#what's the helix anyway...

[franeridan]

boy i need to reread dgm for real holy fuck

[sysig]

Reverberations, configurations (Patreon)

[sabziesart]

Love at first sight...?

[dyslexic-mess]

Friend: so, your super into doctor who, right now

Me scrolling Dr who tumbler on my phone with an episode of Dr who playing on my computer that has tabs open to the Dr who fanfiction I'm writing and three diffrent youtube dr who lore deepdive videos, fiddling with the chain I've added to my helix ring:

Me: What makes you say that?

[aquaticflames]

Last Line Challenge

Rules: in a new post, show the last line you wrote (or drew) and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like). 

tagged by the ever-amazing @shootingstarpilot (did you say your chapter draft is fifty-five pages?! i. can't. wait.), and been working through the more technical moments so that's fun! take a peek. as always medical things in-bound.

“Oh definite enlargement there.” Arti says, scrolling up and down the frontal plane and tracing a loop around a spot in the neck with his finger. “That isn't surprising. This site though, does... this node near his windpipe, that look abnormal to you?” “Yeah, a little.” Helix rubs over his mouth with one hand, clearly thinking hard, and glances Arti's way. “The shortness of breath.” “Could be. Not seeing other lymphadenopathies at a glance but I'll take this and review properly.” Arti muses, already tapping away at the console to copy the imaging over to his datapad. “Comm me when the PET is done.” When it's just he and Helix left at the helm, the CMO tilts his head to him, eyes still on the scan. “Thoughts?” “Well, um,” Polymer blinks, pulling out his ‘pad. “We need to be cautious mistaking direct extensions for extranodal activity. Those paratracheal nodes though–" He catches himself, abruptly aware of the Commander's quiet presence in the corner – occupying himself, yes, but still here, still listening – and he redirects. "If we find pleural activity...?” Helix meets his eye. Polymer, all at once, understands why this brother is their CMO. He is unshaken, and his voice is even, and – here, where it matters – he is unreadable. “Then we'll cross that bridge.”

making this one an open tag for anyone who wants the motivation to re-open an old doc - tag me!! <3

[spookykestrel]

If anyone has keloid treatment suggestions I’m all ears 🙏👂

[kardia-library-official]

[tobesolnelyx]

hey, we had fratboy shauna, lottie, and... fratboy jackie?

— so into you || fratboy and g!p jackie taylor headcanons 🎬

a/n: nothing smart to say this time. just need her. also, she gives strong ariana grande songs vibes if you ask me.

summary: she changed since high school and turns out…she’s not as bad as you thought she is. modern college au. girlfriend!jackie.

warnings: NSFW - content - MDNI

★ — well, you didn’t know that someone like jackie taylor exist til the day you walked in class. she sits spread open at the desk. varsity jacket around her shoulders with college soccer team logo. there’s weird, like really concerning amount of silver rings on her fingers. and, oh god, boxers are picking out from the waistband of her jeans.

★ — after that you learn that this girl is a soccer team captain! and your friends are pretty sure she’s into you. you let it slide for now, cause jackie…simply doesn’t make a move. sure, smiles at you, sometimes throw compliment or two. but nothing besides that.

★ — and hell, that girl got reputation. people say she’s mean which…just doesn’t make sense in your head. she’s so nervous around you, how could she be mean to anyone? then, when she finally gets her shit together, she catches you in cafeteria and in front of all your friends she asks you out.

i mean, she tries. cause what comes from her mouth sounds like she’s choking. “hi…so…” she swallows. “i actually don’t know, i mean, you don’t have a boyfriend, yeah? or hell, girlfriend? i just…” she stutters. “maybe you wanna go out? tomorrow? i mean, no rush! we don’t have to, it’s your choice, really…”

“jackie” you cut her off. “just pick me up around 6.”

she stares at you for a moment then she looks like she’s suddenly buzzing with energy. “oh fuck, great—“ she says relieved. “i mean, yeah. cool. whatever.” she mumbles, trying not to sound overexcited. she does anyway. she blushes like a total idiot walking away.

★ — did i mention her obsession with varsity jackets? no? cause this asshole has whole ass collection in her closet. not like you’re complaining when she borrows you another one. they’re smell like hell. (borrows is a big word, she just warps you in it. deal with it.)

★ — oh jackie’s smell. always so fresh, with that cologne sticking tt her skin that fills up your nostrils anytime she’s hovering over you.

★ — right! going back to her rings! the same with jackets — whole ass collections is placed at her nightstand. she wakes up in the morning and put random ones on. the more the better. turns out she loves jewellery in general. necklaces, bracelets. yes, she wears your bra strap as a bracelet.

★ — speaking of which — jackie has piercings! just in ears tho. beginning with basic lobes and ending with conch, helix and rook. and well…one hidden one. albert king piercing.

★ — you gasp when you have sex for the first time, feeling something like ring brushing against your velvet walls. you stare at her. not used to this new sensation.

“jackie, is that…?” you start but she nods swiftly, cheeks are flushed both from embarrassment and arousal.

“is it bad, cause…?” she pants but you shake your head swiftly.

“no, fuck that’s…” you manage to choke out. “that’s hot, jax.”

★ — you see, jackie was a virgin until she met you. she’s so panicked when you’re fucking for the first time. constantly asking you if she’s doing okay, if she’s not hurting you.

“jesus christ, jax.” you breathe out with amusement. “just fuck me.”

and god knows she does. firstly, she’s hesitant, taking things slow. but when her dick is buried deep inside your slick folds? she nearly cries out from pleasure. poor jackie, never had pussy around her cock. when she gets more confident, she fucks you like woman possessed. and she even moans way louder than you. whimpering in your ear with each thrust.

★ — not to mention the first time you give her a head. her eyes rolls back in her head from pleasure while you suck her tip with piercing.

★ — here’s another thing: jackie is prideful. jackie doesn’t like when people tell her what to do. always cocky, in charge. like she’s the best in every single thing she does (she’s not. she’s just annoying.) and then, there’s you. and she loves when you put her in her place while riding her dick. or even without fucking her. she just obeys.

★ — she loves affection but only privately. in public she plays this unbothered, smug frat. keeping your close but not always touching you. pressing kisses to your neck occasionally but she doesn’t cling to you. not around people at least. cough, reputation.

★ — cause when you’re alone? fuck, she does cling. her hands are all over you, lips travelling constantly up and down. like she’ll die if she won’t be touching you. call her all you want, she’s secretly an awful simp for you. also, people know that. probably after she fell asleep on you at that one party. gripping you like you’re the last person on planet earth.

★ — she gives you a lot compliments. leaving the notes on the fridge, in your notes, in your bag…everywhere. and you learn to compliment her too by that! she’s blushing like hell when you call her handsome.

★ — she’s annoying. like really fucking getting on your nerves sometimes. caring too much about her reputation. her clothes. her fucking appearance. all the damn time.

“jax, what the hell?” you ask irritated walking into the bathroom. “you’re sitting here for hours.”

“yeah, to look pretty for a date with my prettiest girlfriend” she grins tugging you for a kiss. and yeah…you melt right and there.

★ — she’s a smoker — always walking everywhere with her vape. she probably smokes something awfully sweet. like strawberry or raspberry.

★ — she needs to keep up her reputation of that confident, perfect asshole that somehow is loved by everyone around. but when it comes to you…you’re her safe place. she’s sensitive. more than people think. sometimes she simply cries in your arms because of the pressure. only to feel a little guilty next day and brings you breakfast to your bed. from your favourite restaurant. she memorised.

★ — she doesn’t say much i love you’s. she’s definitely not so obvious with her love. but she’s sure as hell possessive — you’re her absolute everything. and jackie taylor doesn’t share.

[franeridan]

since in vol 3 road says that thing about god I was like wait I'm pretty sure that one conversation she had with cross during the mana flashback was relevant to this, so I went to look it up (I actually don't own that volume! because it's been out of print in italy for ages!!! life is terrible sometimes) and uhhhhhh.....yeah. I forgot just how insane that conversation was from a lore drop pov. Anyway they don't say anything explicitly relevant or easy to figure out when it comes to the whole god situation, but in the beginning of the chapter Cross says once again that Mana ate Neah and then forgot nearly all about it, and now I wonder if the process for that was somewhat similar to what p!Allen and p!Lavi went through? What with p!Allen essentially eating p!Lavi and then forgetting all about it

[moussedoodles]

"This town's big enough for one cool guy,"

"There's something different about you,"

WAGH, THE MAFIAxGANGLEADER AU PIECE IS FINALLY DONE GOOD GOD, DESIGNING NEZHA AND AO BING PUT ME THROUGH THE WRINGER

Anyways! Hope you guys like these designs! Might draw more of the other characters (The rest of the Loong family + SGB, or the rest of Nezha's gang) one of these days lmao

Some design notes:

Ao Bing

The thing over his shoulders is a hanfu-styled jacket, with it's inner having a dragon pattern in the style of those blue porcelain pieces

The lapels of his vest and the hem of his pants have the same print as the fabric of his hanfu and robes in his canon design

The hairpin that keeps his hair up is supposed to mimic his horns in canon, though I don't know how clear that is 😭

His hair is incredibly well-maintained, especially since he dyes it often

It's not pictured, but he has ice burn scars that crawl up from his palms to a little above his wrists

This is what he wears on the job/when going outside. Otherwise, he dresses pretty casually, defaulting to a light sweater vest, sweater, or cardigan over a white button-up (like the one fit his irl mascot wore lmao)

Again, unseen, but he has a large tattoo of his dragon form from the original movies! I still haven't decided if I want it on his arm or on his back yet tho lmao

That uniform has been through a lot. A lot of his wardrobe comes in white or light blues, which is a biiiit of problem when you're the son of a mafia kingpin and you're occasionally tasked with "helping" people "swim with the fishes".

Nezha

All of his clothes are thrifted. All of them. Especially the red cropped jacket

Speaking of which, has lots of lotus motifs (inspired by this design by snowscapism) and the yellow lining the lapels calls back to the vest lil Nezha has in canon

That crop top used to be a normal, black crop top before Nezha absolutely shredded it (probably in some accident) and painted over it to make it "cooler". He also painted over the cargo pants he's wearing.

ANOTHER jacket tied to his waist as another callback to the yellow ribbon in Nezha's canon design

A lot of his jewelry were gifted to him by mama Yin when she saw he took interest in some of her own pieces when he was younger. The only ones that weren't were his helix piercings which he got without telling anyone in his family lmao

He also does his own makeup and face paint. The red, flame-like markings are a symbol of their gang, and every member has the mark, often done by Nezha himself

HENNNAAAAA!!! I GAVE HIM HENNA ON HIS HANDS :))) I LOVE HENNAAAAAAA!! They have a lotus design on them, but they aren't exactly that noticeable 😭

Rollerblades....

[rinnstars]

kiss me right!

in which itoshi rin gets a tongue piercing

itoshi rin x reader: fluff, suggestive (making out), drabble, not proofread + likes n reblogs r appreciated!

it was out of impulse rin thinks, or so he likes to believe.

pictures on your pinterest pinned on a board of piercing — snake bites, helix, central eyebrow piercing that rin can’t help but scroll through. its a habit he’s kept up, scrolling through your pinterest boards for ideas: from clothes idea to buy online for you to surprise especially for matching outfits like the chikawa jacket that he’s even wearing now on his bed, from photo ideas that fills his camera roll and polaroids that prints out to be pasted right on the walls of his bedroom for him to admire and unconsciously grin to himself, from date inspiration for him to take you out on on his rare days off without training.

and now he’s lying on his bed right beside you — a silver circle pierced through his tongue awkwardly as he fiddled with it inside his mouth, looking at you who’s lying right next to him on your phone, undoubtly scrolling through pinterest looking through piercings again and its killing him inside. sure, its his second day with his piercing and he probably shouldn’t do anything drastic in case of an infection. yet, he’s getting all fidgety, his hands fiddling with his phone with no purpose, scrolling through his socials that are practically empty or filled with boring football game videos, his legs fidgety and rubbing against yours as a habit and to warm both you and him up in the slightly chilly room, his teeth habitually rubbing against the cold metallic jewellery right in his tongue that he sucks against that was still slightly sore.

what would you do if you see his new piercing? would you look at him in surprise with him never indulging in such fashion stuff with most of his mind filled with football — his accessories pilled on him all belonging to you, his sweaters that are picked up by you or inspired from your pinterest board, his closet either that or only consisting of football jerseys and hand me downs for sae. would you be into it — you clearly like those cool piercing evident from your pinterest board, you always fawn over him whenever he tries something new whether it was that one time where he sported your sanrio hairpin for the first time or wore yours and his matching ring outside with you, your flushed face and stuttering words as you look at him that makes his heart swell.

“hey. i wanna try something.” if there’s anything rin can’t help but give in, its when its regarding you — whether it is when you look up at him with those puppy eyes even as a joke to go to the arcade with you once again to try yours and his luck in the claw machine that’s clearly rigged (and yet he spends his allowance there still anywhere for a chance for you to beam at him), or whenever you ask him of anything from helping you to tutor you in english or to share his food, or in this case giving in to you who’s right beside him. after all, he might not get the chance to see you when it recovers anyways — with your exams season approaching and his football competition season colluding soon as well.

and he thinks its already worth it even though you’ve just looked up from your phone, your eyes blinking as you tilt your head to face him, and he can’t help but smash his lips right against you.

its brash: its as if he’s kissing you for the first time, yours and his forehead knocking slightly against each other, his hands always finding its way to linger on your chin, pulling you even closer right into him as though he wants to melt you and him together, biting on your lips still as yours and his blood merge together. and as usual, his tongue makes his way and finds its home right inside your mouth, as though interlocking with your tongue that’s warm in contrast to his cold metallic piercing that’s even more sensitive than usual when it touches against yours. and he can guess you like the new change: with the way your eyes widen and your grip on his shirt tighten as your noise gets swallowed by his passionate kiss, the way your tongue keeps finding its way to touch the cold jewel and linger right on the sensitive spot of his tongue, the way you too pull him even closer by his shirt as you and him melt even closer: only pulling away slightly panting with drool strings connecting you and him.

“do you like it..?” rin can’t help but ask even if he knows the answer: his voice slightly shaky and breathy from the make out session, his cheeks burning still with yours and his face merged against yours, his hands still lingering right on yours as though needy and in need of your affection that he’s practically addicted to at this point.

“yeah.” one word, and you crash your lips against his once again — and rin thinks this might just be the best decision he’s ever made so far.

with the way your tongue feels right against the sore spot on his tongue that makes him whine against you, vibration sending through yours and his mouth that makes his grip your shirt a little tighter as you tug at his jacket as though still pulling him closer as though you and him aren’t practically merged together, and the way you are practically going crazy in contrast to how you usually let him take the charge as your hands find your way in to his hair that earns a whimper from him, as you shift yours and his position into a more comfortable one: all whilst not disconnecting yours and his as though it would practically kill you to separate you and him.

and as saliva drools down as he kisses you back, euphoria practically filling him — rin thinks this piercing might be the best thing and he’s sure you think so too as you unzip his jacket with your spare hand.

[satorurize]

Part of the Lover!jjk series.

A/N: So Sukuna won the poll, this is my first time writing for him. I hope I did him justice lol

Part 1.

Ryomen Sukuna was a firm advocate that love was a dangerous fantasy for mortals, and such fantasies were cathartic when there is a lot to be afraid of, however, the king of curses didn't have anything to be afraid of.

Loverboy!Sukuna who thought at first that love was nothing but a myth for someone like him, since the core of his existence stemmed from bane, from malevolence.

Loverboy!Sukuna who thought you were a measly, mortal fool when you tried to convince him love did indeed exist. But wait..why was he thinking of how gentle you sounded while you were spewing bullshit about something that doesn't exist?

Loverboy!Sukuna who started looking forward to your exchange of anecdotes with him, he felt comfort in the fact that someone was willing to listen to his story, not out of fear as other people in his life, but out of genuine curiosity besides Uraume.

Loverboy!Sukuna who starts directing his attention to delicate varieties of flowers that he'd usually take pleasure in crushing and turning into ashes. His thoughts wander upon how those same flowers would look tucked behind your ear or in your hair.

Loverboy!Sukuna who asks Uraume to bring him any small, dainty kind of flowers with a subtle, thoughtful smile on his lips and an uncharacteristic, benign look in his eyes. Uraume’s eyes nearly fall out of their sockets at how soft their lord is acting. Was it really him?

Loverboy!Sukuna who takes you by surprise when he tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears and tucks the flower behind your ear. “What was that for, king?” You asked with a slightly bewildered smile on your face to which he could only muster up a nonchalant reply “Do you need to ask questions for everything I do, mortal? (how would the king of curses admit he's feeling his heart race, that's weak.)

Loverboy!Sukuna who obviously doesn't do things conventionally and takes you on a proper date at a restaurant by scaring everyone else away so it's just the two of you and the (very terrified) staff—privacy is important between lovers after all, he lived by that virtue.

Loverboy!Sukuna who has a scowl on his face and he spits out a “what.” When you ask him if you could tie pink ribbons onto his enormous 4 arms—but then gives into your ridiculous request anyway.

Loverboy!Sukuna who thinks of all the ways he'll punish you in bed after you teased him for having witnessed the helix of his ears turn pink, seeing someone like him adorned in pink ribbons.

Loverboy!Sukuna who miserably fails at punishing you, or fuck you rough when he notices how glassy your eyes are when one of his two cocks is not even halfway inside your poor, battered cunt.

Loverboy!Sukuna who talks you through it, having you in missionary when heian era he was used to fucking his concubines from the back. Even your face was cupped in his palms, so tenderly. “You can take it woman, easy..breathe for me.”

Loverboy!Sukuna who for the first time makes note of what feels good to his partner and what doesn't, taking it very seriously.

Loverboy!Sukuna promises himself that in this lifetime, where he took on the kinder path, he'd make you his wife, the only one and not a concubine.

Loverboy!Sukuna who feels the monster in him fall silent the moment he rests his head onto your lap.

[clementineinn]

the door into summer

abstract: on a warm summer evening, under the hush of string lights and the flicker of fireflies, something quiet begins to shift. what starts as laughter among friends becomes a night of near-confessions and stolen glances, where the air is thick with memory and want.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader (usage of Y/N)

genre: tooth-rotting fluff

word count: 7.5k

note: thinking about summer and spencer reid has me in a daydream all day long. writing this out in my uni's library was one of the best feelings ever, how could you ever explain that to a man?? anyways, as always, enjoyy!!

Quantico, BAU Bullpen – Late Afternoon

The late-day hum of keyboards and rustling case files filled the BAU bullpen, a soft chorus of exhaustion and focus that clung to the fluorescent light like static. Coffee cups sat half-empty beside piles of reports, and the air buzzed with the quiet fatigue that came at the end of a case—the kind that settled into shoulders and softened voices.

And then, breaking through it like a glittering firework in a library, came the familiar chiming of bracelets and the unmistakable voice of Penelope Garcia.

She didn’t enter so much as burst in—arms full of color, bangles clinking with every dramatic step, sunglasses perched on her head despite being indoors. Her dress was a swirl of citrus hues and soft ruffles, and her heels clicked like punctuation across the tile.

Hotch looked up from his office doorway with a faint smile that read: here we go again.

“Attention, my beautiful crime-fighting weirdos!” she declared, hands raised like a ringmaster about to announce the main act. “We are officially T-minus six hours until the most important event of the month—nay, the summer. And if any of you bail, I will hack into your iTunes libraries and replace every playlist with accordion covers of Nickelback.”

A few chuckles rippled through the bullpen.

“I’ve already RSVP’d yes like, four times,” Prentiss said, spinning in her chair. “I’m mostly going for the themed cocktails and the regret.”

JJ chimed in from behind her desk. “Will there be karaoke again?”

Garcia winked. “There will be redemption.”

Rossi emerged from the break room with a steaming mug. “I’ll bring wine, as tradition dictates.”

As conversations resumed, Morgan turned from his desk and caught sight of Spencer, who was absently twisting a paperclip into a helix. His eyes weren’t on Garcia. They were drifting—softly, unconsciously—toward the far corner of the room.

Toward her.

Y/N was leaning against the edge of JJ’s desk, talking animatedly with her, Prentiss, and Garcia, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Something about the way she stood—loose-limbed, relaxed, laughing with her head tilted—made the air feel just a little warmer.

Morgan didn’t miss it.

“Yo,” he said, voice low and teasing as he leaned toward Reid. “You going tonight?”

Reid blinked, snapping out of his trance. “What?”

“To Garcia’s,” Morgan said, nudging him. “The party. First night of summer. That thing she’s been planning since Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh. I don’t know. I might.”

Morgan’s grin was slow and knowing. “You should.”

Spencer glanced at him warily. “Why?”

Morgan tilted his head toward the corner, where Y/N was laughing at something JJ just whispered. “Because she’s going.”

Spencer’s jaw twitched—just barely. His eyes flicked down, then back up again. “So?”

“So,” Morgan said, slapping a hand on his shoulder, “wear something that doesn’t look like it’s from a calculus textbook. Maybe tonight’s the night you stop staring from across the room.”

Spencer opened his mouth to protest—but then Y/N looked over.

She didn’t say anything. Just caught his gaze and smiled—small, quiet, real.

And Spencer’s heart forgot its rhythm entirely.

Garcia’s Backyard – Early Evening

The sun was still clinging to the edges of the sky in long, golden ribbons when Y/N stepped onto Garcia’s lawn, a coil of twinkle lights looped around her arm like a garland spun from stars. Her brown boots pressed softly into the grass, each step sinking just slightly into the earth, grounding her in the hush of early summer.

The air was velvet-warm and fragrant—lavender, honeysuckle, and the faintest trace of citrus from a glass left on the railing. Wind chimes stirred above the porch in slow, dreamy tones, their silver song fluttering through the breeze like a lullaby meant only for summer’s beginning.

Her dress fluttered at the hem—white and lacy, soft as breath, catching the golden light like it had been made to glow. It clung to the curves of her hips in motion, the delicate fabric shifting with every step she took between lantern poles and flower beds. She looked like something from a story whispered at twilight—half-real, half-lantern light.

Garcia watched her from the porch, barefoot herself, a bundle of citronella candles tucked under one arm like potions.

“Okay, moonflower,” Garcia called from the patio steps, hands on her hips, surveying the backyard like a general readying for battle. “We’ve got exactly one hour to make this place look like a midsummer dream crossed with a Stevie Nicks fever vision. Let’s summon the party gods.”

Y/N laughed as she reached for the nearest fence post, beginning to wind the twinkle lights around it. “You’re mixing metaphors again.”

“I contain multitudes,” Garcia said dramatically, then gestured to a crate of vintage glassware, solar lanterns, and fake moss. “And you contain the only sense of symmetry I trust right now.”

The two of them moved in a quiet, easy rhythm—Garcia orchestrating with flair, Y/N adjusting the delicate twinkle lights with careful hands, her touch light as breath on glass. The strands draped between fence posts like constellations, catching the last of the sun as it dipped behind the trees. Mismatched candle holders lined the long table, flickering already as if they couldn’t wait for dusk.

Y/N’s brown knee boots whispered through the grass as she stepped back to admire their work, the worn leather grounding the soft sway of her white dress—a contrast of strength and softness that somehow suited her perfectly.

Eventually, Garcia stepped back, let out a long, theatrical sigh, fanning herself with a flamingo-shaped paddle. “You look like a Renaissance painting. Like if Botticelli painted summer in boots.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips was warm. “You picked the outfit, technically,” she said, looping the last coil of lights around the edge of the pergola. “You threatened to withhold music recommendations unless I wore something ‘solstice-worthy.’”

“I did no such thing,” Garcia said, gasping. “I merely suggested that if you wore that dress, certain individuals might experience temporary cardiac distress. No names. No pressure.”

Y/N arched a brow. “You mean Spencer?”

Garcia feigned innocence poorly. “Did I say that?”

“I like him,” Y/N said simply, not able to help the smile blooming on her face, smoothing her palms down the fabric of her dress. “Not exactly a government secret.”

Garcia’s expression softened, all glitter and truth. “He likes you too, honey. Has for ages. The man practically blinks in Morse code when you walk into a room.”

A hush fell between them—not awkward, but full, like a breath held between pages of a story just beginning to turn.

Y/N let out a soft, breathy giggle—light and a little dazed, the kind that escaped without asking permission. She ducked her head slightly, as if even the breeze might overhear. A touch of rose bloomed in her cheeks, blooming even deeper when Garcia grinned knowingly.

Around them, the garden hummed in gold and green. Fireflies blinked lazily along the hedges, slow and deliberate, like sparks from a match that never quite catches. The sky above had begun its slow descent into dusk, shifting from the faintest robin’s egg blue into soft mauve, a color only seen when you were still long enough to notice it—quiet enough to be changed by it.

And for a moment, the whole world felt paused on the edge of something beautiful.

Y/N tied the last ribbon to the pergola, fingers lingering on the knot, and turned to Garcia. “Well… let’s see if he shows up.”

Garcia smiled, eyes twinkling. “Oh, he’ll be here. And when he sees you—” she made a theatrical explosion gesture with her fingers, “—brain. Gone.”

They both giggled, the sound delicate and light, like wind chimes stirring on a summer breeze—bright, private, and gilded by the last amber blush of day, as if the dusk itself had leaned in to listen.

By the time the citronella candles were flickering in full force and the fairy lights blinked to life overhead, the backyard had begun to swell with familiar voices.

The first to arrive was JJ, with Will at her side and Henry tucked on his hip, already sleepy-eyed from the car ride over. Y/N swooped in for hugs, cooing over Henry’s shark-print pajamas, her colorful counterpart offering him a cup of apple juice in a sparkly tumbler.

Rossi strolled through the gate next, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a Tupperware of something suspiciously gourmet in the other. “I figured someone had to bring a dish that didn’t involve glitter or gummy worms.”

“Rossi!” Garcia squealed. “You brought carbs and judgment—just what I needed.”

Hotch didn’t stay long—he swung by just long enough to hand Garcia a summer bouquet and promise he’d attend next year’s party for more than fifteen minutes. He exchanged a few quiet words with Y/N at the edge of the lawn before heading out to catch Jack’s game.

Then came Emily, in cutoffs and a vintage band tee, holding a six-pack and shouting something about missing her punk phase. She immediately pulled Y/N into a hug, murmuring something with a grin that made her laugh and swat at her arm.

The backyard filled slowly, in the best way—people drifting in with half-finished drinks and easy laughter, staking claims to folding chairs and porch steps. Music hummed low from the speakers Garcia had tucked near the herb garden, soft enough to let conversations overlap like waves. Fireflies blinked in and out along the grass line, pulsing gently like they had nowhere else to be.

Near the far edge of the yard, someone set up a folding table and started arranging red cups. A round of beer pong had begun. Prentiss immediately accused JJ of stacking the teams, both unable to contain the ringing laughter that escaped their lips.

And through it all, Y/N moved like the center of gravity—refilling drinks, catching up with JJ and Emily, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the music as the wind played with her hair.

Every now and then, her eyes flicked toward the gate.

Garcia noticed. Of course she noticed.

“He’ll come,” she murmured, passing Y/N a glass of sangria and a soft look. “You know he will.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She just took the glass and nodded once, fingers tightening around the stem.

And then—

The gate creaked open.

No one looked up right away. The music had mellowed into something slow and warm, weaving through the laughter and low conversation scattered across Garcia’s backyard. String lights blinked into gold overhead. Prentiss was accusing Rossi of cheating at beer pong again, Garcia was convincing Henry that fireflies were tiny fairies and not bugs, and someone popped open a beer with the hiss of summer behind it.

Spencer hovered just inside the gate, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of a slate-blue shirt that Garcia had all but bullied him into wearing. His sleeves were rolled up past his elbows—he wasn’t sure if it looked intentional or just like he’d gotten too warm and panicked.

He didn’t know where to go, exactly. Or how to move. Or breathe.

Because there—at the far edge of the patio, half-turned toward the light—stood Y/N.

And she looked like every thought he’d ever tried not to have about her, wrapped in dusk and light and lace.

Her hair—soft with waves from the heat of the day—cascaded down her back like sun-warmed silk, catching the last of the golden light in a way that made his breath catch. The white dress—short, delicate, almost too fragile for this world—fluttered at the hem, shifting with the breeze like it had a mind of its own. It danced against her thighs in fleeting, whispering touches, revealing glimpses of skin so soft and bare it made something in him ache. His eyes followed the line of her leg down to the top of her boots, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been made just for her.

She stood with one hand cradling a half-glass of dark sangria, its deep red glinting like garnet in the porchlight; her fingers, long and elegant, curled delicately around the stem—a contrast against the wine-dark swirl, the rim of the glass catching light like a prism, throwing faint glimmers onto the lace of her dress. Her lips—stained the same ripe shade as the drink—parted slightly as she laughed at something JJ said, the sound soft and bright, like a bell in warm fog, and all he could think about was how dangerously, heartbreakingly kissable her mouth looked in that moment.

The gentle curve of her throat. The soft sweep of collarbone exposed by the neckline of her dress. He could almost imagine what her skin would feel like if he touched it—warm from the sun, velvet-smooth, like something meant to be memorized slowly.

She moved slightly, hair falling across her shoulder, and the light shifted with her, gilding her in gold.

She didn’t know.

That was the worst part.

She didn’t know how breathtaking she looked. How she was standing there, half-tucked into the last light of day, looking like a wish someone else had made.

His throat tightened.

Of course he noticed. He noticed her like the stars must notice gravity.

And still, he didn’t move—jaw slack, breath stalled in his throat, frozen in the kind of silent awe that only came from long-held want finally staring back at him in the flesh. She was a vision carved from light and memory, and he stood there like a ghost haunting the edge of something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch.

He might have stayed rooted there forever if she hadn’t turned.

Just a small, unconscious shift of her shoulders, the tilt of her head—like she felt him before she saw him.

Her eyes found his.

And something in him fractured—quietly, like glass under slow pressure.

She smiled—small, tentative, a curve of her lips that seemed to ask more than it answered. There was uncertainty in it, like maybe she wasn’t sure he was real. Like maybe she wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

And then—her hand lifted, the stem of her wine glass catching the fading light as she raised it just slightly in greeting.

That was all it took.

Spencer began walking, though his body felt distant and slow, like he was moving through warm honey, like the air between them had thickened with everything he hadn’t said.

He had no idea what expression his face was making—probably something strange and wide-eyed. His heart was racing, an echo of footsteps pounding against the inside of his ribs. Every cell in him was tuned to her.

And by the time he reached her, she had turned fully—her back to the sunset, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair, the wind tugging playfully at the lace hem of her dress. Her hair shimmered around her shoulders like dusk had decided to follow her down.

She looked at him like she wasn’t sure what to say next.

And then she smiled again, this time a little steadier.

“Hey, stranger,” she said—voice soft and warm, threaded through with something quieter beneath it. Hope, maybe. Or doubt. “I was starting to think you bailed.”

Spencer blinked. “I, uh... circled the block once.”

She laughed, her teeth catching the rim of her glass before she took a sip. “That sounds about right.”

“I had to... psychologically prepare,” he added, a little too honestly.

“For Garcia’s yard?”

“For... people. And string lights. And themed drinks.”

She grinned. “Yeah, the sangria’s lethal. Pretty sure the fruit in mine is just decoration at this point.”

Spencer’s lips curved into a half-smile. “You make it look manageable.”

She raised a brow. “Is that your way of saying I’m handling sangria better than you’d expect?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not at all. I just meant—you seem. Comfortable. In this.”

She gave a small shrug, gaze flicking away, words trailing out of her mouth in a joking tone. “I’m faking it, obviously. I’ve got a whole internal monologue running.”

Spencer smiled softly. “Does it include a tactical exit strategy?”

“Only if someone spills on me.” She tilted her head toward Garcia, who was dramatically flailing over a plastic cup. “Or if Garcia tries to get me to dance.”

Spencer glanced over and nodded, solemn. “That does seem like a legitimate threat.”

Y/N’s smile quirked again, but her eyes flicked back toward the ground—lingering on the tip of her boot as it pressed into the grass. She swirled her glass absently, watching the fruit float in slow spirals.

There was a pause. Light. But charged.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said, not looking at him this time.

Spencer shifted slightly. “Yeah. I... wasn’t sure I would either.”

Her brow ticked up. “But here you are.”

He glanced sideways at her. “Here I am.”

Their eyes met again, and this time something stayed there. Something quiet. Fragile.

Y/N took another sip of her sangria and tried to smile like her heart wasn’t fluttering a little. Like his presence didn’t change the temperature around her.

She tapped the rim of her glass once, then said, “I didn’t think this dress was a good idea.”

Spencer’s breath caught.

It took everything in him not to say the thousand things that filled his head at once.

It’s perfect. You look unreal. You’re the only person I’ve looked at since I got here.

Instead, he said, gently, “Why not?”

She shrugged again, self-conscious. “I don’t know. Felt like maybe it was trying too hard.”

His brows drew together just slightly. “It doesn’t.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard.

“It doesn’t try too hard,” he said again. “It just... works. On you.”

It wasn’t a compliment exactly—not the kind that made it obvious. But it was close. Close enough that her cheeks went warm.

She looked away again, biting her lip like maybe she hadn’t expected even that much.

Spencer stuffed his hands back in his pockets, fighting the itch to reach for her, to say what he really meant.

You look like summer made flesh. Like I’ve spent months trying not to say your name.

Instead, he nodded toward the game table. “Are you playing?”

“I was about to,” she said, glancing toward the house with a smile. “Garcia claimed me for her team, but then someone spilled sangria on the playlist notes and she went full crisis mode. I got ditched for DJ triage.”

He smiled. “Sounds terrifying.”

“You have no idea.” She turned toward the table, then paused. “Wanna join me?”

Spencer hesitated for half a breath too long.

She laughed under her breath. “Too much social exposure?”

He shook his head. “No. Just calculating the risk of complete emotional collapse.”

Her eyes sparkled at that—surprised, a little fond. And something inside her flickered.

Say something, she thought. Look at me like you mean it.

“You’re cute when you panic,” she offered, softer than she meant to.

His mouth opened—like maybe he would say something, anything—but then closed again.

And that was it.

A heartbeat. A pause. Nothing more.

He still wasn’t looking at her the way she ached for.

Not the way she’d imagined, just once, in the mirror before leaving the house—when she smoothed the hem of her dress with trembling fingers and let Garcia braid gold into her hair like a spell. When she told herself she didn’t need him to notice.

But God, she wanted him to.

Just one look. One moment that said he saw her—not the agent, not the friend, but the girl in the white dress who only wore it because some fragile part of her hoped it might make him stay a little longer when the night ended.

She took a step back anyway, smile still intact, the hem of her dress catching in the breeze and dancing around her thighs as she turned.

“Come on, Doctor,” she called lightly over her shoulder. “I’ll save you a cup.”

And Spencer—blinking once, heart stumbling to keep up—followed her into the lights.

From the table, Morgan’s voice rang out: “Reid! You better get in on this next round. We need a math guy to calculate our odds!”

She moved ahead of him, boots pressing gently into the grass, the worn leather hugging her calves like they’d been shaped to her stride. The hem of her dress—a weightless slip of white cotton and lace—fluttered with the breeze, just brushing the tops of her thighs with every step. The fabric floated more than it fell, sheer in places where the light passed through, stitched with the softest panels of embroidery and ruffled tulle, like something borrowed from a midsummer dream.

The flutter of her cap sleeves kissed her shoulders, exposing the golden curve of skin beneath. The dress swayed when she moved, catching the warm light of the lanterns and casting faint shadows against her legs, as if the night itself couldn’t help but follow her.

She looked like a painting left out in the sun—all soft edges and pale ivory, leather and lace and a hint of something wild beneath it all. Her silhouette moved through the garden like smoke—blurred at the edges, kissed by lamplight, and edged in warm shadow. She looked untouchable in that moment. Like a page torn from some pastoral painting—cream and pale honey, dusk-blushed skin and vintage leather.

And Spencer—he watched her, helpless.

His eyes traced the flutter of the skirt, the soft dip of her collarbone, the barest glint of skin beneath the gauzy fabric. She was light and movement, softness and summer and something impossible to name.

He was sure—painfully sure—that he would never recover from this.

Spencer followed, heart caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat, and wondered if it was possible to ache for something that had never truly been yours.

He wanted to stare. He wanted to memorize every detail—the shift of her hair against her back, the dip of her waist, the soft line of her neck where it disappeared into lace. She looked like warmth itself, like summer captured in motion, like every unspoken sentence that had ever sat on the edge of his tongue.

He tried not to trip. Tried not to breathe too hard. Tried not to want.

But he did. With a fierceness that frightened him.

And she didn’t even know.

She was right there—right there, laughing with a glass in her hand and the stars beginning to crown her shoulders—and she had no idea how badly he wanted to reach for her. Not to pull her in or steal anything. Just to rest his fingers at the edge of her wrist and feel what it was like to be allowed.

She stopped at the folding table set up near the flower beds, already half-surrounded by red Solo cups and friendly heckling.

“We’re going, we’re going,” she giggled, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He nodded, a beat late. “Only if you’re willing to lose.”

Her eyes narrowed playfully. “Wow. Confidence and reverse psychology. You’ve clearly been studying the classics.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said, then immediately regretted how that sounded.

Y/N grinned, setting her drink on the edge of the table. “Good. Because I plan on carrying this team, and I need you to look smart while I do it.”

Spencer exhaled a laugh. “I can do ‘look smart.’ That’s my default setting.”

“Perfect,” she said, and tossed him a ping pong ball.

He caught it with both hands, awkwardly. “Right. Okay. How hard can this be?”

“Okay, Doctor,” Y/N said, nudging Spencer toward the table with a grin. “Lesson one: aim like you mean it, but pretend you don’t care.”

Spencer stood beside her stiffly, clearly calculating something in his head—trajectory, angle, wrist rotation. His brows furrowed as he watched the other team set up the triangle of cups. The table was slightly uneven, leaning just enough to skew his probability models.

“This feels like a trap,” he murmured.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “That’s because it is.”

Across the table, Prentiss and JJ lined up with devilish smiles. “No pressure, Reid,” Emily said. “Just know I’ve already decided to take this personally.”

“Ignore them,” Y/N said, laughing under her breath, stepping closer so her arm brushed his. “They thrive on intimidation”

He blinked. “Like sharks.”

“Exactly,” she whispered, eyes narrowing in fake conspiracy. “Sharks with eyeliner.”

He smiled again—small and warm—and turned back to the game at hand.

Y/N watched him, eyes flicking between the ball and his profile.

There was something incredibly endearing about the way he concentrated—the tip of his tongue just barely touching his bottom lip, his brow furrowed like he was solving a math equation instead of figuring out how to play.

“Let’s see if you can outdrink me, genius,” Emily called out, tossing the ball from hand to hand.

“I’m not actually drinking,” Spencer replied, adjusting his stance like that would somehow help.

“Even better,” she said, already lining up her shot. “Means you’ll remember losing.”

The ball bounced once, then veered off the rim and rolled away into the grass.

Y/N raised her glass and called out, grinning, “That was bold, Prentiss.”

Emily gave her a look. “I’ve had three of these,” she said, gesturing to her drink. “Cut me some slack.”

Y/N sipped hers. “I’d cut you some if you hadn’t talked such a big game.”

Emily grinned. “I had plans, you know. You and me? Dream team. But someone got kidnapped by Garcia’s event-planning vortex.”

Y/N laughed. “I didn’t stand a chance. She handed me a box of votives and said, ‘make it whimsical.’”

Emily shrugged, unbothered. “Still feels like abandonment.”

“You’ve known me for five years,” Y/N said, amused. “If I had a choice, I’d be yelling over a plastic table with you right now.”

She raised her drink. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Y/N laughed and turned back to Spencer, nudging his arm. “See? Tensions are high. The bar is low. Just aim for the middle and don’t overthink it.”

Spencer glanced at her, clearly overthinking it anyway.

She leaned in, voice dropping just enough for only him to hear. “You got this. You’ve out-logic’ed serial killers. A ping pong ball doesn’t stand a chance.”

He nodded slowly, trying not to focus on the way her shoulder brushed his.

Spencer’s hand tightened around the ping pong ball, holding it between his fingers with a kind of reverence that made Y/N bite back a smile. “Okay. But just so we’re clear, the average success rate in beer pong for a non-athlete is—”

“Spencer.”

He turned toward her.

She stepped close.

Close.

“Relax,” she said, voice soft, teasing at the edges. She reached out and gently adjusted his elbow. “You’re not diffusing a bomb. You’re just trying to sink a ball into a cup. Less nuclear physics, more carnival game.”

His lips twitched, a breath of a smile starting to form, though the proximity of her was doing more to scramble his brain than any probability curve.

Her hand stayed on his elbow, light but anchoring. She smelled faintly of rose water and lemon—bright, clean, summer. And the way her hair brushed his arm when she leaned just a bit closer made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

“You’re in your head,” she murmured.

“That’s where I live,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

She laughed under her breath. “Not tonight.”

Her fingers brushed his—soft, slow, a spark caught in passing. He held perfectly still.

“Use your fingertips,” she whispered. “Aim for the center. Gentle arc. Like tossing a paper plane.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Paper plane.”

He pulled his arm back, exhaled, and released.

The ball bounced once on the rim—clink—and landed squarely in a center cup.

Cheers erupted from the bystanders. Someone whooped. Morgan yelled out something that sounded like, “That’s my boy!”

Y/N let out a delighted laugh, the sound bubbling up from her chest like it had been waiting for a moment just like this.

Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed Spencer’s arm—a quick, excited clutch of his bicep, her fingers curling instinctively as if her body had moved faster than her mind. “Yes!” she breathed, beaming up at him.

Spencer blinked, stunned by the sudden contact—and then his face broke into something rare and unguarded.

He laughed.

Not the quiet, polite kind of laugh he gave when he didn’t know what to say—but something real and bright, boyish and warm, catching even him by surprise. His eyes crinkled, his posture loosened, and his whole body felt lighter somehow.

“You made that look easy,” she said, still holding onto his arm for a second longer than necessary before letting go. Her fingers trailed off his sleeve like the last note of a song.

He smiled, wide and a little breathless. “That was mostly luck.”

“Mm.” She reached for the next ball, weighing it in her hand. “I don’t believe in luck. Just pattern recognition and good instincts.”

Spencer looked at her—not at the ball, or the cups, or the table—but her.

“I think yours are better than mine,” he said softly.

She smirked as she lined up her throw, not looking at him but clearly hearing every word. “Only in beer pong.”

She flicked her wrist. The ball sailed, bounced, rimmed—and dropped in.

Another low ripple of reaction from the small crowd behind them. Morgan and Garcia exchanged a glance from their seats on the grass, something amused and speculative in their expressions, slightly covered by her beaming into her glass. Rossi took a slow sip of wine. 

Y/N stepped back beside Spencer as they waited for their opponents’ turn. Her shoulder brushed his, just slightly, her body humming with easy energy.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured, watching her from the corner of his eye.

“I told you,” she whispered back, eyes on the table. “You just needed the right partner.”

He didn’t say anything—but he didn’t look away either.

The next round began. They refocused, watching the ball bounce harmlessly off the rim on the other side. The energy picked up again, the table glowing under the canopy of string lights.

They played on—a quiet rhythm building between them, hands brushing now and then, quiet glances exchanged between shots, a slow, sweet unraveling of tension that felt unspoken but understood.

And no one said anything.

But a few eyes lingered.

The music had faded into something distant and dreamy, like a memory playing through a closed door. Crickets chirped in the hedges. The party, for the most part, had tucked itself in—warm laughter behind windows, faint clinking of glasses, someone calling goodnight from the front lawn.

Y/N sat on the low stone bench at the edge of the garden, half-tucked beneath the gentle sway of ivy and moonlight. Her boots were still on—worn brown leather, scuffed just enough to tell stories, heels resting lightly in the grass as she crossed one ankle over the other. The soft hush of the party drifted somewhere behind her—faint music, murmured voices, the occasional burst of laughter like it had forgotten to fade.

She cradled her glass of sangria between both hands, fingers loose around the stem, the melted ice glimmering faintly in the amber light spilling from the kitchen window. A single slice of lime floated lazily near the rim, catching the glow like stained glass. Her dress—still bright even in the blue hush of night—pooled in gentle folds against her thighs, the lace catching moonlight in its edges like frost on petals.

And her hair—loose, softly wavy, weightless in the way it moved—cascaded down her back like dusk. A few strands clung to her collarbone, caught on the rim of her glass, or lifted in the breeze like they were drawn toward something unseen.

The air was cooling now, sweet with honeysuckle and grass. The lights above flickered faintly in the stillness.

She looked like part of the night itself—quiet, waiting, unknowingly luminous.

And still—despite the quiet, despite the beauty of the evening settling around her like silk—there was a weight in her chest she couldn’t quite name.

Not sadness. Not loneliness.

Just something waiting.

She let her head tip back, eyes tracing the lattice of branches above her. Her hair, wilder now from the humidity, curled down her back in soft, careless waves. Her dress had wrinkled at the hem, lace crushed from the hours of movement.

She looked beautiful, and didn’t know it.

Which was the hardest part.

Spencer stood just a few feet away, watching her through the soft shadows.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Which wasn’t unusual, because what she also didn’t know—what she never seemed to know—was just how often he looked at her like this. Like she was the fixed point everything else revolved around. Like he didn’t know how to breathe unless he was quietly aware of her in the room.

And tonight, it was starting to hurt a little. Because she hadn’t looked at him once like she knew.

Y/N let out a sigh, took a slow sip of her drink, and whispered to no one in particular, “I should stop doing this.”

“Doing what?” came a voice—low, familiar.

She jumped slightly, her glass wobbling in her hand.

“Jesus,” she breathed out, laughing as she turned her head. “You always show up like a ghost in the dark.”

Spencer hovered just a step away, half-shadowed by the porchlight. “Sorry,” he said, quiet and earnest. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

She waved a hand, cheeks flushing a little—not from the surprise, but from the warmth in his voice, the way it softened when it was just the two of them. “It’s fine. I was just... thinking out loud.”

His brows pulled together gently. “About?”

Y/N hesitated, her fingers curling a little tighter around the stem of her glass. The lime floated lazily in the deep pink of her drink, spinning like it was stalling for her.

“Nothing important,” she said after a beat.

Spencer moved to sit beside her on the stone bench. Not quite close enough to touch, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the quiet presence he carried like a wool coat in winter—heavy, steady, protective.

She didn’t look at him. Just stared ahead, into the hum of porchlight and fireflies.

“I think I’m an idiot,” she said suddenly.

He blinked, taken aback. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

She let out a laugh—soft, short, not entirely happy. “That’s sweet. But also—possibly a sign that you’re terrible at reading subtext.”

“I’m actually pretty good at subtext,” he said, glancing over at her, his voice light but careful. “I’m just... less confident about translating it out loud.”

Y/N bit her lip, eyes still forward. Her glass tilted slightly in her hand.

“I just thought...” She paused, then looked down. “You didn’t say anything tonight.”

Spencer tilted his head, confused. “About what?”

She looked at her lap, at the pale lace bunched gently around her thighs, how the dress fluttered when the breeze passed through—like it was trying to float away from her, to disappear before she could take the words back. Her fingers twisted the stem of her glass in slow, anxious circles.

“About how I looked,” she murmured. “I just—I don’t know. Garcia said... Never mind.”

Spencer stared at her, stunned into silence.

She still wouldn’t look at him.

The blush had risen high on her cheeks now, blooming across her skin like the first touch of dawn, delicate and uncontainable. Her eyes stayed fixed on her glass, and even that seemed to tremble slightly in her grasp, looking like she wanted to gather her words back one by one and fold them away inside herself.

“I think that’s the sangria talking,” she said, softer now, trying for lightness, laughing a breathy laugh, but her voice caught just slightly—like a string pulled too tight.

“You thought I didn’t notice you?” he asked softly.

She shrugged, eyes fixed on the glass. “I mean… not like that.”

Because she truly didn’t know.

Didn’t know that from the moment she stepped into the yard—boots in the grass, lace fluttering like light through water—he hadn’t seen a single other thing. That every time she tucked her hair behind her ear or tilted her head to laugh with someone else, he felt like he was losing seconds of breath.

As if he hadn’t been drowning in her presence all evening, caught between awe and silence, reverence and restraint. As if his body didn’t go still whenever she leaned in. As if he hadn’t been biting his tongue every time she smiled in his direction, trying not to hand her every thought he’d ever had about her all at once.

His chest tightened.

He leaned forward just slightly, voice barely more than a breath, like anything louder might startle the moment away.

“Y/N.”

Something in his voice—low, rough, almost fractured—made her finally look up.

Her eyes met his.

And before she could say another word, he reached for her—all restraint finally snapping like a thread pulled too tight.

Spencer’s hands came up fast—urgent, almost shaking—and then stilled as they found her face, cupping her with a tenderness that almost didn’t match the storm in his chest. His fingers threaded gently into the waves of her hair, his thumbs brushing beneath her cheekbones like she was something precious he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

And then—he kissed her.

Hard. Messy. Absolutely wrecked with need.

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t smooth.

It was desperate. Starved. Raw.

Like he’d spent the entire evening trying not to want this—trying not to imagine how her mouth would taste, how her body would move into his, how soft her breath might catch if he finally let himself have her.

And now that he had, there was no holding it back.

He kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime for her to feel it.

Y/N froze, startled—just for a heartbeat.

Then her hands curled into the front of his shirt—gripping, grounding—and she kissed him back, just as fiercely.

Her glass slipped from her hand, landing silently in the grass below, forgotten.

The world narrowed to the rush of heat between them—his mouth moving against hers like a man unraveling, her body drawn tight into his, lace brushing against cotton, breath shared in ragged pieces.

And still, his hands stayed gentle on her face. Still, his touch trembled with reverence even as his kiss turned rough—contradiction carved into motion. Want and worship. Need and fear.

Their foreheads remained pressed together as their lips pulled apart, their breath mingling in the hush between them—hers still catching, his uneven and warm against her lips, as if neither of them had quite remembered how to breathe without the other. Her eyes were half-lidded, lashes casting delicate shadows over flushed cheeks, and her lips—kiss-bitten and trembling—parted slightly, as if waiting for a question neither of them needed to ask.

Spencer was still holding her face—carefully, reverently—as though she were something too precious to risk letting go. His thumbs rested against the curve of her cheekbones, but his hands trembled slightly, as if overwhelmed by the nearness of her.

“I notice you,” he whispered, the words cracked open and bare. “Every single time.”

She let out a soft, shivering breath. A smile pulled at her mouth—not teasing, not light, but full of something ancient and full of ache.

“Took you long enough,” she murmured, voice catching like silk on thorns.

He smiled—barely, just a flicker of something broken and full—and then leaned in again.

This time, the kiss was slower.

But no less ruined with longing.

Their mouths met like a promise—tentative at first, almost unsure of how gentle to be, as if the world might tilt off its axis if they moved too quickly. But then she breathed his name into the space between their lips, and he lost whatever restraint he had left.

His hand slid from her cheek—slowly, reverently—trailing along the curve of her jaw before finding the delicate slope of her throat. He rested his palm there, his fingers curling around the side of her neck, grounding her, worshipping her. And she arched into him like she’d been waiting for that single point of contact all her life.

She whimpered against his mouth—soft, desperate, involuntary—and he responded with a sound low in his chest, a near-growl swallowed between kisses.

Her hands, trembling, found the line of his jaw—fingertips brushing over stubble, then curling at the hinge of it, like she needed to hold onto him or fall apart entirely. She kissed him deeper now, unafraid, her body pressed to his like something unfolding all at once.

Their teeth clashed—just barely, enough to draw a gasp, a stumble, a half-smile against lips that didn’t want to stop. His breath hitched, and she felt it in the cradle of his mouth, the way he held her tighter like he’d burn up if she ever stepped back.

And yet—even in all the desperation, his hands were still gentle. Still full of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like he didn’t know how to hold something he'd only ever dreamed of.

When they finally broke apart, their noses brushed, breathless and stunned.

The garden stayed quiet around them—the stars above them blinking like candlelight, the world soft and golden and impossibly still.

Like it had stopped to watch them fall in love.

They didn’t move—not right away.

Spencer’s hands were still cupped around her face like a man holding something holy. Like if he let go, she might vanish, and he’d wake up alone with only the ghost of her kiss left on his mouth.

Y/N’s hands stayed curled into the soft fabric of his shirt—not gripping anymore, just resting there, quiet and intimate, as if her body hadn’t yet told her it could step back. The air between them shimmered with all the things they weren’t saying, but didn’t need to.

Their foreheads touched again—softly, gently, like the afterthought of a prayer.

The garden exhaled around them. Fireflies pulsed along the hedges. The world had gone quiet, as if some spell had been cast over the lawn and they were the only ones left inside of it.

Y/N’s breath tickled against his lips as she spoke, eyes still closed.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

Spencer let out a laugh, low and breathless, brushing the tip of his nose against hers. “I didn’t think I would either.”

She opened her eyes then—and the look she gave him was soft, steady, devastating. A little dazed. A little in love. Like he was something rare she wasn’t sure she was allowed to keep.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Eventually, she glanced down and spotted her glass tipped over in the grass. She let go of him reluctantly, bending down to retrieve it. “Tragic,” she murmured, holding it up and inspecting the lone slice of lime that had escaped and now lay abandoned among the blades.

Spencer smiled faintly, still stunned. “We’ll mourn appropriately.”

She gave him a quiet laugh, then stood and brushed her dress down with both hands. Stray leaves clung to the lace. His fingers itched to brush them off for her.

They moved together, slowly—like gravity had shifted just enough to keep them tethered. As they turned back toward the house, her hand drifted near his.

He didn’t think. He just found her fingers. Brushed knuckles. A soft, silent anchor.

She didn’t pull away.

The porch came into view again through the hedges—still glowing with soft golden light, like something out of a story told just before sleep. Inside, Garcia twirled in the kitchen with JJ, both of them laughing over something they clearly found hysterical. Prentiss sat cross-legged on the counter, miming what looked like a very dramatic retelling of a car chase, hands flying with flair. Rossi moved calmly through it all, espresso in hand like it was two in the afternoon instead of close to midnight. Morgan leaned against the fridge, grinning as he sipped a beer, occasionally tossing in commentary that made the whole kitchen erupt louder. He looked utterly at ease, like the night had been built just for this—friends, laughter, warmth humming in the floorboards.

It was the same as it had always been. Familiar. Comfortable.

And yet—

Spencer glanced sideways at Y/N, walking beside him. Her hair swayed lightly down her back, catching little flecks of gold from the porch lights. Her eyes were bright even in the dark.

Everything felt different now.

Not louder. Not bigger. Just undeniable.

At the base of the steps, she slowed. Her hand—still faintly linked to his—tugged ever so slightly. Not pulling him back, just holding him there for a second longer.

He looked at her, chest tight.

She leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his cheek, just beneath the line of his jaw—a kiss barely there, but somehow more grounding than the one before it. Her voice was quiet, just for him.

“Don’t go disappearing on me tomorrow.”

His chest rose with the breath he took before answering. “I won’t.”

And when she smiled—soft, real, a little tired from the day and full from the moment—she pulled the screen door open and stepped inside.

Spencer followed.

Their hands brushed again.

And this time, they didn’t let go.

[vroomvroomwee]

I haven't done one of these threads before but I realised how many of my moots I don't really know and since it's pride month I thought I'd start a chain of what our orientations are <3

Mine is aroace nonbinary (they/them) 🥰💜 Happy pride everyone!! ❤️🧡💛💚💙💜🩷🩵🤍🤎🖤

(Naturally, no one is obligated to participate if they don't want to I just thought it would be fun :) Anyways *hugs*)

@queenofthearchipelago @wealluprightnow @eggcats @enderminecraft8 @ritamariealan @ilovemosss @scientistsarentsure @dizzlypuzzled @ghostcat96 @captaincat3110 @valentinoappreciator @madwriter223 @rooseltheweasel @tune-on-in-folks @thegreatpapaya666 @tvmanintvland @im-a-sentient-magic-carpet @pro-depresanti @aroace-axolotl @ashetheentity @alice-on-elm-street @soulessrobot @spoondrifts @saturn-alone @helix-xxx @kenn-the-roach666 @lalalalalalakakakak @cursedtrashmuppet @berrycake99 @baubles-n-bones @merirat @minimosquitogirl

[crescenthistory]

if you're comfy w/ writing this, could i request a barty x reader, where barty gives reader a piercing? or reader gives barty a piercing? (either is fine, you can choose!) i've been thinking about it all day 😗

~🍓

i wrote this aaaaages ago and forgot to post it lol, sorry berry!

wc: 1.6k

cw: gn!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, suggestive undertones, amateur piercings, vague needles, don't try this at home plz. modern au, established relationship, barty's general bursts of mania

Note: this is partially inspired or at least motivated by my chat with komi about dyeing barty's hair for him

“And why did this have to happen at 2 AM again?” You asked wearily as you carded your hands through Barty's slightly damp hair.

He sat on a chair in front of you, chin against your stomach and grinning widely up at you. His face was illuminated by the shimmery moonlight streaming in through the mosaic windows of the prefect bathroom.

About 20 minutes ago, there was a rapid and insistent knocking on your door, one that each and every one of your roommates clearly recognised as Barty as they groaned your name. You flicked your wand towards the door to let in a stumbling Barty, wearing his signature smirk, pajama bottoms that were hanging dangerously low on his hips and a tattered shirt with wet spots around his neck. He had clearly just stepped out of the shower and all but come barging in to find you.

There were various grunts from around the room at the light that streamed in behind Barty. Someone threw a pillow in your general direction, smacking into one of your bed posts before falling to your mattress with a soft thump.

“Babe, take your dog and leave,” one of your dormmates grumbled, though not without an underlying affection for both you and your dog.

You gave Barty a look that you hoped screamed “look, you've gotten me in trouble” even as you jumped out from beneath your covers, suddenly awake just for him. You quickly shimmied on something more fitting for whatever adventures Barty had in store for you, not feeling like trekking through half of Hogwarts in your undies.

Barty just grinned back at you, though perhaps a bit sheepishly, as he picked up a jumper that was hanging over the back of a chair and threw it to you. Were it not for the other people in the room, you were sure he would have commented on the fact that it was his jumper.

“Well, because it was at 2 AM when I wanted to do it, and you said to get your help next time,” Barty drawled in response, as if this was the most natural response in the world. He was drawing circles into the flesh of your hips. “And I figured you would be more upset about me ditching you than waking you.” He gave you a crooked smile that gleamed with every ounce of cunning in his body – which wasn't a light statement.

You shook your head but made no attempt to quell the curling of the corners of your lips as you continued carding through his hair, which was drying more and more each time you caressed it. You hummed in response, not wanting to pick an argument you knew you would lose.

“What do you want to pierce this time then, my love?”

Barty seemingly melted further against you at the term of endearment, irrevocably yours in this intimate moment. He hummed as he pushed your shirt up enough to shower your midriff with soft kisses. “How do you feel about a helix?” he murmured against your skin, smiling when you had to suppress a giggle at the ticklish sensation.

“You're asking as if I'm the one getting the piercing.” You huffed a laugh, scratching your nails up and down his neck to get his attention back. “How do you feel about another helix?”

“I'm just in the mood to get another piercing, doesn't really matter which one,” he said absentmindedly, as if body modifications were an afterthought and not an active decision. “I’ll get them all eventually anyway.”

“Oh, so if I wanted to give you a Prince Albert, you would be all fine and dandy with that?” You laughed as you spoke, shaking your head at him.

Barty just grinned and winked at you. “If I want anyone to give me a Prince Albert it would be you with those pretty hands of yours.”

You tried to just scoff and not let his insinuations get to you. “When that day comes, I will drag you to a professional piercer myself. Don’t want you getting an infection.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Barty murmured against your stomach before nipping lightly at your exposed flesh to get you squealing. A light tug at the dark roots of his hair got him to look back up at you, eyes landing on yours as he couldn’t fight his laughter.

“Helix then?” You let one of your hands card back through his hair, soothing where you pulled at it. 

He hummed in the affirmative and leaned into your touch.

Not able to deny yourself, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his forehead. You tried pulling back, but Barty’s hands tightened around the backs of your thighs, keeping you in place as he tilted his head backwards to capture your lips with his. It was a stretch in this position, but Barty didn’t relent before he had gently invaded your mouth, sucking your bottom lip into his.

“Now I’m ready,” he said through a grin as he pulled back.

“Alex was right, you are a dog.” Despite the admonishing, you reflected his grin as you pulled back to grab your wand.

“I distinctly remember Alex calling me your dog.” Barty flipped the chair around so he could fold his arm over its back, watching you walk around in preparation.

“My dog then,” you corrected. “But a dog nonetheless.”

With the flick of your wand, you sterilised the equipment Barty had procured from somewhere in his dorm – that you wholly didn’t trust to be state of the art, but it would have to do – and your own hands and arms before you put on the black gloves.

“What a professional,” Barty mused.

“One has to do their research with a boyfriend like you.” You walked back towards him with the equipment and your wand.

“Mmm, call me your boyfriend again, baby.”

You laughed, swatting the air near his arm, not wanting to have to sterilise your hands again so soon. “You have got to focus, B. Do you want to draw up where you want the helix?”

He just shook his head, leaning his chin on his folded arms, smiling wider when you visibly noticed the flexing of his bicep. “Just put it somewhere between the other two. On the right side.”

“You don’t want me to draw up where?” you asked dryly.

Barty reached out, his hands once more finding the backs of your thighs as he pulled you closer, kneading the flesh in admiration. “Where’s the fun in that? I’m ready, Dragă.”

You softened a little in his touch and hummed in the affirmative. “Alright, baby. Turn your head for me?”

Barty dutifully listened to you, dumb smile he only reserved for you on his face. With the flick of your wand, you pulled his hair away from his ear and cleaned it, preparing. You fumbled a little with the needle, far from a professional but knowing that you with your research is better than Barty recklessly doing this on his own. The needle was the proper one at least, hollow and sharp, ideal for helixes. You had a titanium barbell pinched between two of your fingers, ready to be inserted.

“Are you ready, my love?” you whispered, not wanting to hurt him while knowing he didn’t mind.

He looked at you in his peripheral vision. “For your hands on me? Always.”

You let out a chuckle before breathing in deeply and setting the needle to what seemed like the ideal place between his other ear piercings. Swiftly, you pushed it through just like the countless videos you watched back home had shown you. With kind fingers, you replaced the needle with the barbell, using the instrument to screw on the end. 

“And there we go!” you announced quietly, mostly to yourself. You dipped your head down to drop a kiss to his messy hair, nose brushing against acid green and dark brown strands.

You quickly discarded your gloves and lifted your wand to wash and sterilise the piercing once more. You didn’t think of how closely you stood double-checking that there was indeed very little blood trickling out, despite his ear being slightly red, which you supposed was quite normal – until Barty swung his legs off the chair and moved his grip from your thighs to your waist to pull you close.

He laughed against your mouth as he kissed you deeply, kiss after kiss placed on your own giggling lips.

“B! Don’t you want to see the piercing?” you managed to get out between kisses.

“Always so focussed,” he murmured, but he did rest his forehead against yours.

Grabbing your own hand with his, Barty pulled you towards the nearby full-length mirrors that the prefect bathroom was filled with – “so they can practise being even more in love with themselves” Barty would always say.

He stepped close to the reflection, turning his head to see the piercing that had landed rather evenly between his two other helixes. “Sick.” He turned to you with a grin. “You are a true professional, aren’t you, baby?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he swallowed it with another kiss, dragging you back against the mirror with him. He intended to thank you profusely for your services.

[brooke121000]

hi! not sure if you’re still taking requests but your last fic was so incredible. i was wondering if you’d be down to do one that’s like, spencer loves to yap and nobody likes to listen but y/n is lowkey in love with him and always does. a friends to lovers type deal because she’s mesmerized by him and he’s mesmerized by the way she just hangs onto his every word, yk what i mean? if not it’s totally ok i just couldn’t get it out of my head after your last one! <3

S.L.A.N.T • s. reid

First of all, tysm for all the kind words!! Apologies for the wait, I’ve been swamped with school. I hope you enjoy! 🤍

word count: 1,076

———————————౨ৎ———————————

Spencer had never really felt listened to all his life.

His mind was a train, never faltering- chugging along faster than passerbys could observe it. He breezed through high school precociously, always filling bigger shoes and reading from books too heavy for him to carry. This intelligence, although alienating, provided him with a life long wealth of intelligence and a passion to learn-

And, of course, a passion to speak.

for most of his life, his words have fallen on deaf ears. Even amongst the team- a group of knowledgeable, experienced profilers, he’d grown used to eye rolls, yawns, and never-minds.

and then he met you.

You’re incredible. A match for his mind, in the first week at the BAU you beat his crossword record by a grand two seconds. You’re sweet, and beautiful, and so utterly comforting and familiar it leaves Spencer with an ache in his chest. Reminders of you are everywhere- he smells you in his coffee, hears you on crowded streets. You’re a splash of red wine on his shirt, a streak of technicolor in his black and white life.

And today, in the bullpen, he has your undivided attention.

You each sat at his desk in the dim nighttime office, the only two to stay this late.

Spencer was next you in his worn down office chair- he was reading, the Russian title unrecognizable to you. He had placed the book to the side when you two began to converse.

He looked up to you- you were sat on his desk, legs crossed.

“..your hands are shaking.” He said simply.

“oh-“ you smiled, pulling yourself back into your conversation and stretching out your weary legs. “yeah, it’s.. all the caffeine. I can’t help it, coffee’s in my DNA.”

He gave a nod. “You know we’ve never seen DNA? We’ve actually never seen the double-helix shape in person.”

Your ears perked up a little. Spencer entranced you. You were intelligent, that was no question. But the knowledge you had was largely to do with history and literature- his extensive experience in science and math was intensely impressive to you. You managed a simple- “really?”

“Mhm. We, well- James Watson and Francis Crick originally discovered the structure in 1953. DNA is just too small to see on a microscope, so they had to get..”

“Creative?” You added. He beamed.

“Creative, yeah. Exactly.”

You fidgeted with your pen, eyes glued to his as he spoke.

“Anyway, it was Rosalind Franklin who made the discovery. She used a special technique, called X-Ray crystallography.”

You cocked your head to the side- “and what’s that?”

“It’s.. well,” Reid has been caught a bit off guard. He was talking for so long, wrapped in the throes of his story, he didn’t realize how attentive you were to his words. He examined how you were sat, legs hanging off the side of his desk, eyes on his, clinging to every word and every sentence with a genuine interest and passion he had never seen before. It was mesmerizing how willing you were to hear what he had to say.

“It’s a special kind of microscopic photography where you beam X-Rays through the crystallized version of your substance.. you gotta use a special camera.”

“Hm..” you agreed. “So they did that, and took a.. picture of the DNA?”

He pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, pausing for a moment. “um, sort of- the actual photograph- it’s called ‘photo 51’.. is actually more of a, uh.. blurry blob. But if you look closely, it sort of resembles a double helix- from the top, of course.”

“Wow, that’s.. really cool.”

He grinned. “You.. think so?”

“Absolutely.” You assured. “I mean.. other people are nice and all, but does Rossi, or.. Morgan.. do either of them know what the hell X-Ray crystallography is?” And let a laugh slip. “I think not.”

“Yeah, they.. probably don’t.”

A small, comfortable silence fell over you, and he observed you for a moment.

It was dark in the office, but your face was lit in a dim amber by his desk lamp. You spun a plain gold ring on your finger, your leg tapping against the desk. You looked so.. relaxed, so effortless. And yet, Spencer’s mind was churning.

“Thank you.” He remarked quietly.

“Hm?” You furrowed your brow in confusion. “Thank me for.. what?”

He turned his chair to meet your eyes, your faces closer than you had originally anticipated.

“for listening. I tend to.. ramble. After a while, I suppose people stop listening.”

You frowned. The thought of any singular idea in Spencer’s brilliant mind being dismissed as rambling was intensely troubling to you. “I think your rambling is cute. And besides- people who aren’t smart enough to understand your words tune you out because they’re overwhelmed. Their problem, I think. Not yours.” You murmured.

Spencer, still stuck on the first part of your sentence- looked up at you with hopeful eyes. “..you think im cute?”

You paused, and another silence washed over you two. You were painfully close, and the tension between you sparked from a sole ember to a lightly burning flame, soft and assuring.

You gave a little nod.

His eyes flickered down to your lips, and back up again.

And that look. Just that one look- pleading, hopeful brown eyes behind glasses was enough to bundle up and throw away any shred of resistance you had. Still sat on the desk, you leaned forward, your hands on the edge of the table, pressing an impatient but respectable kiss to his lips. It didn’t take long for him to reciprocate.

Placing his hands on the sides of your face, he pulled you in closer. The fire was stoked, warmth washing between the two of you as he tried against anatomical reason to pull your lips impossibly closer to his. you leaned in closer, hands on his wrists as his tongue slipped past your bruised lips- a silent plea for closeness. His fingers intertwined with your hair, but you didn’t mind the tugging sensation. Not with the fireworks going off in your chest.

When you pulled away you were both gasping for breath. His hands still on your face, the two of you so close you could feel his breath fan across your features. It was so painfully intimate- because there was no sexual intent behind the kiss. It was pure adoration, indulgence- a kiss solely for the purpose of kissing.

You were sure you looked a mess- partially because he did. Glasses fogged, hair tousled and face flushed, he adjusted his tie and sat up straight.

“Um.. tell me more about X rays.” You stammered.

“Yeah, yeah- good idea.” He grinned.