has a cousin,” Azriel pressed.

“You and I have no living siblings,” you shot back.

Azriel’s temper flared. 

“Rhys has a son.”

“He’s your High Lord,” you responded flatly.

“He’s my brother.”

You sighed rolling your eyes. “Sure.”

“So can he see his cousin?”

“No!”

Azriel groaned in frustration, his patience running thin. 

“Will you ever allow any of this to be permissible?”

You shrugged, taking another sip of that damned tea, that Azriel now seemed to take a dislike to.

“You either accept the conditions and make this bargain, or you can say goodbye to the future you’ve imagined,” you said, your voice steady but firm.

Azriel sighed, knowing full well you were serious. 

“These conditions are set to protect Amias. He doesn’t know you and I won’t thrust him into your world directly.”

“What about condition 18?” Azriel asked, his voice tight,.

“What about it?” you responded, your gaze unwavering. 

“Will you reject it?”

“There is no bond,” you replied, your tone cold.

Azriel’s jaw clenched again, the tension rising in his chest. “If there is one, will you reject it?”

“Most likely.”

His heart twinged painfully and an uncomfortable feeling settled in his stomach, like a bad omen. He hoped he wasn’t your mate because if he was, you would let him suffer. He was sure of it especially after what had happened.

“You know I’ll go insane from a rejected mating bond.” 

You hummed in response, uncaring of the worry in his voice. 

“Let’s then hope it doesn’t happen,” you said, a sharp smile playing on your lips as you met his eyes.

Azriel’s wings shuddered as the weight of the situation settled in. He didn’t feel good about this, not one bit.

“Fine,” he said, his voice resigned, “I accept all 19 conditions.”

You smiled and extended your hand. He took it without hesitation, his rough, scarred hand engulfing yours. The touch brought a flood of memories, both beautiful and painful.

Azriel couldn’t help but notice the softness of your skin, a stark contrast to the calluses and scars that marked his own. 

In that brief moment, you both felt something, an electric jolt, a slight burning sensation. You felt the tattoo spreading under your chest, across your ribs. You were glad that you could hide it, no one had to know about what was happening.

Azriel’s breath caught. He opened his top, revealing the tattoo spreading underneath his pectorals. Tracing the lines with his fingers. You almost choked on your spit. What was he doing?

You quickly turned your face away, not wanting to see the sudden state of undress. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, nothing you wanted to revisit, either.

In the brief glance you noticed something else, new scars. Some were fresh, still pink against his skin, while others had faded to white, stark against his tan.

“Roses,” Azriel murmured to himself.

“Now that we have a bargain, you can see him.”

You stood up, the white floral dress a stark contrast to Azriel’s dark attire.

Azriel was just a step behind you, he was eager to see his son. 

He wanted to teach Amias how to fly, how to fight, to show him the things a father should. He wasn't going to abandon him the way he had been. No, he would be present. He would be the father his son deserved, a steady presence in his life.

For the first time in his life he had hope for a bright future, he wants to build something better, to give Amias a future full of care, love and guidance. 

⋆ ♡ ⋆

Amias had been full of questions ever since he first met Azriel. His curiosity was boundless, he would comment on Azriel’s wings, marveling at how similar they were to his own. He spoke of the shadows, how they moved like his did.

Azriel’s shadows mingled with his own, twisting and swirling in a gentle dance and Amias couldn’t help but laugh whenever they played with him. They were soft and cool against his skin.

Azriel’s gaze softened when he heard his giggling. He felt this immense feeling seeing his son’s joy, feeling his happiness, hearing it, being a part of it.

He had come with presents - toys, books, sweets.  He bought him books, child stories from the night court, stories of Illyrian legends, a little teddy bear and a bag filled with small cherry candies, you know Azriel enjoyed. 

“Amias,” you called softly, lowering yourself to his level with open arms. He ran toward you, his little face lighting up as he kissed you on the cheek. You smiled, warmth flooding your chest as you gave him small kisses back, holding him close for a moment. You breathed him in, he smelled like a baby, you didn’t want him to grow up. He was already bigger than the other children his age. 

Azriel watched the scene from a few steps behind, it stirred up memories he had long forgotten, pushed away. It reminded him of his own rare moments of excitement as a child, the joy he’d felt in those fleeting times he was allowed to see his mother, when he was out of the cell.

He observed how animatedly Amias spoke to you, his small hands gesturing wildly as he recounted his latest “battle” with his plushies. Azriel couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, he was in awe as he took in the pure, unrestrained joy of your son, their son.

Amias’s eyes wandered up to him. He immediately recognized Azriel, but this time, instead of looking scared like before, he smiled at him.

He was taken aback by his reaction. His eyes immediately searched yours, knowing you had something to do with it, but you ignored him, focused on brushing Amias’s hair. 

It had grown long, already reaching his shoulders, he was in need of a new haircut.

Amias slowly slipped from your arms and stood in front of Azriel, his clothes a soft baby blue. His wings pressed tightly against his back and a shadow lingered at his feet. He stood there in awe, his eyes wide and round, smiling and giggling up at Azriel.

Azriel slowly lowered himself to Amias’s level. Even kneeling, his towering figure still loomed larger than both you and Amias. His sheer size stirred something hot inside you, something you’d buried long ago.

“Hello,” Azriel said softly.

Amias took a step back, looking at you for reassurance, as if searching for confirmation.

You smiled brightly, nodding and giving him the encouragement to go ahead. Amias turned toward Azriel again, his hands nervously fiddling. “Are you my daddy?”

Azriel’s breath hitched. There, standing in front of him, was his son, real and alive.

 “Yeah, I am.”

Amias took a step toward him, wrapping his small arms around Azriel and pressing his tiny head into his chest, sniffling. You and Azriel watched as Amias’s small hands clung to him. Without hesitation, Azriel held him close as he cried silently, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat on the floor, embracing him tightly, gently caressing his head, whispering apologies for not being there all this time.

That’s how the three of you spent the afternoon into the evening, watching Amias play, him eagerly dragging both of you into his games.

Yet, he was always a little nervous, always turning toward Azriel, as if he feared his father might disappear again.

You both sat on the floor next to each other.

“Thank you,” he said, watching you. Your eyes never leaving Amias.

“For what?” 

“For birthing, raising and loving him.”

“He’s my son. That’s a given.”

Azriel searched your eyes and this time, you didn’t look away. His gaze was soft and you hated the vulnerability in it.

“You know how they treat bastards.”

“We’re in spring,” you replied softly, making sure Amias wouldn’t overhear. 

“Bastards are a given. What do you think happens after Calanmai?”

He nodded, relieved that his son wouldn’t be ignored or left alone.

“Even if he is Illyrian?”

You laughed softly, a touch of amusement in your voice.

“Yes, even then.”

“They don’t care about that,” you said, your tone steady. “You’d know that if you picked up a book once in a while.”

Azriel winced at the jab, his eyes narrowing slightly. Here he thought you were finally opening up to him, but your words made it clear how you felt about him.

“Spring is inherently open,” you continued, “We accept everyone and everything. That’s why festivals like Calanmai exist and the land prospered with children, happy, healthy children. At least, before Amarantha came and your Lords, or shall I say your “brother” and his runaway whore”

Azriel’s jaw clenched, the urge to retort rising in him. He wanted to tell you that Tamlin had been warned, that he had continued despite it all, but he couldn’t. Your son was here and he shouldn’t witness his parents fighting. But god, the way your eyes burned with hatred whenever you looked at him or spoke about the Night Court, it stung.

“Daddy are you angry?”

Azriel noticed the worry in Amias’s face and immediately smiled, shaking his head. “Just tired.”

“Mama tired too,” Amias added.

You chuckled softly at his cuteness. 

You felt Azriels rage just a few seconds ago, you were thankful that he was still good at lying. You only cared about your son, Azriel’s feelings couldn’t interest you in the slightest.

“Amias, full sentences, please.”

“Mama, I am tired too.”

“You wanna go sleep with Daddy?” Azriel asked gently.

Amias nodded, his tiny arms stretching out toward Azriel. In his fathers arms, he stopped you from going to the office, where you usually spent your time.

You looked at him, noticing the expectant look in his eyes. “Can you both come?”

You nodded, glancing at Azriel. “You’ve got time, or do you need to go to work?”

Azriel smirked, scaring you. “I’m on vacation.”

The surprise was evident in your eyes as Azriel caught you off guard for the first time. Before you could respond, he scooped up Amias, who giggled in delight.

“Where is your room, little prince?” Azriel asked, holding his son up in the air with a grin.

Azriel’s smile was radiant and Amias looked so happy, it made your heart swell. Even if the reason behind it all was the sperm donor, the sight of your son so content made everything feel right.

“Let’s go,” Azriel said, his voice warm as he began to walk.

⋆ ♡ ⋆

There you three laid, Amias down in the middle, nestled safely between you both. 

Azriel had woken up, his internal clock honed over centuries stirring him from sleep. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, the sight before him felt almost unreal, like a dream he wasn’t ready to wake from.

His son was here and you.                                                                                                                 There you were, lying beside Amias, your long hair fanned out behind you, arms wrapped protectively around the small boy as he cuddled into you. It was endearing, the way you both slept so peacefully next to him. 

For the first time in what felt like forever, Azriel had slept through the night, no nightmares, no restlessness, just quiet, steady breaths filling the space around him.

His eyelids grew heavy again and he let himself sink back into the warmth of the mattress. Just as he was drifting off, Amias stirred, sleepily turning toward him. Tiny hands reached for him as he snuggled into Azriel’s chest, his breath soft and steady.

Azriel let out a slow breath, wrapping an arm around his son. 

And for the first time in a long, long time, he let himself rest again.

Main Taglist: @bubybubsters @lilah-asteria

Found you - Taglist: @bravo-delta-eccho @katherine-2007 @saltedcoffeescotch @the-onlyy-angie @sidthedollface2 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @asahinasstuff @azriels-human @ashjade19 @booksnwriting @starryhiraeth @anon1227 @1enas-12 @alittlelostalittlefound @queenoffeysand

[ama3003]

Silver Springs (S.R)

Character: Spencer Reid

Requested: No

Type: Angst

Summary: A chance encounter during a murder investigation forces Spencer to confront his past when he comes face-to-face with Y/N, his ex-girlfriend and new victim, rekindling old feelings and tensions.

AN: It's basically Daisy Jones & the Six meets Criminal Minds type of vibe.

"Another day, another case."

Spencer Reid had grown accustomed to the relentless pace of his work with the BAU. Evil, it seemed, never took a day off.

This explained why he now found himself en route to interview the latest victim, accompanied by Morgan.

Four murders in two weeks, and the body count showed no signs of slowing. All signs pointed to a disturbing connection within the music industry. The first two victims were singers, their vocal cords savagely ripped out. The third, a guitarist, had his hands severed. The most recent victim, a band manager, had his eyes gouged out in a grotesque display of violence.

As they walked briskly down the bustling Nashville street, Morgan voiced his frustration. "I can't wrap my head around why each murder was so different. It's like we're dealing with a completely new MO each time."

Reid's brilliant mind was already piecing together the puzzle. "Actually, there's a twisted logic to it," he explained, his words tumbling out rapidly. "Each mutilation corresponds to the victim's role in the industry. Singers silenced, a guitarist robbed of his ability to play, and a manager blinded, unable to oversee his clients. The unsub is targeting what makes each victim valuable in their profession."

"Do we know who we're meeting?" Reid inquired, his curiosity piqued.

Morgan nodded, consulting the notes from their technical analyst, Penelope Garcia. "Her stage name is Y/S/N, twenty-six years old. She's the lead singer of a band called The Springs. The band's manager reported an attempted abduction last night. She fits our victim profile perfectly: female, location in Nashville, related to a band. This is our first witness, Reid. She could be our key to catching this guy."

As they entered the recording studio, a frazzled assistant greeted them. "Hi, I'm Cary, the manager's assistant. Thank you so much for coming! Jason has been a nervous wreck. Please, follow me."

Morgan took the lead, his FBI credentials at the ready. "I'm Agent Morgan, and this is Dr. Reid. We need to speak with Y/S/N as soon as possible."

Cary nodded, guiding them towards a red door. With each step, the muffled sound of music grew louder, and a hauntingly beautiful voice became clearer.

"The band is actually recording their latest song right now," Cary explained in a hushed tone. "You'll need to be quiet, but the manager will brief you further."

As they approached the studio, the lyrics washed over them:

Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me I know I could've loved you, but you would not let me

A chill ran up Reid's spine. Something about that voice tugged at his memory, but before he could place it, he collided with Morgan's back.

A man stood before them, his face etched with worry. "Thank you for coming. I'm Jason, the band's manager. I wanted to take her straight to the police station, but she insisted on—" His eyes widened in recognition. "Spencer?"

Reid froze, suddenly face-to-face with a ghost from his past. "Uh, hi?" he managed, his usual social awkwardness winning again. How does one greet their ex-girlfriend's best friend after years of silence?

Morgan, sensing the tension, stepped between them. "I'm Agent Morgan, and this is Dr. Reid. We're here to speak with Y/S/N."

Jason's eyes darted between the two agents, his expression hardening. "Actually, I'd prefer if he wasn't here," he said, gesturing to Reid. "No offense, but I don't think it's wise for either of you to cross paths again."

Morgan, though confused by the unexpected connection, maintained his professional demeanor. "With all due respect, Dr. Reid and I work as a team. We both need to speak with Y/S/N to conduct a thorough investigation."

As the two men argued, Reid's gaze drifted to the recording booth. Through the glass, he caught sight of the band, and his breath caught in his throat. There, at the microphone, stood a face he thought he'd never see again—a face that to this day still haunts his most amazing dreams. 

I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you Give me just a chance

The lyrics pierced through Spencer Reid's carefully constructed walls, flooding his mind with memories he'd long tried to suppress. He was transported back to a time when life held more than just case files and criminal profiles—a time when he had someone to come home to, when he felt truly free rather than trapped within the labyrinth of his own brilliant mind. A time when he and Y/N L/N couldn't imagine a life without each other.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you

Despite his best efforts, Spencer's heart threatened to burst from his chest, yearning to reunite with its other half. For that was what Y/N had been—his perfect complement. They had met when she was seventeen and he was nineteen, initially friends until, two years later, they could no longer deny the intensity of their feelings.

Their love had been a force of nature—intense, pure, raw, and undeniably real. Until life's cruel realities came knocking at their door.

Y/N was a free spirit, driven by her passion for music. She'd twirl until dizzy, her long hair a wild tangle, singing until her voice grew hoarse. Music moved her in a way nothing else could.

Meanwhile, Spencer was on the cusp of graduating from the FBI Academy, with whispers of a fast-track position in the prestigious Behavioral Analysis Unit. Two paths diverging, leading to an impossible choice.

He did what he thought he had to do, breaking things off for both their sakes. He had run the probabilities, analyzed every scenario, and a happy outcome seemed frustratingly out of reach. They wanted different things, or so he had convinced himself.

That fateful night was seared into his memory. Y/N was about to leave for New York to meet with a record label—an opportunity that Jason, her best friend and now manager, had excitedly relayed during their date. Spencer saw the yearning in her eyes, the spark of a dream about to be realized. And so, he made the agonizing decision to end things.

Her tears, her desperate pleas, her hands clutching at him as he walked away—it all haunted him still.

Was I just a fool?

I'll follow you down 'till the sound of my voice will haunt you

Spencer watched, transfixed, as Y/N sang in the recording booth. She swayed to the rhythm, smiling at her bandmates, lost in the music. Everything about her still captivated him. Their relationship had been a bittersweet dream he never wanted to wake from.

Give me just a chance

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loved you

He stood rooted to the spot, oblivious to Derek's hand on his shoulder or the sudden silence as the band stopped playing. Then, Y/N turned towards the glass, and their eyes met for the first time in years. The world seemed to stop spinning.

Her gaze flicked to Jason, her expression morphing into a glare as she mouthed, "What the fuck?" The spell broken, she grabbed her bag and bolted through the back door.

Everyone sprang into action. Jason was the first to follow, with Derek close behind. Spencer remained frozen until his partner turned him around.

"Look, I don't know what history you have here," Derek said, his voice laced with concern and confusion, "but we have a job to do. If you can't handle this, go wait in the car. If you can, let's move." He pressed the car keys into Spencer's hand before chasing after Jason.

Against his better judgment, Spencer followed. A selfish part of him needed to be near her, even if it meant causing more chaos.

As he approached, he heard Y/N's voice, sharp with anger and pain. "I don't give a fuck if he's the president of the goddamn country. I'm not speaking to him. So you can either throw them out or let me leave."

Spencer rounded the corner to see Y/N already in her car, engine running, poised to flee.

"Look, Miss," Derek began, his voice firm but empathetic, "we can't let you go. You're the only survivor of this serial killer. If you don't talk to us, more people will die. Is that something you can live with?"

Jason, his arm still through the car window, pleaded with his client. "Come on, Y/N. You and I both know they're here to help. Let's get this over with, and then we can get you out of state within hours. This is for your safety and the safety of others."

Y/N's gaze flickered between her manager, the new agent, and Spencer, who was approaching hesitantly. With a heavy sigh and her heart in her throat, she turned off the ignition and moved to open the door, forcing Jason to step back.

"Get me a whiskey and a glass of milk," she demanded, grabbing her purse and striding back into the building without a glance at the agents.

Jason turned to Derek, his expression grave. "I strongly advise against having him there," he said, nodding towards Spencer. "As you can see, it won't end well if he's present."

Derek, still loyal to his partner, bristled at the suggestion. "And I advise you not to tell an FBI agent how to do his job. We've got it from here." He turned to Spencer, concern evident in his eyes. "Is he right? Should I listen to him?"

"No. I'm fine," Spencer insisted, though his tense posture suggested otherwise.

"And what about her?" Derek pressed, before noticing Carly, the assistant, anxiously tapping her foot nearby.

"She's in room 24, waiting for you," Carly informed them, pointing towards a door. "Um... good luck!"

As they entered the room, they found Y/N and Jason in the midst of a heated discussion.

"Everything alright?" Derek intervened, causing Y/N to roll her eyes dramatically.

"Yup, everything's perfect!" Jason's forced cheerfulness was palpable. "You guys can have a seat. I'll be right outside." He looked at Y/N sternly. "Be good. And tell them everything, please."

"Yes, Dad," Y/N replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she took a sip of whiskey. Once Jason left, she glanced between Derek and Spencer. "Well, are you going to sit down, or are we having a stand-up interview?"

Derek motioned for Spencer to sit beside him, both agents studying the woman before them. Y/N held a cigarette in one hand and whiskey in the other, while a glass of milk sat on the side table—an odd combination that spoke volumes about her state of mind.

"I'm Agent Morgan, and I believe you know Dr. Reid," Derek began cautiously. "We just have a few questions about what happened to you yesterday."

Y/N took a long drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly before tapping it on the ashtray. "And what exactly do you want to know, Agent?"

Spencer cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "Jason mentioned you survived a failed abduction. Can you walk us through what happened?"

Y/N tilted her head, her gaze fixed on Spencer with an intensity that made him shift uncomfortably. "We finished recording one of our songs yesterday, and the band wanted to go out for drinks. I was still hungover from the night before, so I decided to sit that one out." She took a gulp of whiskey, chasing it with milk in a bizarre ritual. "I stayed in the studio for a few hours, just writing. Around three a.m., I decided to head back to my hotel. I'd parked two blocks away, and as I approached, I noticed someone loitering near the parking lot entrance."

"Did you engage with him?" Derek interjected, earning an eye roll from Y/N.

"I'm not fucking stupid," she snapped. "I walked past as quickly as possible. He tried to talk to me, but I ignored him. Guess he didn't appreciate that, because the next thing I knew, he was behind me, trying to force a plastic bag over my head."

The room fell silent as the gravity of her words sank in. Spencer leaned forward, his analytical mind already piecing together the details. "Can you describe the attacker? Any distinguishing features, voice, or mannerisms?"

Y/N's eyes locked with Spencer's, a flicker of their shared past evident in her gaze before she quickly looked away. "He was tall, probably six feet or so. Muscular build. I didn't get a good look at his face, but his voice..." She paused, taking another drag of her cigarette. "His voice was deep, with a slight Southern drawl. Not local, though. Maybe Texas or Oklahoma."

Derek nodded, jotting down notes. "How did you manage to escape?"

They could see Y/N physically reliving the traumatic experience, her leg bouncing with increasing anxiety. The calm facade she had maintained began to crack under the weight of her memories.

"Hey, it's okay," Derek said softly, his voice gentle and reassuring. "Take your time."

For a moment, Y/N seemed to relax, but just as quickly, her emotional walls snapped back into place. She crushed out her cigarette and downed the rest of her whiskey in one swift motion.

"I'd heard about the murders before," she began, her voice steadier than her trembling hands. "Even before that, I always carried a pocket knife and pepper spray. Call it paranoia or just good sense in this industry." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "I managed to scratch his left arm before kicking him. When he loosened his grip, I turned and pepper-sprayed him. Then I just... ran. Got to my car and drove straight hotel. That's when I called Jason."

Derek leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "And you didn't think to call the police?"

Y/N's eyes flashed with anger. "I wanted to forget about it," she snapped. "I was planning to leave anyway. Sometimes denial feels safer than facing reality."

"Yet you still came in to record a song right after that?" Spencer's quiet question drew her attention, earning him a look that was equal parts resentment and something harder to define.

"I have a job," Y/N replied, her tone clipped as she turned back to Derek. "We have an album coming out soon, and we needed to finish recording. We love working in Nashville, so yes, I wanted to get it over with and then leave. Music... it's always been my escape."

Spencer cleared his throat, treading carefully. "Can you describe anything else about him? Any details you remember?"

Y/N's gaze softened almost imperceptibly as she looked at Spencer. "I think he was wearing a blue sweater, but I'm not certain." She paused, her brow furrowing in concentration. "What I do remember clearly is his smell. It was... odd. Like scented candles, the kind you'd find at Bath & Body Works. It was strangely out of place, but unmistakable."

Derek nodded, jotting down notes. "Alright, thank you for your time, Y/N. Here's our contact information if you remember anything else or need assistance." He stood, extending his hand, which Y/N shook briefly. As he walked to the door, he noticed Spencer hadn't moved. "Spencer?"

Spencer glanced between Derek and Y/N, who was now staring at him intently. "Give me a second," he said quietly. "I'll meet you at the car."

Derek hesitated, giving Spencer a questioning look. The younger agent's eyes pleaded for understanding, for a moment alone with the woman who had once meant everything to him. With a slight nod, Derek acquiesced and left the room.

As the door closed, the air grew thick with unspoken words and years of regret. Spencer and Y/N sat in tense silence, neither quite ready to bridge the chasm between them.

Finally, Spencer spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Y/N, I... I'm sorry. For everything. I know it doesn't change anything, but I need you to know that."

Y/N's carefully constructed mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of the pain she'd been carrying for years. "Why now, Spencer? After all this time?"

"Because I never stopped caring," he admitted, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "And seeing you in danger..." He couldn't even finish that sentence. "Please, promise me you'll be careful. 

Y/N studied him for a long moment, conflict evident in her eyes so she does what she does best. Ignore it.  "Congratulations are in order, Mr. FBI," Y/N said sardonically, reaching for another cigarette. The acrid smell of tobacco filled the air, a scent that brought back a flood of memories for Spencer.

"Smoking causes about 90% of all lung cancer deaths," he recited, unable to stop himself. "More women die from lung cancer each year than from breast cancer." It was an old argument, one they'd had countless times before.

Y/N took a long, deliberate drag, exhaling slowly as if to challenge his statistics. "We're all meant to die one day, Spence," she said, her voice tinged with a familiar fatalism. "I always told you that."

Indeed, she had. It was her motto, her way of justifying living life to the fullest, consequences be damned.

"I thought you quit," Spencer said softly, his eyes fixed on the glowing ember of her cigarette. "When did you start again?"

"A few months after my twentieth birthday," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the floor. "The record label signed us, and suddenly we went from doing a few covers a week to churning out originals every month. Needed a stress reliever."

Spencer studied her, noting the way she avoided his eyes. There was more to the story, he was certain. "Y/N/N," he said gently, using the old nickname that once came so easily to his lips, "are you okay?"

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing. "Why would you assume I'm not?"

"Well," Spencer began, slipping into his analytical mode, "you drank that whiskey rather quickly. Your eyes are bloodshot, and you're flushed—signs of prolonged alcohol consumption. The fact that you're willing to record and drive in this state suggests it's become a habit. And then there's the cigarette addiction. So, naturally, I'm concerned about your well-being."

Silence fell between them, heavy with unspoken words and years of separation. Y/N broke first, standing abruptly and grabbing her purse. "I've told you what you needed to know," she said, her voice brittle. "I have to leave. Hopefully, Jason's already arranged my flight out of here."

As she turned to go, Spencer's hand shot out, catching her wrist. The contact sent a jolt through both of them—a spark of electricity, familiar yet now terrifyingly foreign.

Y/N's eyes traveled from his hand to his face. "Let go, Spencer," she said, her voice low and dangerous.

He couldn't. Not yet. Not when he'd finally found her again, when there was so much to explain, so much unfinished between them. But he also knew that Derek would come bursting through the door at any moment.

With reluctance, he released her wrist and pulled out a post-it note and pen from his bag. Hastily scribbling his number, he held it out to her. "Take it. Please. If you need anything—and I mean anything—call me, okay?"

Skepticism clouded Y/N's features. Did he really expect her to take his number, to even consider calling him after everything?

Seeing her hesitation, Spencer pressed on. "Look, Y/N, I know you have every reason not to trust me, to want me out of your life. But please, give me a chance to prove that I'll be there for you. We'll catch the guy who attacked you, and if you need help with anything else, anything at all, come to me. Please."

Y/N stared into his pleading eyes. A part of her recognized his sincerity, but the wounded 20-year-old inside her still ached from old betrayals.

With a resigned eye roll, she snatched the note from his hand and left without a word, leaving Spencer rooted to the spot.

As she passed a trash can in the hallway, Y/N paused, the note burning a hole in her hand. For a moment, she hovered on the brink of tossing it away. But something—sentiment, curiosity, or perhaps a stubborn refusal to let go—made her slip it into the back pocket of her jeans instead.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you

The lyrics of her song echoed in Spencer's mind as he watched her go. And in that moment, he realized with startling clarity that he didn't want to get away. Not anymore. Not ever again.

As Y/N disappeared from view, Spencer was left alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and cigarette smoke, and the weight of years of regret. He knew that solving this case was now about more than just catching a killer—it was about second chances, redemption, and the possibility of healing old wounds.

With a deep breath, he steeled himself to face Derek and the investigation ahead, all while knowing that the most challenging case of his life might just be winning back the trust of the woman he'd never stopped loving.

Author's Note: I absolutely love Silver Springs. I belt it out all the time lol. I also was obsessed with Daisy Jones & The Six when it came out. Used to read a lot of those fanfics.

Also let me know if y'all want a part 2.

Thank for reading!

[roosterseresin]

title: you need to cry, baby

pairing: evan "buck" buckley/eddie diaz

wordcount: 3.8k

summary:

the first time it happens, it scares the shit out of eddie.

or... buck keeps crying during sex.

[read here]

[fudgebuggyy]

H E L L I C O N I A S P R I N G

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bob x Thunderbolts!Yelena

Tags: Post-Canon, Thunderbolts Team Members Live in the Watchtower, Mutual Pining, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Thunderbolts SPOILERS contained!, Implied/Referenced Past Drug Addiction

Word count: 3.186k

Chapters: 1/4

Next Chapter

Summary: Three months have passed since the Void descended upon New York, and Yelena is getting used to the life her sister led--dealing with PR agents and working in a team she's only recently learned to tolerate.

And then there's the Bob thing. And the Bob thing is super fucking complicated.

✢ Chapter 1 ✢

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry.

Robert Reynolds wasn’t the Void.

Three months after New York had been swallowed by a nightmarish blanket of psychological agony, Robert Reynolds was, once again, just Bob. And Just Bob liked boring French New Wave movies and Depeche Mode and pictures of baby Highland cows. He had a scar on his left knee from where he blew it out as a teenager, drunk on a bike in the suburbs. How about you? How many bones have you broken? (Possibly every single one and possibly twice, Yelena had told him; an answer that always seemed to thrill him in some freakish way, that boyish giddiness that overcame grown men showing off their scars).

Bob hated when people chewed with their mouths open. He was a surprisingly good cook and a surprisingly good singer (the latter she had only found out after catching him sneaking a smoke on the Watchtower’s helipad, quietly singing Al Green). He liked stacking french fries inside his burgers in neat rows like a Jenga Tower. He’d been a Buddhist for three years. He made a mean Lasagna alla Bolognese. He liked Jane Kenyon, Allen Ginsberg—from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine. He played the guitar (kind of). He knew how to jumpstart a car (pretty well, actually). He liked chess.

He had a tiny sun tattooed in the dip below his right ankle, a corny memento he'd gotten in Thailand, in a place that doubled as a shoe repair shop, by a half-blind woman who didn’t seem to mind that some white boy was tripping his balls on shrooms he’d stolen from loaded tourists at the Full Moon Party, their tote bags left unattended on a lounger.

Bob had spent most of his life high, bridging the sober gaps with odd jobs and side hustles and jail. He’d stolen from everyone who’d cared about him enough to let him into their lives. Even from his mother: monogrammed silver cufflinks that had belonged to his grandfather, a decorated war vet who'd had a habit of blaming all his problems on immigrants and women.

Yelena collected Bob’s little revelations inside herself. She’d pluck them from him like a magpie lining her nest. Where'd you go to school? Tell me again about those limestone cathedrals on Railay Beach, the rainforest in Taman Negara. What was your brother's name? Did you really run track? You must've been very slow. 

For someone who claimed to be “average white trash”, Robert Reynolds had lived a strangely extraordinary life. Civilian, yes. But extraordinary.

Lately Yelena had been catching herself watching him more than usual—Bob, in his hoodies and scuffed sneakers, tousled hair and boyish slouch, the secret packet of American Spirits peeking out of his back pocket—standing there being all strange and extraordinary. He was always around, puttering in the background like a housecat and only emerging fully to greet the team whenever they piled in from the helipad, busied by another one of their stupid arguments only made more stupid by the fact that they all lived in the same building now. She didn't remember when she'd started looking forward to it, to him. His small smile whenever he caught her looking. 

Hesitant, bashful.

Bob had the kind of face you could excavate things from, his thoughts so thick they were tangible. Yelena imagined sometimes, plucking the viscous globs of shame from it whenever he assumed he’d said something wrong; the sadness when he thought no one could see; the unmistakable mounds of happiness that bunched around his cheeks, blooming splotchy-red and delightful, crinkled at his eyes, whenever she made him laugh.

She liked making him laugh. That throaty lilting hiccup. He had a kind laugh. He had a kind face. Yelena didn’t remember the last time she’d met someone genuinely kind, someone who liked boring French New Wave movies and Depeche Mode and pictures of baby Highland cows.

Someone who could slam her into the ceiling with a swoop of his hand, and then tear the Winter Soldier’s vibranium arm right out of its socket. 

Robert Reynolds wasn’t Sentry, he wasn’t the Void—but he had been. He would be again.

It was a thought that hummed inside of her like the whistle before a bomb hit.

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

They stuck him in a cell for a month.

A safety precaution, Valentina had called it, ensuring Bob didn’t…change again. And he didn’t at first: no floating, no super-strength, no telekinesis or freaky eyes. For a month, they watched and they waited, while they underwent the grueling process of heroification. It turned out Valentina had a knack for cleaning up. She was the magician; they were the feral rabbits in her very skinny, very expensive silk top hat.

Life was a barrage of press conferences and image consultations and government endorsements and merchandising and PR agents pondering on what uniform trousers gave Yelena the most “appropriate” amount of ass. Everything was to be practical but presentable, assertive but inoffensive.

Walker knew the drill, Bucky tolerated it, Alexei flourished under the attention like he was running for prime minister of a very tiny Eastern European country, mustache and bravado and all. Yelena was glad to have Ava around, who’d spent a large chunk of her life in a box and who’d called Valentina’s PR agents incompetent parasitic dildos after they asked if she wanted a uniform with cleavage when they shot for their Wheaties commercial.

By the time Bob was trusted enough to wander around the Watchtower freely—having regained barely enough telekinesis to lift a fork—each sleeve of the team’s new uniforms donned a red A. (And their asses were all deemed appropriate.)

To call themselves a team still felt like a gross exaggeration. Their togetherness was built on shaky forbearance and the mutual agreement to neither murder each other in their sleep, nor the conveniently placed news anchors stationed at street corners during assignments in the city.

Because there was another rule to add to the plethora of rules that secured their existence as the New Avengers: fight like heroes.

And fighting like a hero meant fighting clean, and if you didn’t fight clean enough, someone would be sent to clean up after you. No more sloppily tossed nail bombs, no more torture, no more nailing bad guys to the wall by their junk (much to Yelena’s dismay). Murder was a big no-no. Death was to be doled out only when explicitly necessary, and there were only so many excuses Yelena could come up with during debrief to try and explain away her mounting tower of corpses, according to Valentina, who loved hyperbole as much as she loved making Yelena's life a living nightmare now that annoyance was the only way she could make the team pay for the cataclysmic inconvenience they've caused her since not dying in a desert warehouse.  

They had to think about optics now, that and public likability. Apparently the public was picky about who they wanted to be saved by.

The world could see them now, see them fully, from all angles, up close, even when they least expected it or wanted it to. 

Was this what it had been like for Natasha?

Natasha, the performer. Sleek and graceful and unknowable, even to those who loved her most.

There was something to be said about the weight of living up to someone else's potential.

Sometimes Yelena swore she felt her here, this tower like a cruel echo chamber with its zig-zag of steel beams and vibranium-enhanced windows designed to withstand the impact of missiles. How it fortified them from Manhattan’s spiky skyline, from the streets below, teeming with cars and people like blood cells, going places, being alive, pacified by the thought that there was a group of chosen heroes watching over them like gods. 

Would things change if they discovered those heroes were nothing but a pack of reformed, rebranded ex-criminals?

Did Natasha have trouble sleeping too? Had she felt the unfathomable weight of responsibility flattening her until she couldn't fucking breathe? Had she snuck to the kitchen at night, sat on the island, and destroyed a whole tub of ice cream, wondering when life would finally slow down? 

“The infamous ice cream thief,” a voice said behind her.

Yelena had heard Bob long before he’d stepped into the kitchen, his steady gait that dragged just a little. She thought maybe it was a habit, a remnant of a different time, of rubber strings and spoons over flames. She wondered about when he would be strong enough to fly again. She didn’t like wondering about that.

Not bothering to look up, Yelena scraped as much ice cream as she could, lifting the tub to her mouth to shovel the rest of it down before she’d be forced to share.

“You know, you could've just asked.” Bob said.

“True. But that would eliminate the thrill of stealing,” Yelena mumbled, mouth full.

Valentina had them on a strict “hero diet” as well, meaning all the snacks came from Bob, who had a knack for befriending possibly anyone, and who’d managed to get one of Valentina's assistants to help him stock up on the most god-awful American junk they could smuggle through the door. Alexei had started calling Bob their calorie dealer.

Rounding the island, Bob leaned against the counter opposite from her, backlit by the oily bulbs of the range hood. He was in a T-shirt and sweats, barefoot. His hair had been freshly cut. 

Was Valentina getting him ready for the cameras? Already?

Yelena stared at the way his hair swirled gently along his brow, his cheek, soft downy brown. He looked like a long nap, the kind that left you foggy afterwards. 

“Good. You didn’t go blonde again. Supremely silly by the way,” Yelena said, earning her a snort and an awkward shuffling of feet.

“No, yeah. I looked like a dollar store Fabio Lanzoni.”

“Who?”

“Oh, he was on, like, books. Book covers. You know, like, romance books—Bodice rippers? Gentle Rogue?”

“Gentle Rogue?” Yelena laughed, trying to imagine Bob on the cover of a romance book. “Very 80’s porno.”

“They were way worse. My aunt had a whole collection. Pretty sure it’s the only reason I learned how to read.” He shook his head. “So, uh—is this an eating alone in the kitchen type situation or do you want company?”

She swallowed, felt stupid for feeling…shy? Was she feeling fucking shy? Around Robert of all people? 

“Well,” Yelena said, “seeing I’ve finished the Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Chunk, I’d maybe let you stay if you shared something from your commissary.”

“Oh, it’s sharing now?”

“I’m willing to trade.” She tapped the spoon on the kitchen island, thinking. Then, “I’ll teach you how to use those nunchucks.”

Bob blinked.

“Come on, I saw you take them from the training deck. You’re very bad at stealing.”

"Okay, I didn’t steal them, I—borrowed—”

“What do you do? Do you just whip them around in your room?” Yelena leaned forward, voice low. “Do you watch Youtube tutorials, Bob?”

“What do you want?”

“Cheetos.” She grinned, quite pleased with herself.

He looked at the empty tub of ice cream, snorted again, then stepped closer. A move so fast she wondered if any of them really knew how much of his powers had actually returned. Looming between her parted legs, blotting out the light. An arcane panic swelled within her so quickly she grappled to push it down—until she didn't have to anymore. And she breathed in, and she breathed out, and he smelled like a fresh shower, like deodorant. Lemongrass? The heat of him like this. Fuck. Sometimes, just sometimes she thought of what that heat would feel like if she slipped her finger past the hem of his sweaters, flattened her hand against his naked stomach, the soft trail of fuzz below—

Bob blinked, his eyelids twitching the way they did whenever he got nervous, which was always, always, and he was so fucking sweet when he was nervous. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze before clumsily crouching down between her legs, letting her heart slam up her throat before she had time to realize he was just rummaging through the cupboard below her, shoving pots and pans aside to get to his stash.

“Just need to—” His shoulder bumped her ankle. “Sorry.”

When he emerged with the requested bag of Cheetos, he shot her a dopey smile, shaking it in the air. “Deal?”

She slid down the kitchen island, making a show of landing fluidly on her feet. The drop in height made her flounder a little. Tilting her head up, she snatched the bag too fast for him to register, fingers grazing his, and she had to clear her throat before she spoke: “Deal.”

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

“So what was it this time?” Bob asked.

They were sitting on the floor of the freshly renovated lounge, by the windows separating them from the nasty cold of a New York winter.

Everything still smelled new and leathery beneath the loom of the giant light fixture that hung like a planet in the dark. It was a space meant for important people, doing important things. She found solace in the fact that Bob seemed to feel just as uncomfortable being in it as she did, when the lights were on and another party was thrown, and servers whizzed around with trays of tiny food she’d scarf down in two bites and skinny flutes of champagne she couldn’t drink.

It was surprisingly peaceful when it was empty. Yelena liked the tower at night. Liminal. An eerie kind of nostalgia she couldn’t quite place.

After tossing a Cheeto in the air and catching it in her mouth, she turned towards Bob, chewing. “Hm?”

“What kept you up this time?” he repeated.

“Just, you know,” she shrugged, “imposter syndrome…and the burden of mortal stewardship…and, like, the fear of insufficiency…and also the weight of the responsibility of keeping a whole country safe from the intergalactic threat of literally anything. You know. The usual.”

“Oh. Yeah. That’s, that’s pretty…weighty.” Bob nodded.

She didn’t want to tell him that it was Natasha who kept her tossing and turning most nights. But her sister was a ghost she couldn’t face completely, and especially not with him.

Clearing her throat, she pointed a Cheeto at him, aiming. She tossed it. He missed tremendously. “You?” she asked.

“Uh—” Bob shrugged, picking up the Cheeto from the floor, looking at it for a moment. “I just really fucking miss being high.”

Yelena laughed like a gunshot, tipping her head back with the force of it. She liked when he was honest. She liked when he said fuck. She was like a child endlessly thrilled by others' deviousness. And Bob, surprisingly, had been quite devious.

“Trying to ride it out.” He shrugged. “Distraction helps.”

“Okay,” Yelena coughed, nodded, lifting another Cheeto and tossing it at his mouth. He caught it this time, chewing on it triumphantly. “Let’s distract you then. Tell me more about your voyages.”

“Voyages?” Now Bob laughed. He always laughed when Yelena said it like that. Do you mean my meth-fueled meandering?

He didn’t see them as voyages or adventures. But they were to Yelena. Bob, the unlikely wayfarer of a psychedelic trek across the globe, with nothing but a donkey-eared passport in his pocket. He had a very peculiar talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and somehow not dying. 

“What about yours?” he countered.

“Mine? Mine are just—mission go. Shoot, shoot, shoot. Knee to the face. Bomb. Mission complete.” She pantomimed someone choking to death. “At least yours are super weird.”

“Oh, good to know. Thought you enjoyed them for the ethical quandary.”

“Tell me about Phnom Pen. You didn’t finish last time.”

He snorted. She liked his snorts. “You mean the chicken race?”

“Yeah, of course I mean the chicken race, Bob. It’s a chicken race. You think I’d forget about the chicken race?" She lifted her brows. "Super weird!"

Yelena knew Bob thought of his time before the Sentry Project as pretty miserable, but his stories weren’t all bad, speckled with moments where he hadn’t been so high he couldn’t remember, small audacious moments that had taken him by surprise. As if even now, he had trouble accepting that life hadn't always been out to punish him. 

He’d told her of the places and the people he’d met, people like him, people not like him at all, people from all over. He'd told her the longest time he’d ever been sober was in Cambodia, riding out the bouts of withdrawal on an air-mattress in a garage, taken in by a farmer’s son who’d found him face-down in the rice paddies, half-coherent after a two-week stint in Battambang. I stayed in town for a while. Won some cash gambling and I bought them a new fridge. Learned how to make the best red curry you'll ever eat in your life. 

“Come on, tell me about the racing chickens,” Yelena said, her head slumped against the window. She blinked expectantly. And so Bob told her about the chicken race, and he told her about what happened after the chicken race, and what happened after that and then after that, until he couldn’t remember. Or didn’t want to.

They were quiet for a while, staring out the window, the sheet of lights that seemed to spill out forever. 

"What if we’d met back then?” Yelena said, a little woozy from sleepiness. She felt younger like this. She didn't remember the last time she'd felt like this around someone.  

“You wouldn’t have wanted that. Trust me,” he said.

“I do,” she said. Trust you. Is that a bad thing?

“Still.” Her leg slid towards him. “I think I would’ve liked to have known you sooner.”

It wasn’t true, not completely.

She meant another version of her meeting another version of him in another version of life, where all they worried about was what hostel to stay at next, how to scrounge up enough money for a flight back home, where they met at a dive bar on a beach or a hiking trail to some ancient monastery where all the white backpackers went to feel better about the choices they’d made. 

But in this version of life, this version of her pressed her socked foot against this version of him. And he wasn’t Sentry, and he wasn’t the Void, not right now and not for this. He was warm, and the city lights painted him in faint, vaporous lines, and his chest was broad when he wasn’t slouching, his hands big and sure and smooth, a little clammy at times but she didn’t mind. I don’t mind. And his face, his open face so full of things.

This time, it wasn’t a thought she spotted there; it was a feeling so unmistakable, trembling from its own heat:

Yearning

✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢  ✢

Yelena Belova was Russian after all.

Here was a feeling she knew like no other.

Next Chapter

[choccy-milky]

seb meeting clora's parents (clive & margaret) for the first time🤭

they come to hogwarts due to clora being kidnapped by ranrok, so seb had to deal with them all on his own LMAO. sorry seb i just love to watch u squirm🙏😇 (from chap 28 of my fic!)

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

In universe, how long d'you think does it take for someone to write Jake Berenson: The Musical? And what's everyone's reactions once it premiers?

I feel like everyone would go into the musical with no small amount of trepidation, because a) musical, and b) actual war. That said...

Act I, Scene 1: Our protagonist, Jake, comes onstage alone. He sings a song about the aching loneliness of leadership. Not only does he have to decide how to lead his friends, not only does he have no one to confide in, but now his entire family are controllers. He's worried for his parents, but feels he cannot confide that worry in anyone.

Out in the audience, Cassie reaches for Jake's hand, tears sparkling in her eyes. As soon as her hand rests on top of his, he jerks awake with a mumbled apology about how slow ballads aren't his thing. He asks Cassie what he missed. This pattern will continue for the entire rest of the show.

Act I, Scene 2: We meet our narrator, who for some reason is one of the Trekkin' Trekkies from the battle for the hork-bajir valley. His name is Angelo and he's a fictional character, but he introduces four other Trekkies, meant to be the Carpenter family, as the Geek Chorus. The play apparently considers this deeply clever.

In the audience, Tobias glances over at Ax, who holds up an ASL 84: their time left in morph. Next to them, in a not-quiet-enough whisper, Cassie is reminding Jake who the Carpenters were. Yes, she's aware they met the Carpenters before his parents were infested. No, she doesn't think the writers care. This seems to be an artistic interpretation of — Would he just watch the show?

Act I, Scene 3: The actor playing Jake calls his five friends onstage. They're all currently humans, so the Geek Chorus introduces them so that everyone will know who is who. Together, they sing a song about the hopelessness of the war, the power of friendship, and how all they have is each other.

Marco leans over to nudge Tobias. "Love the hair," he whispers, referring to show-Tobias's elaborate dark-brown coif. Tobias gives him a real smile in return, not because he likes fictional-him's hair but because he's secretly pleased that the show so clearly put effort into casting himself and Ax to look alike. Doesn't matter that they don't actually share any DNA; family is family.

Act I, Scene 4: The morphing. Oh lord, the morphing. The idea to make it a dance number—cum—costume change is kinda cool. The use of very saggy-looking cloth puppets is... less so. The fact that the Angelo and his Geek Chorus introduces The God of Tigers, The God of Gorillas, and so on is... inexplicable. Especially because The God of Andalites is just a human guy who has been painted blue. Presumably this is all to distract from the puppet show, which ranges dramatically in quality. By far the best effect is Tobias: they have the human actor fly a bird-puppet across the stage on long posts overhead, all the while staring wistfully up at it as if simultaneously inhabiting the bird and being a human watching the bird longingly from the ground. By far the worst is Rachel: she's just an elephant head that clearly has no body attached to it, poking out from behind various pieces of scenery.

In the audience, Marco is laughing so hard that he's threatening to fall out of his seat, doubled over with his fingers stuffed in his mouth. Cassie nudges Jake awake again, but in a you've got to see this kind of way. "Damn," Tobias mutters, "guess the Ellimist really really hated that production of The Lion King, huh?" Ax misses all of this, too busy staring at The God of Andalites with his mouth half-open in confusion, several mini-marshmallows falling onto his lap in the process.

Act I, Scene 5: Visser Three steals the show. In order to convey the battle for the hork-bajir valley, the cast starts to go into the big company number — the Trekkies singing about how they're going to defend their planet, the Animorphs singing about their morphs, a human dressed as a hork-bajir singing about forging a new home, the controller chorus singing about wanting more bodies — only to have the whole thing blown out of the water by the actors playing Visser Three singing overtop everyone else and drowning them out. That's right, actors: he's in his eight-headed fire-shooting morph, and each of the heads is played by a different actor as they belt out his song in unison overtop everyone else.

"Am I... cheering for Visser Three right now?" Marco whispers to Cassie, who shrugs. Jake jerks awake at the mention of Visser Three, mumbles something about how Hamilton was better, and goes back to sleep. But Marco's not the only one.

Act I, Scene 6: There's supposed to be a battle or something, and if we're supposed to be very sad when Richard Carpenter is heroically killed protecting his kids... but Visser Three is so damn awesome that the whole audience cheers every time he bites someone's head off or throws another Animorph off-stage. Eventually the battle ends just like it did in reality, with the hork-bajir flooding the valley to sweep Visser Three away, at which point everyone boos and even briefly breaks into a chant demanding Visser Three get an encore.

Tobias momentarily questions his entire existence as he enthusiastically joins in with Marco and most of the rest of the audience in chanting "Vis-ser Three! Vis-ser Three!". They're still going strong a good two minutes after the curtain fell, and there's no sign of anyone being able to go into the next scene. Jake mutters something about his having been Visser One at this point in the war, lost under the sound of Cassie joining in with the chant.

Act I, Scene 7: The curtain opens to a set piece that's clearly meant to be a giant tree, and all the Animorphs are sitting in said tree. The stage is covered in smoke from dry ice, meant to convey foam from the flood. Behind them, in a smaller tree, the surviving Trekkies huddle and drip on the floor. Tobias's human actor now cradles the hawk-puppet in his arms, preening its feathers, while everyone else perches on "branches" in poses that range from natural-looking (Marco in a gorilla costume) to extremely awkward (Ax is meant to be out of morph and... standing on a branch?). Worst of all is Rachel; the elephant head is now sitting directly on the stage, which is meant to convey that the rest of her body is underwater but instead just gives head-in-a-jar vibes. The six of them sing an uplifting rock number about the future of humanity, and the curtain falls on Act I.

After ducking into the bathroom to demorph and remorph, Tobias and Ax head for the concession stand. Marco tries and fails to get a themed cocktail for himself, but does succeed in buying a tiger brownie for Jake. Meanwhile, Cassie is attempting to summarize the entire show to Jake as he wipes drool off the side of his face.

Act II, Scene 1: One of the better songs in the show, honestly. It begins when the surviving Geek Chorus come out in front of the curtain, lay out sleeping bags, and apparently — though it can't be real because the auditorium doesn't fill with smoke — light a fire on stage. They huddle around it and sing a sad little melody about Richard Carpenter. Jake walks past them, and as he goes, first one side of the curtain then the other opens to reveal five more campfires dotted around the stage. Jake stops to speak briefly with each of the little groups, checking in, though no dialog is heard. Tobias sits at one with a blond woman who must be Loren, human for now and petting a stuffed dog. Cassie is at the next fire back with both her parents, and Marco is at far stage left with his. Rachel is sitting with Sara in her lap as Jordan and Naomi talk to her across the fire. An actor who must be playing Jara leads on a smaller costar also dressed as a hork-bajir, presumably Toby, and they set up a final fire upstage. One by one, each group around the fire joins in the song of mourning. Finally Jake stands alone downstage right, surrounded by warm glowing lights but himself alone in a circle of cold white light, as the last notes fade out.

Tobias mutters something about fire codes. Cassie wipes a tear from her eye, and then kicks Jake in the shins for whispering about how if Eva is right there on the stage, then how could that other guy be Visser Three?

Act II, Scene 2: Jake stands alone in the spotlight as the fires die behind him, and Ax comes in from stage left to join him. Together they go into a number called "The Only Child," about losing a sibling and being one's parents' only hope. During the coda, Elfangor's ghost comes onstage and sings about fatherhood and legacy... to Jake. To add insult to injury, the actor has to walk around Tobias and stand with his back to Tobias and Loren's fire in order to get to his blocking. At least Elfangor takes the time to put a hand on Ax's arm and give him a meaningful look before he exits stage right, but he has to walk around Tobias a second time to do so.

Cassie and Marco exchange a glance and a wince, before both of them look toward Tobias. Luckily he's rolling his eyes, not appearing offended. It's Ax who gets halfway to standing up before Jake puts a hand on his arm and shakes his head. In undertones, they start plotting an angry letter to the director.

Act II, Scene 3: Luckily, this is when Visser Three comes back, to uproarious approval. Now the eight actors are each playing four arms of a Lerdethak vine-beast, and in unison sing a campy rock number called "Kids These Days," about Visser Three's hatred for teenagers. In the background, the controller chorus is working to build a new yeerk pool as the Trekkies narrate about the Yeerk Empire expanding its reach on Earth.

All the Animorphs join in on the audience's cheers, and this time they do get an encore: the Visser Three actors sing a whole bunch more riffs on the final note of the song, and even do the coda again from the top, to universal acclaim.

Act II, Scene 4: The various gods of the animal spirits do a number about how the Animorphs aren't just fighting for humanity; they're fighting for Earth.

This one goes up like a lead balloon. Jake picks brownie crumbs out of his shirt, regretting that the chocolate is now keeping him from sleeping. Marco reads his program and groans loudly to learn that Visser Three doesn't have any solo numbers left. A kid is kicking the back of Tobias's seat, and he debates kicking back.

Act II, Scene 5: The Animorphs morph again, which is just as awful as the first time, and they all attack Visser Three (to general audience disapproval). In this version of events, Ax simply announces to Visser Three that they partnered with some rebel yeerks and taxxons at some point, and then throws a switch that turns off every ship in the Yeerk Empire at once. Since the Animorphs are all in the Pool ship at the time, this seems ill-advised; projections on the back wall convey everyone onboard falling to Earth.

"Why do they even have that lever?" Marco asks plaintively. No one answers him.

Act II, Scene 6: Everyone, including Elfangor's ghost and Richard Carpenter for some reason, comes back on stage for a big dance number. The Animorphs remain in morph for this scene, with Tobias's actor once again killing it as he swoops his puppet kite-like over the audience and Rachel's actor once again DOA as she half-heartedly waves one ear.

Everyone claps politely through the chorus's bow, then Elfangor's bow, then the parents' bow, then the hork-bajir's bow... and then Visser Three comes out to bow. The crowd is instantly on its feet, screaming and stomping and applauding with their hands in the air. Then people start trickling out and having side conversations during the Animorphs' bows. Tobias gets in line to have the Tobias actor autograph his playbill. "I told you we should've gone to see Assassins," Marco complains, and Cassie laughingly agrees. Jake buys another tiger brownie for the road, and gets one for Ax as well.

[strangergraphics]

picnic/spring themed dividers:

please like and credit if you use, reblogs are appreciated! thank you! 💕

[inksreid]

Just Like that . / S.REID / SUMMARY—

You weren’t jealous no never , you knew he deserved to be happy after everything he been through, you just wished it was with you .. you admired his girlfriend.

Pairing— Jealous!fem!reader X post prison S.Reid / Wc: 1.k / Sad angst hurt jealousy no use of your name . Feelings get revealed after Spencer guessed it right . he didn’t mean for it to happen but he ends up kissing you . Happy ending wasn’t expecting that twist .

A/notes … I wanted to do little something where reader was jealous but she admired Spencer new girlfriend I hope you guys enjoy my little spring surprises , I love spring so much . If I missed anything please be kind still learning to process through everything. *If you liked it please consider re-blogging or liking it comments are very appreciated*

divided by @anemichorizon2

The moment you stepped into the bullpen, your stomach twisted. There she was—as she leaned on the edge of Spencer’s desk, coffee in hand, eyes bright as she giggled at whatever statistic he’d just rattled off. Her laughter rang through the room, light and effortless, like she actually found probability equations charming.

Great. She’s back.

You barely whispered it, but Derek still heard. He leaned in, grinning. “Play nice.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you,” he added, voice dripping with amusement.

“I’m not jealous,” you muttered, but even you didn’t believe it.

As you passed, she turned to you, all smiles. “Hey!”

Your lips stretched into something resembling a greeting. “Hi.”

It tasted bitter.

You kept walking, but the question burned at the back of your mind.

What did she have that you didn’t?

“Hey, Sweets,” she calls, to Spencer all sunshine and ease. “I’m heading out. Have a great day!”

Spencer gives her a small smile, the kind that makes your stomach twist. “You too.”— he says …

She turns to you, waves like you’re old friends. You force yourself to lift a hand in return.

The second she’s gone, you huff under your breath, “Does she have it out for me or something? Geez.”

You make a beeline for the break room, desperate for a moment alone, but you don’t realize Spencer has followed until the door clicks shut behind him.

“What’s up with you lately?” His voice is calm, but there’s that quiet, analytical edge to it—the one that always cuts straight through people.

Great. How are you supposed to get out of this?

“I’m fine,” you say, reaching for the coffee pot like that’ll somehow sell it.

“You’re not.” His eyes study you, sharp but not unkind. “It’s written all over your face.”

You swallow hard, focusing on pouring your coffee.

“Do you think you could be a little nicer to my girlfriend?”

Ouch. You say .. thanks Spence you thought , trying to fight the tears .

Your grip tightens around the handle. “I thought I was.”

"Talk to me," Spencer says, his voice gentle. "We’re friends."

Friends. The word stings more than it should.

“I’m good, Spence. Honestly.” You force a smile, waving him off. “Please, just stop, okay? It’s not even worth getting into.”

“It isn’t?” He steps closer, studying you the way he studies crime scenes—methodically, like he’s piecing together a puzzle only he can see.

“No, it’s not,” you insist, arms crossing. “You’re happy, and I’m happy for you.” You even manage a smile, hoping it’s convincing.

But Spencer doesn’t buy it. His head tilts slightly, eyes scanning your face. “No, you’re not,” he murmurs. “I can see it.”

Your stomach knots.

“How do I prove it?” you ask, your voice quieter now, almost unsure.

watching you closely.

Your gaze locks with his for a moment before you drop your eyes to the floor. “Look, Spence… I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he counters, stepping closer. “Because we’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on. Or do I have to spell it out for you?”

Your jaw tightens. “You tell me what you think, then, Spence.”

“Okay. Sit.”

“No.”

“SIT,” he says, his voice calm but firm.

Fine. You pull out a chair and drop into it, arms crossed.

Spencer exhales, studying you like he’s working through a case. “Ready for the truth?”

You don’t respond, but he continues anyway.

“You don’t like her. My girlfriend.”

You scoff. “Please stop.”

“No.” His voice is steady, unwavering. “The reason you don’t like her is because you’re into me. You’re in love with me.”

Your breath catches.

“And you have been for a while,” he says, his tone softer now, but no less certain. “But you can’t admit it—to yourself or to me.”

Silence stretches between you, thick, suffocating.

“But I can’t keep waiting around for you,” he finishes. “For when you decide to.”

“This isn’t fair,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Fair?” Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You don’t think hearing the truth is fair?”

“No,” you murmur, shaking your head. “You—being this way toward me. It’s not fair.”

His brows furrow. “How am I supposed to be toward you?”

You swallow hard. “I’m sorry, Spence,” you admit, your voice breaking. “I’m sorry for not admitting it.”

Spencer stills. When he first said it, he’d only been guessing—poking at the edges of a theory, testing a hypothesis. But now? Now he knows he was right.

You’ve been in love with him this whole time.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost pleading.

Your throat tightens. You look away. “I don’t know,” you whisper. “Because… I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve her,” you say softly. “Your girlfriend.”

Spencer watches you closely, but you keep your gaze fixed on the floor. “She’s kind, honest. She knows what she wants. She went after it—and she got you.”

You swallow hard, trying to fight the burn behind your eyes.

“I don’t hate her, Spencer,” you admit. “I admire her. She’s everything I’m not.” A shaky breath escapes you. “You deserve to be happy… even if I don’t get to be the one who makes you happy.”

Spencer reaches for your hand, hesitation flickering in his eyes.

“If I had known…” he starts, but you shake your head.

“It wouldn’t have changed things,” you whisper. “It was too late for me the moment you first mentioned her.”

Spencer wasn’t sure what to do next.

“We’re friends, right?” you ask softly.

“The best,” he says without hesitation, but his heart is racing, pounding so hard he wonders if you can hear it.

“I really wish I had known sooner,” he admits.

You offer a small, bittersweet smile. “It’s okay, Spence. Sometimes… we don’t get the person we want.” Your voice is steady, but the weight of the words settles between you like an unspoken truth.

“And sometimes we do,” you add, forcing a lightness into your tone. “Because you got her.”

Spencer watches you, searching for something in your expression, but you just smile a little brighter—like that will be enough to convince him.

“I’ll do my best to be a little nicer. Friendlier,” you say….

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, she’s not going to be around much. Today was just… um.” He exhales, searching for the right words. “She got an internship at a law firm in New York. And, um… she’s taking it. She just wanted to say goodbye.”

Your breath catches. “Wait—what?” You blink at him, trying to process it. “She’s leaving?”

Spencer nods, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. But… we’re gonna try the long-distance thing.”

Something tightens in your chest, but you force yourself to keep your voice steady. “Oh.” The word slips from your lips before you can stop it.

Spencer’s eyes lock onto yours, searching—analyzing, the way he always does.

“Sorry,” you murmur, forcing a small smile. “I just… wasn’t expecting to hear that.” You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. “I’m happy for her. And I’m happy that you’re gonna try to make it work with her.”

The words taste bitter. You drop your gaze to the floor, focusing on anything but him.

“I should really get back,” you say quickly, desperate for an escape. “We’ve got case files to put away and…” Your throat tightens. “And I don’t think I can sit here any longer without wanting you more—knowing she’s leaving for New York.” The confession slips out, raw and quiet. “I’m sorry.”

You push back your chair, standing too fast, needing to leave before you do something reckless.

But before you can take a step, Spencer speaks.

“You’re sorry?” His voice is softer now, almost disbelieving.

You start walking toward the door, but Spencer steps in front of you, blocking your path.

“Please, Spence,” you whisper, your voice tight. “You’re with someone.” You say it like a reminder—to him, to yourself.

“I know,” he says, but there’s something conflicted in his voice.

“Damn it,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “How am I supposed to handle this?”

“I don’t know,” you say, shrugging helplessly.

“You should have told me sooner.”

“Why?” you challenge, crossing your arms.

“Because—for the longest time—”

“No, Spence.” You shake your head, cutting him off. “You don’t get to do this. Because if you do this—”

Before you can finish, he pulls you into his arms, holding you close.

“If I do this?” His voice is low, almost challenging. “What then?”

You inhale sharply, your hands resting against his chest. “We can’t. Not like this. Not when you’re still in a relationship.”

Spencer exhales, frustrated, before pulling out his phone. His brows furrow as he reads a text, his lips parting slightly.

“What is it?” you ask hesitantly.

He doesn’t answer right away, just rereads the message—once, twice, three times. Finally, he turns the screen toward you.

I’m sorry to do this over the phone, Spence, but I’ve been thinking… Maybe long-distance isn’t the best idea. You deserve someone who can be there for you, and that someone isn’t me right now. I’m sorry.

“She… broke things off,” he says, still processing it.

“Spence, I’m so sorry,” you say, and you mean it.

He looks at you for a long moment before stepping closer. Then, without warning, he pulls you back into his arms.

“Spence,” you murmur, but he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin.

“I have to do this,” he whispers.

And then he leans in, slow and deliberate.

You weren’t expecting it, he leans in to kiss you with passion like no one’s ever kissed you before ..

What now ? You say pulling back ? …

That was amazing Spencer added , “ maybe we should talk about us he added with a smile maybe over coffee or dinner? — definitely dinner you say holding on to his shirt while he has you in his arms still .. “Great, dinner it is he says .

Sam’s tags : @dearlenore @lover-rep-fanfic @cheriesbucky @cerisereids @g4rvez-r3id

[gold-onthe-inside]

coffee for two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you talk to the teachers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

comments and reblogs appreciated, xoxo