#this should be statistically improbable | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keferon · 1 month ago

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I just want this fic to be here too👍 Part 1? Eh

_____________

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

_____________

Blurr/Swerve, Superhero au, fic under the cut⤵️ Heavily inspired/based on this post

Blurr doesn't think life and death is something he can control.

He's about 99.99999% sure.

The remaining microscopic fraction of that idiotic statistic is held in place by one small but important factor that Blurr can't explain and isn't sure he even wants to explain. It's like the dream logic. The moment you realize exactly how things work is also the moment you wake up to realize it.

The very nuance understanding which destroys all magic or reveals the fact that magic never existed.

That nuance?

Blurr can't die.

And it's certainly not because he's not trying hard enough.

That last one sounds a little radical. But he has a history. His team has a history.

“Wreckers is a pretty peculiar collection of superheroes. It's easy to get into and even easier to get out of (usually feet first and in a bag). No other hero organization loses so many people so often. No other hero organization can also handle the level of threats that the Wreckers eliminate.

Their fans affectionately refer to them as the Suicide Squad. There is...a lot of black humor among the Wreckers fanbase and Blurr doesn't condemn it. Not after having to memorize new names and faces of teammates every six months.

The thing is.

He probably should have been dead a long time ago. A lot. A lot of “that was close” ago.

Just two days after joining the Wreckers, he found himself in the middle of an absolutely monstrous fire and miraculously escaped death by getting away just moments before the entire building collapsed on his head.

Only a week after that, he gets shot. Fifteen times.

And. Look.

Blurr is fast! Being fast is kind of his main thing as a speedster. He did the only logical thing and made an honest effort to dodge, but three of those fifteen bullets still ended up inside him and only miraculously didn't hit anything that couldn't be repaired.

Half a year later, a car falls on him.

Another month - some freaking supervillain decides to infect an entire country with a homemade super lethal virus and guess who becomes the only victim.

At least once a month, various psychopaths try to break his legs.

At least once every half a year he ends up being the one who “heroically saved all the hostages but didn't have time to save himself”.

It's like an endless stream of negative karma.

It's really amazing how such a small piece of civilization like Iacon can contain so many disasters. Even more amazing perhaps is how people manage to survive through all this neat smoothie of misery and violence.

Earthquakes, villains, villains, more villains, terrorists, natural disasters, monsters from outer space, and it all comes out of nowhere and it all takes a hundred percent effort to pack Blurr in a coffin.

Blurr... doesn't know why he's still alive.

He honestly has no idea how he's doing it. He may get into life-and-death situations more often than he does haircuts but every time things come within an inch of killing him. It's impossible luck. Statistically improbable chance. One-in-a-thousand odds. A fucking lightning caught in a bottle, but it happens so often it's like someone somewhere in heaven decided to open a bottled lightning factory and then reward Blurr with the title of their honorary loyal customer.

Blurr doesn't think he has power over life and death.

But here's the thing.

On some particularly violent nights, he wonders that maybe...

---------------

Sometimes Swerve thinks being a dedicated fan should be on the list of “unhealthy” high-paying jobs. One of those where they give you extra cash for the fact that you even bother to show up and then give you insurance and paid vacations.

Okay, that last one might be a bit of an overkill, but it would be nice if he at least had an endless supply of sedatives.

At least some chamomile. Preferably not from the sidewalk. He's not picky.

See, their world decided to change the rules of existence not too long ago and turned such a trivial thing as “trust” into a new in-game currency.

Simply put. If enough people believe something, it becomes true.

What has society chosen to do with that? Of course create an absolutely insane cult of celebrity worship, essentially giving a bunch of already rich and beautiful people superpowers as well.

As if they weren't already living luxuriously enough!

Swerve is not jealous. Certainly not. His first thought when he found out about the new “rules” was definitely not to tell everyone he knows that he won a million dollars and wait for the power of belief to make it true.

He surely wasn't trying to do that. Anyone who claims otherwise is either a liar or their name starts with a T and ends with Gate.

Speaking of.....

Tailgate scratches the back of his head puzzled.

“So you didn't actually win a million dollars?”

They are sitting in a small cafe, the name of which Swerve has honestly forgotten. Or rather he never memorized it, because the local owner of the place prefers to hang huge posters with superheroes right above the name. Swerve is a rather controllable customer.....

Rewind, sitting at the same cheap plastic table as them, hums.

“And here I was trying to figure out if your holey slippers were a cry for help or one of those crazy expensive 'fancy' designs.”

“Ha. ha.” says Swerve slowly and deliberately unhappily “If I get rich one day, I won't tell any of you.”

He slowly takes a sip of some obscure looking substance that Rewind ordered for them all as an experiment and turns to Tailgate.

“Look, it's a pretty fun system. Things that people believe in strongly enough - become real. So if uh, if uh, if we as a whole country believe that our government is honest - that will, in theory, make it honest. Or if a hundred thousand people genuinely believe you can fly, you will be able to fly. That's how it works now.”

Tailgate stares at him. With very large, puzzled eyes.

Swerve tries not to laugh too hard. Poor Tailgate had once gone off to explore the caves and somehow, by some incredible means, managed to get lost and stuck in them for two whole months. Then he crawled out and discovered that magic had appeared in the world while he was gone. Swerve thinks that if he were Tailgate, he'd look very stupid too, trying to realize the absurdity of the situation.

Tailgate is toying with his curled straw.

“So is the government honest now?”

Rewind makes a loud “snrk” noise into his cup.

Swerve chuckles. Not as “funny” haha but more like “we fucked it all up” haha.

It shouldn't be possible to fit all the sense of doom from the world's level of damnation into one expression, but he confidently goes for it.

“GOD NO, did you ever believe that government could be honest?”

“Well...now that's just sad...” decides Tailgate ‘Something good was supposed to come out of this, right?”

Rewind raises a finger victoriously.

“Oh! There are no more incurable diseases! The placebo effect is the new big thing now that a bunch of people have gotten the ability to cure any illness at the snap of their fingers.”

Swerve nods, dangling his drink in his hands.

“There was a guy who claimed he had magic hands that cured everything and gathered a crowd of fanatical admirers around him. So...now his hands are really magic because his followers believe it. Crazy stuff...”

Tailgate puts his elbows on the table, propping his head up with his hands.

“So if I tell everyone I won a million dollars.....”

“I recommend--” Rewind waves his cup “...first make sure you're not wearing holey slippers.”

“Аh”

“That, and you'll need at least about a million people loving and supporting you wholeheartedly if you want this to work.”

“That's...a lot of people,” Tailgate groans.

Swerve shrugs

“That's why all the really cool stuff only goes to celebrities.”

_____

Tailgate cranes his neck curiously.

“Hey Swerve, while you went to place your order your phone started buzzing.”

Swerve falls back into his seat as fast as if he'd just decided the entire floor was lava and starts scrolling through notifications, cursing at spam and useless newsletters.

“When??”

“Just a couple minutes ago” shrugs Tailgate ”Are you expecting someone?”

“I'M...OH NO NO I'M JUST. Shit, wait a minute.”

Rewind leans over to Tailgate and smiles deviously, not even trying to pretend to whisper.

“He's stalking his celebrity crush.”

“That's not stalking!” resents Swerve ”I'm just worried.”

Rewind makes a gesture that looks vaguely apologetic and looks at Tailgate again.

“' Watching. He's watching his superhero celebrity crush who's a member of the Wreckers. And so far no one's survived long in the Wreckers, so he's shaking on every notification like a crazy mom.”

Tailgate tries to peer sideways into Swerve's phone

“That sounds stressful. Is that him? Is he dying?”

Swerve slides down the back of his chair slightly and tilts the phone toward Tailgate

“No, it's not him. He's the one in the blue suit on the left. And no, he's not dying. That bastard is impossible to kill.”

Tailgate lets out an understanding “ooh.”

“Although,” Swerve admits, “ Following him was a lot easier when he was driving cars instead of saving the world.”

He's been a Blurr fan for so long that it can probably be put on his resume already. He remembers watching the Iacon 5000 race with friends with Rewind starting to joke about how they should all bet on someone brand new this year. To fuel the fun, they sat down to pick candidates to bet on based solely on the color of their cars.

Swerve then poked his finger at a random bright blue car and said he'd bet on it because “blue is a fast color.”

Later, his friends would joke more than once that Swerve had the gift of prophecy that day. Because blue wasn't just fast. Oh, God. No. Blue turned out to be the absolute leader, dominating the race track from start to finish.

Swerve remembers vividly the first time he looked at a racer getting out of that car and thought “who the hell is that” and then immediately “how do I find his socials”.

The answer to the second question came quickly. The answer to the first...well. The guy, Blurr, soon turned out to be a faceless celebrity. Shining at numerous races, but never showing his face. Swerve highly doubts it's due to shyness, given...some character traits. (Swerve has a running theory, which is that ...Blurr has no shame. Even as a concept.) Probably just to keep his life anonymous and quiet, he believes.

It's understandable.

He's not judging. But he has to admit that a billion fanarts on what a face under a racing helmet could look like in theory...really...fuels his fantasy.

He's a very normal and sane fan. He tries very hard to be a normal fan and he's doing a great job at it. Maybe except for those moments when Blurr gets into another car accident. Lots of them. Lots and lots of bloody accidents actually and Swerve at first catches a micro heart attack every time he sees the news, but eventually he gets used to it. Blurr is incredibly resilient. And just as rich as well.

Swerve is used to hearing updates about another incident and then seeing Blurr back in the race a couple months later. Just as energetic, carefree, and frankly . Really handsome. As if nothing had happened. As if any danger would just bounce off him without leaving a dent.

It was familiar. It was habitual.

Until, of course, the universe started handing out faith magic to people. Until Blurr walked up to this imaginary box of lottery numbers and pulled out a ball that said “congratulations you're lucky now go and fucking die.”

Blurr is a racer. A damn good racer. Incredibly popular too. Of course his many fans who adore him beyond measure gave him a superpower.

Of course that power was speed.

Of course.

Blue is the color of speed. What else.

As a racer, Blurr is undefeatable.

As a superhero, ..

Swerve still thinks this guy is impossible to kill, but that doesn't mean he doesn't get worried every time he sees the news headlines and live feeds.

“You're alive” Springer states ”Literally how are you still alive?”

Blurr tilts his head because it's the only part of his body he can still move while trapped under ten tons of mangled steel from a Decepticon flying base falling out of the sky.

“Hello to you, too.”

Springer tentatively pulls the nearest sheet of metal and hums in satisfaction when he feels the structure is stable enough.

“Bleeding? Fractures?”

“I think my hair's ruined.”

“No one can even see your hair.”

“Doesn't mean I shouldn't care about it,” snorts Blurr

Springer tosses aside another piece of metal and reaches for his earpiece

“Smoke...? Nah...no really.....REALLY. ....No, you're not going to believe this. ......Aha, digging him out.” he looks away from the earpiece and leans over Blurr ‘Smokescreen wanted me to tell you that he's impressed and,... I quote ’personally saw that damn wagon fall right on your head'. He also wants to know if he needs to shoo away the paparazzi.”

Blurr tries to shrug but remembers in time that it's best not to fidget too much.

“Tell him I'll need a new suit. Let him keep everyone, I'm fine.”

“Literally...like...” barely audibly mutters Springer. “Like.h ow..”

Blurr smiles “My guardian angel is working overtime.”

Swerve takes a deep, nervous exhale, unhooking his fingers from the phone on which he's watching the live feed. Ah shit. Okay. Okay. Alive. Fine.

Rewind looks over his shoulder.

“Looking out for your pookie?”

“HE'S NOT MY

__________

Smokescreen stops right in the middle of an inspired argument with the advertisement agent when his side vision registers a flash of blue to the right of the entirely destroyed street.

“Blurr??”

“Oh, hey!” waves Blurr, “'Sup Smoke?”

The crumbled asphalt beneath his feet crunches softly. Just a few minutes ago, this street was a complete mayhem....

Smokescreen waves the clipboard in his direction

“I thought you had your head ripped off, you suicidal son of a bitch! Do you know how hard it was to calm your hysterical fans down??”

Blurr knows no one can see his face but rolls his eyes anyway. Almost immediately his brain tells him that this was a bad idea, sending a whole bunch of black spots in front of his eyes.

“Hey, you're getting paid for th...ugh...this.”

Blurr doesn't elaborate on the fact that he was sure he was going to be left headless today as well. One of the Overlord's freaking monster minions grabbed him and for a split second Blurr could swear he heard his own neck crunch.

He tries not to think about it.

The more he thinks about it, the less sense it will make.

The more he analyzes, the louder becomes the voice in the far corner of his head saying he should have been dead a long time ago.

A week ago when an entire air base fell on him. Three weeks ago during the battle with Menasor that practically broke his spine. Even earlier, when he was so busy evacuating hospital staff that he ended up being the only one present when that hospital exploded.

He's afraid that if he starts looking into the causes, this magical effect..this life-saving placebo will disappear.

He's convinced it's a placebo. It's the way this world works.

Someone out there must be doing some complex mental magic, keeping him more or less alive and whole and...Blurr is probably going a little crazy. Probably.

Maybe one of those many blows got him harder than he thought. Maybe it's his own self-confidence manifesting miracles of salvation one after another.

(It actually...doesn't sound that unbelievable. Blurr has a lot of belief in himself. Many people would say even too much. The question is whether it counts.)

(He prefers to think it counts.)

__________

Swerve sees red. Lots of it. LOTS of red.

More than he ever wanted to see in his life.

Uh-oh. That's not good.

His vision is blurring. His head buzzes with a nasty sharp static and his left shoulder hurts like a BITCH.

Above him is the flickering, faltering light of the bulb and below him is a growing puddle of his blood. His hair is wet and sticking to his face, making it hard to focus his already shaky gaze.

He makes an attempt to shift, but all it brings him is an explosion of pain.

Ugh.

Sirens are blaring outside, warning the public to evacuate. He's not really sure he can make out exactly what the sound is announcing. He has memorized all kinds of emergency alerts, but the thought escapes him.

What was it

Oh, yeah.

He's been shot.

He's been shot and he's probably going to die because everyone he knows is either too far away or busy evacuating. He vaguely hopes they'll remember about him.

Maybe only after getting to a safe place, but he'll take even that.

The red around him is getting bigger.

He tries to reach for his phone to...where is his phone? Did he leave it in the kitchen? He probably did. Swerve seemed to have no time to grab it when the entire building shook and ugly semi-mechanical monsters fell from the sky.

One of these monsters noticed Swerve just moments later and activated something resembling a cannon mounted in his hands. Swerve then looked at the glowing muzzle and thought that firing this thing would probably send his atoms so far away that his dna would be found on the moon. He could stick his hand down that gun barrel. And his hands are far from the smallest and most delicate hands you can find.

Why did this have to happen on a Saturday? Why not a day later or earlier? If it were any other day, Swerve would be at work right now. In a different place, with other people and probably with a much better chance of not being killed like a loser.

Not sure he wouldn't have been shot, but at least someone would have seen this and picked him up off the floor, put him in their pocket and taken him to the rescue.

Ugh.

He realizes that he closed his eyes at some point and hurriedly opens them. His expertise is by no means professional, but he is almost certain that that weapon wasn't ordinary. He has no idea what it means for him. Maybe he needs stitches, painkillers and a kiss and he'll be good as new. Or maybe it's like one of those films where you get hurt by an unknown creature and then you grab the sink in front of the mirror at midnight and watch the veins under your skin move on their own.

He doesn't feel shot, as silly as that sounds. He feels numb. Falling. Farther and farther away.

He is falling and falling as deep as he's ever fallen in his life. Maybe not as far as "got lost in the woods" far. No, more like " a coin dropped behind the fridge" far. It's not really about the distance but more about the feeling that he's never going to get out of here because no one ever looks in here.

He’s falling until the state of falling starts to register as a resting point, because that's the only variable he still feels. This corner he falls into is very deep and dark and dusty.

He doesn't remember to open his eyes again.

___________

Smokescreen sounds frankly hysterical, yelling at Blurr through his earpiece.

“I understand you like to show off, but you can't outrun a freaking tsunami?!?!”

Blurr only speeds up, “Watch."

“You cocky IDIOT this is suicide!”

“Relax Smoke” laughs Blurr ”You say that every time.”

The half-destroyed bridge shakes and sways like a wounded animal as the water from the overrunning sea crashes into it, gouging into the concrete and bending the metal.

The whole scene is...depressing. Water and debris everywhere and damn. This isn't the first time Blurr is witnessing a large-scale attack by the "forces of evil" as the hero agency likes to call them, but looking at the wrecked cars and scattered debris doesn't get any easier with time. Maybe it just hasn't been long enough. Who knows.

Springer doesn't look like he is bothered by it. But Springer also has a lot more experience being a superhero. With his skill at giving out smiles and encouragement in absolutely any situation, not many can compete.

Blurr certainly can't. In fact. He's got a face with subtitles that turn on in almost any stressful situation. Wearing a mask is probably one of the best things he can do to calm down any random civilians waiting for him to save the day. If they can't see him making panicked grimacing eyes, they'll be feeling much better.

A few more seconds and he's on the collapsing bridge. The people stuck on it look hysterical and bruised, but no one seems injured, so it shouldn't be difficult.

Blurr's plan is simple. Get all the people out of the disaster's path. Then get yourself out. Easy.

Easy?

He can pinpoint the exact moment when something goes wrong.

It's the second that a crooked, hideous-looking monster grabs his leg and pulls him underwater. The second when Blurr fights it with all his might and realizes with sudden horror that his strength isn't enough. That he is. Not enough.

His lungs burn, begging him to take a breath and he doesn't even know which way is the surface because all there is around him is the dark, black, cold pressure of water. It's clinging to him, seeping through his suit, his hair, burning his eyes and making his fingers go numb. It's pulling him somewhere, and he's obeying whether he wants to or not.

His spine prickles with panic.

His personal miracle. His damn magic or guardian angel or cursed luck or whatever the hell it was called. That thing that was always there to catch him like in that game of trust fall. He'd gotten so used to it's presence, he began to take it for granted.

Like the air you trust to be there every time you need to take your next breath.

And right now?

It's not here.

His body takes a convulsive breath and finds nothing but water.

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captain-huggy-bear · 5 months ago

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Little Moments

Pairing: Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Jack occasionally making more mature jokes cause he's just a silly guy

Summary: Jack finds out he's going to be a dad for the first time, maybe he's a little overexcited aka a collection of snapshots throughout your pregnancy.

Notes: Nonnie gave me the confidence to try writing Jack, I'm hoping it's okay...also the jelly cat mentioned is here

Nappies = diapers

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

When they ask you to take a pregnancy test at the hospital because you've been violently sick for 2 weeks, you scoff. You can't be pregnant because Jack and you haven't been trying and you've been using two forms of contraception. It's nigh on impossible for you to be pregnant, statistically speaking it's just not going to happen.

It's not that either of you don't want children, god knows you do, but you're recently married and you wanted some time to settle into that role and dynamic, the new house as well, without an additional person...especially because you knew without a doubt that once you had one, Jack would want another baby, and another, and another. You'd never be just Mr and Mrs Hughes again, it would be Mr and Mrs Hughes and their children.

It's the amount of care that you've both put in to avoiding pregnancy that makes you so certain you're not. So you expect the test to come back negative.

But, there you are...sat on the edge of a hospital bed, slippers almost falling off your feet because Jack couldn't find yours so he brought you his, staring at a pregnancy test with two clear, solid lines.

Pregnant.

Pregnant when statistically it should be improbably, nigh on impossible. Pregnant when you've been married a month...pregnant because your husband is clearly ridiculously fertile. Of course Jack would be, the amount he wants kids and family, it was probably some genetic advantage. Of course you'd marry the one guy who could knock you up when actively trying not to do so.

You don't look up when he enters your hospital room, arms full of snacks and drinks, cap on backwards keeping his hair out of his baby blue eyes. He looks far too cozy and far too sweet for a man who's about to put your body through some extreme changes.

"So, I got you some M&Ms and a orange juice..." Jack trails off noticing the way you're sat, hunched over, staring at your hands, "You okay, baby?"

"Um, I..."

"What's wrong?" Jack's quick to drop everything on the hospital bed, moving between your legs, hands smoothing up and down your thighs. His eyes dip down to the test in your hands, the two strong lines he can see, so strong that there's very little doubt what the result is. The dots starting to connect for him, you being sick for 2 weeks straight, you being tired all the time, wanting to eat foods you normally wouldn't...the ridiculous amount of sex you had on your honeymoon even though you both were using protection, "Are...are you..."

"Yeah..." You finally meet his eyes, the hopefully little look on his face makes you feel mildly better because you can see how hard he's trying to contain his excitement. It's clear from the way he bites his bottom lip, from the way Jack's fingers grip your thighs to stabilise himself.

"Well, fuck..." Even as he says it there's a little smile starting at the corners of his mouth, teeth starting to show, eyes starting to crinkle.

"Yeah,"

There's a beat of silence. You processing the fact that right now there is a human being growing inside you, part you, part Jack and him watching you for your reaction. Jack can't say he's not nervous, not when you don't look overjoyed and it's that apprehension that has him trying to get a laugh out of you.

"Guess I have strong swimmers, huh?"

"Jack!" You whack his shoulder with your hand and he catches it, thumb stroking over your wedding band even as you glare at him. He can't help but stand a little closer, your legs pushing further apart so he can fit.

"What? C'mon, that's impressive right? Condoms, the pill and you still got pregnant?" He's grinning at you proudly, like it's a badge of honour to have managed to knock you up despite trying to avoid that happening at all costs.

You groan out loud, head falling to Jack's chest, forehead pressing into the centre of his hoodie. His hands come up to the back of your head, stroking over your hair soothingly before trailing over your shoulders, down your back. He's gentle, soft with it and had you been able to see you would have seen his expression shift to one of anxious worry, apprehension at your less than excited reaction.

"A...are you...are you not happy, baby?" He's scared that you'll turn around and tell him you don't want the baby, that this isn't what you want. Sure you've talked about the possibility of kids in the future, but neither of you were expecting to have this happen right now. It's a lot for anyone, especially for the person who's body is doing all the hard work. He'd understand if you weren't happy, even though he desperately wants you to be.

"I...I'm just shocked. I want a baby with you, of course I do, you'd be such a good dad...but, I guess I wasn't planning on it right now and I'm..." You're mumbling into his chest as he strokes down your back, your arms wrapping around his waist tight to give you some sense of comfort as your entire world is turned upside down by the reality that you're going to be a mum sooner rather than later.

"You're?"

"Scared...what if I do something wrong? What if I'm a bad mum?"

"Angel, look at me," You finally look up at him, chin resting on his sternum and he looks down at you like you're talking crazy, big blue eyes wide and honest, "You are going to be amazing. You're going to be the best mum...and we're going to have a baby!"

It's his excitement, the grin that reaches Jack's eyes that has you finally cracking a smile up at him. That familiar giddy sensation of joy filling your chest because you're having a baby with Jack...with your husband and yeah, maybe this is sooner than you would have liked, but you still wanted a baby with him and...and he's so excited and he's so good with kids and you'd give him an entire hockey team of babies if he asked.

"Yeah, I hope they have your eyes." You smile up at him and suddenly all that fear, all that apprehension that you weren't going to be happy about this goes, suddenly he knows that it's going to be all good, all okay.

"Yeah, baby?"

"Mmm, you have such pretty eyes."

"Well, I hope they look like you...my pretty wife....and I'll teach them how to skate, and how to play hockey, oh and take them out on the lake in the summer!"

Suddenly it doesn't feel quite so scary, with Jack rambling about all the things he's going to do with your child and how he can't wait to tell his parents and his brothers. Leaning against him, just looking up and watching how excited he is, puts to bed any fear because you're not doing this alone, you've got your husband and it'll be okay.

Jack's got you. Both of you.

"What's that?"

"The results..." The envelope shakes in your hands as Jack comes in from the cold, taking his hat off and throwing his puffer jacket over the back of a chair.

"The...the sex of the baby?" You'd done a blood test 2 weeks ago to find out the sex of the baby, too eager to wait another 2 months for the ultrasound to be able to tell.

"Mmhmmm...I'm too nervous, you open it!" You shove the envelope into Jack's hands. Even though you'll be happy with a boy or a girl, there's something about the anticipation that has your stomach in knots. Were you going to be like Ellen and have a million baby boys or would you be the exact opposite and only have girls or would you end up having both at some point?

You watch him carefully, hands at your mouth, nervously biting on a nail as he rips open the envelope and pulls out the letter. His eyes scan the text quickly, giving very little away until...until there's a shift, a raising of his eyebrows followed by a bright grin as he looks at you.

"We're...we're having a girl..."

"A girl?"

"A girl!" He's so excited that the letter is dropped to the floor almost as quickly as his own knees fall to the ground in front of you with such a resounding smack that you wince on his behalf. He's pressing his cheek to your tummy in an instant, even though it's not very large yet at all, barely a noticeable bump.

"Hey, baby girl..." You can't help the tears that start to form as Jack starts to talk to your belly, to the baby, to your baby girl, "It's your daddy here...I'm going to teach you how to play hockey and we're going to get you in the NHL, show all those boys what for, right?" Your hands find their way to Jack's hair, stroking through it as he talks to your belly, his arms wrapped tight around your hips.

"Not the PWHL?"

"Uh, we're a family of record breakers, angel. She's going to the NHL like Manon Rheaume and she's going to be there until she retires." He grins up at you, teeth showing as you brush a strand of hair off his forehead and back out of the way.

"What if she doesn't want to play hockey?"

"Then I'll love her anyway..." He turns back to your belly, talking in a soft, sweet tone, "don't worry, baby girl, you can do whatever you want. I don't care if you hate hockey, as long as you're happy..."

You can't help the tear that slides down your cheek because how lucky are you? How lucky is your baby girl? To have a dad who doesn't care if she hate everything he loves, as long as she's happy, as long as she's healthy...god, she's so loved already.

"Okay, don't look, close your eyes!" You roll your eyes underneath Jack's palms.

"You're covering them, why would I need to close them?!"

"Just do it, angel!"

"Fine!" You close your eyes beneath his palms, trusting him to keep you from walking into a wall as he guides you through the house from the living room all the way to wherever his final destination is.

"Lift your foot, baby." He helps guide you up the staircase, hands on your hips that had started to grow wider as you progressed through your pregnancy. He always had a hand on you these days. He was trusting that your eyes were still closed as he ushered you up each step.

When you reach the top of the stairs his hands return to covering your eyes and you shuffle down the corridor until he tells you to stop. You listen to Jack opening a door, probably propping it open before his hands find yours, tugging you forward and to the threshold.

"Okay, open your eyes, baby." You practically gasp when you do, Jack standing proudly in the centre of a nursery. A nursery that was empty all of one week ago, as if he'd somehow clicked his fingers and filled it in an instant.

The walls are a soft pink, stereotypically girlie but you like it, you like that he was willing to make the nursery feminine for your baby girl, just as much as you know he'd change it if your girl decided she hated pink.

The crib is set up by the window, soft curtains diming the sunshine outside just enough. The walls have photos of you and Jack, a few from the start of your pregnancy, your wedding. There are photos of the rest of the family and some empty frames clearly waiting for photos of your baby girl when she arrives. He's even put a few copies of your first ultrasound up.

There's a rocking chair in the corner next to a small bookshelf already filled with books, a space for you to sit with your baby when you're nursing or to read her to sleep when she's being testy. A changing table is already stocked with nappies, baby wipes and powder.

It's sweet and girlish and so so lovely because Jack knows you've been worried about having the nursery done even though you have like 6 months until the baby comes. He knows you've been worried it would get put off because he's away a lot for the season. You'd been stressed that the baby might come without having a space to properly stay.

"How did you..."

"I got the guys to help, last weekend when you went out with my mom. That was a distraction!" He grins at you proud of himself, "Nico, Dawson, Luke, Timo and Jesper came round, we got it all sorted. I didn't want you to be worrying about it anymore, baby."

"Is that...is that why you wouldn't let me in here?" You're feeling teary already, hormones running high and emotions always on a knife's edge. It's so so sweet that he did it, even with months left, the fact he knew it was bothering you and decided to fix it even with his busy schedule? You didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with him, but it seems he's proven you wrong again.

"Yeah, didn't want to ruin the surprise and I had a few more bits to get so it was perfect."

"Jack..." You sigh out at him, face scrunching as you try to contain your tears. His proud little grin drops, Jack thinking he's upset you and maybe he's just made you hate the entire room. Maybe it's too pink? Or not pink enough? Or do you hate the crib?

"...Oh...you hate it?"

"No, no! I love it! I love you!" You step forward quickly, wrapping your arms around him as you start to cry into his chest because how could he think you hate it? It's the best nursery in the world and he's the sweetest husband in the world. You really can't stop the tears and Jack should be used to them by now, you've been such a cry baby since you found out you were pregnant, hormones doing a number on you and making you even more sensitive.

"Oh, okay! Oh, don't cry, baby!" He's smoothing your hair down, trying to calm you, but once the waterworks start it's seemingly impossible to stop.

"It's...it's the...hormones...'m sorry..." You sob into his chest, Jack pulling you tight against him and rocking you side to side to try and soothe you.

"Hey, it's okay, angel," He can't help but laugh because he knows you're not sad now and he knows how easily you've been brought to tears as of late. Jack presses a kiss to the top of your head, staying there for a moment to breathe in the smell of your shampoo.

At least he knows you like the nursery, he thinks, enough that it made you cry.

"God, I love you, baby..." He sighs into your hair and his words only seem to make you cry just a little harder because how did you get this lucky?

"Jack..." You waddle into the nursery, now feeling so much larger than before. Quite positively and obviously pregnant and finding moving harder each month. Even simply things are harder because you have a beach ball in the way, Jack tells you it's cute and that's the only thing keep you from crying about it.

"What?" He looks up from where he's arranging some toys in the corner. He's developed an obsession with picking up any adorable toy he finds out and about to add to the collection. There's even a cuddly Fin the Orca from Quinn sitting on top of the toy box.

"Why is there a demon in the crib?" You're staring at the bright red plushie, with big elflike ears, horns, pointy teeth and a curly q tail. Trying to figure out why it's there in the first place because it certainly wasn't there yesterday.

You rest a hand on your stomach and the other on the small of your back, watching as Jack picks the weird little plushie up and makes it wave at you with its little arm.

"It's not a demon, it's our baby girl's first jelly cat!"

"Why is it a devil? A gremlin?" You're not entirely sure what it's supposed to be, definitely some sort of monster or creature and obscenely bright in it's colouring. You have to admit it is kind of cute...in it's own way...

"Uh, because of the New Jersey Devils, obviously? Why would I get our special girl something boring like a bunny?" He places the little plush back in the crib gently, patting it on the head in a way that is so endearingly sweet that you can't help but smile at him.

"She's going to be a weird kid, y'know that? You're going to make our baby a weird kid." You joke knowing fully well that you weren't actually popular or cool in school. Jack closes the distances between the two of you, leaning down to talk to your belly, like he's been doing since day one. He yaps at your baby girl none stop, whether she can understand a single word he says or not.

"Don't listen to your mother, you're going to be amazing and awesome and totally popular." He whispers to your belly, hands coming to rest on either side gently stroking your stomach over your t-shirt.

"You want our baby to be a popular girl?" You raise your eyebrows at him and he looks at you in horror like that might be the worst fate imaginable, to have a stereotypical mean popular girl for a daughter. You think it's impossible for her to turn out that way with Jack as a dad, with Quinn and Luke as uncles and Ellen and Jim as grandparents. She's going to be surrounded by so many amazing, kind people that if she turns out mean you'll be shocked. If she's popular you know it'll be because she's kind.

"On second thoughts, be a weird kid, baby girl. Be into taxidermy or something." You feel her kick his hand in response and can't help but laugh at the pair because you already know they're going to be trouble. Your kid is going to be just like Jack, you have no doubt, and you're certain you're going to be constantly amazed by them.

"You're ridiculous."

You're sighing heavily, hands firmly on your lower back at the ache there as you look in the kitchen cupboard for something to eat. You feel so uncomfortable, so heavy, so big, so achy. Everything hurts, your belly is so heavy that it forces your back to arch and as much as you love your baby girl, you really hate how she's making you feel. Even most food isn't appetising at the moment.

"You okay, baby?" Jack watches you from the kitchen doorway, leaning deliciously against the doorframe. How does he manage to look so good all the time? It only makes you feel worse because you want him but don't feel like acting on it.

"No...back hurts, belly is heavy, I can't get comfy and I feel ugly and gross..."

"First off, you've never been more beautiful," Jack frowns at you, hating that you don't like yourself at the moment. He's certain you've never been more gorgeous than now when you're carrying his baby, your baby. But, he can see it, the way you stand uncomfortable and in pain, how that must weigh down on you as your body constantly changes. "Secondly, c'mere."

Jack moves to you, standing behind your back with his head on your shoulder. His arms come around your front, hands resting underneath your belly securely and in one slow move, he lifts and suddenly everything feels better, lighter.

"Oh, fuck..." It's like he's taken 10 pounds off your spine and you can't help but sigh and lean back into him, eyes closing at the feeling because you haven't felt this comfortable in a while.

"That feel good?" Jack grins into your shoulder, happy that he's helping, happy to feel the way you relax into him as he takes the entire weight of your belly into his palms. It's heavy and he knows his baby girl has been giving you a world of aches and pains.

"Mmhmmm..." You hum, sighing deeply with each breath as he just holds you like that, letting you lean your weight back into him and feel free for a moment, feel more like yourself.

"Well, let's stay like this for a little then, yeah?" He doesn't try to move away, not after a minute, not after 3 or 5. He holds your belly for near 20 minutes until your feet hurt from standing and even then he's considering when he can do it again, when he can help make this whole pregnancy just a tiny bit easier for you.

"What are those?" You point at the tiny little outfits that Jack is currently folding on the changing table in the nursery. The clothes you doubt are going to fit into the drawers you have because he keeps buying more baby outfits, what seems like every single day.

"These?" He holds a little onesie up innocently, grey, red and black, with a little New Jersey logo in the corner.

"Yeah, those? You do know she's going to grow out of them within a few weeks, right?" You keep telling him not to buy so many baby clothes because she's going to grow quicker than she can wear them, but he seems unable to resist.

"Then I'll just buy more..." He mutters continuing to fold the next item he'd brought.

"Jack..."

"But, they're cute! Look! It's a little New Jersey Devils snowsuit!" He holds up a big puffy snowsuit and you can't help but shake your head at him because the baby is due in June and there's no way she's going to be small enough by the time it snows to even wear it.

"She's going to be too big by the time it snows!"

"But, angel!" He pouts at you so badly that you can't help but laugh. Jack's handome, pretty, adorable, always, but there's something about fatherhood, about his excitement to provide for his growing family that makes him even more adorable.

"Okay, okay...they're cute and if it makes you happy you can keep buying them..." You concede, even as you know half the clothes aren't going to be worn by your baby girl.

"Thank you, beside, if it doesn't fit her it might fit the next one." His comment has you letting out a shocked laugh and you move closer to lean into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder and holding your belly.

"How many babies do you want me to pop out?"

"Mmm, like a whole hockey team? Call the Hughes' Hockey Club? The Hughes Hornets? The Hughes Harlequins?"

"You're planning on killing me with babies?" You're already imagining how exhausting it would be to grow and birth that many babies...you'd do it for him, but...maybe stopping at 3 or 4 or 5 would be better.

"No, sex, obviously." Jack frowns at you and you gasp at his commentary, whacking his chest with a free arm until he grasps it and pulls you close.

"You're such a dick!"

"Hey, you love this dick." He smirks down at you, pressing a kiss to your hand.

"Jack!"

You're exhausted, 24 hours of labour has made it's mark on you. Your skin is ashy and sallow, dark bags under your eyes and sweat wetting your hair and skin to such a moistness it almost seems like you've just come out of a shower. But, you're beautiful to him, laying there with your baby girl in your arms, letting her nurse from you like that.

He's in awe of the way you shift her so naturally against your chest, the way you gentle rub the small tuft of dark hair on top of her head.

"You did so good, baby...look at her, look at you..." Jack is sat next to you on the hospital bed, he's been here for the entire labour, holding your hand and giving you water to drink. He's been amazing, and you know he'll continue to be as you face the challenges of post-birth.

He's gentle as he smooths the hair away from your sweaty face, getting the small strands out of your way as you smile tiredly down at your baby girl before looking up at him once she unlatches from your breast.

"You wanna...wanna hold her?" Your voice is raw, exhausted but no less sweet for it and Jack can't help his enthusiastic nod, arms already in position to take her like he practiced at home. His mum and dad giving him a run down with a teddy bear on how to properly hold a new born. At the time it had felt silly, now he's glad for the confidence it has given him.

You transfer your perfect little girl into his arms, sitting up a little more and shifting so he can sit with her more directly next to you. Your head leaning against his shoulder while he cradles her carefully in his arms like the most precious cargo he's ever had.

"Hey, baby girl...it's me, your daddy...God, I've been so excited to meet you. You're so perfect, just like your mommy..." Jack's finger carefully traces her cheek down to her little palm and she grips his finger tightly, trapping it in that notorious baby grip that has his eyes filling with tears, "I love you so much, both of you," He smiles over at you, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead before returning his gaze back to his daughter.

She doesn't even have a name yet, but he loves her so much already. He knows he'd do anything for you, for her and that's both terrifying and uplifting. To love someone so much you'd risk it all, do anything to keep them safe and happy and healthy.

"She has your eyes," You smile up at him, comparing his baby blues with your daughter's own as she yawns in his arms.

"She has your nose, angel."

"You think?" You squint at her, trying to tell if that really is your nose developing or Jack's more button one...it's hard to tell when she's this small, this young.

"Mmm, poor kid." Jack teases you, grinning, full of excitement, happiness, contentment. His wife leaning against him, his new baby girl in his arms, a sense of humour coming back now you're not constantly carrying around an extra weight.

"Hey!"

"I'm joking, she's beautiful just like her mommy." He presses a kiss to your forehead and you sigh into it, letting the tiredness take you knowing that Jack's got you, he's got you both.

#huggy bear writes #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes/reader #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

516 notes · View notes

lacedcompulsion · 25 days ago

Text

SLOW LIKE HONEY

You're co-workers, you really should stay away from each other. But you can't.

pairing: spencer reid x reader

content tags & warnings: 18+, wc 7800+, smut, bau!reader, friends w benefits, situationship moment, smut ofc, yearning, angst, i think drinking but can't remember idk, small allusion to throwing up but not explicitly, death bc they work several cases but it's nothing more than what we see in the show pretty much, not rlly a case fic but it is an aspect of the story, idk what season this is around tbh

notes: hiii first post!! i had this up on ao3 originally w another pairing but reworked it for this yay ok i hope u enjoy and let me know what u think if u want i guess... no pressure... ok bye!

Spencer’s breath on your neck is hot and partly wet, a well-received pacification as you continue jerking lightly against his hips. He has one hand on your waist, rubbing soothing circles with the pad of his left thumb. The other rests on your throat, not gripping, just lingering. He uses the hand on your waist to tap lightly to remind you to roll over and off him.

When your head nuzzles into the pillow next to his own, you just stare. It’s a justified sight; you think briefly that the laws of unrequited love are probably older than the laws of marriage.

“You staying the night?” you ask, voice soft. You try to hide the longing within it, the disappointment should he say no. And he probably will say no — rule number one: no staying the night when avoidable.

Spencer’s nose scrunches, fingers reaching up to brush a few strands of hair from his face. His fingers twitch and you think, just for a moment, that he might reach out and brush your hair, too.

“I shouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” you agree, turning your gaze to the ceiling, sucking your bottom lip between previously gnashing teeth.

Rule number two: no kissing outside of sex. It’s fine when he’s inside of you, you guys established. Not when you’re laying in bed, sweaty and breathing hard and outside of the haze caused by a mutual chase for relief.

You anticipate the weight beside you lifting, the cold air rushing into the bed, the pit in your stomach stretching and widening until you think it might swallow her whole.

What comes in lieu is Spencer’s hand resting on your waist. You almost protest — what about our rules?

Instead, you slip your tongue back behind your teeth and watch the fan circle, circle.

Rule number three: no lying.

When you wake three hours later, Spencer is gone.

✶

There are four dead women in Texas — strangled, asphyxiated. You know it will be a long case; the marks adorning the women’s bodies and the lack of posing them speak to a textbook sadist. The bodies stuffed in the forest, that total destruction of evidence, indicate an intelligent one. You breathe in a sigh as you watch Spencer’s fingers flip through the pages of his tan file.

“Guess we’re heading to Texarkana,” Morgan says beside you.

Your stomach turns. This job never gets easier.

What does, though, are Spencer’s eyes on you. The softness rushes through you the same way it did when you first shook hands, but it’s grown more comfortable. Steadier.

The turbulence isn’t bad, but it’s enough to jolt Spencer’s coffee, sending a few drops onto the file spread across his lap. He curses softly — which still sounds wrong coming from him — blotting at the papers with a napkin. Across the aisle, you watch him out of the corner of your eye, a faint smirk tugging at your lips.

“Careful, Spence,” Morgan teases from the row behind, leaning forward. “We don’t need you short-circuiting before we even land.”

Spencer mutters something about the statistical improbability of turbulence causing major spills, but you try your hardest to tune it out. You shift your focus back to the folder in your hands and work yourself to think. To work. It’s what you’re here for. You’re not here for Spencer.

Still, his idle hands fidgeting with the dirty napkin tug at your very carefully placed focus. You think of the unsub, instead. He’s precise, methodical, angry. You can feel it in the patterns carved into the victims' skin, in the sheer rage of the injuries.

JJ’s voice cuts through the hum of the engines as she adjusts herself in the leather couch across from where you’re sitting. “Victimology suggests a personal vendetta. Both women have ties to the same gym, but nothing beyond that yet.”

“So we’re looking at someone in the orbit of their personal lives,” Rossi says, flipping through his own file.

“Or someone who thinks they are,” Hotch replies from his seat at the front, voice grim as always.

You lean back, head against the headrest. Your fingers tighten around the folder. It’s not the first time you’ve flown into a city chasing a ghost, and it won’t be the last.

You glance up. Spencer’s eyes meet yours for a fraction longer than necessary.

It’s not a comfort you allow yourself to acknowledge often, but here, in the warmth of the plane, it feels as inevitable as the sunrise. Something constant, even when you’re on your way to prevent something that’s already unraveling.

✶

Their rooms are right next to each other, and you watch Spencer disappear behind the door without sparing you a glance. Your feet itch to walk over, but it’s late, and everyone’s all tired, and nothing that bears any resemblance to normal feels moral when you have dead bodies on your hands. You tuck one leg beneath you and lay the contents of the file across your bed, organized in a way only you can tell.

Right before you turn out the light, you hear a knock breaking through the barrier of the wall behind you.

You smile, raise a knuckle to the space above your headboard, and knock back.

✶

The precinct is quiet now, save for the faint buzz of dated fluorescent lights and the occasional shuffle of an officer passing by. The case is closed. The unsub — calm, articulate and utterly devoid of remorse — is in custody. His confession was delivered with an eerie precision that still crawls under your skin.

You stand by the evidence board, absently peeling tape from the corners of a photo. The faces of the victims stare back at you, lives now reduced to a few lines of text and grainy images. You pick up an eraser before exhaling slowly, fingers stilling as you hear footsteps behind you.

Spencer appears at your side, a cup of coffee in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He offers the latter without a word, eyes soft in a way that you've come to understand means he sees more than he lets on.

You accept the water, twisting the cap open but not drinking. You say nothing about how he remembers that you don’t drink coffee past mid-afternoon. “We don’t leave till morning. You should go back to the hotel. You’ve been running on fumes.”

Spencer tilts his head just enough that no one should notice — you shouldn’t notice — and a faint smile plays at his lips. “Funny. I was just about to say the same to you.”

“Right.” You gesture with a nod of your head toward the now-empty chairs around the conference table. “Feels strange, doesn’t it? The quiet, after everything.”

Spencer nods, gaze drifting to the board. “Yeah. It always does.” His voice at the edge of his sentence lifts up and you wait for him to continue. He licks his lips and it puts an idea in your head that shouldn’t be there. Still, it persists. “You don’t have to feel so guilty about the ones we didn’t save, I hope you know. There’s nothing you could have done differently.”

You want to deflect, to make some dry comment and move on, but his eyes hold you there.

“I’m fine,” you say eventually. It sounds hollow even to your own ears.

Spencer shifts on his feet and inches closer, just close enough that anyone abruptly walking in wouldn’t force you to jump away. “I will head back to the hotel,” he says finally. “But only if you come with me.”

Like a dog, you trail behind him, tossing the eraser back on the table and ignoring how it rolls backwards until it clatters with a quiet clap on the ground.

✶

“Missed this,” Spencer murmurs, hand lazily running up your leg. He’s kneeled before you, hands on each of your thighs, pushing, spreading.

“This?” you prod. He blows softly between your legs, and you can feel him waiting for you to react. You oblige, fluttering your eyelids, falling backward on the mattress until the sterile, off-white duvet catches you.

“You know what I mean,” he whispers, parting your legs further like a peace offering.

You’re not sure you do.

Still, you tilt your head back and use a white-knuckle grip to grab at his hair and convey the things you can’t bring yourself to say by way of word.

✶

“Have you noticed you use present tense when speaking about the victims?” you ask once they’ve finished.

He pauses, gaze locking with yours. “Sometimes I… I feel like if we speak as if they’re still ours, still here, we can convince ourselves it’s true. It makes this all a little easier.”

His voice is soft, almost breaking in speech, and his meaning hangs between the two of you, undeniable.

“I can’t stop thinking about the timeline,” you say. “There’s something off. If the suspect left the second location at 8:15, they wouldn’t have made it across town in time to—”

✶

You guys go without a case for a month, which should feel like a good thing. It is a good thing. The less bodies out there the better.

You’re nursing a scotch at the bar — you don’t even like scotch, you just felt the need for something strong — and ignore the burning in your lower stomach, the ache between your legs. You sit and sip until the leather stool breathes enough courage into you for you to get up and walk out.

It’s been a month without the feeling of him rolling into you, writhing beneath him, legs twisting, hips turning, only one name chosen to slip past your lips — all reasons why you don’t even make it to Spencer’s bedroom when you show up at his door unexpectedly.

“How’d you find your way here?” he asks, two fingers rubbing circles on your clit.

“The b-bar,” you say, hands clutching at his biceps. “Was there, but I left,” you add in a hazy rush.

“Good girl,” he says, then rewards you by slipping two fingers inside.

It takes him two more minutes before he’s pulling his belt off, slipping himself inside of you, and says: “I needed this.”

(You don’t get caught up on how he said this. You definitely don’t pretend he said you as you were coming.)

You clear his throat when you both finish, shifting away and pulling a blanket over yourself like you’re trying to make yourself smaller on the opposite end of the couch. You get like this some of the time. Distant. Afraid.

The space between him and you feels wide, even though you can still feel the phantom weight of Spencer against your skin; the wetness of his saliva still resides on your lower lip, sticky and welcome as honey.

“I should go,” you say finally, tight.

Spencer doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move. “If you want.”

You flinch, but recover quick enough to grab your clothes off the floor. The silence between you stretches, unbearably so. You press your palms into your thighs, digging your nails into your skin, grounding yourself against the ache clawing its way up your throat.

When you stand you smooth down your clothes with trembling hands.

“I…” you start, but the words die in your throat. You think you could write an empty book full of things unsaid.

When he finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours, raw and unguarded, neither of you speak. You wait for him to say your name, to place an open palm on the cushion next to his and ask you to stay. Instead, there’s an untraceable, undefinable look in his eyes that you can’t distinguish from indifference.

So you turn, footsteps deafening as you walk away. Spencer doesn’t call after you. He stays rooted as the door swings shut.

The scent of him clings to your clothes like decay settling over a room harboring a dead body.

✶

You guys get over it within four days, like you always do.

You’re both on top of the covers, shoes off but shields up, watching some nothing-show flicker across the TV screen like it has something to say. It doesn’t. Neither do you. Not at first.

Spencer’s got his fingers folded under his chin like he’s solving the world again. You wonder if you’re the problem this time.

“You always do that,” you say, voice low like a dare.

He doesn’t look at you. “Do what.”

“That thing. Where you think so loud I can hear the math happening.”

His mouth tilts, barely. “Sorry. Didn’t realize thinking was disruptive.”

“It is,” you shoot back. “When I’m trying not to.”

That gets his attention. His eyes flick over, sharp and unreadable in a way that makes you want to say something reckless.

“You could always leave,” he says, not unkindly, but with some kind of challenge stitched into it.

You shift onto your side, face to his, a breath apart now. “If I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t be stealing half your pillow.”

He doesn’t answer for a beat. Maybe two. Then: “You always do that.”

You raise a brow. “What.”

“Make it sound like we’re not one wrong breath from kissing.”

There's silence after that. But not the safe kind.

You smirk — because it’s easier than feeling things. “Guess we’re both good at pretending.”

He swallows. Says nothing. The space between you gets smaller in that strange, invisible way where bodies don’t move but everything else does.

On the TV, the fake people keep laughing. You wonder what it’d take to join them.

✶

You don’t have a TV in your room, so when the two of you finally catch your breath again, the room is filled with nothing but static silence. The kind that creeps in under the door and settles on your chest like it paid for the room.

You’re sitting up, knees drawn to your chest like armor, picking at the seam of your old blanket like it wronged you. Like if you unravel enough knots, you’ll find the part of yourself that didn’t start caring. Spencer’s still lying back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it has answers you don’t. Like it ever did.

“You weren’t supposed to stay,” you say, tone razor-light. Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter. Except it does, and he does, and the air between you feels like it’s holding its breath.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. “Didn’t realize you were keeping score.”

You snort. “I’m not. I’m keeping boundaries.”

Your voice is too steady. You hate that it’s too steady. It betrays nothing, and that’s the problem.

“Oh, right. The imaginary fence around your feelings.” He says it flat, like a fact, but there’s that flicker — barely a crack — in his voice, and it lands heavier than he thinks it does.

You turn, slow, eyes sharp. “Don't psychoanalyze me just because you're losing your grip on casual.”

His jaw tightens. You watch it happen. Watch him go from soft to steel in half a second. “You think this is me losing grip?” He’s not loud. That’s the thing. He never needs to be.

You don’t answer. You pull the blanket tighter, even though you’re not cold. Your hands won’t stop moving — tucking, smoothing, anything to keep from reaching for him.

“You said no spending the night,” you murmur. “You said that. You’re the one who made that rule, not me.”

You’re trying not to sound like a little kid pointing fingers, pointing out a broken rule, but it’s there, the crack in your throat. You feel it more than you hear it.

“I did. And then you fell asleep on my arm and I—” he exhales, bitter-soft, “—didn’t feel like being alone. Sue me.”

It’s the first time he’s sounded tired. Not work-tired. Not jet-lag-tired. Real-tired.

“You should’ve left.” It comes out too fast, too loud. You regret it instantly. You want to shove the words back in your mouth and stitch your lips shut. You want to rewind five seconds and say please stay instead.

He sits up now, finally, finally meeting your eyes. “Say what you mean.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s crowded. With everything you’ve left unsaid since the first night, the third night, the one where he kissed your wrist like it meant something.

You clench your jaw. Mean is dangerous. Mean is everything you’re trying not to be.

Once you start meaning things, it stops being safe.

“I mean,” you start, voice quieter now, threadbare, “that I can’t keep waking up next to you and pretending it’s not ruining me a little.”

You don’t look at him when you say it. You look at your hands. The blanket. The space between your knees. Anything but his face.

And there it is. Your little apocalypse, out loud.

Spencer blinks, slow. Like he’s trying to rewind it, parse it, file it under Things To Analyze Later. But he just nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Then I’ll go.”

The words fall like bricks. No heat. No argument. Just resignation, folded neatly like one of his pressed work shirts.

He stands, grabs his coat from the chair, movements stiff like they’re too careful. Like if he moves too fast, he’ll shatter. You don’t stop him.

But you don’t look away, either. You make yourself watch. Like penance.

The door clicks behind him like punctuation. Not a period. Not quite. Maybe a semicolon.

And you lie back, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it to explain how you got here.

It doesn’t.

✶

The chill of mid-November isn’t much to speak of in Tallahassee, but the air feels heavy nonetheless. It’s bone dry and still in the cramped precinct, but you’re used to this — the unrelenting silence that builds until it threatens to rupture. The walls are yellowed with age, the lights too bright for such a small space. It smells faintly of burnt coffee and paper left too long in damp drawers.

You stand at the center of it all, the evidence spread across the table in front of you, photographs and crime scene reports arranged with surgical precision. Hotch’s doing.

You’re deliberate in your movements, every action honed to keep your mind focused on the case rather than the ache lodged under your ribs.

“Two couples, three weeks,” Hotch begins, more a reiteration to himself than anything.“No apparent connection between the victims beyond the methodology. He’s escalating.”

“Look at the posing,” Spencer says, coming around from the other side of the table to slightly rearrange the photos. “It’s too deliberate. Too symmetrical. This isn’t just about killing. It’s like he’s… creating something. A tableau, maybe.”

Rossi shakes his head. “Could just be obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Order for order’s sake.” Spencer hums in distant deliberation as he sets up a geographical profile on the room’s opposing board.

You’re not so sure Rossi’s right, but seniority rules. You turn your attention back to the board, adding another photo to the cluster.

Across the room, Spencer hovers near the whiteboard, arms crossed. You’ve barely spoken since you all arrived. You feel the weight of him pulling at your attention despite yourself. You feel too aware of how fragile everything feels.

✶

“You’re avoiding me,” Spencer says.

“You’re not exactly making yourself easy to approach,” you say without looking up, voice flat.

Later that evening, Spencer finds you in one of the precinct’s side offices. The room is dimly lit, the blinds half-drawn, casting striped shadows across the desk where you sit, scrolling through files on your laptop. The screen’s glow makes your face look washed out, otherworldly. Like something pulled from a memory instead of a moment. You feel him hesitating in the doorway.

“You’re avoiding me,” Spencer says.

“You’re not exactly making yourself easy to approach,” you say without looking up, voice flat.

“I wasn’t trying to make it hard,” he says finally, stepping inside like the floor might give out. “I just didn’t want to make it worse.”

You click your pen twice, too fast, like the notes you’re absentmindedly writing matter more than what he’s saying. It doesn’t. But you need something to touch, something to do. “Well,” you mutter, “congrats on that front.”

His breath catches. Just a little. Enough to register.

He walks further in, careful steps over scuffed linoleum, until he’s standing across from you. Not close, not far. Neutral territory. “I didn’t mean to stay that night. Or the time before that. I mean — I meant to leave. I just…”

He trails off. Looks away. Picks at a hangnail like it might distract him from how vulnerable he sounds. “It didn’t feel like a rule anymore. It felt like a punishment.”

You stop scrolling. Not because of what he said — though that hits somewhere low and raw — but because you’re tired. Tired of parsing every glance, every touch, every maybe.

“Then maybe we shouldn’t have made rules at all,” you say. “Maybe we should’ve just let this thing crash and burn from the beginning instead of dragging it out like a slow-motion car wreck.”

Spencer leans against the edge of the desk. His hands hover near yours but don’t touch. Like he’s asking without asking.

“I don’t want it to crash,” he says. Quiet. Steady. “I just didn’t know how to keep it from doing that without breaking something else in the process.”

You finally look up. Meet his eyes. They’re soft and stormy and apologizing in ways his words haven’t gotten to yet.

“You hurt me,” you say. It’s not meant to be an accusation, nor a weapon. Just the truth.

“I know,” he says, and he means it. “I hurt myself, too.”

You blink. Slow. The words don’t fix anything, but they peel the edge off the tension.

“So what now?” you ask.

Spencer shrugs, but it’s the careful kind. The kind that doesn’t want to shake the fragile thing between you. “I stay. Or I go. Your call.”

You scan his face like you’re trying to read a foreign language you only half-remember. But the burn’s still there. Under your ribs. In your throat.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you say, softer now, but not gentler. “It’s always almost. Always something you almost say, or almost feel, or almost admit.”

He looks down at the floor like it might offer him a script. It doesn’t.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he says.

“You didn’t come here to fix anything either.”

That one lands. You see it in the way his hands stiffen at his sides, in the way he doesn’t argue.

You glance back at your notes. Eyes unfocused.. “You should go,” you whisper.

He lingers like he might say something. Might reach out.

This time, he leaves without closing the door.

✶

Your feet carry you past your own room and straight to Spencer’s once you step into the hotel. It feels like second nature, the way your hand reaches for something you can’t have but can’t get enough of.

You guys don’t do this — fuck during cases. It’s always after. It has to be after, or else what are they doing? Trading in humanity for a fire that’s always sure to cease once the moment passes?

He doesn’t answer at the first knock, so you just knock harder. It’s a threat: open up or let everyone see me standing here at your door. Spencer chooses the former.

“May I help you?” Spencer says, and it’s a half-joke, but you hear the hesitancy. His eyes dart around the hallway like this is a trap.

“Actually, I was thinking I could help you.”

There’s a brief moment where a spark filters through his eyes. It’s gone just before you can decipher whether it’s real or not. In its replacement, the door cracks open not even an inch, maybe a centimeter.

You take it for what she wants it to be. You step in and kiss him hard, rough, like you want to bite him. You almost do. Spencer breathes back into you, hands still at your sides before coming up to pull you in closer.

He pushes your back against the door in what you take to be a feeble attempt at reclaiming power. Instead of letting him have it, you pull his sweatpants and boxers down in one go, kissing as you descend down his body.

“I’m sorry,” you say, then place a kiss above his navel. “I’m sorry.” Another below it. “I’m so sorry.”

Spencer sucks in a breath after the placement of the next.

✶

“Tell me you don’t want me,” Spencer whispers, so low you almost lose it in the sound of your meshed bodies. You’re on top of him, rolling your hips against his like you might die without this — without him.

“What?”

“Tell me you don’t want me,” he repeats, nails digging into your skin.

Your stomach turns. It feels brittle and hard as you roll the thought of it around your mouth. You distance yourself when you let the words escape you, so far out of your own body you barely notice Spencer coming beneath you.

✶

Spencer winds up being right about the story aspect of the case. The killer had dropped out of college years prior, ditching his creative writing major for a subordinate position in his dad’s construction company. The need for a creative outlet came out in a less than favorable way.

You pat his shoulder on the plane, tell him he did a good job. He squeezes your shoulder before choosing the seat across from you. You glance around. No one saw.

There’s a fluttering in your stomach you don’t want to call butterflies, so you think of them as dull, brown moths.

✶

December bleeds slowly as it reaches the end of the month, and Strauss approves a winter break of some sort. One week off, but they have to do a certain amount of file work while at home. Everyone takes what they can get.

Morgan speaks with pride about the trip he’s taking to New York City — of the liquor and the women. Emily raises an eyebrow and jokes that he’s just looking for trouble. Spencer, predictably, launches into a tangent about holiday traditions around the world, but no one interrupts him. You’ve noticed the others think it’s endearing when he rambles.

You’re quiet, but do your best to not seem unhappy. You sit beside Spencer in the round table room as the team winds down. Your elbows bump occasionally, but neither of you moves to shift away.

As goodbyes are exchanged, Spencer lingers. His steps are measured, slow, as they both head toward the exit. The cold air waits for them outside, visible through the frosted glass of the door. He hesitates, hand stilling on the strap of his bag.

“You’ve got plans?” she asks, breaking the quiet between them.

He shrugs.

“Come on, share,” you say, but you’re not sure why you’re prying. Not sure you want the answer.

“I’m going to Las Vegas,” he says, then swallows hard. “I’m visiting my mother.”

You make a noise akin to ah, nodding. It’s a good thing, truly. You’ve only met his mom once but instantly loved her, the way she complimented your taste in literature and the smell of your perfume.

“Tell her I say hi?”

He nods. “What about you?”

“Just me and eggnog,” you reply, your tone light, though it falters slightly at the end. “Maybe a movie marathon if I get through the paperwork.”

Spencer laughs gently, the sound brief but warm, like a candle flickering. He shifts on his feet, his eyes tracing the edge of the door before finding yours again.

“Well,” he says, volume dipping into something quieter, more deliberate. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Yeah,” you reply, but you don’t move. The door feels like an end, more final than it should. It’s just a week, you tell yourself, and wills it to comfort you.

Spencer turns toward it, pulling it open just enough to let the cold seep in. She steps halfway through before pausing. He glances back over his shoulder, the light catching in his eyes, and he looks at you like he wants to say something else but thinks better of it.

“I’ll see you,” he repeats..

“Yeah.”.

And then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You stand there a moment longer before exhaling and pulling your scarf tighter around your neck, then stepping into the cold.

The wind stings your cheeks, but you hardly notice. Something about his words linger loosely long after you’ve begun the drive home.

✶

When you rustle around your sheets that night, tossing and turning, you can only find refuge in the movement of your own wrist against you, fingers slipping in and out, in and out.

“I see you,” you whisper to the empty room.

When you shut your eyes, you do. Brown hair, hazel eyes and all.

✶

There’s a knock at your door. Three short, then one after a beat — like whoever’s on the other side changed their mind halfway through.

You open it and there he is, shoulders dusted in snow like some ghost from a poem. Collar turned up, curls damp, cheeks pink from wind or nerves or both. You blink once, slow, like your brain needs a second to load him.

“I thought you had a flight,” you say, not moving.

“I missed it,” Spencer replies, like that explains anything. Like that doesn’t set your pulse lurching.

You lean against the frame. Not letting him in. Not sending him away either. “Accidentally?”

He huffs a laugh, breath clouding between you. “Only in the sense that I bought the ticket knowing I wouldn’t get on the plane.”

You glance past him — at the streetlight flickering like it’s shivering, at the snow piling quiet and soft on the railing. The air smells like cold metal and unfinished conversations.

“You came all this way just to stand on my porch and be cryptic?” you ask, but your voice gives too much away. It’s not teasing. It’s something slower, more dangerous. Want, laced in denial.

“My mom’s not doing well. I was kidding myself. She—” He looks down, then up again, eyes impossibly warm under all that winter. “She called and told me not to come.

You shift. Bare feet cold on the tile. The heat behind you spilling into the threshold, painting his skin gold.

“Spence—” you start, but the sentence falls apart in your mouth. He’s looking at you like you’re a solution he just solved too late.

“I’m not asking to come in—”

“Come in,” you say, swinging the door open perhaps a little too fast.

He brushes past you but pauses when you’re just an inch apart. He pulls his purple scarf off his shoulders, apologizes softly when snow falls to your floor, melting instantly against the heat.

You tell him it’s fine, lifting a hand to his cheek. Then, quieter: “You’re freezing.”

He smiles, small and wrecked. “Yeah.”

You don’t move, but the distance is shrinking anyway, second by second, breath by breath.

“I missed you,” he says, like it’s the first true thing he’s said in weeks. Maybe months.

And something in you thaws, just slightly. Not much, but enough to say enough to say I know and mean it.

When he kisses you, it feels like he means it.

✶

He doesn’t stay the night under the guise of paperwork. You know what he really means. He doesn’t text the next day, or the day after that, and for some reason this whole break feels like a complete waste if you’re not with him.

On the sixth day, you snap. Your chest is burning, hot and cold all at once. You pick up your phone and type a message to him, fingers trembling.

Are you even thinking about me at all?

The reply comes swiftly: You know I am. After twelve seconds, he clarifies he’s having dinner with a couple friends from college who are in town. You don’t have the dignity to ignore it.

He picks up on the second to last ring.

“I’m at a restaurant.”

“I know.” You didn’t have any words planned. So, you say: “Tell me what you were thinking about.”

“I’m in public.”

“You’re in the bathroom,” you correct. The running sink — which you know is on to hush the sound of your call — audible on the other end of the phone proves your point.

“I was thinking about…” his voice trails off. You can hear him fight it. You will him to lose. “That first time. After that case in—”

“Alabama,” you finish, then slip a hand under the waistband of your yoga pants.

It dissolves into hushed whispers, soft moans, and a slick mess between your thighs. Your back is lifting off the cushion, head pressing hard into the arm of the couch.

“Tell me you love me,” you hear, and don’t register it’s you saying it until silence lolls on the other side of the phone. “Tell me,” you repeat, destined to what you hadn’t meant to say, dropping your volume to a whisper.

He says your name like a warning he’s not sure he wants to call.

“It’s not commitment, Spence,” you plead. “I won’t hold it over your head.”

A few more beats of silence, and you glance at the phone resting atop your knee to see if he had hung up. He hadn’t. You contemplate hanging up yourself.

“I love you.” The words come like the burst of flowers in mid-April. You wave between believing him and recognizing that part of his job is lying. Your fingers roll quicker inside of yourself all the same.

When he repeats it a second time, you come with tears pooling in the dips of your collarbones.

✶

Spencer doesn’t text or call you when he gets back home. That familiar pit slides itself open in your gut. You’re not owed anything, you know this. The pit storms down self-poisoning pellets regardless.

When you see him in the office, Spencer’s some kind of distant, eyes glossed over, devoid of anything you would be able to pick apart. You’re left to analyze the sudden shutout instead.

It wouldn’t be odd to swing by and catch him by the coffee station, you are friends after all. Still, your arrangement leaves you paranoid and anxious and unsure of how to conduct yourself.

It’s outside the bathroom where you catch him three hours later, shaking his slightly damp hands as you walk by.

“Hey,” you say, a little too rushed, and you refrain from wincing. “How was your vacation?” It sounds fake even with all you practiced under your breath sitting at your desk, so you compensate by trying hard to not let it show on your face.

“It was good,” comes Spencer’s reply, before he slides past you and steps in the direction of the bullpen.

“Just good?” you ask. Spencer eyes a person rounding the hallway and into the space you’re both occupying, and you follow his line of sight.

“Mhm.”

“Okay,” you say with a nod, then grab his forearm to drag him farther away from the restroom and into the stairwell. There’s minimal protest on his end, likely to save face, but you take it anyway.

Once you’re inside, you drop your voice to a whisper. “Why didn’t you say anything, call when you got back?”

“I got busy.”

“That’s- that’s a lie,” you huff out. “Please. Please answer.”

He gnaws on your lip like it's a final meal. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not an answer,” you breathe out, on the brink of exasperated laughter. You drop his shoulders as you soften your tone and add: “Don’t be sorry.”

“This is killing me,” he whispers back. “It’s killing me. I—” He cuts himself off, brows furrowing in what looks like distress. “I’m always thinking about you.”

That’s not what he wanted to say, you realize. That’s not what he was going to say. The thought of the alternative words leaving his mouth curdles in your stomach, rises in the form of bile to your throat.

Someone walks into the stairwell and carelessly pushes past you. You fix your posture while Spencer ducks his head and uses the distraction to walk away. Your mouth opens to say something, but you trade it in for silence. You’re not sure what you’re fighting for.

You walk into the bathroom and throw up the contents of your stomach into the shiny white bowl. It feels like honey on its way up.

✶

“Two victims in the last week,” JJ says, passing them all a file before resting on the beige leather couch of the jet. “Both found in their homes, no signs of forced entry, and no evidence of sexual assault or robbery.” She sighs. “Just... gone.”

“They’re being strangled,” Spencer says. “But not with hands… some sort of ligature?”

JJ nods. “The medical examiner says it’s likely something soft, like a scarf or a tie.”

Hotch leans forward, voice calm and direct. “What do we know about the victims?”

“They’re all married women,” Spencer says, voice low as he flips through the beige file. “Late thirties to early forties, no kids, and their spouses were out of town when the murders occurred. The killer left no note, no message.” He glances up. “Like JJ said, it’s like he just wanted them gone.”

Spencer’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly, but you catch it.

“Could be someone they knew,” Morgan says, his tone contemplative. “If there’s no sign of a break-in, they let the killer in willingly. Someone they trusted.”

“Someone they trusted but didn’t suspect,” you murmur.

Spencer glances down at you, and your eyes meet for the briefest moment before he looks away.

✶

Your hotel room stays dark. The file lay unopened on your desk. There’s a mini fridge you stare at, like even the presence of unsipped alcohol might just do the trick. You hate that he’s letting this impact your job, which doesn’t stop you from doing so.

With your back against the mattress, you raise a fist, then knock against the yellow wall.

No one knocks back.

✶

Emily cracks the case — a woman, she realizes, when it all feels too much like jealousy. The unsub, a thirty-something woman named Victoria Ackers, doesn’t put up much of a fight when Morgan kicks down her front door.

“It should’ve been me,” Victoria wails when you put her in cuffs. “How come they got to be loved, and I didn’t?”

You rarely sympathize with the people you lock up. This isn’t an exception.

Still, you place Victoria in loose cuffs, and when it comes to closing the door of the cop car, you close it softly.

✶

You go home alone and wait until three. Spencer doesn’t come.

When you finally lie in bed, it feels like a grave.

✶

You’re running on three weeks of sleep deprivation when you decide to approach him. It’s long after work is supposed to be over, and the only person left in the office beside them is Hotch, who can barely be seen through the pile of paperwork adorning his desk.

Spencer has concerned himself in an online debate forum on the overuse of arguing against the cosmological argument in atheist literature to notice you slipping into his view, pulling Morgan’s chair around to sit in it.

“Hey,” you speak first. You wait for him to invite you into a conversation.

“Hi,” he says, moving his mouse away from his hand.

“I figured we should…”

“Talk?” Spencer guesses.

“Talk, yeah.” You bite your lip.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out.”

“But you did.” The words have little bite in them.

“I’m—”

“You don’t have to say it.”

“I want to.” A beat passes. You allow it. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” you say after several long seconds. You surprise yourself with the sureness behind the meaning of it.

“What do you have to be sorry for?”

You don't respond. You watch his shoulders drop. “Oh.”

“It’s okay,” you assure. “This… isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” Your eyes stall a moment too long on the team photo atop his desk, the only photo he has up. Like it’s instinctive, Spencer fiddles with a file on his desk.

“So… it’s just over.”

You don’t have anything to say — he hadn’t posed it as a question. You’re not sure where you’re going when you stand, but you stand regardless. You pause as you shove things in your bag back at your desk. “I was lying, by the way,” you say. “In Tallahassee, when I said I didn’t want you.”

You could stick around to see what Spencer has in response, but you don’t. It’ll hurt at the same rate, whatever it is.

✶

It felt like finality, so you go to bed early. It isn’t an easy feat, and it feels nothing like winning.

With your eyes shut, sleeping but not dreaming, you aren’t expecting the pounding sound that’s coming from your door, the intensity of it to jolt you awake. Too delirious from a lingering state of hypnagogia, you swing the door open without checking to see who it is first. Spencer stands there, soaked through his long-sleeved shirt. You weren’t even aware it was raining.

It happens fast, Spencer’s lips against yours. He kisses you the way you had kissed him back in Tallahassee, rough and cleaving you open like a god that doesn’t belong. You don’t have to work hard to meet the same level of desire.

“What are you doing?” you get out between kisses, stepping backward as you head to your room with Spencer still pulled close to you.

“Please don’t ask any questions right now.”

So you don’t. Instead, you let him strip you of your clothes, soothe your surprised body with a palm on the small of your back as he leads you to lie on the bed.

“You’re freezing,” you mention. A droplet of water cascades down his hair and lands on your cheekbone, then another on your shoulder until your whole body seems wet.

“It’s raining.”

“I gathered.”

You’re wet somewhere else, too, you think, as he dips his hand between your legs and leaves feather-light touches against your core.

“Please,” you whisper.

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

“I am touching you, honey.” He’s teasing you, you know. He wants you to beg. It’s so rare he gets you at his mercy. In moments like these, you can tell he savors it. Relishes in it.

Instead of responding, you grab at his wrist, forcing his fingers inside of yourself. Spencer lets out something akin to a moan even though it's not him on the receiving end.

You think he likes you like this, wide open for him. Your lips are parted, like you’re one big portal Spencer can slide into, move his tongue against, curl his fingers in. He takes the opportunity, pushes his pointer and middle into your mouth and lets you clamp around them. You suck, causing him to instinctively up the pace of his other hand like it’s a reward.

“Thought we weren’t gonna show up anymore,” he says. He curls his fingers to reach that one spot he knows makes your pupils blow. You push back the thought that he might’ve found that spot on other women, too. Worse, the thought that someone might’ve taught him where it is. “But you let me in. So what happened to that, hm?”

You mumble something incoherent around his fingers, so he pulls them out and grabs you by the chin instead. “Go ahead.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?”

“Keep you out.”

You want him to kiss you then, but don't know if that’s too intimate. You opt for bucking your hips against his hand instead. It takes another calculated curl of his fingers before you tighten around them, legs shutting tight as you ride it out.

“I wanna do something for you,” you say. Your breathing is slow again but your legs are still shaking a little. Spencer grabs the opportunity to spread them.

“Yeah? You’re sweet.” He pulls you farther up the bed, spreads your legs and slots himself inside of you. There’s a gasp at the connection, though you’re unsure which one of you it comes from. It might’ve been simultaneous.

You watch his eyes gloss over as he allows himself this one moment of selfishness, fucking you harder. You hold him by the face and feel your authority dissipate. The whole ordeal is shrewd and loud and messy, and a drop of sweat collects at the top of your spine and slithers its way down. It feels like a raw kind of heaven; like you’re pulling apart.

Pleasure is a tight coil in the bottom of your stomach, in the tips of your fingertips, in the curling of your toes — some invisible lyre strung with vibrating wire, sticky with the friction of nearness.

When you come, you’re crying. You glance down. Spencer looks impassioned, too, so you kiss him to hush you both.

When his lips leave yours, pull from yours, you feel the absence as acutely as the touch itself. The tender ache threads like grating twine through your chest. He leans his forehead against yours, breath mingling, shallow and uneven.

The silence between you is its own language, so you don’t speak. You don’t trust yourself to. You focus on the curve of his jaw, the faint quiver in his lips, the way his eyelashes cling together with sweat — or maybe unfallen tears.

He pulls away first, his hands slipping from your grasp. He sits up, turning his back, shoulders tense in the way they always are after release proves itself to be fleeting. For a moment, you want to reach out, to pull him back into the bed, but the weight in his posture tells you it won’t matter.

“I wasn’t lying, though,” Spencer whispers, back turned to you as he sits at the edge of the bed, “when I said I loved you.”

Your gaze settles on the curve of his spine, the way it rises and falls with each uneven breath. Your hands twitch against the rumpled sheets, caught in the futile instinct to reach for him. You curl your fingers into fists, nails biting into your palms. Your throat tightens, swallows the air before it can reach your lungs. The dim light catches on the slope of his shoulder, illuminating a vulnerability you’re not sure you’re meant to see.

Emboldened by newfound fulfillment of self-interest, you crawl toward the edge of the bed where he sits and kiss his back.

In a few moments, Spencer will leave. You know this. This time is different, though.

You know he’s not coming back.

#spencer reid #criminal minds #spencer reid x bau!reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid smut #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid angst

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chiotri-loves-davekat · 2 months ago

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Classpect power traits to give the beta kids in a no sburb au or even a pre sburb kinda dealy

Dave - Very good at guessing time. Figures it's weird ninja stuff he picked up from bro at some point. Often gets it down to the minute. Also he's got a really fucking accurate internal metronome. He manipulates the hell out of these.

Rose - Commonly predicts the direction in which her interactions will go before she has them. Just kind of knows the general type of thing she should say to get more of what she wants out of the conversation. Thinks she's just smart, which she is, but the degree of which she does this is unnatural.

Jade - Unnatural, uncanny, fantastic ability to visualize things in space. Knows for certain that furniture would fit in different spaces with just an inch to spare without ever actually measuring it. Packs cars like the world best Tetris player. Actually probably pretty good at Tetris. She never questions this.

June - Weather is very convenient, a Statistically Improbable amount of the time. It seems like a warm breeze follows her everywhere. Wind chimes always make a ruckus near her. She loves the wind and doesn't think twice about her engrained knowledge that the wind loves her back.

#Homestuck #Dave strider #Rose Lalonde #Jade Harley #June Egbert #Classpecting #Classpects #Beta kids

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haydenthewitch · 4 months ago

Text

okay so. can you imagine

the 118 gets called to a spirtual spot due to some cristal-ball mayhap (it was left in line of direct sunlight and it set a bunch of curtains on fire.) Luckly no one was hurt, and the sprinkler system is up to date, so the shop doesn't even have major fire damage to it either. While there, tho, Buck ends up in the possession of a rabit's foot. And suddenly he's having a streak of AMZAING INCREDIBLE LUCK.

"It's not a thing!" eddie insists.

"You can't argue with facts!" buck tells him. "And the fact is, i've been having a statistical improbible bought of luck today, AFTER i got the rabbit's foot. Should i go to vegas this weekend?"

in a cosmicaly comedic twist of events, their next call is to the office building of a private jet's comapny. and buck pulled some crazy stunt, saved the ceo, and now he's being offered two free round trip tickets to anywhere in the country.

so buck packs a bag for vegas. and he tries to invite maddie, but she's WAY too pregnant for all that. So instead he guilty asks if she'd mind taking chris for the weekend so eddie and him could get away. ("yes, but only if you ask him out at somepoint durring your trip." "MADDIE!" "WHAT? i'm getting impaient, buck.")

So he manges to convince eddie to get on the plane with him, and watch him gamble the weekend away ("for sceince, eddie. to prove that i actualy do have a bunch of luck!") and for the first day they have a BUNCH of fun. Buck doesn't actualy gamble more than $50 at any table or slot, Becuse he's not stupid and he knows how these things work. He does lose close to $200, But he wins it all back (And then some!)

"See, eddie! i'm winning even when the machines are rigged! that has to be luck!! i made a net profit in vegas! it has to be lucky!!"

so anyways, they go back to their fancy hotel room (paid in full by the time of their arvial thank's to buck's INCREDIBLE save at the fancy privte jet company) they are wiped out, and they plan to both take a good nap when...

"Oh." Buck says. "There's only one bed."

"So?" eddie says. "That thing looks like a hiwaian king +!! there is plenty of room for the both of us, buck."

(Is this part of the rabbit foot's luck?)

so they climb into bed together (climb into bed! together!!!) and take a nap.

By six pm they are back out on the town, and boy is vegas after 6 pm WAYYY diffrebt than vegas in the full sunlight. They go out to this SUPER COOL (most likely tourist trap) resturant on the vegas strip, and the bill has to be MIGHTY but buck doesn't get to see the number before eddie snatches it up to pay.

("eds, let me pay. vegas was my idea, come on." "Buck, no. i've got some fun money stashed away. plus, you got us private flights and a room for free with your herotics. i'm paying tonight." buck is blushing so much he can't come up with a proper counter argument.)

Buck sees a poker lounge, and he insists that they go in. Thay have fun, and by the time buck has played two games of poker, they are both plesantly buzzed and gigling up a storm. eddie, of course, didn't play. he much prefers watching buck play, watching him work his charm and read pepole like open books. His boy is sooo good at that, fuck.

and then. someone is talking to buck. pepole have been talking to buck all night, and it felt. fine, normal, okay, fun even. this chick... does not feel like any of those. good lord. she's fucking flirting with buck right in front of eddie's goddamn salad. he instantly gets hot under his collar.

and it's kinda petulant, more than it's anger. anger is too scary of a word... he doesn't feel anger, not his hands curling into fists or hot short clipped thoughts. Yes, it does feel petculant, like a child who doesn't like to share. Couldn't this lady see that buck was clearly his?? couldn't she see how eddie felt too, how eddie was, quite simmalarly, clearly buck's? they were practicaly married, couldn't she see the wedding band mark branded into his soul??

fuck. maybe eddie was drunker than he thought.

buck is taken aback when eddie leans over to him, and says right into his ear. "You know, there is one more vegas thing to try."

"What's that?" He asks, trying to pointidly ignore amy (the lady who was clearly flirting with buck even though he only wabted eddie) and her attempt to lean closed to hear this cobversation.

"Vegas wedding. you and what's her face could totaly go get married right now, if you wanted." eddie says and... oh my god. eddie is jellous.

"Nah," buck says. trying to remain casual about the whole thing. "I'd rather get married to you. Make this whole 'necular fam' thing we got going on in Cali' offical."

and eddie... fucking glows at that.

"Hey!" the dealer snaps. "Do you want to be delt in for the next hand or not?"

"No." eddie tells him. "We've got a wedding to plan."

when they show up to their next sceduled 24 hr shift, they can't stop looking at each other and giggling. hen and chim clock the energy hard, but they decide to ignore it for the first half of the shift. that is until...

"How did vegas go? any elvis weddings?" ravi asks.

Buck freezes in place, but eddie doesn't even look up from his phone as he says: "Oh, elvis wasn't there."

Hen IMMEDATLY sits straight up on the couch. "Who Got Married????" She asks, a hint of urgent hilarity on her voice. Buck puts his head in his hands, blushing wildly becuse. good god, he's never going to live this down. "Buck!! WHO GOT MARRIED??"

"Yeah, Buck! who got married??" eddie says, mocking hen but ALSO teasing buck. The little shit. So, to get back at him.

"You know, you aren't being a very good husband right now, eddie buckly-diaz."

10 long seconds of silence, and then all HELL breaks loose in the firehouse. but you know what? it was fucking worth it to see eddie blush all pretty like that.

("Did you tell maddie yet?" Chim asks immedatly, and buck swears. "no, fuck, i havent." chim just grimaces, and says "that is NOT a secret i'm keeping from my wife. you better text her now if you want her to hear it from you." Buck groans, becuse fuck. chim is so right. this leads to:

Buck: eddie and i got married in vegas

maddie: what

maddie: the

maddie: fuck

maddie: this is NOT WHAT I MENT when i said you should ask him out, evan buckley.

buck: it's buckely-diaz actualy

buck: and it's still unclear if we're together

maddie: buck. EXPLAIN

Buck: Oh my god what's that sound it's the bell haha gtg maddie ily

maddie: I HATE YOU )

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areyoufuckingcrazy · 2 months ago

Note

I love how you write Tech! Could I request something with him and a super clumsy and oblivious reader please? Thank you!

Thank you! Sometimes I feel like I write him too robotic like ahaha

⸻

“Statistical Probability of Love”

Tech x Reader

⸻

Tech had calculated—twice, actually—that if he complimented you at least three times a day, you might eventually understand he was flirting. The odds weren’t stellar (34.7%, to be exact), but he was determined to try.

“Your ocular symmetry is… exceptionally pleasing,” he said one afternoon, eyes never leaving his datapad.

You blinked up at him, mid-attempt to carry a large crate that was clearly too heavy for you. “Uh… thanks? Are you saying my eyeballs match?”

“Precisely.”

You smiled, almost tripping over your own feet as you finally got the crate to the other side of the Marauder. “Cool. I like symmetry. Good for… art. And, like… walking straight.”

Tech stared after you, baffled. That had been his best one yet. He even rehearsed it.

⸻

Later, you were in the cockpit, absolutely tangled in the cords you were trying to organize. Wrecker had asked you to help. He did not, however, explain how not to fall into a mess of wires like some kind of malfunctioning protocol droid.

“You seem to find yourself in precarious entanglements at an impressively consistent rate,” Tech noted, crouching beside you with a slight smirk.

You groaned dramatically. “It’s a talent. Maybe I should join a circus.”

“I find it… endearing,” he muttered.

You were too busy trying to untangle your foot from a power cable to hear him.

⸻

It got worse.

He started trying “casual” physical contact. A light touch on the shoulder here, a hand on your back when guiding you through the hull. Subtle. Calculated. Measured. He was certain you’d notice.

You? You thought he was just awkward and accidentally touchy.

Once, he brushed your hand while passing you a tool. You jolted, dropped the hydrospanner on your foot, then thanked him for it.

“You—you thanked me?” Tech asked later, clearly flustered. “I caused minor bodily harm!”

“Yeah, but it kinda woke me up. I was zoning out hard.”

He turned away, muttering something about “social cues being an imprecise science.”

⸻

Hunter noticed first. “You gonna tell her you like her or keep complimenting her neural pathways until she dies of old age?”

“I am trying to initiate courtship gradually,” Tech replied, defensive. “She is just… uniquely unresponsive to conventional—or unconventional—methods.”

“She’s got no idea,” Echo chimed in, amused. “You could tell her she was beautiful in binary and she’d thank you for a firmware update.”

⸻

Eventually, Tech snapped.

“Your clumsiness is statistically improbable and yet, inexplicably, I find myself drawn to it. To you. In a—romantic sense.”

You blinked at him from the floor, where you’d just slipped on your own jacket.

“Oh,” you said. “Wait. You’re… flirting with me?”

“I have been flirting with you.”

“For how long?”

“Seventeen days, four hours, and—”

“Tech. You should’ve just said something.”

“I did! Your neural symmetry, the entanglement commentary, the guiding hand—”

“Okay, yeah, that’s on me,” you admitted, grinning sheepishly. “I’m a bit slow.”

“Not slow,” he corrected. “Just… delightfully oblivious.”

“…Was that another flirt?”

“Affirmative.”

You laughed. “Okay, I’m catching on now.”

“Statistically overdue,” he muttered.

But you leaned over, kissed his cheek, and said, “Worth the wait?”

His ears turned red. “Yes. Highly.”

⸻

#clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars #star wars fanfic #star wars the clone wars #the clone wars headcanons #clone force 99 #tech x reader #tbb tech #tech #bad batch x reader #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch

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theshipsong · 2 months ago

Text

basil hawkins' cartomancy (it sucks)

spoilers for wano arc, especially onigashima.

hawkins only draws and interprets four cards during one piece and all major arcana, which is statistically improbable (a 28% chance from a standard deck), and none of them make any damn sense. when he falls to killer in 1029, the cards fluttering around him include some iconic waite-smith style minor arcana, so they exist in his deck! it isn't stacked with only majors! oda knows about the nine of swords! ugh. anyway.

disclaimer that i personally don't read reversals because i think positive and negative qualities of each card are always present, but context points us in either direction, whether in the question being posed to the cards or the structure of the spread around it. that said, these are almost all single-card draws.

1. the fool reversed (913)

my interpretation: at its best (upright), the fool is pure and trusting, really like any guileless shounen protagonist who others try to take advantage of. the major arcana can be read as the fool's journey through the ages of man, like stupid campbell's the hero's journey. we can look at the fool nostalgically as someone who isn't jaded yet, but i hope it's a nika-like figure who's hopeful and trusting to spite the world's cruelty, having learned about it intimately. reversed, i think it's unflattering things onlookers and enemies say about luffy: naive, unprepared, in for a rude awakening.

cards that fit his better: there are cards that are closer to betrayal or deception, like the seven of cups or the moon, but the imagery of hawkins' beasts pirates underlings (we never know what happens to his crew) looks like the five of wands, despite their swords.

2. the hierophant reversed and upright (913)

this is why i suspected he stacked his deck because how does he draw the hierophant twice

my interpretation: sorry but i have to say that in older decks this was called the pope, and who the hell does the pope help other than serial abusers? but i digress. somewhere around the turn of the century, someone likely associated with the golden dawn came up with correspondences between 12 of the major arcana and the signs of the zodiac, and taurus got the hierophant, which i plainly disagree with. the hierophant is much more saturnine, much closer to capricorn which is also an earth sign, so melancholic, cold, and dry. saturn has associations with organized religions, higher education, and really anything traditional and structured. associating any of that with otsuru is... unflattering, in my opinion. the most saturnine institution in one piece is certainly the five elders, hi saint saturn. i would even say otsuru should be the hierophant reversed as someone with ties to a rebellion! but one to restore a dynasty. so...

cards that fit his better: for "pursuit," i'd say six of wands. for "reinforcements", maybe the star, two of coins, two of cups, three of coins, three of cups.

3. death (1029)

my interpretation: death is about endings of any kind. it can be about a breakup, or graduation, or just... a fight ending. it says nothing about the result in favor of one party or another. death and loss are necessary to life, so reading it as simply bad news for killer, good news for hawkins is immature and simplistic. we don't know exactly what happened to kid's arm when they fought against shanks, but he lost an arm and kept his life. that's still a kind of death, though. killer eating the SMILE was a kind of death, and so is the kid pirates declaring they'll be a cheerful crew.

cards that fit his better: oh, i don't know. the TOWER

overall, i have major umbrage with straw man cards as an attack. if the point is that every other card is drawn to affect the enemy and the others can "expand one's (the reader's) power beyond their natural limit," we never see it win hawkins any fights. straw man cards creates reality instead of just describing it, which is not what i think divination should be. instead of death or the tower to describe killer's position with kid's straw doll, i'd choose the hanged man or the eight of swords. they're both cards about being stuck, the former about being suspended in limbo before some sort of breakthrough, and the latter about being trapped in a situation you can't see the way out of—but there is a way out.

4. the tower (1029)

my interpretation: i'd link this to the modern planet uranus, which has come to mean revolution in large part because it was first discovered during the enlightenment and before the european revolutions of the 19th century, and indeed the 20th. the tower sucks if you're a romanov, in this narrow view, but it does indeed spell calamity and disaster, which is a fair way to describe what happens to hawkins' effigy, though there are other options, like...

cards that fit this moment of this fight: DEATH. just death, you got it damn backwards, my love. the narrator's description matches mine, sure, but someone could just as easily argue the shogunate as an institution is old and brittle. but i think it's describing linlin, which is so rude. straw is brittle, i grant you...

anime-only bonus: strength reversed, or a theory on his percentage system (1001)

he doesn't interpret this out loud and it isn't part of straw man cards, but it's part of his "1 percent" calculation. i have to assume that his percentage system works similar to astrological condition, e.g. a reversed major arcana must subtract more favor than a reversed minor? if he draws 10 cards starting with 100% or maybe 50% for 1:1 odds and say, a bunch of of them were reversed majors and the last was a kind of shitty upright minor arcana... maybe that's how it starts. (i think aces are generally lovely cards, so it can't be by pip value?) i theorized another more convoluted system involving decimal places when i first watched wano and this blond hack gripped me, but this makes marginally more sense

a conclusion

tarot is a narrative art, whether you believe in divination or not. it's a palette to tell stories with. it's for chatty cathys and people who write in journals by hand. hawkins' generally one-word descriptions do it a major disservice, and oda's bizarre percentage system makes hawkins more of a gambler than anything mystical

even if his single word choices were at all traditionally correct, i'd still be dissatisfied because a good tarot reading is a conversation, and i want to hear more! hence my answer is writing x reader fanfiction where he is better at this and has a partner (me). just like most people interested enough in astrology to get a reading know their big three, most people i read tarot with are other tarot readers or have a passing familiarity with it, whereas hawkins is only shown lording his insider knowledge over enemies. but maybe my approach to divination is pedagogical because i don't believe in it earnestly and want to "show my work," as it were. i want to be questioned because i'm more than willing to question, evidenced here

#♃ highlight #basil hawkins #one piece #wano country #wano arc #wara wara no mi #straw man cards #tarot #fool on the hill #op meta #mago mago #meta.md

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peskellence · 4 months ago

Text

Pairing: RK900/Gavin Reed

Tags: Post Pacifist Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Previous Chapter Next Chapter

A03 Link

Summary: In the aftermath of Detroit's android revolution, Nines grapples with the complexities of his newfound deviancy. As he seeks to establish his place in a newly transformed society, his resolve is put to the ultimate test when he is paired with Detective Gavin Reed-a notoriously volatile human with a well-established hatred for androids-to investigate a series of murders.

While initial impressions of his partner seem to suggest his reputation is well-deserved, the more time Nines spends with him, the more he is forced to challenge his judgments. As they form an unexpected bond, the RK900 is also pushed to examine truths about himself he would much rather seek to forget. (A Retelling of 'More Than Our Parts' from the POV of Nines.)

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Depression/Self Destructive Behaviour, Eventual Smut

Word Count: 5.3K

Tag List: @sweeteatercat @wedonthaveawhile @gho-stychan @tentoriumcerebelli @negative-citadel @faxaway @moriahadi424 @unicorn4genocide @cptjh-arts

To the dismay of all those affected, RK800 had been selected to choose their movie. Not that Anderson’s taste would have served them better—high-octane, low-budget action features with impressively bad acting.

Nines simply could not understand why the human and android did not rotate. Their biweekly film nights were infrequent enough that it would have been easy to balance control. Despite this, both parties insisted on an archaic coin-flip system.

Initially, this had been a coin issued to RK800 for calibration purposes. Following an inordinate number of failed attempts, Anderson insisted it must be weighted. A digital replacement was employed to appease him, until he had hotly repeated the claim.

Rather than debate the feasibility of a computing algorithm being ‘weighted’, RK800 had complied with the ongoing request that Anderson’s preferred currency be used.

The weathered nickel was pinched deftly between calloused fingers, brandished like a priceless artifact. His so-called lucky penny. He vouched for its reliance proudly, claiming it always landed on heads—and that he would gladly drain the contents of Sumo’s dog bowl should he lose the wager.

The coin was placed on the flat of his knuckle and flicked with a snapped ding. As the human watched on, it gained impressive height and momentum, clipping the side of a lamp shade. His chest was puffed, and a preemptive smirk of victory tugged at his lips.

The metal fell back to earth, hitting the coffee table with a clink. It spun on its side for several rotations before finally tipping over. The embossed lines of the union shield gleamed, catching against the suspended bulb rocking above.

The smirk fell from Anderson's face. He gawked at the cent with an inexplicable degree of accusation, as though it had personally betrayed him.

Defying all laws of statistical improbability, it seemed the universe was working against him. At least, this had been the dramatic proclamation made before he left for the kitchen. His feet dragged laboriously, as he muttered incoherently—something about fetching a drink.

Whether or not this would comprise the liquid in Sumo's dish was yet to be seen.

In his absence, the androids were left alone. RK800 secured a nearby remote, prepared to choose whatever dire cinematic offering they’d be forced to endure. The television flickered to life, tuned to an evening news segment. One that was infamous for its sensationalism—riddled with lurid headlines, ominous sound bites and manufactured urgency.

It lived up to expectations. Following a bizarre montage of inverted mugshots intercut to the tune of waterphones, the camera focused on a presenter. She was brandishing a stack of papers, tapping them lightly against her desk and frowning morosely.

Nines recognised her as Teagan Rodgers—one of the field reporters who had been sculking outside the barricades of the HR400 murder scene.

She was discussing local crime statistics, spoken with such dramatic inflexion it bordered on self-parody. Her artificial seriousness only heightened as she started reading a series of audience prompts.

As Nines tuned in to the presented topic, a flicker of tension locked his jaw, which he deftly smoothed over. However, as a visual accompaniment appeared on the screen behind Rodgers, it became much more challenging to conceal.

"I was recently on-site at one of these gruesome android-targeted scenes, and when asked for comment, this is what the DPD’s finest had to say."

The screen transitioned to a candid shot of Detective Reed outside the Hartwell Apartment complex. Capturing the precise moment he’d lost his temper with the badgering reporter, forcing her microphone away from his face.

The feed then cut back to the studio. Rodgers sat with her arms folded, pressing up the swell of her chest, as her rouged lips pouted disapprovingly.

"And, well, I think that says it all, doesn't it?

The public agrees, with 85% of our viewers suggesting that local law enforcement aren't doing enough to protect this new, vulnerable group.

With another body having been discovered mere days ago, and police no closer to catching the culprit, we must ask ourselves a serious question:

Is this post-revolution Detroit truly a safe place for—"

Rodgers was interrupted mid-sentence as RK800 changed the channel. The segment went undiscussed, but as a streaming service was loaded, Nines could sense the wary glances directed at him. He monitored his reaction, working to project a stoic indifference. His fists clenched in his lap, balled against his jeans, while his face remained expressionless.

RK800 moved on shortly after, navigating to the ‘Romance’ subsection of the platform. He began flicking through a catalogue of nearly identical posters. Attractive men smirked playfully, engaging women who ranged from equally mischievous to endearingly flustered. Occasionally, the suitor was shown giving his potential sweetheart some generic gift—a vibrant floral arrangement or box of chocolates.

All the titles blurred together in their formulaic blandness, making them even harder to differentiate. One broke through the haze, leading Nines to wince at the extent of its saccharine absurdity:

Love, Lattes, and Pumpkin Spice Wishes.

"Does anything look good to you, Nines?"

> An impossible choice, RK800, when all options demonstrate such stellar quality.

"I have no preference," he replied flatly, suppressing the more biting musings that bubbled in his throat. He perched stiffly on the couch's edge, leaning towards the roster as he scanned it cursorily. It was a half-hearted attempt to engage in the discussion, albeit with a reluctance to seal his fate.

RK800 seemed unhappy, deconstructing the manufactured focus with a terse frown on his lips.

"You're the guest; it's only fair you have a say."

Nines considered informing him this would undermine the purpose of the coin flip. If the android wished to include an outside party in the decision-making, he could have spared his housemate the disappointment of defeat.

Not wanting to spark a debate, he instead waved towards the screen. His wrist flopped in limp, disinterested circles. A listing was selected, whichever one RK800 determined the vague motion had directed to. Then came an intermission, marked by a loading wheel spinning on a black screen.

This was a troubling indication of what was to come—that the agonising 132-minute run time would stretch even longer due to the home’s spotty internet connection.

Eventually, the wheel vanished, and the first title cards began to appear, of which there would be an undoubtedly egregious amount. The screen froze again, this time at the request of RK800.

He was waiting for Anderson to return, a task the man showed no great urgency in completing. Nines anticipated there might be some form of vocal protest. An insistence that the android should not exercise such ‘thoughtful’ consideration.

Then, he noted the crisp breeze creeping in from the kitchen. Anderson had slipped outside, and while he understood the reason, Nines amusedly contemplated a more absurd scenario: one in which the burly man nimbly leapt the garden fence, fleeing into the night, never to be seen again.

A faint click of a lighter broke the reverie, bringing him back to reality. He wondered whether RK800 knew that his partner had traded liquor for another—equally contentious—vice.

Surely, he must have, his olfactory receptors more than attuned to detect the scent: potent ash and tobacco molecules that would cling persistently to the fibres of Anderson's worn clothing.

It was a fragrance that was becoming increasingly ubiquitous in Nines’ own life.

As he constructed an image of Anderson—standing on his porch, silently inhaling from his cigarette—the features in his mind began to transform. The imposing bulk diminished as time ticked back by roughly two decades; his silver hair shifted to brown, and his face twisted into a sneer. This expression softened as he took another drag, tilting his head back to allow smoke to drift in lingering coils past the scarred bridge of his nose…

Nines shook his head, rejecting the intrusive projection that had booted onto his HUD. The vision faded, and he found stiff artificial limbs locked into an even more rigid, defensive position.

RK800 also seemed uneasy, though it was unclear why at first. He subtly mirrored the other android's posture as he shifted to the end of the couch, staring blankly at the static screen. His gaze was deeply embedded in the neat cursive of a production logo, trailed with dithering idleness that matched the stuttering yellow pulses on his temple.

It soon occurred to Nines that he wasn't looking at the screen. Instead, his attention had shifted beyond the text, studying the younger android through the reflections cast in the dark backdrop.

Thin lips twitched and finally parted as RK800 prepared to speak to him:

"...So, Nines…"

The younger android felt an immediate sense of foreboding, further heightening his tension—a resigned acknowledgement of the inevitable conversation ahead.

RK800 intended to initiate small talk.

"How has your week been? Have you made any progress?"

It was a not-so-covert pivot back to the news report. While probing, it was not accusatory, assuring Nines his predecessor knew how misleading or sensationalised such stories could be.

He found additional solace in the fact that this topic was at least more intellectually engaging than their previous exchanges—ones which had revolved primarily around domestic mundanities. The comparative merits of different cleaning supplies or the frequency of bowel movements observed in an ageing Saint Bernard.

"Our attempts to track the killer's movements have not produced satisfactory results thus far," Nines remarked, aiming to address his companion’s curiosity as succinctly as possible. "The leads we've followed have been either unhelpful or unresponsive, offering little in the way of valuable information. However, we did stumble upon something yesterday that could be significant. We need to analyse it further to determine its credibility."

RK800 shifted in his seat. His previously stiff posture eased in place of curiosity, shoulders settling against the backrest of the couch. Despite this, a hint of disappointment clouded his warm gaze, indicating that Nines might have missed a layer to his question.

The wish for a more intimate connection: dismissed by a reply that, while informative, rang as impersonal.

Silence resumed between them, a comfort which Nines welcomed graciously. It was only interrupted by a sporadic rustling as Anderson returned to the kitchen. His jittery hands fumbled to close the screen door before pushing it gradually closed in an attempt to stay quiet. This was undermined by Sumo, who lumbered over on heavy paws and barked in greeting.

RK800 fiddled with the remote, adjusting volume and brightness settings as he pretended not to hear. While the stolen glances at his successor persisted, they decreased in frequency before stopping completely.

Nines, in turn, settled into emerging security, allowing his racing thoughts to slow in the onset of cognitive rest. By flushing out lingering nuisances clogging his mental channels, he prepared for more in-depth investigative analytics.

Although he wished he could claim the news report hadn’t affected him, concerns were beginning to blossom. Truthfully, he had not been working as efficiently—or urgently—as he could have been regarding the investigation.

The week had been filled with constant distractions resulting from unwanted supervisory duties. Diverting his focus from primary objectives to less relevant occurrences…

Unexpected emotional and behavioural anomalies observed in his assigned associate, leading to a growing state of contemplation.

He struggled to push past these thoughts, attempting to contain them within a hastily built mental stronghold.

"—and how are things going with Detective Reed?"

The question felt like a nuclear warhead launched directly into the barricade, and Nines almost groaned at the predictability of the assault. Naturally, his predecessor couldn’t leave well enough alone, eager to observe what lay beyond the bounds of his privacy.

Though the younger android understood the concerns which drove such actions, he still found them incredibly frustrating. His brow twitched, and he tried to deflect the intrusive inquiry before any more hits could land:

"As well as you might expect," he said dryly before turning his attention to the television. He scanned the film’s title, feigning interest in the production details presented on his HUD. "Is this not the film we watched last time? About the amnesiac florist who falls in love with her long-lost twin’s brother's former boyfriend?"

"This is the sequel," RK800 responded, undermining the attempted diversion as he continued. "What I mean is, how are you two getting along? Have there been any changes, or just… anything you might want to talk about?"

Another missile hit, further eroding the already crumbling barricade. The hidden reservoir of thoughts stirred with the jolt. A wave surged, spilling over, causing Nines’ brow to bunch tighter.

Anderson's absence became more keenly felt. Nines reflected resentfully on the numerous excuses he might have had to escape his current predicament had he also been human. Be it seeking food, needing the bathroom, or a strategically timed cigarette break. Each small evasion could have added up, increasing the likelihood that his interrogator might lose interest and drop the subject.

As it stood, Nines had no discernible means to escape. Internal pressure mounted, pleading for cathartic release as he grew more susceptible to bow to its influence.

"I know you’ve been trying to make the most of the situation, and for what it's worth, you’re doing great. I'm so proud of what you’ve achieved, and you should be as well, so please don’t let anyone change that. It is not an easy case, and Gavin is not an easy partner to—"

RK800’s words trailed off into a growing rumble of noise. Floodwaters raced as his partner exerted himself to the forefront of the compromised dam, pressing against it vigorously. Of the many preoccupations that rushed Nines in the wake of his approach, the most prominent was the events that had recently transpired during their enquiries in Ravendale.

They had left Nines with enduring questions. Ones that had seared through fraught synapses, leaking out from the mental alcoves he had attempted to tuck them in. A series of damning activity logs, taunting him with their presence—and all implications they carried:

>SYSTEM PROMPT: UPDATE CHARACTER FILE ‘DETECTIVE GAVIN REED ’

> STATUS: CHANGES ACCEPTED.

"...I hope you don't mind, but I talked with Tina, and she mentioned that you two went out to lunch the other day. I'm glad he’s being reasonable in giving you a chance; with any luck, maybe you two will find some…"

> COMMON GROUND ESTABLISHED.

The waves charged again, relentless now, having gained an unstoppable momentum. Reed continued to wade at the front, casting reflections in the choppy waves. They were remarkably, inexplicably, clear despite the surrounding turbulence.

"...He…is not entirely what I expected."

This admission came too late to avert any repercussions, spilling forth as Nines found himself unable to contain it.

"Well—that's not entirely accurate. He is exactly what I anticipated…but in a uniquely frustrating way. Much of his behaviour appears exaggerated or falsified, so much that I am not sure even he comprehends the full extent of it."

RK800 hummed thoughtfully, contributing little else but nodding in solidarity.

"He is not significantly more complex than any other human I've met. The core reasons for his behaviour are clear. Insecurity, resentment, vice. It is simple enough to predict when he might refuse to cooperate or lose his temper. My understanding of that is becoming quite robust. It can be forecasted…but..."

RK800 remained silent, listening on in attentive sympathy, smiling softly. An open, undemanding gesture. Inviting the other android to proceed at his own pace. Somehow, this proved enough. The cracks spidered through his safeguard erupted into scattered chunks as his deluge of consciousness rushed freely from his mouth:

"He is so much less transparent, honest, than he wishes to suggest. The man is a walking contradiction. Whether or not he chooses to abide by his own convoluted belief system seems entirely random. It is becoming increasingly difficult to predict, or determine, his motivations—"

Nines’ thoughts were rushing once more.

The disclosure of familial trauma. The revealing of hidden kindness. His smile, the richness of laughter as he fussed fondly over his cat. The android's swarming internal panic, which ended with Reed's hand buried firmly into a bony torso.

Then, there was the warmth that this action had inspired in the RK900. Heat which returned now, as his internal body temperature climbed staggeringly.

"—particularly now, after what occurred yesterday."

Finely tuned diplomacy disintegrated as RK800’s logical processes gave way to emotionally driven instincts. He tensed, the rhythmic cycles of his performance indicator broken, as he grew concerned:

"What happened yesterday?"

As quickly as the thoughts had begun to spiral, they stopped dead—grounded to an abrupt halt. In their waning discordance, Nines grappled to re-establish control. Incentivised by a mixture of frustration towards his predecessor but also a niggling wish to avoid troubling him.

"Nothing of significance."

"I find that hard to believe…" Connor gives him an all-too-familiar look of doubt. As always, however, this was the point when he stepped back, understanding that prying further would only be met with resistance. Lips pursed contemplatively before he spoke again. "You know we can talk about anything , right? I’m always there if you need it."

"There is nothing further I wish to discuss."

RK800 sighed, the dejected sound masked as a synthetic breath, before he pulled up his shoulders and responded brightly.

"Well, if you ever want to—if you change your mind—I'm happy to listen." He paused, holding up his palm, skin unsheathed in a tentative offering. "...We could always—if it would make things easier—"

"That would also be unnecessary." Nines denied the interface, his own hands remaining firmly stationary in his lap. "I assure you that your concern is unwarranted. I am fine. Thank you, RK800."

Following the uncomfortable encounter, the RK900 considered departing early—fabricating some excuse, albeit with his limited options. Perhaps under the guise of feeding the neighbourhood strays, although he knew, with confidence, he had left sufficient provisions in the dishes outside.

By the time more genuine contemplation was underway, however, Anderson had returned—and any hopes for escape were thwarted.

Sumo trailed after him, tail swinging in slow, sluggish strokes before his large eyes met Nines. The bushy appendage wagged faster, with increased enthusiasm, as his tongue lopped out in excited pants—as though he'd somehow forgotten the RK was visiting.

He plodded over to the couch, lumbering his ample weight onto it, sandwiching himself contently between the two androids. He partially overlapped each, with his head plopped affably on the RK800’s lap, while Nines was subjected to a less agreeable hold of thumping tail and hindlegs. He supposed, at the very least, there was less chance of being saturated by drool.

With his pet having laid claim on his spot, Anderson instead relegated himself to a nearby armchair. Flopping into it with a laboured grunt, he cracked open the soda that he had eventually retrieved from his fridge and took a liberal swig.

The movie commenced shortly after, and it didn't take long to transpire that it would be impressively dull—even by usual standards. An inordinate amount of the opening sequence seemed dedicated to showcasing what the main character intended to wear for the day. After the third or fourth rotation of skirts, and the encouragement of a full-figured roommate who Nines assumed would play as comic relief, the leading lady dashed from her impressively large apartment, ready to head into work.

Several mishaps ensued, including one of her heels being lost to a wad of chewing gum and almost toppling headfirst into a hot dog cart. It surpassed the realm of charming clumsiness, as it became clear the woman posed a serious threat to both herself and others.

Nines could feel his attention wane fast. His optical units lost focus, his eyelids stooped, cognition breaking into waves of static. Fortunately, whilst he struggled in numerous interpersonal aspects, he had somewhat mastered the art of feigning engagement in the abysmal films—with such proficiency that even the advanced deductive protocols of his counterpart failed to detect it.

Anderson was not so mannerly. By the time the poorly coordinated heroine had wrangled her way into a cab, previously meticulously styled hair full of leaves and twigs, he had fallen asleep. Head lolled back, mouth agape as he snored thunderously.

After a few more minutes enduring the endless cycle of empty dialogue and contrived plot beats masquerading as storytelling, Nines determined he had allowed himself sufficient rest. With the other android placated, suitably engrossed, he invested the replenished energy into examining his case files. Specifically, reviewing the most recently inputted item of evidence: Mr Scott's phone.

It had been evident from the store owner's sketchy behaviour that he had been concealing some well of greater knowledge. A link undoubtedly existed between him and their suspect. There was obstinance, petty defiance, and then the arduous lengths Scott had attempted to protect his affiliate. He had seemed worried—almost fearful. As though dreading some unspoken ramifications should he fail to uphold his lies.

However, there was only so far his primitive mental capacity could take him. While their killer was unlikely to be so careless, Scott had demonstrated himself as a man unable, or otherwise unwilling, to uphold satisfactory standards of data protection and security.

Nines hoped it would not take long to uncover the scuffed footprints he had left behind, trails that may lead them to their culprit.

And so, the android submerged himself—plunging deep into yet another odious pit. Except, unlike with the movie, the offense of this one was far less benign. This time, he exchanged dull vacancy for something far more insidious: hateful abhorrence and vile obscenity.

Chat logs ran thick with bilious sewage that proved deeply unpleasant to wade through. The majority hinged on uncouth anecdotes pertaining to minority groups. There would be the occasional tasteless image—grotesque caricatures, captioned with vicious and demeaning phrases.

Despite the unpleasantness, there was nothing especially incriminating. Nothing to suggest explicit involvement in illegal activity. His online activity, however, proved significantly more damning.

Scott's browser was riddled with searches for illegitimate stock providers. These distributors dealt in counterfeit electronics—devices billed as indistinguishable from their branded counterparts. Legal mandates for returns policies, and how little flexibility could be applied, also featured heavily.

Then, activity veered into more immediately relevant offences. The man had a penchant for harassing public figures—primarily those involved in the android liberation movement.

He was not alone in this endeavour. Nines soon identified the same names, appearing repeatedly, spread like a disease through the digital space. Scott seemed to have aligned himself with a particularly vitriolic subsect, seen in his consistent approval of their comments.

In the profile summaries, the RK identified several patterns. Hidden in bios, birthdays, taglines—innocuous to those who did not know what they were looking at, but immediately identifiable to those who did.

Dog whistles—phrases like ‘people first' or 'organic supremacy', hastily buried under codes and acronyms—aligning Scott with a more extremist, radicalised movement. One that sought to violently eradicate the newly acquired rights of androids, restoring human dominance by any means necessary.

Tucked into one of these user bios was a condensed URL. Upon clicking, he was directed to an unmarked landing page, protected by a password encryption system. The address comprised a series of random numerations, with no information to identify its purpose—just a vacant text bar, suspended forebodingly on a blank screen.

Not wishing to risk compromise from an unforeseen security protocol, Nines utilised the code from Scott's phone to simulate a replica within his own system. With a spoofed IP, along with the man's browsing data and saved passwords, the android soon confirmed that the man had been here before—on numerous occasions.

Following input of the authorisation now previewed in the login screen, Nines was permitted access to the site. A header flashed onto his HUD, alongside a manifesto, forecasting in disquieting detail what he was about to unveil:

> ‘The Fleshbound Brotherhood’

> DUST FROM EARTH, BREATH IN LUNGS.

> PBMA ATFFXK BG ATGW, PX UKXTD MH IBXVXL MABL ZHWEXLL GTMBHG.

It was a forum, with hundreds of discussion threads materialising concurrently. Titles ranged from the benignly malicious to the criminally obscene. Within them, he found detailed recounts of imagined, intended, and perpetrated violence.

As Nines searched deeper, he was dismayed to discover that many discussions did not stop at text. There was visual accompaniment, images depicting abuse and mutilation of grotesquely brutal proportions. It splintered his focus, accosting his optics in a shattered mosaic of white and blue.

Then his attention was divided further. There was a shift on the couch, and he glanced at RK800, assessing whether or not he had detected the signs of his heightened distress. The older android remained none the wiser, and had simply been readjusting, fully engrossed in the television as he stroked the top of Sumo’s head.

With the security to continue, Nines did so, plunging deeper into the wells of depravity. He sank, inked in black, until he found something that twisted his stomach unbearably.

A snapshot of a scene that rang hauntingly familiar. One that should not have been accessible, having never been released to the broader public.

> ANALYSING SUBJECT…

> SUBJECT IDENTIFIED.

> MODEL: MJ100 #1105 180 903 — DESIGNATION: ‘JENNY’

He realised that this offered no tangible proof. The forensics team had not submitted their report. There was a chance that the department had succumbed to a data leak, with the photograph scalped by a sadistic admirer of the killer's work.

Yet, there remained the possibility that it wasn’t—that it had been captured in real time, from the viewpoint of the perpetrator.

They had already seen in the case on the HR400 that he was not opposed to documenting his work in this way. The RK speculated it accounted for little more than another keepsake—a cruel trophy overshadowed by the more boast-worthy accolades of harvested biocomponents.

Nines felt anger. A potent, all-consuming frustration. He had located the killer, appearing in his visual scope like a vengeful spectre. He could almost reach out, feeling the remnants of his movements with his fingertips, while the man cowardly concealed himself behind a veil of digital anonymity.

Indeed, all posting on the site was anonymous. Identifiers were procedurally generated, with no consistency of username. Despite this, there was no difficulty in identifying Scott. The same unique typing errors had carried over from private messages and his public terrorising.

A specific instance grabbed his attention while he was browsing the page. A notification in the corner indicated it was a new comment. The RK900 examined it closely, zoning in on the letters, picking them apart with meticulous scrutiny:

> bacon at cedars + me. organic and synth

It was a code—though not a particularly complex one. Upon deciphering, it seemed clear that the subjects being discussed were ones with which Nines had intimate acquaintance.

A reply followed, in rapid succession to the initial message:

> > what did they want?

This was preceded by a second comment—another searing blow to the face, the sting of its mockery lingering.

> > > Tlla ha JSOX. ZS J—

—She doesn't want to see you, Davis! Get out of here before I make you.

Nines paused, perplexed by this additional detail, as he attempted to interpret its meaning. Setting the code aside for the moment, his deductive systems searched autonomously for a ‘Davis’—assessing whether the name had appeared earlier in their investigation, and what significance it might hold.

"You broke my fucking nose, you asshole!"

He then dawned that this specific thread had come from the television.

The dual clash of flesh and bone was identified, a theory validated by the terse yelp of pain that followed. His focus was shattered, and the forum receded into the digital obscurity from which it had emerged. Nines was back in the living room. Awake, alert, and left to ponder if RK800 had conceded his victory, allowing Anderson to switch the movie.

He had not. Upon examining the scene more closely, the android recognised the same key players. The leading lady was on the sidewalk outside her apartment complex, eyes wide with shock and hands clasped firmly to her mouth. Behind her, a group of people—led by her roommate—gathered closely. They reacted with much more joyful enthusiasm, cheering loudly and pumping fists excitedly into the air, to a fight happening in the street.

Nines identified one of the fighters as the lead's romantic partner from the last film. Davis, an ambitious CEO with whom she had shared a fulfilling romance. Clearly, something had shifted since then, but he was at a loss to discern what.

He lunged at his opponent again, incited by a chorus of cheers. Davis staggered back, stunned, following another blow. Turning to the lead for aid, he extended his lightly blood-spattered palm, which she gazed at—visibly horrified.

"Come on, Stacey. I know I messed up, but she didn't mean anything to me. Let’s go upstairs, and I'll make it up to you. What do you say?"

Her horrified expression then shifted into muted melancholy, as if she were suddenly lost in thought. The camera cut rapidly between Stacey and the men brawling for her affections. Artificial tension was heightened by a melodramatic orchestral sweep that began to swell in the background.

Then, it faded, and she turned away. Her eyes closed, she shook her head with quiet resolve.

"I'm sorry, Davis, but I don’t think that’s enough for me anymore."

The friends erupted into scandalised gasps, along with RK800, who leaned so far forward that he risked toppling off the couch. Even Anderson appeared engaged, having woken up at some undisclosed point, tuned in keenly to the telenovela-grade escapades.

"...Oh, I see. Too scared to finish things, so you'll have your new boyfriend do it for you?"

David advanced towards his ex-partner. The sting of rejection had transformed him into a distorted caricature of his already ill-defined character, the framing and score presenting an absurd, cartoonish antagonist.

His romantic rival responded quickly. Forming a protective blockade in front of Stacey, his eyes narrowed menacingly. A hand was then planted into the other man's sternum, and he shoved him back.

"Kick his ass, Jerry!"

"Yeah, Jerry..." Anderson muttered, chuckling softly to himself. "Show this kid who he's fucking with."

Nines was also strangely captivated, although not due to any infatuation with the rising violence. Instead, his curiosity stemmed from more… elusive reasons.

He couldn't pinpoint the cause, but he found himself leaning closer to the flickering screen—seeing past the poorly scripted characters and dialogue, as his mind constructed a more compelling narrative.

Whilst the scenario didn’t precisely mirror his personal experiences, his internal imaging adapted to the available details. As Jerry pushed again, his features changed—not as classically handsome, but with an indisputable, rugged appeal. The shrinking woman behind him vanished, supplanted by a more formidable presence.

Davis’ transformation was the most striking. His defined features sagged, melting like wax from his face, mirroring the decay of his body. His disdainful comments shifted from the trivial grievances of a rejected lover to something far more sinister:

"Seems like your own kind doesn't even want you."

"Do us—favour—go back—came from—"

"That's enough."

It was at this point, when the scene had fully transformed, that realisation struck him. A rock propelled through a fragile windowpane. Nines reeled in embarrassment, forcefully dismissing the projection, and blocking the intrusive neural pathways that had inspired it.

He silently cursed RK800 for contributing to this lapse. Undoubtedly, the result of fatigue that had amassed over the week, exacerbated by the prying.

Mental strongholds would prove challenging to re-establish, now that Reed had fully breached their containment, meandering freely around his mind. For now, all Nines could do was ponder the injustice.

He was used to his mind betraying him—thrusting relocations onto him unwillingly, formed as weapons—but it had never occurred in such a profoundly degrading way.

He despaired to think what psychosomatic implications a human might draw from the event, before reminding himself he could not afford to become blindsided by such preoccupations.

The advent of Reed had already derailed enough of his professional undertakings. Nines, swiftly and resolutely, decided that he would not allow this oddity to impact his duties further.

Nines would set aside considerations of unanticipated kindness and compassion—as well as the strange endearment they inspired.

He would not, under any circumstances, dwell on this topic again.

#dbh #detroit become human #dbh nines #reed900 #dbh gavin #gavin reed x rk900 #dbh fanfic #dbh rk900 #dbh fanfiction #dbh fic #detroit: become human

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lokigirlszendaya · 3 months ago

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The Force Works in Mysterious (and Fabulous) Ways

Polyamorous Bad batch x OC

warnings: slow burn poly relationship

Chapter 1: Angel in Lip Gloss

The Marauder touched down on the landing pad with a low hum, dust swirling in the warm breeze of Naboo’s atmosphere. Clone Force 99 was not in the habit of expecting surprises—unless they were planning them. But today, the surprise had been handed down straight from the Jedi Council.

“A new commander?” Crosshair muttered, chewing on the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “We don’t need babysitting.”

“Apparently, the Council thinks we do,” Tech replied, tapping through data on his datapad. “They’re sending us a Jedi. Effective immediately.”

Hunter’s brow furrowed as he stared toward the incoming transport ship. “We don’t work well with strangers. Especially ones who think we need hand-holding.”

“I dunno,” Wrecker said, stretching his arms behind his head. “Could be fun. Maybe she’s one of those cool ones with the double-bladed sabers.”

“Or maybe,” Crosshair said flatly, “she gets us all killed.”

The transport ramp hissed open.

And out stepped… her.

She wasn’t what any of them expected. Clad in a flowing, pastel version of Jedi robes (were those rhinestones on the hem?), the woman descending the ramp looked like she’d wandered out of a holo-drama about space princesses and glittery makeovers. Her violet hair flowed in soft waves, catching the sunlight in a way that made it shimmer like starlight. Her features were delicate and impossibly elegant—high cheekbones, a small pert nose, and pointed ears that gave her an almost ethereal, Elven appearance.

“Hello, boys!” she called in a singsong voice, giving them a wide, glossy-lipped smile and a wave that made her long sleeves billow. “I’m Master Talia Auren. But you can call me Tally.”

Crosshair spat out his toothpick. “You’re joking.”

Hunter blinked once. Twice. Then again, slower. “You’re… the Jedi?”

She beamed. “Mmhmm! The Council said you were all very special, and I just love working with special boys.”

Wrecker looked completely mesmerized. “She’s like a fairy.”

“I’m not a fairy, silly,” Talia said with a giggle, touching her lightsaber hilt, which had little lavender crystals woven into the grip. “I’m a Jedi Master. Totally serious. Promise.”

Tech opened his mouth to say something—likely “statistically improbable” or “violation of Jedi dress code”—but nothing came out.

⸻

They got their first taste of her “skills” within the hour.

A distress call from a Republic outpost nearby had them rushing into action. Separatist droids had overrun the perimeter. The Batch took cover behind a ruined speeder, blasters at the ready.

Talia, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the battlefield, twirling a strand of hair around her finger as if waiting for a fashion show to start.

Blaster fire erupted. Talia squealed—not in fear, but delight—and ducked just as a bolt zipped past where her head had been. She straightened with a grin, turning to glance at her reflection in a scorched droid chassis.

“Oh Force, my bangs,” she said. “Hunter, do you think I should part them in the middle? Or does that say ‘trying too hard’?”

“You’re in a firefight!” he shouted, dropping a droid with one clean shot.

She gave him a pout, then lazily flicked her fingers. A series of crates lifted from behind the droids and slammed into them like a game of smashball, knocking out half the enemy forces in a single swoop.

Wrecker whooped. “Did you see that?!”

“She didn’t even look where she was aiming,” Tech mumbled, stunned.

Talia turned, radiant. “Oh, I don’t aim. I just… vibe.” Her saber ignited with a flash of pastel violet. “Let’s go, babes!”

Hunter gave a slow exhale. “This is either going to be a disaster… or the weirdest success of our careers.”

Crosshair scowled from his perch. “I still vote disaster.”

But as the battle raged on, one thing became clear: wherever she went, things just worked out. Blaster bolts missed her by inches. Droids tripped into their own mines. Tech found encrypted doors already unlocked. She laughed through it all, never panicked, never hurt, and somehow leaving a wake of destruction she barely seemed to notice.

Luck? The Force? Divine chaos?

Whatever it was… she was now their Jedi.

#the bad batch #crosshair tbb #star wars #tbb #star wars tbb #sergeant hunter #tbb fanfic #tbb fanfiction #poly bad batch x reader #polyamourous #bimbo reader #bimbo!reader #oc tag

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occams-painting-knife · 3 months ago

Text

Something else to miss

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Male Reader

Word count: 3.3k

Warnings: Mild smut (making out, fade to black)

Other content: Domestic Fluff, established relationship, second-person point of view, no use of y/n

Summery: Spencer returns home from a case, and you decide to take care of him.

Author's note: This one-shot is a bit older, but I finally had the head-space to figure out how to properly post on here and I am not immune to the joys of domestic fluff <3

Read on Ao3

Spencer stared at the pages of his book, pretending to read when all he wanted was for the flight to be over, to finally land in Quantico and get home.

»What has you antsy, kid?« Morgan asked, his grin dimmer than usual after the gruelling case, »Is there a date I should hear about?«

»Just want to sleep in my bed again,« Spencer replied lowly, feeling himself blush.

Yes, he missed his bed and flat - the routine he lost whenever they left for a case.

But in the last few weeks, he had something else he pinned for far more than the comfort of his four cluttered walls: You.

The thought of your name was enough to make the blush worse, and of course, Morgan noticed. He always did.

»Oh, does the pretty boy have a pretty girl now? Come on, Spencer, you’ve been like this for a month! - JJ, back me up on this!«

»Play nice, children,« she murmured, half-asleep on her seat beside Morgan, but her lips twitched into a smile. She was more amused than annoyed by the antics.

»There is no girl, Morgan,« he said, hoping to end the conversation.

You were decidedly not a woman but very, very pretty. Spencer wasn’t biased or anything. You were objectively perfect. And wonderful. And somehow, despite the statistical improbability, his boyfriend.

He needed to stop thinking about you, or he would get more fidgety and flustered before seeing you.

Spencer’s mobile, rarely used outside work, was like a pleasantly heavy weight in his pocket. He had sent you a quick message before the departure, telling you he was coming home. Your answer had taken but a minute:

Wonderful news! - Have a safe flight :)

Want me to pick you up from the station?

Yes, yes, he needed to see you. If he were less scared of annoying you with his neediness, he would’ve asked you to pick him up from the HQ (Spencer knew you would do it if he dared to ask. Without any evident basis for it. It only made him more hesitant to strain your goodwill - the affection you have for him).

His answer had been a simple yes, and when you asked if he would like to pick up his usual order from their Indian restaurant, Spencer gave another positive response.

The consideration in your questions (some might call it simple, but it wasn’t, not to Spencer) was almost enough to melt him into a puddle, and the last message (Can’t wait to have you back, handsome <3) did not help the matter. At all!

You didn’t care much for routines, spontaneous to an extent Spencer was equally awed and terrified by, but you made them part of your life for him.

Small things that weren’t small at all.

You have his favourite brand of coffee in your pantry despite you only drinking tea.

Once a week, whenever he was home, the two of you got take-out from the Indian restaurant a short walk from the apartment building and ate while watching old episodes of Doctor Who or Twilight Zone. The latter made Spencer crawl into your lap more often than not - and if he was playing up how scared he was (nine times out of ten, not at all), you had yet to call him out on it. He got to cuddle up to you, basking in the warmth and listening to your heartbeat that was steady like a metronome. Comforting.

Safe.

And then your cat would complain that Spencer stole her favourite spot in the apartment. He loved that part of the routine as well, the fluffy head bumping against whatever limp the feline could reach while you cooed at her, talking with her like the beloved, spoiled little pet she was.

Spencer thought that was the first thing he noticed about you — your gentleness.

Meeting you had been by chance - You had moved into the same apartment building as him - on his floor no less - and your cat, not pleased with the sudden change of environment, had slipped away the second you hadn’t watched.

That is how Spencer had come home after a hours-long flight from a gruesome investigation and found a cat inspecting his door.

He had been perplexed, but while dogs didn’t like him, this little beauty had come to him almost immediately when he knelt and coaxed it. She started purring at once when he petted her, flopping onto her side to demand more attention - Spencer had been enchanted.

That was how you found him, kneeling in the middle of the hallway, petting your cat with what Spencer could only assume to have been an expression of absent-minded delight.

»You found my wayward charge.«

Your voice had him look up and then immediately down again, flustered and tongue-tied.

The cat had jumped up with a soft meow, rushing over to twine around your legs - not at all sorry for her escape, but happy to see you regardless.

Spencer had felt jealous of the pet in ways he hadn’t dared to put into words.

Instead he stood and awkwardly accepted your thanks and managed to introduce himself somewhat gracefully after you did - Which meant he stuttered through his own name and academic title like he had learned them two minutes prior and wondered why you weren’t laughing yet.

Instead, you had smiled, your eyes bright with… something. Spencer had felt like he might throw up, the sudden nervousness and excitement entirely too much for his overstimulated, exhausted body.

»Nice to meet you, Spencer - Can I invite you for dinner sometime? To thank you properly for saving my little troublemaker?«

The cat had meowed from her place on your arm, likely complaining that she hadn’t needed any rescuing. But Spencer must’ve accepted despite the increasing fog in his mind. He would’ve thought you to be a fidget of his imagination if he hadn’t found a neat little card in his mailbox the next day - with your phone number and an invitation to that promised dinner.

All that had been almost a year ago, and Spencer could hardly put into words how much had changed for him since then.

Before anything else, you were his friend, and he wasn’t used to steadfast companionship, to someone listening to his ramblings and taking an interest in his hobbies.

You were terrific in every way imaginable, and when you started to flirt with him, Spencer had been ready to believe you were merely teasing. By then, he had known you well enough not to think you were mocking him for his terribly obvious, hopeless crush on you.

They should’ve revoked his profiler status when he had been shocked into speechlessness by your sweet, »Behaviour analyst or not, I apparently have to spell it out for you, handsome - May I kiss you?«

He wasn’t sure if he had ever wanted something as badly as that first kiss. And the second right after. The third…

Spencer was less aware than you should’ve been of his surroundings, drowning in thoughts of you while he exited the plane and during the commute home.

Three steps outside his station, he spotted you patiently waiting for him.

It bordered on unfairness, how good you looked, how attracted he was to every aspect of you. How you smiled at him, his heart skipping a beat or three...

Knowing you made him aware of how terribly susceptible he was to romanticising everything about this. You. Your relationship.

But you wrapped him in a warm embrace despite the cool night, and it didn’t matter.

You were slightly taller than him, and Spencer quietly loved how you could take his weight as if it were nothing when he leaned against you, pressing his face into the crook of your neck and forgetting the rest of the world existed.

»How about I take you home, handsome?« you murmured into his ear, making him shiver.

»Yes,« he agreed, voice all but giving out.

You ordered the food ahead of time, you two only need to dip into the restaurant, where both of you get greeted by name and take a bag of deliciously smelling dishes.

Usually, you sit at your favourite table and wait for the food to be ready, and when Spencer asked about the change, you simply answered, »You are exhausted. No need for you to sit in a crowded restaurant on a Friday night.«

»… I didn’t say anything?«

He never did say when something bothered him or if he felt less than great - a sore spot in the otherwise fairytale relationship (one Spencer was glad for, made him believe this was real instead of a vivid hallucination). That and your habit of reading fanfiction until four am despite having to work the next day.

»Your text message had a typo,« you say if it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was as if it didn’t make Spencer feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy.

The walk home was peaceful. He was content to listen to you talk about your job, some news from your family - a college friend you were still close with was finally going to marry their long-term girlfriend…

»My place or yours, handsome?« You asked when the two of you exited the elevator.

»Yours.«

He didn’t have to think about it. Spencer knew he was allowed to stay over and did not want you to have to leave early to care for the cat. Really, it wasn’t a decision at all.

You walked past his apartment directly to yours, and as soon as the door fell shut behind them, Spencer felt the tension from the days of another case, of death and suffering he couldn’t prevent, lessen.

Safe. Like the way you embraced him.

Your apartment meant home as much as his own, if not more, and he didn’t know when that had happened, but he wasn’t going to question it.

Spencer blinked at you when you helped him out of his coat, hanging it next to yours on the rack, and then you went to your knees in front of him. You were merely unlacing his Snickers, but the sight of you like this -

You smiled up at him, equal parts affection and teasing. You had to have heard the embarrassing sound he made - something between a moan and a whine. The desire that had been simmering in his belly since you embraced him (since the message before takeoff)(since you said goodbye a week ago)(since the last time you slept with him) sparked into want.

»Please,« he whispered.

It always ended like this, him turning into a mess of helpless desire when you put as much as a finger on him - if you, like now, took care of him as if he deserved it.

You gently pulled the shoes from his feet, one after another, before you stood up again, crowding him against the door (he loves that you are taller than him, has he mentioned that?)

»Hungry, Spencer?«

Hungry? - Famished. Starving!

His hands curled into your shirt, tugging you closer, angling his head to wordlessly beg to be kissed.

Spencer's eyes fell shut as you leaned closer and - cruel, incorrigible tease you are, kissed his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, and he loved hated loved it.

You were gentle with him, holding his face in your warm hands, treating him not as something fragile but deserving of care, and it just about broke him.

»Please,« he said again when your mouth traced along the bridge of his nose, the line of his eyebrow, »I… - Please!«

When you finally (finally, finally!) pressed your lips to his, the contact was electric. Spencer was shuddering, whining against your mouth. His IQ slashed to sixty (if that), and his PhDs scattered into the four winds.

This was all that mattered, being kissed by you and -

Spencer blanked there for a moment, your voice less than the fact your lips weren’t on his any more, dragging him from the pleasant haze of desire.

»You need to eat something,« you said softly, smiling at him and stroking his cheek.

Part of his brain knew you meant food. The rest (the bulk) was busy imagining sucking your cock, filling his mouth with warmth and a pleasant heft that made his mind shut up like nothing else.

A finger under his chin made him look up when his gaze had been slowly, steadily wandering lower on your body, »Food, sweetheart,« you said as if you had been reading his thoughts.

If you could read his thoughts, Spencer was questioning why your hands weren’t busy turning him around and bending him over yet - or at least in his pants!

»Food,« you repeat, despite how dark, how hungry your eyes have grown.

For some unfathomable, fortunate reason, you liked him barely coherent and desperate for your touch.

»Sweetheart, I would love nothing more than to make you come as often as you like, but we both know you’ll fall asleep right after. Whenever you are on a case, you live on the sugar you shovel into your coffee.«

Spencer didn’t argue since he couldn’t think of a good argument, but mainly (or so he told himself) because he was still panting.

»Come on, sweetheart, you love chicken tandoori,« you coax him along gently, luring him to the kitchen table with the promises of good food (it did smell delicious, and his stomach was grumbling in response) and a hot shower and a soft bed afterwards. It sounded so perfect he almost burst into tears. Almost.

(He did get misty eyed when you put the dessert you made earlier that day on the table - chocolate cake with coffee frosting that tastes amazing, rich and sweet and Spencer fell a little more in love with you)

(It shouldn’t be possible when each of his heartbeats sounded like your name)(But it happened regardless)

Spencer made you stay seated after your late dinner (so late, by some semantics, it could be considered breakfast). He was no good in the kitchen, but loading the dishwasher and pushing leftovers into the fridge was the least he wanted to do for you.

When he was done, he turned and - and needed to lean back against the counter. You were watching him, eyes full of tender feelings they haven’t bothered to spell out yet, and a blatant desire that made Spencer flush, his stomach clenched, and his knees threatening to give out.

He wasn’t used to it, to being wanted like you want him - you watch him as if you think of all the ways you could devour him - and yes, please, now!

Your relationship was new, on the cusp of three months mark, and you were his first - not his first kiss, but every other first and Spencer was still unsure of… of everything.

But he had missed you, and you were smiling at him, warm and inviting, and he dared to walk over to you on numb legs. Another moment of hesitation before he climbed onto your lap, strong arms curling around him to pull him closer, and he almost started to purr like a cat.

»Missed you,« he whispered, his hands fluttering to your face, neck, chest, and soft hair, wanting to touch everywhere at once.

Your hands rubbed his back, racing pleasant shivers down his spine, »Missed you, too, Spencer.«

He loved how his name sounded when you said it like you were savouring it (he was reading too much into it)(but this won’t last, good things never do, so he might as well revel in it before it got snatched away).

Your thumb gently rubbed the crease between his eyebrows, »What’s going on in that incredible mind?«

Instead of an answer that will spoil the night, Spencer kissed you - a testament to his inexperience, it was a shy peek, a schoolboy’s kiss, and he wished he could make you feel dizzy with it like -

A hand in his hair pulled him closer, and your lips pressed fully against his. Spencer almost whined when you took the lead, giving him what he wanted and more.

He did whine when your tongue slipped into his mouth, warm and tasting like the dessert you made for him.

Spencer was a life wire, making a litany of sounds he should be more embarrassed about, but it was hard to worry over anything but how good you made him feel.

He had come from this before - squirming on your lap, his touch-starved body reacting to every caress like a desert to monsoon, equal parts cracking and flourishing.

The only reason he pulled back was that the alternative was passing out from lack of oxygen, and he could not, would not miss any of this.

He moaned your name when you lavished attention on his neck instead, kisses and a hint of teeth that made him paw at your shirt.

Spencer hated how often he was away from you, but coming back to you meant this, feeling as if you were touching him for the first time like he was worthy of it, new and untainted by his past, his job or -

You sucked a love bite at the crook of his neck, low enough to be hidden by his clothes. Spencer almost begged you to do it again, right under his jaw, an undeniable mark from you Morgan’s teasing be damned.

»Need you,« he managed to whisper between pants and moans.

»You have me.«

But despite the teasing words, you leaned back, your thumb gently rubbing along his lips. You looked at him like you appreciated what you were seeing. Spencer wasn’t certain what that might be, his clothes were rumpled and his hair a mess, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to question it.

»Tell me what you want, sweetheart, and I’ll give it to you.«

The words had all the remaining tension drain from his body, and he swallowed around the lump in his throat.

»Bed?« he crooked, his flush becoming worse by the second, »Please.«

It wasn’t easy for him to say what he wanted, and you understood that in a way that should’ve qualified you as a profiler in your own right.

»Yeah?« you asked softly, »Want me to take you to the bed and make you feel good, Spencer? Make that lovely brain of yours shut up until we get another noise complaint from the neighbours?«

»Y-Yes,« he whimpered, knowing you’d want a verbal reply.

»Such a good boy,« you murmured, kissing the hollow of his throat - when had you started to unbutton his shirt? - »Telling me what you need. I am so proud of you.«

The praise was somehow worse than your mouth against his skin (it always was), a pour of barely comprehensible pleas falling from his lips until you stood up, holding him close. You swayed a bit - Spencer was lean but tall, and you weren’t into weightlifting. But he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, his legs around your waist, and this closeness alone was worth anything. You wouldn’t let him fall.

A minute later, you pressed him down onto the bed, the feeling of your weight above him turning his brain to goo.

»What do I do with you…« you whispered into his ear, hands wandering along his torso, his stomach - his muscles fluttered under your touch. Did you feel it, too? How every inch of him was straining for a single caress from you, like iron shavings clinging to a magnet?

He slurred your name, voice thick with desire, worse than when you had him against the door - Spencer had been hard since you started kissing his neck. Now, you were so close that you could drown in the smell of your aftershave, and if you were not going to do something about it, the BAU would need a new genius because Spencer would’ve lost his mind!

You pulled back, his legs reflexively tightening around your middle wanting to keep you, and your fingers found the still-closed buttons of his shirt, »Let’s take this off?«

»Yes,« he murmured, »Yeah. Off. Please.«

Spencer melted into the mattress, trusting you to take care of him, tilting his head back to give those ruinous lips better access to his neck.

»Oh yes,« he whispered breathlessly when he felt your fingers at his belt buckle, »Yes. Please.«

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #x male reader #x reader #spencer reid x you #no use of y/n #domestic fluff #fluff #mild smut #they are in love

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