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APRÈS LA VIE - MORT; APRÈS LA MORT - LA VIE DE NOUVEAU.

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your artstyle is so dynamic!! if you're still taking requests, could you please draw Viktor caring for Rio? She could be like in the series or smaller, a cat, an axolotl... you decide :D thank you!

growing up together

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I will never be over the fact that Spencer’s only friends outside of the BAU are a group of chess nerd teens in a park.

Pathetic boy behavior, I need him.

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The character arc where Viktor sleeps 8 hours

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𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐈𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐕𝐢𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲--𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐫𝐞��𝐥. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐮𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞.

<𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭>

Living with Viktor was… easy.

That was the strangest part of it all.

You had expected some level of difficulty. After all, moving in with someone—even temporarily—was supposed to come with challenges. You thought there would be awkwardness. Adjustment. Maybe even a few arguments about dishes in the sink or toothpaste caps.

But there was none of that.

Instead, you slipped into a rhythm with Viktor so effortlessly, it felt as though you’d always lived this way. Like you’d always woken to the sound of his voice murmuring your name in the morning, always fallen asleep to the subtle rustle of his pages turning in bed, always shared the in-between hours with the quiet companionship of a man who didn’t need to say much to make you feel known.

The first few weeks had felt like an experiment—two independent people testing how to orbit each other in a shared space. But somewhere between your mismatched mugs in the kitchen cabinet and the quiet moments spent folding laundry together in silence, the experiment turned into routine.

You learned things about him in passing—small, gentle truths that didn’t feel important until you realized how much they’d come to matter. He liked his tea strong and slightly bitter, brewed exactly three minutes, no more. He hated the sharp screech of metal on ceramic. He had a habit of pausing mid-thought to hum a few bars of a tune he never seemed to finish.

And every night, before bed, no matter how exhausted he was, Viktor double-checked the door locks twice.

You’d never asked why. You just started checking them for him when he forgot.

Your morning routine became quietly synchronized. You always woke first and padded into the kitchen to start the coffee. Viktor lingered under the blankets, not quite asleep, not quite awake, waiting until the smell of tea—or the sound of you humming over the stove—pulled him out of bed. Sometimes he wandered in with sleep still clinging to the corners of his eyes, wrapped in a sweater far too big for him, muttering a soft, “Good morning, draga,” like it wasn’t the highlight of your entire day.

And then there was Harvey.

Of course, Harvey.

The true master of the household.

He ruled the apartment like a spoiled little prince, utterly unbothered by the shifting dynamics between the humans who shared his space. He chose his spots with intention—your lap during the afternoons, Viktor’s during quiet evenings, your shared bed every night. If there was warmth, he’d find it. If there was affection, he expected it.

You once joked, offhandedly, that Harvey had clearly chosen Viktor as his favorite.

Viktor had raised an eyebrow, utterly smug, and said, “Naturally. He has good taste.”

You’d retaliated by pelting him with a balled-up napkin, which Harvey had then stolen and carried off like a prize.

But the most unexpected part wasn’t Harvey’s favoritism or Viktor’s sudden fluency in feline affection. It was what people assumed about the three of you.

It started small.

A barista you’d seen maybe three times asked how Viktor was doing—not as a formal inquiry, but with casual warmth, like she already knew you were close.

You hadn’t even thought before answering. “He’s fine. Busy with lab work. I made his favorite for dinner last night, so he’s less grumpy than usual.”

She beamed. “That’s sweet. He’s lucky to have you.”

You smiled, thanked her, walked out the door—and only realized halfway down the street that she had thought you were a couple.

And you hadn’t corrected her.

Worse, when you told Viktor later, expecting him to laugh or make a dry comment, he just hummed and stirred his tea like it was the most natural thing in the world.

As if being mistaken for your partner was accurate.

From there, it snowballed.

There was the time you were at the lab, hovering near the door while Viktor wrapped up a conversation with Jayce.

You weren’t really paying attention until you heard Viktor say, “I must go— y/n is waiting for me.”

Not “I have plans.” Not “Someone’s expecting me.”

Just— yn is waiting for me.

As if that alone was reason enough to drop everything.

No one questioned it. No one raised an eyebrow. They just nodded.

And then came the vet visit.

Harvey needed a check-up, and Viktor insisted on coming with you. He said it was only fair—“We share custody of him, do we not?”

You hadn’t thought much of it until you reached the front desk.

The receptionist glanced at the form you filled out, then smiled brightly between the two of you.

“So, just to confirm—Harvey is both of yours?”

You opened your mouth to explain—well, no, technically he’s mine, but before you could get the words out, Viktor said, without hesitation, “Yes.”

The receptionist’s smile softened into something warm, almost wistful.

“That’s adorable,” she said. “A lot of couples have trouble with shared pet responsibilities, but you two seem to have it all figured out.”

You froze. You wanted to correct her, really. But Viktor, again, spoke first—light and unbothered.

“I suppose we do.”

He scratched behind Harvey’s ears like nothing was amiss, while you stood there, spiraling.

She handed you the paperwork. Harvey purred.

You suffered.

The worst part?

You weren’t even sure it wasn’t true.

You had been raising him together. You fed him on alternating days, scheduled vet appointments around Viktor’s lab hours, argued over which food brand made him more obnoxiously energetic. He had his own spot in the bed—wedged between the two of you like a chubby, spoiled child.

You didn’t mean to give people the wrong idea.

But what if it wasn’t the wrong idea at all?

The walk home after the vet was quiet.

Too quiet.

You were still stewing when you finally blurted, “Did you hear what she said?”

Viktor tilted his head slightly, ever unhurried. “I did.”

“She thought we were—”

“Together? Married?” he supplied calmly.

You nearly tripped over the sidewalk. “Don’t say it like that!”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s normal.”

He offered a small, crooked smile. “You are the one who made dinner for me three nights this week. Including your famous roast. That felt rather spousal.”

You made a strangled noise in your throat. “That’s not the point.”

He stopped walking for a moment, looking down at you—not teasing, not smug, just… thoughtful.

“Does it bother you?” he asked softly.

You hesitated.

“It’s not that it bothers me,” you said slowly. “It’s just—we’re not…” You trailed off. “We never talked about it.”

“No,” he agreed, “we didn’t.”

He looked back toward Harvey, who had trotted ahead a few feet, tail high in the air.

“But I like living with you,” he added, almost absently. “It is the easiest thing I have ever done. I would not mind if people assumed we were more than friends.”

Your heart twisted painfully.

He turned back to you then, one brow arched. “Would you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again, but no words came out.

“Well, like I said” he said lightly ,,it does not bother me”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was watching Harvey, his gaze distant, thoughtful. The words had been spoken so simply, as if they had meant nothing at all.

But they did.

And later that night, as you curled into Viktor’s warmth, your heart ached with something you couldn’t name.

Something terrifyingly close to love.

—

You kept telling yourself it was temporary.

A handful of weeks, you said. Just long enough for the contractors to finish the renovations—tear out that moldy bathroom ceiling, repaint the walls, replace the creaking floorboards that had been bothering you since you moved in. That was it. Temporary. You’d go home, pick up your life where you left off. Viktor would return to his own routine. Harvey would curl up in your lap again. Everything would fall back into place.

But the problem was: everything already had fallen into place.

Not in your apartment. Not in the life you’d had before. But here. With him.

Living with Viktor hadn’t just been convenient. It hadn’t just been a kindness. It had become a rhythm—your rhythm. A slow, quiet melody that wove through the days without any formal arrangement, and somehow felt like it had always existed. Waking up with him beside you. Brewing coffee while he brewed tea. Harvey winding between both your legs as you moved around the kitchen in sleepy silence. Him grumbling at the news on the radio, you humming under your breath when you folded laundry. A dance you’d never learned but knew perfectly by heart.

It was easy.

And now it had to end.

The sun slanted through the windows in lazy golden strips, catching on dust motes and the edge of Harvey’s tail as he lounged across the couch. You stood in the middle of the room surrounded by half-filled boxes, trying to fold a sweater without looking like you were mourning it. Your fingers were clumsy. The fabric caught on the cardboard flap. You didn’t look up until you heard his voice.

“I do not understand why you are packing.”

You turned your head toward him. He was seated in his usual spot, legs crossed, cane resting nearby. Harvey was curled up in his lap like he owned the place—and maybe he did. Viktor’s fingers moved gently through the cat’s orange fur, but his eyes were fixed on you, sharp and knowing.

“My apartment’s almost done” you said simply, resuming your folding.

He hummed. Not disapproving. Not surprised. Just… assessing.

“So?” he asked.

“So I need to be ready to move back” you replied, not bothering to meet his eyes.

A pause. You could feel it—the air shifting, weight gathering.

“Do you?”

That was what made you freeze. The quiet sincerity in his voice. The way he didn’t challenge you, just offered the question, like he was holding it out in his palm and waiting to see if you’d take it.

You turned slowly to face him. “What?”

Viktor didn’t blink. “Do you really need to leave?”

You laughed, but it cracked on the edges. “Viktor. Come on. I’ve been here for months. I was never supposed to stay this long.”

“And yet” he said mildly, “you did.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t being clever. He wasn’t teasing you.

He was just… stating a fact.

“I can’t just move in, Viktor.”

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

“Because—because that’s not how this works!” You gestured around the room. “This was a favor. It wasn’t supposed to—we weren’t supposed to—”

“To what?” he asked, and the question landed in your stomach like a stone.

You shook your head. “I can’t live here forever.”

“Why?” he asked again, calm and even. “You are comfortable here. You are happier. Harvey has adjusted. So have I.”

Your breath caught. “You’ve adjusted?”

“Yes.”

That simple.

No hesitation. No drama. Just yes.

You swallowed. “You’d really want me to stay here? Just like that?”

He looked down, gently adjusting Harvey, who had shifted his weight with a sleepy mrrp. “I do not believe I am as accustomed to solitude as I once thought. And…” He paused, then lifted his gaze to yours. “You make this place feel alive.”

You blinked. Something warm surged in your chest, unexpected and frightening.

“Viktor…”

“I am not asking you to decide now,” he added quickly, holding up a hand. “But I do not think you should force yourself to leave simply because it is what you planned to do. Plans change. People change.”

You hesitated. “I just don’t want to overstep.”

“You are not,” he said immediately. “You never have.”

And god, you wanted to believe that.

You wanted to believe that this place—his space—could be yours, too. That he wasn’t just tolerating you. That maybe, just maybe, he wanted you there as much as you wanted to stay.

But you needed time.

To figure out if what you felt was real, or if it was just comfort disguised as something deeper.

To understand why the idea of leaving felt like someone had pressed a fist to your sternum and refused to let go.

So you nodded slowly and said, “Just give me a little time.”

Viktor inclined his head. “As much as you need.”

He didn’t say anything more, but when you turned back to your packing, you could feel the silence pressing in around you, and you knew—he didn’t want you to go.

And, truthfully, neither did you.

—

Moving out didn’t feel like a relief. It’s felt like a loss.

Your apartment was done. The contractors handed you the keys with a proud smile, walked you through the freshly painted hallways, pointed out the gleaming new tiles in the bathroom and the newly installed windows that didn’t creak when you opened them.

You smiled. You nodded. You said thank you.

But something in you was already beginning to ache.

Viktor came with you. Of course he did. He insisted on helping carry your boxes, despite your objections, despite the quiet strain you saw flash across his face when he lifted anything too heavy. He stood quietly as you unlocked the door and stepped into the space that was, technically, yours.

It was clean. Bright. Fresh.

And completely lifeless.

Harvey trotted in and stopped cold, staring around at the unfamiliar space. He sniffed the edges of the baseboard, the couch, the corner by the radiator where he used to nap. But everything smelled different now. Looked different. Felt different.

You set him down on the windowsill and watched as his tail flicked once. Then again.

He did not purr.

You turned and found Viktor leaning on his cane just inside the doorway, watching quietly. He didn’t say anything.

“…Thanks for helping me carry all this,” you said, your voice quieter than intended.

He nodded once. “Of course.”

You shifted awkwardly. “You should get some rest.”

Viktor nodded again. “Yes. I should.”

You didn’t want him to leave.

But you couldn’t ask him to stay. Not yet. Not when you were the one who had insisted on returning here in the first place.

“I’ll see you soon” you said.

“Whenever you like.”

You waited for him to linger.

He didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind him, and just like that, he was gone.

The apartment swallowed the silence like it had been waiting for it.

—

A week passed.

You went through the motions. You made coffee. You fed Harvey. You did laundry. You went to the lab.

But something was missing.

The mornings were too quiet without the sound of Viktor’s cane tapping down the hall. You kept making too much tea. Your second mug sat untouched every time.

You caught yourself reaching across the bed in the middle of the night, expecting warmth where there was none. Harvey never curled against you the same way he had with Viktor. The little orange traitor had picked his favorite, and it wasn’t you.

Even worse, Viktor wasn’t you around as much.

He returned to the lab like he was trying to reset himself. As if distancing himself from you would make the ache easier to carry. But it only made the hollow in your chest worse.

You tried not to think about it.

You tried not to replay his voice saying, “You make this place feel alive.”

But you did.

Over. And over. And over again.

Until finally, it broke you.

—

One week and one night later you showed up at his door. 

It was late. Probably too late. But you didn’t care.

You barely remembered the walk. You weren’t even sure how you’d built up the courage. But suddenly you were standing outside his apartment, heart hammering, knuckles frozen just inches from the door.

You knocked.

The door opened faster than you expected.

He looked surprised. Tired. Beautiful.

His voice was soft. “Is something wrong?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

So you tried again.

“I miss you.”

The words fell out all at once, fragile and honest and impossible to take back.

Viktor didn’t speak right away.

His eyes searched your face like he was trying to make sure this was real.

Then—finally—his expression shifted, and the tension melted from his shoulders like a string had been cut.

“…I missed you too.”

And that was it.

You stepped forward.

He opened his arms.

You fell into them.

He held you like something precious. Like something returned. Like he didn’t know how to let go and didn’t want to learn.

Harvey meowed from somewhere, as if to say, about time.

Neither of you moved.

Not for a long, long time.

Because finally, finally—you were home again.

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Damn right.

the lack of Gleb Vaganov fanfiction is a downright shame

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Hey so what if I hypothetically write a Spencer Reid x oc fic that takes place at JJ’s wedding where Spencer is pining over her but she thinks he’s still in love with JJ and is pining over him.

Overall lots of pining and yearning. What do we think?

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I need you to know I’m madly in love with how this is formatted!!

Report Overview

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

BEHAVIOURAL ANALYSIS UNIT

PRIMARY ARCHIVE: "Things That Hotch Would Prefer Not to Know About."

SECONDARY CLASSIFICATION: "How Not to Secure A Suspect: A Live Demonstration"

DOCUMENT TYPE: Unclassified Internal Report

PAIRING: Spencer Reid x BAU GN!Reader (Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn.. sort of)

WC: 1.9k (Again)

CASE STATUS: Refer to attached report. (No spoilers.)

SUBMITTED BY: J. Jareau

ARCHIVED BY: P. Garcia

CASE NO. 002 | The Houdini Gambit: A Lesson in Restraint

SUBJECT: A takedown turns into a handcuffed disaster after Reid becomes the star of a magician’s obsession

TW: Criminal minds stuff

INVESTIGATING AGENTS: D. Morgan, P. Garcia, Scout (Reader), S. Reid, E. Prentiss, J. Jareau, D. Rossi, A. Hotchner

Case 001 | Case 003 | Case File Index | Criminal Minds Masterlist

An unassuming day was something none of the BAU agents were used to. Quite frankly, with the nature of their job, it was something like a sighting of a blue moon.

Which is why today was no other.

It was the same drill. The same seats. The same dynamics.

Scout resided on their designated place, sandwiched between JJ and Spencer. Their seat was decided prematurely when they joined. JJ and Spencer at a glance were the royalty of giving comfort.

If only Scout knew about the chaos, they brewed inside.

Everyone was fully attentive to what was being presented at screen. 

Another day. Another serial killer. Another life cruelly taken away.

"Ladies and gentlemen, and our very own doctor of wizardry. I present to you the works of 'The Magician' Vince Moretti which no self respecting Magician would ever call themselves if they were a serial killer. Leaves a bad taste." Garcia scrunched her face as the slides transitioned into various forms of utter brutality man could recreate. 

“A magician turned murderer, that’s new.” Prentiss raised her eyebrow.

“Not just any magician. It seems he worships the old school greats. Houdini, Thurston, Copperfield—but mostly Houdini. And not just ‘wow, cool tricks’ kind of worship. More like ‘this is my divine calling�� kind of crazy.”

“And now he’s killing people instead of pulling rabbits out of hats.” Morgan leaned forward, which was mainly shifting in his seat, clearly unimpressed.

“Exactly. Our guy believes ‘escape artistry’ is the ultimate test of human skill. He doesn’t see these as murders. He sees them as failed illusions.” Garcis replied grimly as she clicked through the crime scene photos.

“Each of the three murder victims was placed in an ‘escape challenge’ as in trapped in a situation where a real magician might have survived. Our fourth victim was the first to get out alive.” JJ noted. It is truly a marvel how quickly she caught on. In the total non sarcastic way (Love you, boo ~ Garcia)

The slide finally landed onto the victims. Three failed challenges. A glass tank. A fire rope. A locked coffin. 

“That’s terrifying” Scout muttered as they grimaced at the scene. Not quite used to the desensitised killers’ actions yet.

“The question is, does he want his victims to escape? Or does he want to prove they never stood a chance?” Hotch nodded, as he flipped through his file.

The somber moment was broken. Garcia’s face suddenly lightened up as she clicked for another slide.

“Oh, now for the fun part.” 

“There’s a fun part?” Scout’s question went unanswered. Sort of. (It had to be done sweety ~ Garcia)

“‘True escape is only for those with minds as sharp as a blade. A true challenger will find me. Someone who understands misdirection. Someone…’”

“Don’t say it.” Morgan groaned, already knowing where this was going.

“‘…like Dr. Spencer Reid.’”

“…Did you piss off a magician recently?” Scout blinked a bit. Then turned to look at Spencer.

“Why does this keep happening to me?” Spencer was exasperated at the amount of times this has happened. Not even rubbing his temples brought any relief.

“What can I say? You’re inspirational.” 

The whole team is staring at Reid, who looks mildly distressed.

“Okay, but objectively, this is kind of a compliment. He thinks you’re the only one smart enough to catch him.” Prentiss followed Rossi’s lead.

“Yes, because serial killer fan mail is always flattering.”

“Congratulations, Pretty Boy. You’ve got yourself a stalker with a flair for the dramatic.”

“He even called you a challenger. That’s, like, a villain origin story setup.” Scout nodded, mock serious.

“Please tell me I don’t have to personally go in after him.” Reid was absolutely done at this point. Only Hotch was his solace now.

“You’re not going in alone. You and Scout will approach first. Morgan and I will follow as backup.”

“…Fantastic.��� It seemed Reid had aged a few years as the conversation progressed as he regretted his entire career path.

“Cheer up, Genius. At least he didn’t call you a sidekick.” Silver linings.

Scout and Reid were prepared to face Moretti. Well as prepared as they could be. Neither of them had experienced a Magician Serial Killer, even if the latter had years worth of more experience.

Very Reassuring.

Entering the quaint building did nothing to ease the building up stress. It had everything that horror movie does. Those ‘props’ or ‘scenes’ that scream run away. Far far away from here.

That thought was tied in with a creaking sound. Typical.

And like the most idiotic characters in the self made episode, the two followed. 

Spencer lead this dance and Scout followed behind him.

And in as they followed the sound to a dusty living room. Or what was meant to be a living room. There was nothing, absolutely nothing.

“Ah, the great Dr. Reid. The mind reader. The one who sees all.” Moretti appeared seemingly out of nowhere. The grin on his face was nothing but sinister. His hands were menacingly playing around a pair of cuffs.

Scout jumped at the sudden sound.

Why? They don’t know. For a magician they should’ve expected that. But it went unnoticed by the offending man. He was fixated by Spencer. 

His eyes unwavering from Spencer’s figure as he took a step towards Moretti. 

And Scout took a baby step, ready to pounce if the grand magician decided to try to unleash his last act.

“You believe this is a game of misdirection. But in reality, your illusion is unraveling.” Spencer’s face was as expressional as a board. Completely calm as he analysed Moretti. 

The only response he got was a booming laughter, bouncing at every crevice of the room. His manic energy was increasing. His grin, bigger. His eyes, excited.

“Oh, but the best magicians never reveal their secrets, Doctor.”

“Secrets are pointless when you are surrounded with no escape.” It was the first time Vincent Moretti’s crazed gaze landed on Scout. 

He didn’t respond. Just tilted his head and watched.

He didn’t respond and that was creeping Scout out.

He didn’t respond.. In words..

He lunged at Spencer. Scout only saw a struggle between the two and moved in to subdue the Unsub. 

But Moretti was one step ahead of both of them.

He grabbed both their wrists and snapped the cuff on them before any of them could react. Taking both their surprise to his advantage, he escaped. Leaving smoke behind to put insult on injury.

Scout looked down at the cuffs, giving it a firm tug.

“Did he just.. Ninja vanish?”

“That;s not even his best trick. He also picked my pocket.”

It was a tug of war and words between the two until the team came barging in. 

“…This is the best thing I’ve ever seen.” Morgan smirked at the sight.

“Garcia needs to hear about this immediately.” JJ already had her phone out to record.

“Okay, so tell me why my favorite little genius and my rookie in training are currently DEFYING STANDARD FBI PROTOCOL?” Garcia’s voice squeaked in the comms.

“Garcia, not now.” Hotch rubbed his temples. “Where is Moretti?” 

“He disappeared.” Hotch took a deep breath in. and out. And in again.

“Of course he did.” followed by a sigh.

“All right,” he said, sharp now, switching into command mode. “Morgan, JJ, sweep east of the perimeter. Prentiss, Rossi, check the warehouse exterior. If he’s injured, he’ll find cover. We move fast.”

And then his eyes landed on the two people still awkwardly linked together by cold metal and mutual regret.

“Scout. Reid.”

Scout straightened like they were about to be deployed into battle. Reid looked away, trying to casually pretend he hadn’t just suggested Moretti wouldn’t escape.

Hotch continued, tone flat.

“Go to the car.”

There was silence. Then:

“Wait what?” Scout blinked. “Are we being benched?”

“It’s not a bench,” Hotch said, already turning away.

“It's so bench. This is a time out.” Scout nudged Reid dramatically. “He sent us to the car like we’re toddlers who drew on the walls.”

“Technically, it’s more like administrative separation from the crime scene for operational clarity-”

“Okay, genius, we’re being babysat. Let’s just call it what it is.”

Spencer sighed. “We’re going to the car.”

“This is the most FBI version of being grounded I’ve ever seen.” Scout muttered under their breath as they started walking.

It was a while after they were joined by JJ and Morgan in the car. It might have been personal because Hotch decided on the seatings. Morgan chose to drive and JJ was not so subtly recording the two.

“Are you really going to make us stay like this all the car ride?” 

“Yes” The two were really enjoying this.

“So, how’s it feel, Genius? Finally outplayed by a magician?” Morgan looked at Spencer from the rear view with the biggest grin.

“…He didn’t outplay me. He relied on an unpredictable variable.” Spencer huffed, trying to cross his arms but the cuff and Scout not letting him.

“Oh, am I the variable?” Scout was now on the last leg of exasperated.

“Technically, you’re the assistant in the act.” Morgan mocked.

The car ride was silent after that. At least for the first five minutes, mostly because every attempt to adjust the cuffs ended in some form of passive aggressive elbow bumping.

Scout eventually gave up and leaned against the window. Reid was still trying to angle his wrist into a position that looked vaguely more dignified.

“Next time,” Scout mumbled, “I’m wearing a hoodie with zip ties instead.”

The SUV finally rolled into the garage.

Scout was out of the car before Morgan even finished parking, possibly to escape the humiliation, possibly just to get some distance from the world's most spatially unaware genius still rubbing his bruised wrist.

Reid stepped out after, fixing his cardigan with what little dignity he had left.

Now back at the BAU, Scout and Spencer were both freed from the piece of cuff. 

By the time they got back upstairs, the rest of the team was already pretending not to wait for them. Badly.

Garcia practically beamed from her desk the second she spotted the duo. 

“My little magical misfires return! Did you two enjoy your teambuilding exercise?”

Scout deadpanned, “I have seen my life flash before my eyes three times today.”

“You should’ve waved at mine while you were at it,” Spencer mumbled.

Morgan patted them both on the shoulder as if proud. “Tough day in paradise, huh?”

“Effective immediately, all field agents are required to review cuffing procedure.” Hotch didn’t even look up from the folder as he said it.

“That means you, Rookie,” Morgan added with a grin, nudging Scout.

“…This was still improbable.” Spencer rubbed his wrists in disdain.

“Not impossible though.” Scout responded flatly with their arms crossed.

“Next time, just buy dinner first.” Rossi walked pasted at this point unfazed by their antics ignoring the chaos that followed.

CASE STATUS: Resolved (With Added Embarrassment)

ADDITIONAL NOTES: INTERNAL USE ONLY

Vincent Morreti was arrested 6 hours after his amazing escape (a lot of self control was tested by Scout and Reid)

All agents had to go through lessons of handcuffs (They're salty about it)

Morgan and Garcia subsequently were called by HR from said lesson (They have no regrets)

JJ absolutely refused to delete the footage (It's good content)

Rossi somehow made it worse

Hotchner is half an incident away from having an aneurysm (He won't be going down alone)

TAGGED PERSONNEL: Contact author for notification requests

@princess-ofthe-pages

CASE SUGGESTIONS: Submissions for additional reports are open and under review

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

mel as reductress headlines!

a very happy mel monday to all those who celebrate

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

Majority of fans here will insult your intelligence,media literacy, call you homophobic,racist, ableist, yada yada, for liking or disliking a different character or ship than them. Or for not agreeing with their opinion or interpretation.

Did you not have literature class in school where they teach you a book can have MULTIPLE or CONTRADICTING interpretations ? Or that some scenes in Arcane might be written vaguely or with a duality on purpose so they can have MULTIPLE interpretations.

Almost all of you are doing this. I hope most of you are underage and just being teenagers not grown adults with serious jobs and families.

.

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

No talk now, he angy

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

Things Woke Viktor definitely said in show and in game (CANON):

"Come, let us read Angela Davis together"

"Jayce we must read Black feminist theory, it is destined"

"Sky... stay with me, Black women in STEM are a rarity, and your occupying of such a historically racist institution is a form of Black resistance in itself"

"Mel... now that you have touched the arcane you are truly the epitome of Black girl magic"

"Ekko, the way you utilised the arcane to construct a device that defies time and space, threw it at me and saved the world was true Black Excellence"

"I speak with all voices when I say we must abolish the white supremacist capitalist cishetero patriarchy"

"Salutations, Mel Medarda, my beautiful Black queen I sat down and watched protective hairstyle tutorials for 72 hours straight and I am now competent enough in the art form to do your hair if you would be willing to grant me the honour"

"Ekko, you must not let the death of Jinx disrupt your Black boy joy"

"I met God, she's Black, and her name is Mel Medarda"

"The glorious evolution is needed for all of humanity... except you Black people, you're perfect, keep doing what you're doing,"

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

the scarecrow doesn't have a sense of personal space for many many reasons.

frequently his followers find themselves being scolded like a child, face squished by very dangerous hands, needles too close for most people's comfort. or being leaned against like a aid.

which is all fine given they're loyal to him, the other rogues in majority however dislike to be touched.

the riddler has found himself in many a situation where he's uncomfortably close to the scarecrow, the man drapes himself over people for fucks sake! like he can do whatever he wants!

catwoman doesn't mind usually, she does similar things to people she wants things from, she admires the similarity in a strange sort of way.

two-face is one of the few who vocalizes their distaste for it while rarely stopping it. aside from the occasional elbowing the scarecrow in the stomach given the right angle.

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

-> CH. 4: LITTLE PIECES OF HOME

synopsis: viktor finds you wandering piltover and helps you home, where you work with him on an english/piltovan cipher -- but not before you meet an odd woman.

word count: 5k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: i <3 foreshadowing (<- foreshadowing)

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

You lied to Jayce. You lied to Jayce big time.

Not only are you lost, but you’re lost and you can’t recognize any landmarks. You can’t see the Academy, the Kiramman estate, or anything else that would help you locate where you are. The signs giving directions are all in Piltovan, so they’re not of much use to you.

You could just ask for directions, but you’re a mixture of too proud and too embarrassed to approach anyone, so you end up just wandering. At least the city is visually interesting and you have a lot to look at, like the bridge.

It reminds you of the Golden Gate bridge, except this one is probably smaller. (You wouldn’t know. You’ve never seen the Golden Gate bridge in person.) A few cops – enforcers, you learned they like to be called, but a pig is a pig all the same – line the entrance where cobblestone turns to slabs of something that looks like concrete.

A voice behind you: “What are you doing here?”

You jump a little and turn around, only to see Viktor. His eyebrows are furrowed, and he looks concerned for you.

“Just… wanderin’,” you say with a half shrug, trying to smoothly recover from the scare he gave you. “Lookin’ ‘round the city. Why? You worried?”

“I was worried for your wellbeing, yes,” Viktor says. “You were looking at the bridges like you wanted to see the other side. Do I need to overstate how dangerous Zaun is again?”

“Everything’s dangerous,” you counter. You point at an enforcer holding a rifle. “Boom. Gun, right there. Now tell me, what’s more dangerous than a gun?”

“Radical ideas and the people willing to execute them,” he says, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

You look over at him, your face dead and expressionless. He looks back, his face a mirror of yours.

A second later, you crack and laugh, a smile splitting your face. “Jesus, Viktor. What the hell is wrong with you, boy? Since when were we discussin’ coups?”

A small smile graces Viktor’s thin lips as he looks away. “Since I brought them up. Do you not know how a conversation works?”

“Since that’s your definition of a conversation…” You look at the other side of the bridge. It’s littered with hexdraulic descenders, which kind of look like a mix between a glass bathysphere and a regular elevator. There’s a few big ones that are for public use (the model name is ‘Rising Howl,’ named after the sound it makes), and an even fewer number of smaller, private ones that only hold a few people.

“Let’s talk Zaun,” you say. Your voice is small and hopeful. “Why can’t I go down there? I can handle myself well enough. Hey – you can come down with me if you’re so adamant about safety.”

Viktor’s smile immediately drops and his face twists, like you said something incredibly shocking. Maybe you did – there aren’t a lot of people commuting from Piltover to Zaun. But what’s wrong with wanting to see a city built in the cracks and aftermath of an earthquake? It sounds pretty cool… at least to you.

He waits a moment, like he’s collecting his thoughts properly before he speaks. “Zaun is… it is exactly what the people here would expect. There are good people, yes, but there are others who would steal every last thing off your corpse they think would turn a profit.”

“And?” You say. “I’ve lived that. What, you don’t think there ain’t horrible things happenin’ in America, too?”

“I never said that,” Viktor says. “It… it would be detrimental to have you hurt. I am simply thinking of our study of hextech – to have you out of commission would be to lose an advantage.”

You can feel a warmth bloom in your face. You’re overstepping your bounds and Viktor isn’t shy to point that out. You look to the side and rub the side of your neck. The fabric of your button-down keeps you from stretching too much.

“You’re right. You, um… you didn’t say that.” You clear your throat awkwardly. “I… guess you know Zaun better than I do.”

Before you can say anything else, someone clips your shoulder with theirs – rather harshly, you might add. You stumble a little and cuss, whipping your head around to find whoever did that.

You spot a woman, her face eclipsed by the shadow of a hood. She holds out a hand. Her voice is like gravel when she speaks. “That’s my bad, that’s my bad.”

“Naw, you’re good,” you say. “Just wasn’t expectin’ it.”

The woman tilts her head back and some light brightens her face. She’s in her late thirties, maybe early forties at the latest. She’s wearing thick, coke-bottle glasses that greatly exaggerate how big her eyes are. Her face is wrinkled, and she looks tired.

“You’re not like the other pilties,” she says.

Before you can correct her and tell her you’re not a piltie, she takes your wrist, right where your sleeve ends. Her fingers are cold, almost freezing.

It’s wintertime. You’re outside, bundled up appropriately, waiting a little ways from the front door of the liquor store. The half-full jerrycan you’re holding strains on the muscles in your upper arm. You switch it to the other hand.

Your brother comes out of the store, wrapped up just like you. He’s holding a paper bag in one hand, with the other shoved firmly in his windbreaker pocket.

“Lucas,” you say. You jerk your head to the side, gesturing for him to come over.

He hurries over, the gravel crunching beneath his sneakers. Despite being taller than you, he hides behind you to minimize the chilled wind hitting him.

You click your tongue and hit his arm. “You big baby. The wind ain’t all that bad.”

“Don’t you hit me,” Lucas says. “I’ll beat you black and blue.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you say. “Big brothers are supposed to protect, don’t you know that?”

You gasp, and you’re back at the bridge entrance. The woman lets go of your wrist and walks away, as if nothing just happened. You’re not entirely sure if anything just happened. 

It felt… it felt like you were there. You felt the cold wind biting at the gaps in your bundled-up clothing, felt the strain in your arm, felt the ache in your feet from standing still for so long. You felt annoyed at Lucas for taking his sweet time, felt excited for the night ahead, felt a thrilling kind of swirling anxiety about this act of teenage rebellion.

That was a memory. You remember it – you and Lucas were picking up gasoline and alcohol for a big bonfire your friends had set up. Someone had gathered dry, felled logs, and when they were propped up together, they were almost as tall as you. It burned beautifully, and you fondly remember shrieking with delight when the fire roared from being splashed with kerosene. It was fun, even with Lucas keeping an (admittedly, half-drunk) eye on you.

Did that woman summon the memory? Or did her touch trigger it being dredged up? You haven’t thought about that bonfire in a while, and certainly not the purchases preceding it. So, how…?

You look over at Viktor. He’s watching the woman walk away, a slight scowl on his face.

“You don’t look too happy to see her,” you say.

He clenches his jaw. “She peddles frauds.”

“Frauds?” You repeat. If he’s talking about her little magic trick, you’re not so sure she’s a fraud – reliving that memory seemed real enough. You felt like you were actually there, living it for the first time and making those choices over again.

“Hopefully she does not linger,” Viktor says. “She will just stir up trouble.”

You hum in agreement, then watch the woman’s figure fleeting in the distance. Her nondescript, layered clothes make her hard to pick out from the crowd of eye-catching, glamorous outfits. Soon enough, you lose her.

“Did she do anything to you when she grabbed you?” Viktor asks.

“Huh?” You look over at him. His eyes – golden, shining – meet yours.

Is he asking about her forcing a flashback? It… wasn’t so bad, honestly. You didn’t feel like anything was wrong. It just felt like you were sixteen again, smug and satisfied that everything was going according to plan. To you, it doesn’t seem like she was doing anything nefarious. Maybe it was just an accident – maybe she just can’t control her magic. (If she has any magic, that is.)

What’s the harm in lying, really? Can’t you have one indulgence to yourself? This new life in Piltover has been nothing but frustrating and confusing. Your hometown wasn’t confusing – it was just your hometown. You knew everyone, and the whispered gossip kept you in the know well enough.

It’s just one memory. Maybe it’s selfish to keep the smell of a kerosene-fueled fire and the taste of cheap spirits and the sound of your brother’s half-drunken laugh to yourself. You find yourself not caring that much.

“No,” you lie. “What could she have done? Stole my cufflinks?”

You look down and turn your wrists to make sure she didn’t actually steal your cufflinks. She didn’t.

You turn your wrists so that Viktor can see them and show him. They glint in the sunlight. “See?”

Viktor leans down a little and checks that they are, in fact, still firmly attached to the fabric of your sleeves. He stands up straight and clicks his cane against the cobblestone ground.

“I suppose you’re right.” He checks over his shoulder, where the woman had disappeared into the crowd. “But… if she did do anything, it is best to forget about her. She would strip you down to your last washer, given half the chance.”

“It’s still a bit odd to me that you’ve got all these hexes and cogs and washers,” you say. You start walking just to move, and Viktor falls in step with you.

“Yes, because your system of tarnishable cotton-paper bills is much more superior,” he teases. It’s evident in his tone that he’s glad you’ve changed the topic. “Not to mention the flux in value.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Uh-huh, because your little toolbox currency is such a treat. Can’t walk ‘round with spare change without feelin’ like I’ve been belled like a cat.”

“Maybe you should be,” Viktor says. “It would prevent you from running off like this again.”

“Now, I didn’t run off,” you say. “You make it sound like I’m some petulant teenager. I got lost after a meeting regarding adult responsibilities and an adult contract.”

His face lights up a bit and he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “How did that go?”

“Christ, Viktor, you know how them rich folk are.” You sigh and run a hand through your hair. “Councilor Kiramman wants me to provide a pair of earrings ‘fore she takes me on as a, uh… beneficiary. And she sure as hell sounded like she wanted ‘em quick.”

“How soon?” Viktor asks.

“Earrings are usually a quick thing, but the pair she’s askin’ me to recreate took me two weeks,” you say. “But, hey – she’s workin’ to get me a workshop so I have the tools I need for metalwork. Thing is, I don’t even know what gems she’ll have me workin’ with.”

“And that has an impact on your work?” He asks.

“Huh? Oh, no,” you say. “Well… yes? But not really. I’m more worried ‘bout the cut she’ll have me workin’ with.”

“The cut?” He asks. 

“Jesus, you’re just full’a questions, ain’t you?” You look over at him, a smile tugging at your lips. 

“Forgive me,” Viktor says with a breathless laugh. “I am just… curious.”

“No, it’s – it’s nice,” you say. “Usually, people just brush me off ‘cause of the way I sound and act.”

“Why?” He asks. There’s something like vulnerability in his voice. It’s not obviously apparent, but it’s still there, quiet and unspoken in his tone.

It makes you feel weird. You don’t really like it, but at the same time, you do, and… what are you supposed to do? Just not feel human relatability when relating to another human?

You point at him. “That’s another fuckin’ question.”

He concedes with a roll of his eyes and a dismissive hand wave.

“But, uh…” You scratch the side of your nose. “People from the South are usually regarded as dumb and backwards. Racists and misogynists that revel in making America worse. Hell, some people even think we should secede, make our own bigoted country, marry our first cousins, raise inbred children. When you go up North and out on the Frontier, those opinions are… made readily apparent.”

Viktor scoffs under his breath. “Anyone who holds such prejudices is ignorant and uneducated. Simply meeting with you should be enough to dismiss all thoughts of that kind.”

Your breath hitches in your throat and your eyes snap over to him. He’s minding his business, just looking around and walking like he said nothing out of the ordinary. You can feel your heartbeat in the back of your throat and your eyes start to water for some weird reason.

You look away and blink quickly, dissipating your weird tears. You clear your throat, trying to hide the fact that you’re hitting your sternum with the side of your fist.

“Yeah?” You turn back to Viktor, a cocky little smirk on your face. “You mean that?”

“Yes,” he says. He meets your eyes. “Why would I not?”

Your little cocksure smile falters and that weird feeling of… weirdness is back. Like horned frogs are squirming in your belly, odd little feet-hands splashing in a gross pool of half-digested food and stomach acid, their spiked keratin faces pushing up against the lining. But they’re also pleasant, like they’re eliciting those mushy feelings your granddaddy’s records sung about.

You need to get a hold of yourself. You can’t let simple compliments get the better of you. Maybe you can get training from Jayce for when you attend his fancy rich-boy parties… If you get accepted by Kiramman, that is.

“Well…” You swallow thickly, unable to look Viktor in the eye. “Thank you. That’s – that’s awful kind of you to say that.”

He nods and gracefully ignores whatever is going on with your emotions (if he picks up on them at all). You never had the face for poker, but it’s like he’s playing a completely different game altogether. He’s so calm and collected that it’s almost sending you spinning.

You keep walking alongside him, keeping in tempo with the click of his cane against the cobblestone. The semi-silence between you two is nice – not exactly comforting, but nice. You listen to passerby’s conversations, eavesdropping almost as well as the old ladies in church. You’d like to think that Viktor is doing the same.

“You were askin’ ‘bout the cut on the gems earlier,” you say, your voice a little quieter than you meant it to be. “You still curious?”

“I am,” Viktor says. “I would be grateful if you could elaborate.”

“Well, a cut is referrin’ to how a raw gem is turned, faceted, and polished,” you say. “We’ve got all these special tools to progressively abrase the gem’s surface ‘til it looks the way we want. The grit gets finer and finer ‘til we just use a polish lap to finish up and make it look pretty.”

“And how long does one gem take?” He asks. “If you had to estimate.”

“Depends on the gem, the cut, the tools,” you list off. “Could take a half hour to two and a half hours. I don’t really know the intricacies.”

“How do you not know?” He asks.

“I’m not really trained in cuttin’ gems,” you say. “I handle more of the… the assembly.”

Viktor hums in response, like he’s digesting the information and sorting through his brain to find another question to ask. You’d give a hefty sum to see what goes through his mind on a daily basis – he always seems so ready to learn, the cogs in his head always turning, regardless of whether he’s actually engaged in what’s around him or not. Maybe he gets stuck in a little bubble, like all those aloof scientist characters you’ve seen in movies? That’d be a little funny, honestly.

“I’ve been starin’ at that blackboard in my dorm for a while now,” you blurt out, “like it’ll just give me a cipher. We need to work on that sometime.”

“I am free now,” Viktor offers.

“You sure you’re good to walk back all that way?” You jab your thumb over your shoulder. “I can just walk you to your apartment.”

He clicks his tongue in a dismissing way. “It is not that far. I practically live at the lab anyway, and it is close by.”

You concede and follow him. He knows his limits better than you do, and you trust him when he says that his leg’s not bothering him. (Besides, you don’t even know your way back to the Academy. You’re grateful that it’s not a day where Viktor has to go easy on movement.)

You continue looking around, just observing as he leads the way. Despite your obvious reservations, Piltover really is beautiful. It’s rich, both in city funds and culture. An air of elegance is enmeshed with every building, every person, even the air you breathe.

And… there’s a surprising lack of wires: telephone, telegraph, even electricity. The electricity ones are underground, and the telephone and telegraph ones don’t exist at all. It was a surprise to you, honestly – you thought a society as advanced as this would’ve figured out long-distance communication by now, but you suppose they had different priorities in the past, and have different priorities now.

The sky seems clearer without the tangle of lines perpetually obscuring it. Fluffy, cotton-ball clouds dot the cerulean. They drift by slowly, carried by a gentle wind.

“Does the sky look the same?” Viktor’s voice rouses you from your thoughts.

You glance over at him, then back up at the sky. “Mostly. Though, there’re a lot more birds where I’m from. Not sure if it’s their natural inclination that keeps them out or the amount of industry here.”

“I see,” he says. “Do your birds stay away from industry as well?”

“No,” you say. “They’re still livin’ there, despite it.”

A thought pops into your mind – you just described your situation. You’re living in Piltover despite its wealth, despite its tendency to starve already-starving artists, and despite its voracious appetite for those living below the poverty line. Are you just living an extended metaphor? (Do you represent a pigeon? Or would you be represented by one?)

Viktor hums in response and keeps walking, letting the conversation naturally fizzle out. You match his pace, still observing and still watching.

Soon enough, you both step onto campus grounds. Classes are in progress, so there aren’t many students out and about, rushing from lecture hall to lecture hall. It’s an easy walk to the hexdraulic conveyors that lead to the dormitories.

Viktor inputs the floor number into the button panel and you flip the lever with a hearty ca-chunk. The conveyor jolts, then rises steadily. The ride is silent aside from the hum of the cables.

When the doors open, you step out and lead him to your dorm. It’s a bit more lively and lived-in from when Viktor saw it last – dirty dishes in the sink, a mug half-full of cold, stale coffee, a jacket thrown over the back of one of the bar stools. You don’t really feel ashamed or embarrassed by the mess. There’s evidence of life, and it’s nice.

“Help yourself to whatever you like.” You start to pull off your vest. “I’m gonna get changed outta this stuffy-ass uniform.”

“I was going to say – it looked like Jayce dressed you,” Viktor says.

You throw your bag on your bed, then you lay the vest and the ascot-tie-thing on the counter. As you walk to your closet, you focus on popping the top few buttons on your dress shirt.

“Oh, so I can’t dress fancy now?” You have to raise your voice a little, as he’s still in the kitchen and the door to the closet is half-closed (it’s not like he could take a peek, anyway). “I gotta be forced to?”

“You are very adept at putting words in my mouth,” Viktor calls from around the corner. You can hear the smile in his voice.

You grumble noncommittally and undress, making sure to re-hang the clothes Jayce gave you so they wouldn’t develop wrinkles. You throw on more comfortable clothes and fetch the vest and ascot-tie-thing, making sure to re-hang them, too.

“Okay, I’m here,” you say as you enter the kitchen again. “Let’s get workin’ on this thing.”

Viktor smiles a little and nods. He picks up a piece of white chalk, turns to the board, and starts to write. “I was thinking of starting with the alphabet. It would be wise to start with the simplest, yes?”

“That’s right.” You pick up a piece of chalk and go to the other side of the blackboard, then start to write out the alphabet.

Viktor comes around and looks at what you’ve written. After a moment, he points to ‘A.’ “What sound does this make?”

“Ay,” you say. He writes a letter underneath it.

He then points to ‘B,’ asking the same question, then ‘C,’ ‘D,’ ‘E,’ all the way until the alphabet has a complete phonetic cipher. You round the blackboard with him and do the same thing to the Piltovan alphabet.

“Now we just gotta test if this thing works,” you say. You think for a moment, looking around the dorm, then write the first thing your eyes land on. In big, capital letters, you write ‘KNIFE.’ “Translate that.”

You step back as Viktor steps forward, referencing the cipher and writing as he quickly figures it out. When he’s done, he leans on his cane and cocks his head to the side.

“Kuh…neef-ay?” He tries.

“What?” You let out a shocked exhale. “Viktor, that says knife.”

“Then what are these here for?” Viktor circles the ‘K’ and the ‘E,’ then underlines ‘NIF.’ “This is what is being pronounced.”

“The ‘K’ and the ‘E’ are silent letters,” you say. “You don’t say ‘em. Maybe it wasn’t the best example to start with, but doesn’t Piltovan work the same?”

“No – here.” He rounds the blackboard and writes down a few letters. “Translate.”

“Uh…” You squint at the letters, trying to locate them in the cipher. They’re all fairly complex and some even resemble planetary symbols. One looks like a sun rising over the horizon, while another looks like a snake on a skewer. They’re all very, very confusing.

Eventually, you translate the word: SAWMB’R.

“Saw…mb’r,” you say out loud. “Somber?”

You turn to Viktor. “Motherfucker, do you not know how to spell somber?”

“That’s how it is spelled,” he says. “S-A-W-M-B-apostrophe-R. Somber.”

“Huh.” You turn back to the blackboard. “Maybe English and Piltovan are more different than we thought.”

“Perhaps.” He starts jotting a note beside the cipher in smaller, messier Piltovan writing (most likely for himself), then glances over at you from the corner of his eye. “How are you finding that book I gave you, by the way?”

“Book?” You echo. “What book?”

“The one I pulled from your bookcase.” Viktor points to the book he left on your kitchen countertop, which has sat untouched for close to a full week.

“You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout it…” you mumble.

You move over to the kitchen peninsula and pick up the book. The cover is in Piltovan, the author’s name is in Piltovan, and the blurb and reviews on the back are all in Piltovan.

You look over at Viktor and hold the book up. “You want me to hit you with this? ‘Cause it’s fairly obvious I can’t read it.”

“Open it,” he says. “The passage I wanted you to see was somewhere on the pages in the late 100s.”

You heave a sigh and lean your hip against the edge of the counter as you open the book. You flip through the pages like Viktor instructed, starting from page 144. It’s all in typed Piltovan except for one word – ‘London.’

“London!” You exclaim. “It – huh? London?”

“It says London?” He asks.

You turn and place the book on the counter, frantically flipping through the pages so fast you’re scared you’ll rip them. Then:

‘IN FEBRUARY 1862 WITH NO WARNING AT ALL LONDON FELL THROUGH THE SURFACE OF THE EARTH…’

“What?” You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. You’re not even sad – you’re just confused and you’re pretty sure you’re distraught. A harsh wringing sensation in your chest further confirms the distressing emotions.

You can feel Viktor’s presence beside you, hear the click of his cane against the wooden floor. “What does it say?”

“In February 1862, with no warning at all…” You take a breath, trying to stop your voice from warbling. “London fell through the surface of the Earth.”

“Did this happen in your world?” Viktor asks.

“No, no,” you say. “I think – I’m pretty sure London’s doin’ fine.”

Your head snaps up and you meet Viktor’s eyes. You’re sure your gaze is harsh and unkind, but your eyes are still watering. “Why the hell didn’t you t-tell me about this? There’s – something’s here, Viktor. In this book.”

“I thought your natural curiosity would make you look,” he says. He doesn’t exactly shrink away, but he does take a step back. “I did not know if it was English. I did not know if you would be able to read it at all – I would not want to get your hopes up just to dash them.”

“I…” You groan in the back of your throat and look at the pages, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. “I guess. But still, man. That was an asshole move.”

“I… apologize,” Viktor says. His voice is a little softer and not nearly as snappy as yours. “Next time I come across something in English, I will come to you right away. Is that a fair arrangement?”

“You fuckin’ better.” You clear your throat to get rid of the drool and mucus stuck there. “Y’know what? I’m givin’ you a sample.”

“A sample of English writing?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You move over to your bed and pull your sketchbook and pencil out of your bag. “For you to keep.”

You write a few sentences: ‘This is a sample of English handwriting. Excuse the fact that it looks a bit shit.’

You think for another few moments, trying to come up with something to write when it hits you. This could be a calling card. Viktor doesn’t seem like the type to lose or drop something, but what about pickpockets? If he keeps his promise, he should be carrying this piece of paper damn near everywhere. This could be a way to reach Zaun without ever leaving Piltover. Hell, maybe there’s people that know English in Piltover. You’ll never know unless you try.

You continue writing: ‘And Viktor, if you’re translating this on your off time, really? Get back to work! Or back to resting. Whatever you’re meant to be doing. 

‘Hey, if you’re still reading – this is a blind reach, but… if you can read this, come to Piltover Academy and ask for Jayce Talis and Viktor’s “American friend.” Whoever you ask should know who you’re talking about. If they don’t, ask them to direct you to either Jayce Talis, Viktor, or Sky Young, then ask again for their “American friend.” Miss Young don’t know me too well, so she’ll probably direct you to one of the men.’

You start to pull your pencil away from the paper, but then remember something. There should be a secret code, right? Because it’s not exactly a secret that you’re from America – you’ve been telling everyone you meet, so…

You tack on: ‘P.S. – if you’re serious about looking for me, here’s a code so I know you’re legit: tell them you’re Auntie Belle or Uncle Beau (depending, of course) from Sugar Hill, Georgia. Say you heard about me and that you’re an old family friend. I don’t think they’d like it if a stranger was about asking for me. If you have any connection to my world – I don’t care if you’re from the most remote weather station in Antarctica – please, put serious thought into seeking me out. I’d be very delighted to happen upon a connection from the my old world.’

You sign your name, then rip the paper from the metal spiral binding and tear off the excess white space, helping it look neater. You fold it once, twice, then hand it over to Viktor.

He unfolds it, glancing over the words. “It is rather long. What does it say?”

“It’s a passage from the Bible,” you lie. “Been raised with that good book since ‘fore I could read. Figures that some things would stick.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says. “You were right, it was an… asshole move to not show you the passage directly. Again, I apologize.”

“Just don’t do it again,” you say. You look to the side, away from him. “And the writing ain’t no problem. It’s part of Genesis, by the way. It tells the story of how God created the Earth, the day, the night, the oceans, the sky… all that.”

“I would like to hear about the mythologies of your world.” Viktor folds up the paper and slides it into one of the front pockets of his slacks. “If you would indulge my curiosity?”

You stand and look at the open book on the counter. You flip a few pages and spot more words in English.

“Can we do that another time?” Your eyes don’t leave the text. “I wanna read this. Forgive me for sounding harsh, but you’d just be another distraction.”

“I understand,” he says. “May I come by later to copy the cipher we created?”

“Mhm,” you hum. 

A few moments later, you glance up from the English embedded in the Piltovan lettering. Viktor’s already halfway out the door.

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

JUST LIKE DADDY • S.REID

SUMMARY: most people are delighted when their children take after their spouses, however none of them had a child with Spencer Reid. In your case, having two smart asses around is giving you a headache. A very adorable, sweet, headache.

PAIRING: mom!reader x dad!spencer

tags: PURE FLUFF, reader wears sundresses, no mentions of pregnancy (so u can imagine baby is adopted) , team doesn’t know about your or your daughter, mentions of autism and ableism (no hate crimes , just ignorance) season5!spencer

a/n: dad spencer is all that’s in my pea brain rn I should probably study tho… also you guessed it, peds surgeon reader 🥹

w/c: 1.8k

“HARPER COME HERE,” you called, glancing over your shoulder as you finished plating breakfast.

The sound of small footsteps pattering against the hardwood floor followed, but she didn’t respond right away. Instead, she wandered into the kitchen, her little nose buried deep in a book, turning pages with quiet fascination. You sighed, shaking your head with a knowing smile.

“Harper,” you said again, a little firmer this time.

She finally looked up, blinking at you with the same wide-eyed, unfocused expression her father wore whenever he was deep in thought. It was uncanny—like looking at a mini version of your boyfriend.

“Come here, baby,” you chuckled, reaching for her. She barely acknowledged you as you lifted both her and the book in one smooth motion, hoisting her onto your hip.

“Are you hungry?” you asked, shifting her weight so you could grab a forkful of scrambled eggs from your plate.

Without hesitation, she opened her mouth, happily taking the bite before reaching for more. You laughed, sitting her on the counter as her father finally wandered in, rubbing his eyes and stretching with a yawn. His hair was a mess, the result of a night spent tossing and turning, and he still looked half-asleep.

You smirked. “I forgot about the boy band you joined.”

Spencer frowned slightly, confused in his sleepy state, before realizing his hair must be sticking up in every direction. He attempted to smooth it down with one hand as he walked over to the counter, where you slid a plate of eggs in his direction.

“Daddy!” Harper beamed, momentarily abandoning her book to reach for him.

But instead of waiting for him to pick her up, she grabbed a handful of your scrambled eggs and stuffed them into her mouth.

“Wow, okay—yep, you know what? Enjoy that, honey,” you sighed, watching in amusement as she happily devoured your breakfast with zero shame.

Spencer sat beside her, sipping his coffee with a small smile as he watched her eat. You shook your head, adjusting your scrubs and tying your hair up as you muttered, “I’ve never seen a baby eat so much…”

Spencer, ever the encyclopedia of knowledge, didn’t miss a beat. “Actually, at this age, children experience growth spurts that can significantly increase their appetite. The brain alone uses about 50% of a toddler’s energy intake, which makes sense considering how much she’s learning and developing every day. So, really, it’s not just eating—it’s fueling her cognitive expansion.”

You shot him a blank stare. “Spencer, she just ate my breakfast with her bare hands.”

He smirked, ruffling Harper’s hair as she reached for another bite. “And at this rate, we might need a second fridge.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Remind me to get on that one.”

Leaning over, you kissed him softly, savoring the warmth of the moment before glancing at your watch. Reality settled in as you sighed. “I gotta go—one of my patients just had another seizure, which means surgery got pushed up.”

Spencer’s expression shifted immediately, concern flickering in his eyes as he reached for your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll do great,” he murmured.

You squeezed his hand back before pulling away, ruffling Harper’s curls on your way out. “Love you both. Try not to let her talk you into giving her ice cream for breakfast again.”

“No promises,” Spencer called after you, Harper giggling beside him.

As you left, you could already hear Harper asking, “Daddy, can we read now?”

And, of course, you knew what his answer would be.

“Enjoy your special day off with daddy Harper, you’re very lucky,” you giggled, kissing Harper on the nose. “Promise to try and get out before dinner?” Spencer frowned.

“Oh, Baby…I have interns. After this surgery I leave whenever the hell i want, should only take 7 hours,” you shrugged. “So I can expect you by 3-4PM?” He smiled, Harper on his hip.

“Fingers crossed!” You called out to him, closing and locking the door behind you.

THANKFULLY, LUCK MUST’VE been on your side. For the first time in what felt like forever, you were home on time. You quietly unlocked the door, hoping to surprise your fiancé and daughter, and were immediately greeted by the soft sound of giggles echoing from the kitchen.

You smiled to yourself, slipping off your shoes as you followed the sound.

“Whoa, is that me?” Spencer’s voice was full of delight.

Standing in the doorway, you saw him leaning over Harper’s small frame, his hands gently resting on the edge of the counter as he studied her latest masterpiece. In front of her was a cookie slathered in colorful frosting, a wobbly yet unmistakable attempt at drawing their little family. Harper beamed proudly, nodding as Spencer adjusted a tiny smudge of icing with his fingertip.

“And is that you and Mom?” he asked, his smile widening as he pointed to two smaller figures beside the taller one.

Harper nodded again, her curls bouncing with the movement.

Your heart melted at the sight.

For a long time, you and Spencer had worried about Harper’s speech. She had been a quiet baby, slow to start speaking, and for months, you’d both second-guessed yourselves, wondering if you were doing something wrong. And then—one day—she had started talking, and she hadn’t stopped since.

Often times people would comment in stores, they’d question if she was autistic, in their words ‘like her daddy,’ which pissed you off to no end. Not that you were ashamed of either of them but for the sole fact it wasn’t their business.

“Is that for me?” you gasped, stepping into the kitchen.

Harper turned toward you so quickly she nearly knocked over a bowl of sprinkles. “Mommy! Look what I drew!” she giggled, holding up her cookie proudly.

You raised a brow as you inspected the chaotic yet adorable frosting mess. “That’s beautiful, baby. You even gave Daddy his new haircut”

Spencer let out a soft laugh, running a hand through his already-messy curls as Harper nodded eagerly. “We’ve been going over proper grammar all day,” he explained with amusement.

That made you smile knowingly. You and Spencer had agreed early on not to use baby talk with Harper. He had read several studies on how children learned language through immersion, picking up sentence structures and vocabulary from full, adult-level conversations.

“In order for her to develop a strong linguistic foundation, it’s important that she hears full sentences and proper word usage,” Spencer had once told you, mid-ramble, as you rocked a six-month-old Harper to sleep. “Children’s brains are like sponges. The more complex language they’re exposed to, the more their neural connections develop. It’s how they build cognitive associations—”

And yet, despite all his research, Harper still loved to test his patience by making up her own grammar rules.

“I drawed it myself!” she announced proudly, smearing frosting on her cheek in the process.

Spencer sighed dramatically, though the fondness in his eyes was unmistakable. “Drew, sweetheart. You drew it yourself.”

Harper scrunched up her nose, contemplating that for a moment before repeating, “I drewed it myself.”

You snorted as Spencer let out a defeated sigh.

“Close enough,” he muttered, kissing the top of her head.

You leaned against the counter, watching the two of them with warmth spreading through your chest. “I think it’s perfect,” you said, pressing a kiss to Harper’s frosting-covered cheek before turning to Spencer. “And clearly made with love by a little artist”

Spencer nodded, wrapping an arm around your waist as Harper reached for more sprinkles. “An artist and a linguist, apparently.”

Harper looked up at you both, eyes twinkling. “I’m a genius,” she declared.

Spencer chuckled, squeezing your waist. “Well, she’s definitely my daughter.”

“Don’t get me started. It’s like there’s two of you.” You scoffed playfully. Spencer’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?” He crosses his arms and leans on the counter.

You raised an eyebrow, pausing mid-sip of the coffee you’d just taken from your boyfriend. “Spence. Seriously?”

He blinked at you, waiting. Oh, he was serious.

You set your mug down with a sigh, crossing your arms as you leaned against the counter. “Okay. Well, for starters, she walks around with a book in her hands everywhere—to the point where I’ve had to physically guide her away from furniture so she doesn’t run into things. Sound familiar?”

Spencer tilted his head, processing.

“And let’s talk about her memory. The other day, I told her we could get ice cream if she took a nap, and when I picked her up from daycare two days later, she said, ‘Mommy, you owe me ice cream.’ TWO. DAYS. She remembered the exact words I said, which, by the way, is something you do all the time, and it’s terrifying.”

Spencer opened his mouth, probably to say something about the hippocampus and memory retention, but you held up a finger. “Nope. I’m not done.”

Harper, now licking frosting off her fingers, was watching you both with amusement.

“She uses logic to try and win arguments. Do you know how hard it is to reason with a toddler who says, ‘But technically, you did say I could have another cookie yesterday’?” You waved your hands for emphasis. “She technically me’d into giving her another cookie, Spencer. She’s FIVE.”

Spencer rubbed his hand thoughtfully, as if considering his own genetic responsibility in this matter.

“Oh, and let’s not forget the fact that she infodumps—about things she just learned. The other day, I made an offhand comment about birds flying south for the winter, and now she’s been telling everyone about migratory patterns. The cashier at the grocery store did not ask for that information, but she sure got it.”

Spencer’s lips twitched, clearly amused. “So what you’re saying is… she’s highly intelligent, observant, and logical?”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Oh my God. Yes, Spencer, your genes are very strong.”

Before you could say more, Harper perked up, pointing a frosting-covered finger at you. “Mommy, did you know some birds don’t actually migrate, they just move to different parts of the same area?”

Spencer’s grin widened as he leaned toward you. “See? She’s just expanding on a topic she finds fascinating.”

You huffed, shaking your head before leaning down to kiss Harper’s sticky cheek. “You two are gonna drive me insane.”

Harper giggled, and Spencer simply pressed a kiss to your temple. “But you love us.”

You sighed dramatically before melting into his embrace. “Yeah, yeah. I love you both. Even if you’re teaming up to outsmart me.”

Harper beamed. “It’s ‘cause we’re genies, Mommy.” You snickered.

“So how many wishes do I get?”

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

That’s alright!! I more so just meant it’s spelled wrong lol.

Girl that chapter- Dear god the suspense is killing me!!! 😭 Absolutely fantastic as always.

@patchs-curiosity-corner

(ps my @ on the tag list is broken 🥲)

AAAA THANK UUU

yea sorry for the tag but i fear i have reached the limit in my taglist for you guys to receive the notif 😔 i didn’t expect there to be so many people gadam im shooketh