#<- slashes to keep the freaks away

[sunbedo]

For the sake of my own peace of mind I wanna let you guys know that. now that im 18 I went through my f/o list and removed everyone under 18. so i see them as platonics now. i tried to go through my past posts with my romantic f/o tag (#🩷) and remove them but it proved to be. very time consuming. so just keep in mind that my past posts with the #🩷 tag were from before i turned 18 and that i dont ship with the ones who are minors anymore

[aeolianblues]

was kinda thinking about this when I saw Renee Rapp live recently-- I didn't know her visual vibe, I'd heard a few songs here and there but I hadn't really *seen* her, and her attire at Osheaga was really casual, a jersey (baseball/basketball?) and slacks. And that was so amazing! I couldn't help thinking, the work Billie Eilish has done for how women in pop music are allowed to dress is incredible. Seeing her up there all comfortable you just know that Billie walked in her oversized tops so that Renee in her slacks could run; Billie walked through all the critcisms about how she dressed slobbily and having to assert that she didn't owe anyone a display of skin, so that Renee could be comfortable and unquestioned running up and down the catwalk in front of 10,000 people. How iconic.

And I don't think we even realised at the time how much something as simple as letting Billie dress the way she as a (then-) 17-year-old teenager dressed, could end up meaning for a future generation of women in music.

Obviously there is still way to go, there were weirdos complaining about how 'plain' Dua Lipa's Glastonbury outfit was this year (in 2024!!), l have to ask, are you at Paris Fashion Week?? She is the musical HEADLINER of an entire day of music at one of the biggest music festivals in the world, and you can't grant her the space to exist as an artist, you have to moan about her dress not being excitingly revealing enough. There's work to do, it's still dismal out there. But the space Billie Eilish has created for a most ordinarily-dressed woman popstar is still heartening.

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Feeling me up as a pornstar dies⋆˚࿔

WARNINGS: teenage angst. underage drinking. underage smoking. underage sexual activity. smut (mdni). dry humping. coming in pants. clit stimulation. cannibalism references (barely). angst. teenagers being horny. 5.0k

The drive-in becomes something of a tradition, just like the walks.

Every Friday—with an exception here and there—you and Dean go watch a movie together.

Sam stops coming along after the night you take him to see It.

You hadn’t known about Sam’s phobia of clowns, but Dean had. He laughed his ass off when Sam’s face fell as the movie title rolled in.

“I expected this from my asshole brother, but you?”

Trust a fourteen-year-old boy to be dramatic. It takes a whole new order of marshmallow nachos and lending him your precious copy of Carrie for him to forgive you. But he still refuses to come along.

The new tradition isn’t the only change that comes from that night.

Any residual ice between you and Dean has melted away.

You hang out all the time now—after school on the empty sidewalks, at the local arcade, at Bobby’s house. Why Dean Winchester chooses to spend time with you instead of one of the pretty, normal girls from school still escapes you.

But you actually start to talk, even if sometimes it’s still too quiet for Dean to catch. You make murmured jokes, tease him under your breath, and even nudge his shoulder when you're feeling brave. You chat in philosophy class, whisper the right answers to him, and he says them out loud just to piss Richie Rich off. They even get into a fight once, after the asshole mocks Dean’s worn-out clothes.

“Does daddy not love you enough to buy you a jacket that isn’t half-ruined?”

The next day, the tires of Richie Rich’s beloved BMW convertible are found slashed in the school parking lot. There’s no proof of who did it, even if Richie keeps pointing fingers at Dean.

No one notices the knife tucked inside your boot.

You also start taking Dean along on your searches for animal bones in the forest. The two of you wander through the foggy woods of Sioux Falls—your steps quiet and doe-like, Dean’s heavy and predatory. Once, you find a small, dainty bat skull hidden beneath a bed of pine needles. You let yourself fall to the ground, knees scraping, and rinse away the remaining decay with your water bottle.

Once it’s clean, you hold it up to Dean with a grin, like a trophy. The bone gleams under the sun, and your legs and dress are now smudged with dirt. He looks at the skull with mild disgust, but then his expression shifts into something soft and fond when he sees the genuine joy on your face.

“You little freak,” he huffs, ruffling your hair. But his voice is soft, coated in affection.

You sing along to his cassettes when you hang out in his room, even buying him new ones from the town’s local thrift store. He even teaches you how to shoot, wrapping his big hands around yours to help you aim. You manage to hit five out of seven cans, and the proud smile Dean gives you keeps you walking on clouds for the rest of the week.

You get drunk for the first time with him on your seventeenth birthday. Only, Dean doesn’t know it’s your birthday. You’re not one for celebrations. At least, not when they’re about you.

You sneak one of your mother’s bottles into Bobby’s house—whiskey, because Dean once said he liked it. The first shot makes your eyes water, and Dean laughs, teasing you for endless minutes. You punch his arm, pour yourself another, and swallow it like water.

It burns with something inherited. A heirloom. A curse.

Dean seems to feel the same—judging by the way he stares at the bottle like a betrayed soldier.

Can’t escape those addiction genes, you guess.

But the burning fades about halfway through the bottle.

Then, you lose all trace of shame. The barbed wire that’s always wrapped around your throat unravels, and the ever-present tension deep in your bones evaporates, leaving only malleable, tender flesh.

Dean lies on his bed, smoking a cigarette, as you change his cassette to something you got for him. Something darker, layered, ghostly.

“That obscure indie shit you dig so much,” Dean calls it.

“Did Sam teach you that word?”

“Shut up, smartass.”

Head floaty, empty of the voices that have haunted you since birth, you twirl around the room to the soft piano of the song.

Dean watches as the golden light of the setting sun shines around you like a divine glow. The flowy skirt of your dress rises up and exposes the smooth, delicate skin of your thighs. The smoke from his cigarette curls around you like you’re calling to it—like it recognizes your mystical nature and craves wrapping around you.

Dean knows the feeling.

You twirl again, trip on one of his boots, stumble into the bed next to him, and break into a mess of giggles and rosy cheeks, nearly burning yourself with his cigarette.

Oh, you wish Dean would put it out on you.

Both of you stare at the ceiling fan for a long moment of silence after that. Your hand trails down the edge of Dean’s wooden bed frame, your fingers finding one of the many markings carved into it. A pentagram inside a sun. You wonder what it means, if it’s a band’s logo or some kind of ritualistic symbol.

Instead of asking, driven by the drunken, unstoppable need to tell the truth, you whisper:

“Today’s my birthday.”

Another moment stretches between you, smoke slowly filling your lungs as Dean blows it toward you—you asked him to, because you can’t get enough of the smell—and then he whispers back:

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

The next day, Dean picks you up in the pickup truck and takes you to the drive-in, even though it isn’t Friday.

“Didn’t think you’d get away with turning seventeen and not celebrating, right?”

There’s a silly grin on his face, but something filters underneath. Something somber, blue and gray.

You don’t ask. Instead, you quickly get ready for the hangout. You decide to wear your mother’s black cowboy boots. It earns you an up-and-down look and a murmured compliment—and it makes you glow.

You settle into your usual spot at the drive-in. You buy some popcorn and finish it before the movie even starts. Dean still claims he doesn’t want any but ends up stealing a handful from you anyway. This time, you both sit closer to the middle of the bench seat, just inches apart.

The movie starts.

Slasher flick again.

Your eyes stay on the screen as a girl—topless, because they always are—gives her boyfriend a little show. They’ll both be murdered in minutes.

But Dean’s eyes aren’t on her. He doesn’t even glance her way as she removes her bra, slow and sensual in a way you’ll never be.

No, he’s looking at you.

Quiet but mesmerizing. Tragic and magical.

You’re scared, but you’re also starving.

It’s been months of staring at Dean—his pretty face, his soft freckles, his darkening hair, his darker soul—and being hungry.

You turn to meet his eyes, and something grotesque crawls inside of you.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, his hand coming up to brush your bangs behind your ear.

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. You’re not used to compliments, and you’re not used to the burning sensation in your chest—the one you know the name of, but are too scared to label.

When Dean’s eyes dart down, you know it’s coming. You have half a mind to panic because this is your first kiss. But also, there’s something animalistic clawing at your chest, something that tells you you’ll know exactly what to do.

So your lips meet—unexpectedly warm and dreamy, Dean’s calloused hand cupping your cheek—and you have to dig your nails into your own thigh to stop yourself from devouring him.

Because you want to. You want to sink your teeth into his flesh, savor it. You want to hook your fingers around his ribcage, crack it open, crawl inside, and sleep snuggly wrapped around his heart. You want to eat him down to the marrow, suck every drop of pain out of his bloodstream, press against him so close that you rot together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

But for now, you settle with engulfing his lips with yours.

Dean kisses the way he shoots. Confident, expert, hitting every target. He knows exactly where to bite, how much tongue to use, and when to bury his fingers in your hair.

You, on the other hand, are all instinct. You follow what the beast on your chest demands, for the first time in your life letting yourself take what you want. You bite his lower lip, savoring the way the soft flesh gives under the pressure of your incisors. You suck on his teeth until a small noise escapes from the back of his throat. You pull on his hair, tilt your head when he does, and lick over his lips when he breaks the kiss.

You guess you did well enough, because Dean’s eyes are dark, pupils blown wide until only a thin ring of green remains. His hand tightens in your hair, enough to send a shiver down your spine but not enough to hurt.

You wish he would make it hurt.

“You fuckin’ drive me insane, sweetheart.”

“I think you were already insane,” you deflect with humor, because it’s easier than accepting that Dean Winchester might actually want you back. “But that’s okay. I am too.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head before kissing you again. This time, his hands travel to your waist, slowly pushing you backward.

Someone in the background screams just as your back hits the leather seat. Suspense music plays—slow and haunting—right when Dean hovers over you, arms on each side of your head, his breath fanning your face.

Tobacco, cherry pie, and a hint of mint.

“We don’t have to, if you—”

You tangle your fingers in the hairs at the nape of his neck and yank him down.

“I want to,” you murmur against his lips, barely keeping your voice from trembling.

Please.

Your teeth clash, and your tongues collide. This time, the kiss is violent. Lips bruising, hands groping, nails scratching. Dean shrugs off his jacket before he starts to kiss your neck. The heat that floods through your body is something you’ve never felt before. His teeth graze your pulse, and then he sucks, trapping the flesh between his teeth and licking.

The sound that escapes your throat is obscene, your back arching off the car seat, moving closer to him. Your eyes slam shut, and your hands clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin through his shirt

“Dean—”

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he murmurs against your neck, his warm breath over the new bruise making your breath falter.

He continues to kiss down your throat, around your collarbones, and lower. His mouth is desperate, possessive, leaving marks wherever it latches onto. You pull on his hair, nails running down his back over the thin fabric of his shirt. It makes him moan.

You shift under him, your legs spreading, making room for him. He fits perfectly in between them, the rough fabric of his jeans scratching the tender skin of your bare thighs, his lips finding yours again.

He presses you down against the car seat, hand on your hip, his whole body weight on top of you, grounding and maddening. His large, calloused hand glides over your thigh and makes its way under your skirt, where there’s already a wet patch on the front of your cotton panties.

His thumb brushes over the damp fabric, and you gasp. Your back arches, the touch so different from your own. Your hips buck, simultaneously trying to pull closer and away from his hand.

His grasp on your hip tightens, holding you in place as his thumb rubs slow circles over your clothed core, drawing a sweet little whimper from you.

“You’re so damn wet.” His voice is low, almost a growl, as his finger presses harder against you, sliding between your lips and finding that little bundle of nerves.

“Fuck,” you whisper, still conscious of the fact that the pickup truck has no side windows, and anyone walking by could hear you.

You’re dripping by this point, pupils blown and thighs twitching. You feel Dean’s fingers making their way to the side of your underwear, and panic rises in you for a second. 

Someone in the movie dies screaming, probably the love interest.

You grab Dean’s wrist, stopping him from moving further. But before he can question you and the moment gets ruined, you wrap your legs around his middle and pull him closer, until his clothed cock is pressed against your core.

That’s safer. That you are ready for.

Dean doesn’t seem deterred by the change of plans. He simply groans when he feels the heat of you through the layers of clothing. He leans down for another hungry kiss, grunting against your lips as he rocks his hips, grinding his hard-on against you.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, husky and rough.

“It—it’s good,” you whimper, your hips jerking up when the outline of his dick hits your swollen clit dead-on, sending electricity down your spine.

Dean moans into your mouth, biting down on your lower lip as your movement gives him a new angle of friction between the two of you.

You feel so sensitive, raw, and exposed. You’ve never felt this good, this heavenly, this sinful—like divinity is just on the tip of your fingers, but you’re falling straight down into the burning pits of hell.

The rough texture of denim should hurt against you, but it burns just right. The wetness dripping from you soaks through your panties, staining Dean’s jeans. Marking him, claiming him.

Dean’s hands move, cupping your breasts and squeezing, his thumbs rubbing over your nipples through the fabric of your top. It draws a needy, strangled sound from you.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot.” His hips start to move more frantically, rubbing over your clit again and again. “Wanna ruin you.”

Yes, please. Ruin me for anyone else, turn me into something only you can touch.

You throw your head back in pleasure, your hands finally landing on his chest.

You let them roam, exploring the sun-kissed skin you’ve been craving for so long. Your fingers slip under his shirt, pressing against lean muscle and scratching down his abdomen when his cock brushes over a particularly sensitive spot. The red lines you know will mark his skin make the beast inside you howl, satisfied and territorial.

Mine. All mine.

Even though he isn’t.

Dean groans, guttural and wild, his thrusts growing desperate, feral—almost like he’s actually fucking you. It feels too good, almost too much. A bitter reminder that this probably isn’t the first time Dean’s done this, that he’s been in this exact position with other girls, maybe even some from school.

But any sour thoughts leave your mind when he moans your name, low, urgent, strained. You’ve read enough books to know he’s close, that you’re about to make Dean Winchester come. Just from some over-the-clothes friction.

Your hand tentatively travels down his body, cupping his cock over his jeans.

Fuck, he’s big.

You squeeze, hard but not enough to hurt. Or so you hope.

Apparently, that’s the right thing to do, because Dean’s eyes snap shut, his hips buck uncontrollably, and he comes in his jeans. His breath is ragged, his hands gripping you, and his hips press further into your hand.

He pants your name over and over again, like a prayer. There’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his jeans ruined, and he looks fucking beautiful.

He rests his head against your chest, right between the valley of your breasts, as he comes down from his orgasm, struggling to catch his breath.

You run a hand through his hair gently, admiring the portrait-worthy sight of Dean Winchester after he’s just come—skin glistening with the afterglow and warm breath all over your skin. You still haven’t climaxed, but it is okay, you’re satisfied with making Dean feel good. 

But then he lifts his head, lower lip trapped between his teeth, and his fingers find your drenched cunt over your panties. Your hips jerk, and a startled, breathy sound comes out of you. 

“Fuck, Dean—” you whine, your hands clutching his shoulders.

“Feels good, huh?” he teases, a smirk in his face. But there’s something else behind it, an edge that you had never seen before. It is primal, possessive, and it makes you feel like you’ll combust.

His fingers quickly find your sensitive little nub and rub over it. Your legs part wider, eager and pliant. Your cheeks burn with pleasure and shame and ecstasy, all at once.

Somewhere in the background, the final girl is fighting the masked killer. She runs for her life, bleeding, hurting, escaping. You ignore it all.

“Dean, please,” your voice comes out all shaky and filthy. Your thighs tremble as his thumb travels down your slit, pressing onto your entrance over the fabric before returning to your clit, your slick sticking to his skin, soaking him in your juices. 

You feel animalistic, wild, ravenous. You crave all of Dean—his flesh, his blood, his insides. You feel floaty, on fire, soft and raw at the same time. Your thighs tense, and your back arches. Your mouth is wide open, eyes half-lidded and glossy, lips bitten-red, and tongue half out.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your ear, low and deep, his thumb working at your overstimulated, sensitive cunt. His eyes are all over you, like he is admiring his work—the way you are completely at his mercy, coming apart under his touch.

Far away, blood splashes all over the screen. You are bathed in bright, crimson light as a scream escapes your throat. Your teeth find the skin of Dean’s neck and sink in, deep enough to leave marks that make the beast in your chest wail.

All you can see is red.

Your orgasm burns over you like wildfire, every nerve in your body igniting as his finger doesn’t stop its ministrations. Wetness gushes out of you, completely ruining your panties and leaving his fingers sopping. You pant, your body still twitching, eyes wide as you ride your climax. That’s the hardest you’ve ever come. You had no idea it could feel this good.

Dean pulls his drenched hand away from your drenched pussy, and then he brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you. 

You freeze, hazy mind trying to wrap around the fact that Dean just licked your slick off his fucking fingers. He hums, satisfied and a little strained, like he is holding back. 

Something deep inside of you growls, and you feel sick with desire.

“What the—” Your hips twitch against nothing, your breath rapid and your eyes still glossy. And Dean looks so fucking smug about it.

“God, you taste so good, sweetheart,” he murmurs with a proud little grin. Another scream, sharp and biting.

The words make you blush, and you immediately pull Dean in for a kiss, trying to hide the way your cheeks burn.

You lick inside his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue, and you moan. Fuck, you want Dean like this, coated in you, branded, yours. You want everyone who kisses him in the future to taste you, to know he belongs to you, even if he doesn’t.

Dean keeps you pressed against him, his hand reaching for your face, fingers gripping your chin and holding you in place so he can kiss you as much as he wants, however he wants. You let him, allowing his tongue to brush over every corner, every surface. You let him take whatever he wants from you, just hoping that he will take good care of it.

His mouth leaves yours for a second before biting down on your lower lip, almost hard enough to make it bleed. You hiss, your legs tightening around him, and your cunt somehow getting even wetter.

You bite back, teeth digging into his lower lip, leaving you with matching bruises.

Slowly, the kisses turn softer, sweeter. Both of you catch your breath, the rabid desperation quietly leaving your bodies, leaving only the tingling sensation of the afterglow as your limbs tangle together in the car seat.

Dean pulls away from your mouth, nuzzling into your hair, breathing you in. One of his hands is wrapped around your thigh, keeping you close, as if he can’t stand the thought of letting you go. He holds onto you like you’re something precious—something he doesn’t want to destroy but will inevitably crack under his touch.

And you will let him. You will let him break you, let him make you bleed until he feels better, until everything is better.

You’re glad he hasn’t pulled away, because you feel like you might die if he does.

Eventually, the credits roll, and you break apart. Dean pulls back slightly so he can look at you, his eyes holding the same intensity as before, but the sadness from earlier is creeping around them. Gloomy, almost mournful.

He kisses your cheek, then leaves a light peck on your lips.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You nod, tiny and still a little hazy. He chuckles, presses another kiss to your lips, and sits up.

Every part of your body screams at the distance, but you swallow it all down before following him, straightening up on the car seat and running your fingers through your hair, trying to tame it. Thankfully, most people have left already, only a few suspiciously dark and shaky cars around you.

“Better get home quickly.” Dean turns on the engine, shifting in his seat and grimacing. “This will get really uncomfortable soon.”

Right, because he knows what to do in these situations. Because he’s done it before.

You try to get as comfortable as you can, though your underwear is clinging to your skin and your inner thighs are somehow still glistening and sticky. Dean turns on the radio, and Bon Jovi starts playing. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs, and your laugh is swept away by the wind as he starts to drive home.

Dean’s hand finds your thigh, and it stays there for the whole journey. You stare out of the window into the starry sky, your mind swirling with the night’s events.

Your insides feel melted, turned into ashes by Dean’s burning touch. You feel like you’re glowing, the memory of his rough hands on you still fresh in your mind, your body remembering him like a tattoo you know you will never get rid of.

Dean has etched himself onto your skin tonight, carved his name into your heart, and you should be ecstatic. But his shoulders are tense, his eyes unreadable as he stares at the dirt road in front of him like it might hold some kind of ancient knowledge. His fingers don’t drum along with the music, his mouth set in a thin line instead of that relaxed little smirk that is ever-present on his face. And while his hand is on you, it feels less like comfort and more like tragedy.

You make your way to your house in silence, utterly and nerve-wracking. 

“Right, I almost forgot.” Dean kills the engine and grabs a small wooden box from the glovebox. “I got you something.”

Your jaw drops a little, your eyes widen, and you hold the box like it’s the most precious thing you’ve ever set your eyes on. You haven’t received a birthday gift since you were five, before your mother had found her true love in the bottles.

“You didn’t have to, Dean,” you whisper, but your fingers are already opening the box, delicately and reverently, as if it’s something holy.

“Of course I had to,” he huffs, his eyes studying your every expression.

You don’t argue. Instead, you carefully unwrap whatever’s hidden in the box. A gasp leaves your mouth, and Dean snorts when you look up at him with eyes full of wonder, starstruck and beautiful.

Inside the box, wrapped in velvety fabric, is a silver dagger. The blade is shiny and wavy, gorgeous and sharp. The handle is engraved—smooth, swooping little waves on the crossguard, words in a language you don’t recognize elegantly carved into the handle, and at the end, a metal goat skull.

You devotedly take the dagger into your hands, holding it with the love and gentleness you once only had for your oldest paperbacks, those with broken spines and yellowing pages. Your fingers run over one of the goat’s horns, admiring the cold perfection of pure silver.

“It matches with all those bones you dissect.”

You huff, rolling your eyes. “Articulate, not dissect.”

But the smile on your face is sweet and endeared, and your eyes swell up with tears you force yourself to hold back.

“This is too much, Dean.” But your hand is already wrapping around the handle, the weight of the blade in your palm feeling natural, like it was always supposed to be there. “Where did you even get this?”

A pure-silver dagger couldn’t be cheap anywhere.

Dean shrugs, trying to act nonchalant, but his chest puffs out at the sight of you being so moved by his gift. “Bobby had it hidden around in his basement, and I thought it’d fit you better.”

That makes you giggle, eyes darting up toward him. You fight the urge to jump into his lap, to wrap yourself around him and never let him go.

“Is it real silver?” you have to ask. Dean nods once and doesn’t offer more explanation.

“You’re a decent shot, but I’ve seen you with that knife of yours,” he chuckles, his hand wrapping over yours on the handle of the dagger and squeezing. “It’s just in case you need to defend yourself.”

He whispers it like it’s a secret, like he’s afraid someone—or something—will listen.

You look back down at the dagger, at Dean’s grip around your hand, at the way it seems almost desperate, scared.

You wonder why you can’t just defend yourself with your old knife, why Dean wants you to have this one. You wonder about him learning to shoot, bow-hunt, and knife-throw. You wonder about the markings on his bed frame and the way he always stares at the shadows for just a little too long. You wonder about what the hell his dad does for work, and what has Dean so terrified.

“Why does it have to be silver?” you murmur instead, because you’re really good at looking red flags right in the eye and then completely ignoring them.

Your thumb runs back and forth over the skull, and your heart flutters at the knowledge that Dean thought about you after seeing something so beautiful. Because that is the most important thing at the moment.

Dean shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. “I don’t know, it might be… useful.”

It doesn’t explain much, but then Dean leans forward and presses a kiss to your lips. He tastes like popcorn butter and still a little like you, and it sends every rational thought flying out of your head.

He murmurs a goodbye against your lips, and you whisper it back. You hold the wooden box against your chest with veneration as you jump off the truck, closing the door and staring at Dean through the glassless window.

You offer him a sweet, enamoured smile, but his face is twisted. His smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes, and his hands are slightly shaky where he grips the steering wheel.

You're about to ask what’s wrong when he opens his mouth, not really looking at you.

“Just—please promise me that you’ll stay safe.”

It takes you out, because it’s a weird thing to say, even for you. You know better than anyone that there are a lot of things you need to stay safe from, that they come in all shapes, from shadows following you at night to your own family, but Dean says it like it’s imminent. Like danger is coming for you, soon and fast, like he knows it, like he’s seen it.

“I—” But he looks worried, pained, sad. And you can’t handle it. So you don’t ask any questions again. “I will stay safe, I promise.”

It seems like enough for Dean, since he nods and turns on the engine again. You stare at him a little longer. At the boy you’ve been watching forever, the boy who saw you when nobody did, the boy who was the first to touch you and who you think might just be the last.

I don’t need to worry about staying safe with you by my side, boy with the gun.

You stare at him as he gets ready to drive away, and something rises from your chest. Something bitter but addictive, something disgusting and cloying and infective but oh so fucking good. You know the name, but you don’t say it. Not now, maybe someday.

“See ya,” you mutter, and Dean clenches his jaw before nodding, finally looking at you like a cult leader looks at a lamb before slashing its throat open.

“See ya, sweetheart.”

But it seems like you did need to worry, because that’s the last you see of Dean.

He doesn’t show up at school the next day, nor the next one, nor the whole week. A month goes by, and there’s no sign of the Winchester brothers. Bobby offers no explanation more than a “I’m sorry, kid.” and a head pat.

You have no number to call, no address to mail a letter to, no reason why.

All you’re left with is a silver dagger, a newfound taste for whiskey, bruises between your thighs, and a broken heart.

The Dean Winchester special.

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NOTES: Part three! I'm so sorry for the wait, but it's finals week. I will try to be as consistent as I can with the update but it might take a little while. still, I am so in love with this story and love every second of writing it. thank you so much for all the love, I don't deserve you guys. please let me know what you think, it makes my sick little brain so happy! I love you all, hope you liked it!!!

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[rosemaryhoney27]

Quiet Shadows and Loud Secrets

Cassandra Cain had a secret.

It wasn’t the kind of secret that made her blood run cold with fear or her body snap to attention like it did during missions. It was… softer. Stranger. It made her chest feel tight in a way she couldn’t name.

Her secret was named Jazz Fenton.

Cassandra met Jazz by accident—well, not entirely. She’d been slashed up during a particularly rough patrol in Gotham’s East End. Blood dripping, muscles screaming, Cass had made it halfway to one of her usual safe houses before a kid—no more than fifteen—stood in her path holding a crowbar like he wasn’t afraid of the Bat.

“You’re bleeding,” he said. Voice calm. Casual. As if talking to a girl in full tactical gear was normal. “You’ll probably pass out in five more blocks. You should come with me instead. My sister’s in med school.”

Cass didn’t respond out loud—she rarely did—but something in the boy’s body language was familiar. It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t fear. It was… calm competence. So she followed him. Limping.

That was how she ended up in a tiny, mostly clean apartment above a struggling bookstore, with a red-haired woman fussing over her wounds and muttering about trauma sterilization and broken ribs. The girl’s name was Jazz. Her little brother was Danny, and he was watching Cass with a mixture of concern and... understanding.

They didn’t ask who she was. They didn’t try to remove her mask.

They just helped.

Later, when Cass was bandaged and propped up on the couch sipping water with shaking fingers, Jazz sat across from her, shoulders squared in a way Cass recognized—like she was waiting for something. Waiting to see if trust would be returned.

“We’re not exactly normal either,” Jazz said.

Danny snorted. “Understatement.”

Cass tilted her head.

Danny’s eyes glowed green.

“Don’t freak out,” he said. “I’m half-dead. Long story. Ghost powers. No big deal.”

It was a big deal. But it was also... familiar. The feeling of not belonging. Of hiding what you were. Cass nodded slowly.

Trust, silently exchanged.

Cass started visiting more often. It was never planned—she’d just appear near the fire escape and Danny would lift the window like it was a nightly ritual. Jazz would have tea ready. They never pressured her to talk. They let her exist.

Jazz, with her warm laugh and endless psychology textbooks. Danny, with his jittery energy and tendency to float when he got excited. They were odd. Loud. But they made space for her.

And for once, Cassandra didn’t feel like she had to be a weapon all the time.

Of course, she couldn’t keep them a secret forever. Not in her family.

The first to suspect something was Steph.

“You’ve been smiling more. Who is he?” she asked one morning while flipping through Cass’s phone. (Cass had not given permission.)

“It’s not a he,” Cass mumbled.

Stephanie grinned. “Ohhh. A girlfriend?”

Cass didn’t answer, but her ears went red.

Then came Tim, who found ghost residue in the fibers of her cape.

“Cass. Why is there ectoplasm on your suit?”

She just blinked at him.

“…I’m going to run scans,” he muttered.

The final straw was Dick, of course. He followed her when she slipped away from the Cave one night and landed gracefully on the bookstore roof.

He didn’t make his presence known right away. Not until he saw her through the window—out of uniform, curled up on a secondhand couch with a book in her lap, Jazz sitting beside her, Danny asleep upside down in a chair (literally floating).

Cass looked happy.

So he didn’t confront her. Not then.

Later, at family dinner—if you could call the weekly chaos in the Cave’s kitchen a dinner—Dick just said, “Jazz seems nice.”

Cass froze mid-chew.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Who is Jazz?”

“New best friend,” Steph sang.

“She’s not a vigilante,” Cass said. “She’s... good.”

“And the brother?” Tim added, “The ghost?”

Cass nodded. “Safe. Not dangerous.”

Bruce raised a brow but said nothing.

Damian scowled. “Tch. Suspicious.”

“Adorable,” Steph countered. “I want to meet them.”

Cass groaned.

Eventually, the introductions happened.

Jazz charmed everyone except Damian (who spent most of the evening glaring at Danny and poking him with a Lazarus-infused dagger “for science”). Danny, for his part, took it in stride, phased through the ceiling twice, and stole one of Tim’s grappling guns.

Alfred served tea and said, “It’s good to see you smiling, Miss Cassandra.”

She smiled at him and nodded.

It wasn’t easy, keeping parts of her life separate. But in that living room, with Jazz laughing and Danny making ghost puns while Steph demanded “sister privileges,” Cass realized something important:

Some secrets are worth sharing.

Even in Gotham.

[yandere-romanticaa]

icon credit.

Thousands upon thousands of kisses were exchanged in the bathhouse as Phainon held his beloved in his arms, a loopy grin on his face, his lover not faring any better. The water rippled beneath them as they shamelessly slobbered all over each other in public, much to the bewilderment or amusement to any onlookers.

And Mydei was most certainly not amused.

"You two disgust me." Mydei seethed as he took a handful of the nearby bathwater and brutally splashed the two lovebirds. Happy little noises turned into shouts and complaints, the couple now completely drenched from head to toe as the handsome blonde crossed his arms, an annoyed look on his face. His red eyes gleamed with putridity as he mumbled Krenoan curses underneath his breath, before he finally decided to speak once more in the common tongue.

"Sick freaks..."

However, the pair only ignored him, Phainon in particular as he immediately reached out to his sweetheart, big strong arms enveloping them in a sickeningly sweet embrace as he kissed the crown of their head, his soft blue eyes gleaming underneath the many lights.

Mydei continued to observe the pair as he stood tall in the bath, water dripping down his toned body as he thought back to all the times he caught the stupid lovebirds in their shenanigans. He felt a vein wanting to pop at how he had to drag his rival by the ear in order for him to just listen to common sense or how he sometimes had to cover your mouth with his massive hand in order to get you to just keep quiet for a few moments.

Frankly, Mydei found himself being a little bit... disturbed at how inseparable you two were.

It was normal for a couple to want to spend every waking breath together, he knew that much. Endless gifts, ridiculous proclamations of love, petty spats, it all came into the territory known as romance.

However, his keen eye noticed that the line of sweet romance would be crossed one too many times.

Mydei kept track of how jealous you'd get of the attention Phainon would receive, how petty you would act towards the people who would even try talking to the man. At first he chalked it up to regular jealousy but one time he found himself literally stopping you from verbally clawing out another person's neck for simply giving Phainon a compliment.

With the way your hands were twitching, he was not even so sure that it would have been just a verbal assault...

He also recalled how he caught Phainon tracking you in the city as you did your daily rounds in the market, and he would naturally explain it all away as pure coincidence. Phainon was the type of man who could fool anyone - sharp words, kind eyes and frankly, a handsome physique made him easy to trust. And besides, a doting lover always looks out for the apple of their eye, right?

Even if that lover in question would linger in the shadows like a phantom in the night? Even if he always looked as though he was ready to slash anyone who got too close to you for his own comfort?

Mydei suddenly felt his blood run cold as he broke out of his dazed state. The white haired Chrysos Heir gave him an eerie look, those haunting blue eyes boring deep into Mydei's scarlet ones like the sharpest daggers known to man. He looked less like a person and more like a wild animal ready to lunge at him at any given moment.

The heat of the bath did not soothe Mydei's worries either as the thick fog of the warm air only made the gut wretching stare even worse than it ought to be.

Mydei carefully tracked Phainon's movements as he noticed him grabbing his black cloak and putting it over you, shielding you fully now from his view. Mydei raised an eyebrow at that until he realized the heart of the issue.

He should not be looking at you.

With a slow gulp he turned his head in a different direction, trying to look nonchalant but he knew that he was caught red handed.

Mydei wondered if Phainon was going to do something right now in the bath.

Even with his head turned he still felt that horrible gaze on him, almost swallowing him whole as he caressed his darling in his arms, as if he was daring him to glance back once more.

Mydei did not dare as a matter of fact.

He was worried about where this was going, how this strange saga even started or if it was even going to end at all. Never in his lifetime had he witnessed such a disgustingly clingy couple, two people so obsessed with each other that it almost wanted to make him run for the hills.

For now though, it was in his best interest to act like he saw nothing. He was still going to keep an eye on the pair just in case someone gets hurt but...

With the way things are headed, it's bound to happen sooner rather than later.

[methoughtsphantom]

Jason “my family doesn’t know im alive” Todd and Danny “my family doesn’t know I’m dead” Fenton going alongside each of their plans my beloved. like Danny will absolutely go head-to-head with all of Gotham to support his new best friend on all his crime lord endeavors while he drags Jason to also attend collage with him. They are roommates and there never seems to a mention of family from either side. It’s an unspoken understanding they have. They met because Crime alley as a ghost lair thrummed with so much loneliness, it was at first the perfect place for Danny to hide his ecto signature in. But then he saw the dumbass whose lair it was lean his motorcycle just a tad too much when making a sharp turn to an alley, he sweeped the floor through a lifted chain link that passed his body but not his helmet. Yep that’s right the red thing got stuck. Danny who at the moment happened to be watching through his window snorted. Much to his horror because if not a ghost that dude could’ve gotten his head flung off.

Still, the scene was ridiculous.

On a whim he irrationally sees the police closing in on the guy and panicked at the thought of the guy using intangibility to free himself so Danny phased them both through his apartment wall and left the guy sprawled in his couch. Jason didn’t freak out but that’s normal when one’s got a concussion, one the guy immediately denied having as Danny laid out the medical supplies. The idiot proceeded to almost flatten four steps to the door with his stubbornness. He also said “I’m asexual” in the most deadpan voice as Danny dropped him back in the couch.

Danny sighed. Clearly though, he’d done so too early in the night because the guy kept trying to go, kept trying to knock Danny out, kept trying to slash him with knifes Danny didn’t know he had stashed. He’d only disarmed the guy from his guns. The visible ones apparently, cause at one point the guy did take out a gun and shoot until the ammo ran out and then teetered the thing like it was an art prop and hit his moon lamp.

Danny "yeah you aren’t officially my friend until you’ve tried to kill me" fenton my guys.

Anyways both keep having the same argument over if Danny technically kidnapped Jason or not. Danny holds the fact that the police at least didn’t see the guy make the ridicule. Jason argued that happened cause he was sporting a concussion. Danny argued he got that after.

Jason at first thinks the guy's a meta, but no. Danny introduces himself, sheepily now that he recognizes this is who the lair he invaded is from. He bandages him and tries to cook for him. If Danny didn’t have ice powers he most certainly would’ve burned the apartment. Jason then proceeds to kick him out of his own kitchen and make them both enchiladas. It’s the most normal both had in a while with another person and the air seems oddly settled. From then on, Jason constantly invited himself over, under the pretense that this was his territory and therefore he could drop in unannounced. Danny who has actual powers says he only allows this because Jason cooks very well.

Danny stays away from the crime fighting business unless his buddy is in deep shit he can’t get himself out. Also it’s Danny’s turn to cover for his vigilante friend which Sam and Tucker give him so much shit for. (but also advice)

And they were roommates. (omg) Danny effectively derails Jason’s big comeback plans by casually dropping ghost lore every two days. Like,

Jason, talking about how he doesn’t want Bats snooping on his territory:

Danny: Just don’t let them in

Jason: ??

Danny: yeah!! Hasn’t Batman died and got revived??? You can totally kick out death touched people you don’t want entering on your lair.

Jason: …I can?

Danny: Yep dude, your lair’s supposed to feel safe.

Jason: wait does that mean I can kick you out?

Danny: First this is my apartment. Second, im dead, not dead touched. Third, it’s too late to get rid of me. bitch.

Anyways Jason is super excited. You mean to tell him he can actually deny people over to his territory haunt?? (Yes it’s only to people who have died and came back but still!! The sample size is exactly the type of people he doesn’t want to see—!)

Joker my beloathed can’t step foot in Crime Alley.

(Jason’d feel a lot safer if the clown was dead but the possibility of his murderer turning into a ghost and their little loophole not applying on the clown is too scary to contemplate.)

Anyways, Jason loves experimenting with the power. It can go from simply making people shudder and not want to enter crime Alley to straight up not letting them enter like there’s an invisible wall blocking the way.

Jason because he’s hurt that Bruce never even patrols Crime Alley and also because he’s petty put B under the category of “invisible wall” blacklist. His reasoning is that the man doesn’t even attempt to enter Crime Alley. To him it’s surely just a place shadowed in tragedy. (anyways that’s it’s the place he met Jason)

Ironically, Jason totally forgets that Batman does venture into Crime Alley one day in the whole year. The day he met Jason.

Okay. He didn’t forget at first. The first year Jason remembers cause it was only a few months till then but then the next— Jason forgets that today’s the anniversary of the day’s Bruce’s parents died. He forgets to allow B in when he feels a slight tug and dismiss the feeling that prompts Bruce to investigate because he literally can’t enter Crime Alley. He starts the trialsTM, he scouts on the very edge and sees people the whole day enter and get out and cross with no problem but Bruce can’t.

It’s literally just Bruce.

Time to call Constantine, i guess.

[reiding-writing]

hi author your writing is great btw i just wanted to see when you would post part 2 of copycat??

copycat [ s.r ] | 2 |

The replication of a disturbing 2004 serial murder case calls for the BAU to get involved with the assistance of none other than the original killer themself. And whilst Spencer didn't work the original case, he was eager to learn every detail about it, including its offender.

WARNINGS: relationship between spencer and reader is not inherently romantic, sociopathic reader, graphic details of murder, graphic eye descriptions, mentions of spencer’s addiction and overdose, morgan and reader really don’t like each other, child abuse, childhood addiction, death by overdose, suicide

s3!spencer/gn!unsub!reader || mystery || 14.3k || masterlist!!

part one !! , part two !!

unsub!reader masterlist!!

a/n: after a whole 22 days of writing this, it’s finally finished 😭 sorry for making you all wait for so long this one was a nightmare to finish-

taglist (slashed blogs couldn’t be tagged): @devilsadvcte @marvellover98 @evvy96 @arlovesper @h3rt8k @pathologicalreid @sideshow-b0b @sunflowersndpeaches @mera3luna @madameparkerreid @fandom-mania @melaninsugababy @meyaareads

“Let’s go Doctor. I’m ready to get out of this beige abomination.”

You push yourself off the table and leave out of the same door that Morgan had, Spencer following closely behind you.

He was oddly grateful about your decency to respect his title, and it only made him want to read you like a book even more.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The coroner's office, whilst not as bland and beige as the police station was still extremely muted, with light grey walls and a smooth tiled floor that was so shiny you're sure you could see your face in it if you focused enough.

“The second I see a change in your features I am booting you out of the mortuary understood?” Morgan’s tone held nothing but contempt for you as he walked step in step with you like you’d disappear if he looked away for more than a second.

“You keep speaking to me like that and I’ll shove the next rose I get down your throat.”

“Did you just threaten me?” Morgan’s contempt fizzled into a rising frustration, his eyebrows knitted into a tight line and his arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to puff himself out like a peacock to look more intimidating.

“Threats hold no value,”

“We should go inside now,” Spencer’s voice was much less confident than either yours or Morgan’s, but it held enough volume to be heard over your argument.

He was seriously beginning to question whether inviting you to come along was a good idea. He knew Morgan despised you, and yet he’d asked you to come along anyway out of his own selfish want to crack open your brain like a book and read your neuron pathways like pages.

He just hoped you’d actually find something valuable in the victim’s autopsy so that all of your arguing with Morgan wasn’t in vain.

“Ah, you must be the agents working on the case, I’m Dr. Toth,” The doctor introduced herself politely as Spencer opened the mortuary door, and Spencer gave her a small nod of recognition as the three of you entered.

“That’s right, thank you for allowing us here,”

“Of course,” The doctor walked her way around the autopsy table, where you assumed the body of the most recent victim was lying, covered by a blue sheet from head to toe and leaving only the silhouette in its place. “I should warn you in advance, due to the damage caused to the eyes whilst removing the rose stems, we had to excise them from the body during the autopsy,”

“Do you still have them?” Your question seems to strike a nerve with Morgan, probably thinking that you want to see the victim’s eyes as a part of a sick fantasy running through your mind, but he bites his tongue to keep his mouth shut so that he doesn’t accidentally air the fact that they’d brought a serial killer into a coroner’s office and freak out the pathologist they’re talking to.

“We do yes, they were professionally removed and placed in hypothermic storage, I can retrieve them for you if you’d like,”

“That won’t be necessary for now,” Morgan’s interjection elicits a roll of your eyes. You weren’t interested in seeing them because it would get you off or whatever, you wanted to see what kind of damage they went through to the point where they had to be fully removed from the victim’s body.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it, but if you need my assistance please don’t hesitate to ask,”

“Thank you,” Spencer, the peacekeeper that he is, gives the doctor a polite smile as he picks up a pair of latex gloves and pulls them over his hands, and you and Morgan follow suit after him as he takes place at the end of the autopsy table.

“You’re looking for differences, not entertainment.”

“Yes yes, I get it, Jesus Christ.” You scoff at Morgan’s tone, tugging the sheet down from the victim’s head until it was halfway down his torso.

“His name was Alexander Youlier, age 22, died of blood loss with the roses believed to be inserted post-mortem,” Spencer read through the autopsy file as you examined the boy’s face.

He was pale, much too pale for a normal person, but you suppose that’s what happens when you barely have any blood in your body, and the blood that he did have completely lacked oxygen. His cheeks were sunken, his lips almost blue from the lack of oxygen, and of course, in place of where his eyes would be, there were instead two holes lined with a dark reddish pink muscle that made it look like the cavity was much deeper than physically possible.

The minute you looked at his face you felt like you were going to throw up. So much for being ‘entertained’.

“Oi.” Morgan’s voice ripped you from your state of disassociation. “What did I just say, you’re here to identify the differences not get off to the victim’s body in your head.” He turned his attention towards Spencer with a disapproving look. “I told you we shouldn’t’ve brought them here,”

You didn’t respond to Morgan’s chastising with anything more than a tiny twitch of your eyebrows as you tore your eyes away from Youlier’s face.

“Are you okay?” Spencer’s voice was considerably softer than Morgan's, his eyes big and round, glistening with worry underneath the overhead light in the room, and his eyebrows furrowed in concern at the way you’d suddenly shut down.

“I don’t want to be here anymore.” The end of your sentence is marked by you tearing the gloves from your hands and leaving them in balls on the floor as you retreat to the door of the room.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re not allowed to just leave. You wanted to be here. You chose to be here. So you’ll do your goddamn job.” Morgan’s anger falls unrecognised as you open the door and slam it behind you after you leave, and he begins to follow after you only to be stopped by Spencer at the door.

“I’ve got it,”

Morgan’s glance is unconvinced, and Spencer reiterates himself once more. “I’ve got it, I promise, they’re less likely to get angry if it’s me and not you,”

Morgan doesn’t get the chance to argue before Spencer runs off down the hallway to catch up to you, leaving him alone in the mortuary to continue his analysis of the autopsy by himself.

“Hey!” Spencer calls out to you as he jogs in your direction, catching you right as you open the door to leave the coroner’s office. “Wait up a second-” You don’t stop at his callings, but he can tell that you’re also not trying to deliberately get away from him, your pace slow and even as you leave the coroner’s office with him hot on your tail.

He’s very clearly out of breath by the time he reaches your side, but he pays no attention to his lungs’ cry for him to take a second to breathe and supply them with more oxygen as he begins questioning you. “Are you okay?”

“I‘m fine,”

He’s not at all convinced by your statement despite your tone conveying genuity. You looked paler than usual, any natural flush was gone from your cheeks and your lips, and you were absentmindedly picking at the nail bed of your thumb with your middle finger, something he assumes is a self-soothing act for you.

People getting disturbed at the sight of a freshly dead body wasn’t exactly something for Spencer to be astounded at. It was a natural human reaction to the incomprehensible knowledge of death that your brain desperately tried to work out with no results.

But you didn’t exactly fit the definition of ‘normal’. You were a sociopath. So for you to be put off by the sight of a dead body was something for Spencer to be astounded at.

Sure he was aware that sociopaths could still feel things like dread and fear of the unknown, but you weren’t just a sociopath. You were a sociopath who killed eighteen people.

You’d seen your fair share of dead people, manic episode or not. So why was this body making you react like you were?

He supposes it’s just another layer he’ll have to peel from your mind like the skin of an onion.

“Did you know that sociopaths have heightened emotional pathways? Every emotion sociopaths experience is allegedly 3 times stronger in intensity than that of someone without it,” He didn’t exactly know what to say to you considering you’d shut down any attempt to talk about how you were doing emotionally, and so he fell back on what he always did, niche facts and statistics.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Your hardened expression didn’t falter, nor did the underlying monotony in your tone, but you did finally look him in the eye.

“I always feel more at ease when I fully understand whatever I’m dealing with,” Spencer smiles at you softly with a shrug of his shoulders, attempting to empathise with you the best he could.

“I already knew that fact,” You take a seat on the small half-wall lining the outside of the coroner’s office, gripping the edge of the brick with your hands. “And it doesn’t make me feel any different,”

“Well…” Spencer purses his lips slightly as he takes a seat next to you, running through things in his head that might hold some sort of value to you. “Did you know that roses symbolise different things based off of their colour?”

He was definitely grasping at straws now, but he didn’t want to end your conversation yet. He wanted to know what had you so perturbed that you felt the need to leave the minute you got a close look at the victim’s body.

If anything he’d expected you to follow Morgan’s accusation about getting some sick gratification from the body, not actually feeling sick because of it.

“Why do you think I used white roses? I’m not stupid you know,”

He’d never thought of that. “You used white roses for a specific reason?”

You shrug, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge of the wall. “When I was younger we had a dog, and when it died my parents planted a white rose bush over where they buried it,”

Your tone is rather emotionally removed as you divulge this little snippet of your past to him, like you were recounting something you’d read from a fictional story rather than an event that most children would find extremely distressing. “Mom said that the roses were white because they symbolised mourning and new beginnings, something about how it would help him pass over into heaven or whatever, and I guess even in my episode I held that knowledge subconsciously,”

“You don’t believe in heaven?” Spencer’s eyes scanned your face as he tried to decipher your micro-expressions, noting the small softening of your eyes once you brought up your parents. Looks like you did indeed still have some humanity.

“Do you believe in heaven Dr. Reid?”

No. Maybe? He knew that once your brain functions stopped working your consciousness was permanently ended and that was it. “I thought I saw the other side once,” His admission shocked himself more than it shocked you. Great, he was spilling his traumas to a sociopath he’d known for less than a week. What a riveting social life he had.

He could see the flicker of intrigue in your eyes at his sentence, and he pursed his lips into a line before deciding to continue. “I uh- 11 months ago I was kidnapped and forcefully injected with Dilaudid, and I- was overdosed…”

He could see the cogs turning in your head as you connected the fragments of earlier conversations with him in your mind to form a cohesive story, and you nodded at him as if encouraging him to continue with his story.

“I blacked out first, but it felt… warm? and I could see the beginnings of a light and I honestly still don’t know what to think of it,” He could feel himself squirming from the recollection. He was a man of science. Someone who only believed in what he could physically see and test. But that brief moment where he was sure that he’d died and was experiencing an afterlife that he didn’t think existed had carved a hole into his brain and settled itself into the back of his mind.

“I hope there’s an afterlife,” Your tone continues to carry that same monotonous drawl, but he can see the genuity in your eyes and the way your hands clench around the edge of the brick wall.

“Me too…”

It’d be easy for Spencer to forget you were a serial killer in moments like this. Sure you were still extremely emotionally stunted, but you felt human. And he’s sure that that’s the real difference between a sociopath and a psychopath.

Psychopaths were born without human ‘defects’. Sociopaths were made.

“Were your parents good to you?” Spencer’s question was full of hesitation. He didn’t want to assume anything, after all, your parents were the one topic you seemed to treat with genuine care in your words, but he knew something had to have happened. Something had to have made you the way that you are.

“My parents were perfect.” Your eyebrows knit into a small line, as if defensive at the fact that Spencer would suggest your parents were anything other than the perfect model of what two caregivers should be.

“What about your biological parents?” He could feel himself retreating back into his own mind the further he pressed for answers out of you, his conscience begging him to just stop talking before he accidentally crossed a line and ruined any branch of communication he’d formed.

“I don’t remember them,” You shrug lightly and your expression cements your nonchalance.

“You’ve never wanted to… seek them out?” It wasn’t entirely surprising that you don’t remember your biological parents. Most children who get adopted really young don’t.

“They’re dead.”

Oh.

Right.

Spencer’s eyes widen slightly at the revelation.

By this point, he’s completely forgotten about the fact that he’s supposed to be convincing you to go back into the mortuary to continue looking at the victim.

You had a great adoptive family and a pair of dead biological parents. Was that what broke you? Was them dying what caused your mental state to shatter and rebuild itself as a fragmented version of its previous state?

Maybe that’s why you didn’t remember them. Maybe your brain had built a wall in your memories to protect you from your own trauma of losing your parents. But he wasn’t sure it was enough for you to have a mental break like you did. There had to be something more.

“I can do some digging on them if you want,” He airs the suggestion like he’s not going to do it even if you say no.

“I have no interest in learning about them,”

Oh well. He’d get Garcia to do it anyway. Maybe you’d find more interest in the topic once there was actually something for you to learn.

“Are you- feeling alright now?” Spencer knew he was going to have to bring up the topic eventually. They couldn’t stay out here for too long both for the sake of the investigation and because if they did Morgan would probably jump to the conclusion that you’d killed Spencer and run off somewhere.

“I told you I was fine,”

“I don’t think I believe you,” Spencer could see the small shift in your expression at his hesitant accusation. But it wasn’t anger this time, it was something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Something caused you discomfort, and in order for you to be able to help us we need you to be relaxed,”

You turned your face away from Spencer as he spoke, eyes fixed on a bird flying overhead and then on the cloud that was behind it.

“What was it that caused you to feel like you didn’t want to be there anymore?” There was clear caution in Spencer’s tone as he questioned you, although that had essentially become a staple of every conversation you had with him by this point. “We can fix it,”

Spencer’s compassion for you left you feeling a little confused. You were a spree murderer. He was supposed to dislike you for that. That’s how the human mind works is it not? People are supposed to have a distaste for those who break the moral codes of society, and you did it 18 times over.

“I… don’t know,” It felt like every second you allowed yourself to be confused the feeling multiplied tenfold until you weren’t even sure that you could remember your own name if somebody asked you for it.

Your emotions were written all over your face, not like you really had the capacity to hide them even if you wanted to, but it was clear as day just how internally confused you were with your own feelings about the situation at hand.

“Let me help you figure it out then,” Spencer’s tone continued to carry that gentle compassion in it and it wasn’t helping you sort out your thoughts.

“I don’t need your help, I can figure it out on my own,” You knew enough about Psychology to be able to figure out your own thinking processes. At least you thought so. You didn’t go through three laborious years at university wishing during every hour of it to be doing something else to not even get anything useful out of it at the end.

Spencer took that as a direct invitation to shut his mouth and just let you think to yourself, although his eyes continued to scan your expression and your body language as he waited for you to come to your own conclusion on how you were currently feeling and what exactly made you feel that way.

“Will you stop staring at me?” Despite your gaze focused downwards towards the pavement your frustration at his lingering gaze made it sound like he was making direct eye contact with you.

“Sorry,” Spencer averted his eyes from you immediately after your order, flickering them around the parking lot of the coroner’s office and absentmindedly reading all of the number plates he could see from a distance so that he didn’t frustrate you anymore than he already had.

You gave up psychoanalysing your own mind after a few minutes, partly because it was an effort you didn’t want to expend and partly because it felt safer for you to just lock your emotions behind a wall of glass and leave them for another day.

Instead, you turned your gaze back to the doctor sitting next to you and watched him as he watched his surroundings.

“Your eyes are very alive,”

It’s an odd thing to say Spencer thinks. The concept of his eyes being ‘alive’. Of course, he’d heard the term ‘dead eyes’ before in reference to the lack of emotion shown on someone's face. He’d consider you to have rather dead eyes if he was thinking about it. Although he’s not sure if you’re referring to his eyes in terms of expressiveness or genuinely being ‘alive’ in a physical sense.

“Alive?”

You give him a short nod. “They have a lot of life in them,”

“Thank you?” He chooses to take your odd statement as a sort of compliment. Surely having ‘alive eyes’ couldn’t be a negative thing, right?

Now that he’s thinking about it you really did seem to have some sort of fixation on people's eyes. You constantly chased eye contact with the people you spoke to. You apparently had a habit of studying people’s eyes and how ‘alive’ they were. You pierced roses into the eyes of your victims.

Spencer’s gaze focused on you as he came to the conclusion in his head. You’d become uncomfortable in the mortuary because you couldn’t see the victim’s eyes. Because instead of being able to judge him based off of the look in his eyes you were instead greeted with a blank slate where they were supposed to be.

But why? Why was your judgement of somebody based off of what you could see in their eyes? Something had to have caused it.

“Why did you put roses in your victims’ eyes?” He could see the flicker of intrigue in your expression at his question, although he was unsure whether it was conscious or not.

From the way you’d spoken earlier about your discomfort, it seemed that your apparent fixation was unknown to even you, a subconscious thought process that even you were unaware of for whatever reason.

“I told you this already, I held subconscious knowledge about what they represented.” You furrow your eyebrows at his question, one that you’d answered a little over five minutes ago. Why was he asking you again? “I thought you had an eidetic memory.”

“I do-” Spencer’s not sure whether to be surprised that you remembered that small snippet of information or not. “I mean, why did you put them… you know, in their eyes specifically?”

A small amount of discomfort seeped into Spencer’s tone as he asked the question. As much as he’d become desensitised to the gruesomeness of what his job held, actively thinking about having somebody’s eyes being physically pierced with a blunt object was something that anyone with two functioning eyeballs would feel uncomfortable about.

“I don’t know, I just did,”

So it was subconscious. Something that the dark void in the back of your mind was aware of but wouldn’t let your conscious self have any knowledge of.

“Would you like to help me analyse the victim’s eyes? The pathologist said they were still being stored,” Your eyebrows turn from furrowed to raised, clearly confused by Spencer’s sudden fixation on eye-related things.

“They could be a useful asset to the investigation,” Spencer shrugged softly, lips pressed into a line, an awkward smile present on his face as if his suggestion was completely unrelated to the conversation.

You found yourself agreeing to Spencer’s suggestion despite that lingering discomfort in the back of your mind, and as the two of you stood up to re-enter the coroner’s office, Spencer pulled out his phone to send an email to Morgan.

‘Cover the victim’s face.’

Morgan had clearly read the message before the two of you arrived back at the mortuary, shooting Spencer a glance of confusion as you entered the room ahead of him, eyes already locked on Youlier’s body as if you were drawn to it by some unexplainable force.

Of course, with the blue sheet now placed back over the victim’s head, you couldn’t actually see anything, but you still had the image of his face in your head, causing a sense of unease to remain in your stomach, although not as bad as when you were originally presented with it.

Spencer gave Morgan a small shake of his head as if to shut down this conversation for later, leaving your side to seek out the pathologist so she could retrieve Youlier’s eyes from storage.

He returned not two minutes later, freshly gloved with a glass jar in hand, two vaguely spherical shaped objects floating inside it.

Morgan saw them before you did, his expression widening and then furrowing at the sight of just how ripped up these eyes seemed to be. “How on earth did they end up like that?”

Morgan’s question is enough to pique your curiosity and rip your gaze away from the victim's covered-up face, walking up behind Spencer to look at the jar over his shoulder.

“Dr Toth said the damage was from the thorns on the roses,”

You examine the jar as Spencer explains how they ended up in the state they were in, and you had to agree that Morgan’s bewilderment was right.

They barely even looked like a pair of eyes anymore. They were more ovular than spherical, with two gaping holes where the pupil and iris should be, and countless tear lines all over the scleras, presumably where the killer had struggled to push the stems through the eyes from the resistance of the thorns. Although, you couldn’t deny that seeing them somehow ailed any lingering discomfort in your stomach.

“Well that’s just stupid,”

Spencer jumped from your statement like he hadn’t even realised you were standing behind him, almost fumbling the jar out of his hands in the process.

“…maybe you’re just stupid…” Morgan’s muttering doesn’t go unnoticed, and you shoot a glare in his direction that he mirrors right back at you with just as much venom.

“What’s stupid?” It takes Spencer a second to regain his bearings, but once he does he turns his attention to you with round eyes and a slightly tilted head, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly.

He watches as your focus shifts back and forth between the eyes in the jar and his own as if you were trying to visualise what he’d look like with the ripped-up excuse for a pair of eyes instead of the ones he currently had.

“Obviously you should de-thorn the roses first,” Your tone carried your phrase like you were telling him that you shouldn’t put metal in a microwave rather than de-thorning a rose before piercing someone’s eye with it. “This guy’s on what, their fifth victim? You would’ve thought they’d figured that out by now,”

You take the jar from Spencer’s hand to get a closer look at the remnants of the victim’s eyes from a better vantage point.

“I mean come on, I figured it out after my first try,” You’re edging into a rant about the intricacies of how to most productively pierce somebodies eyes with rose stems now, and it was beginning to remind Spencer that you had in fact actually done all of these things and it wasn’t just hypothetical. “It literally takes like ten seconds per rose if you know what you’re doing and then saves you five minutes of effort,”

Morgan takes the jar from you like you’re a child with a bottle of bleach, a scowl still etched on his face as you give him an incredulous look.

“I’m not going to like eat them or whatever, god-”

“Knowing your track record I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” Morgan places the jar down on the small table by where the victim is lying.

“One, that’s disgusting, two, what the fuck?” Spencer finds your bewilderment at Morgan’s suggestion that you might eat the victim’s eyes quite amusing on a surface level, your response sounding like something a high schooler would say rather than a prolific serial killer.

“What? You’re the type of sick bastard that would probably get off on that sort of thing,” Morgan shrugs his shoulders as he turns back around to face you once more.

“I was experiencing a manic episode, I’m not some weird sadist who has a fetish for eyeballs,”

‘Not a fetish, but something,’ Spencer chooses to keep to himself during your squabble this time, walking over to the autopsy table to hike up the blue cover sheet and check for other injuries lower down on the body.

There’s nothing truly substantial, with no defence wounds courtesy of the blow to the back of his head before the attack, another staple of your spree to keep your victims complacent. The only thing of note was the two gashes across each wrist, severing both radial arteries, the source of the bleeding-out portion of his death.

He had to give you props on that part. The average time it took somebody to bleed out was only 3 and a half minutes, meaning it was a pretty effective way to kill somebody with minimal effort and ensure they were completely dead before any first responders might have time to arrive even if they were called immediately after the gashes were made.

It was very controlled, much more of an execution than a murder if he was to really think about it, especially considering all of your victims were unconscious when it happened and therefore probably didn’t even feel anything aside from the original blow to the head.

For a serial killer, it was actually very humane. Even if you did go out of your way to desecrate their eyes afterwards. But was the real harm in that, they were already dead anyway, it’s not like they felt it.

It ruled out any sort of sadism from your spree, one of the reasons he thinks your story of a manic episode was so easily accepted in court. You weren’t killing people for the fun of it. You didn’t drag it out or make it unnecessarily painful. It was like you were just following the steps of how to kill somebody with as minimal effort as possible to satisfy whatever violent urges you had in your head at the time and then fulfilling the apparent subconscious fixation you had with eyes by covering them with roses.

“Wow, this guy really has no idea what he’s doing-” You again cause Spencer to almost jump out of his skin as you appear behind him once more, looking at the gashes over his shoulder.

You reach out to touch one of them, stopped by a harsh hand on your wrist from Morgan, who continues to glare at you like you’d set his house on fire. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Checking out the shitty incision work from this stupid ass copycat?”

“Put some gloves on you idiot,” Morgan drops your wrist with a scoff, walking across the room to pull out a pair of latex gloves from one of the boxes and shoving them into your palms.

You roll your eyes at his attitude but tug on the gloves anyway, making a show of raising your hands up in his face once you had them on. “Happy now?”

With a swat of your wrist away from his face Morgan concedes to stop antagonising you for now and let you focus on whatever you were originally doing, which you turn to do immediately like you’d completely forgotten about Morgan’s existence as soon as he exited your peripheral vision.

“What is it?” Spencer’s eyes follow yours down to the victim’s left wrist, and he watches as you prod at the gash with your gloved fingers as if trying to pry it back open.

“This is probably the shittiest attempt at bleeding someone out I’ve ever seen,” You bend down with narrowed eyes as you examine the wound. “It’d probably take like 20 minutes from a cut this shallow,”

Spencer can’t help but agree with your assessment. The cut was extremely shallow, so much so he’s sure that this victim probably could’ve survived it if he’d gotten immediate medical attention. He checks the other wrist just to be sure, and he’s granted with the same sight, an extremely shallow cut for somebody actively trying to kill people.

“So, what? He just sat around for twenty minutes whilst Youlier bled out so he could put the roses in his eyes?” Morgan furrowed his eyebrows at the revelation. “What sense does that make?”

Can they be sure that they were inserted post-mortem?

Spencer walked around the table towards the autopsy report to re-read the file in case he’d somehow missed that detail whilst reading it the first time.

Alexander Youlier. Age 22. Died of blood loss with the roses believed to be inserted post-mortem.

He hadn’t missed anything. But then that didn’t make sense. There was no way that the killer would just wait around for almost half an hour for somebody to bleed themselves dry, especially considering that Youlier was found under an open gazebo in a dog park. That would just be reckless. For it to work the roses would have had to be inserted whilst he was still alive.

“Having an epiphany over there or something?” Spencer turns his eyes upwards at your comment, leaving the report on the side table as he walks into Dr Toth’s side office without giving you an answer.

You and Morgan share a glance at his sudden departure, probably the most civil interaction the two of you had ever had, fuelled by the joined want to know what was running through Spencer’s mind.

The door of the office opened less than a minute later, Dr. Toth leaving her office with Spencer hot on her trail. “-reports from the main office so that you can cross-reference them all,”

You only catch the end of their conversation as they enter back into the mortuary, and Dr Toth leaves the room to assumedly go and gather whatever ‘reports’ she was on about from the main office, leaving you and Morgan blankly staring in Spencer’s direction with confused expressions.

“I think that our unsub might be inserting the roses into the victim’s eyes whilst they’re still alive,”

The revelation that the unsub was purposefully dragging out the death of their victims made the team have to rebuild the profile from the bottom up.

Spencer took the opportunity to do some digging. Or more accurately have Garcia do some digging.

He had her pull everything humanly possible regarding your biological parents, their life, their death, and most importantly, how they treated you.

They were 29 and 32 when they died, you having been born when your mother was only 23. They both had a history of substance abuse, and according to their autopsies, both of them had lethal levels of diazepam in their bloodstreams at their time of death.

What was interesting about their deaths though was that they were dead for three days before they were found, rotting in their own house with a six-year-old left living with them. Now that was something that could cause a mental break. A six-year-old, left for three days with the corpses of their dead parents and only found when the neighbours complained about the smell.

The file Garcia had faxed over also happened to have images from the scene when the bodies were recovered, and they were just as disgusting as he’d imagined they’d be. The two were sat paired on a couch, skin pale and turning slightly grey with the beginning signs of decay, small insects roaming on their skin, and the clothes they were wearing.

But the selling point for Spencer was their eyes. Wide open and staring blankly into open space with clouded pupils and ruptured irises. It freaked him out and he was looking at it through a piece of paper. He couldn’t imagine how it made a six-year-old child who lived with them like that for three days feel.

There was the origin of your eye fixation, and he honestly couldn’t blame you for covering the dead stare of your victims so you wouldn’t have to relive that.

The more he read the more devastating the report seemed to be. When asked why you didn’t call for any help from neighbours or the police you stated that you “just wanted them to sleep for a while,” and that your mother would “give me the sleepy pills when she wanted me to go to sleep, so I did the same for her and daddy,”

In an effort to get your parents to go to sleep so they would stop presumably treating you horribly, you’d unintentionally overdosed them both.

You were in a paediatric rehabilitation centre for almost four months after you were recovered from the house. A six-year-old. Being rehabilitated for an addiction to diazepam because your parents would solve any blip in your behaviour by feeding you sleeping pills instead of treating you like the child you were.

All of a sudden forming an addiction at 25 didn’t seem all that detrimental anymore.

He supposes that’s how you knew right off the bat. Addiction recognises addiction and all that. Although by the look of it, you’d made a full healthy recovery by the time you were adopted into your new family.

You’d been diagnosed with ASD after you were removed from the house, and Spencer is surprised by the fact that the mental impact it had on you only seemed to be acute, although, he’s sure that in hindsight the psychiatrist that diagnosed you would’ve made sure to be more thorough in their examination of your mental state.

Still, what happened had happened, and although Spencer nor anyone else could do anything to change that, he could form a greater understanding of who you were and why you did what you did.

Except he still didn’t really know why, he knew the origins, but what was the trigger that caused you to deteriorate mentally until you were back at your lowest possible point?

That wasn’t important right now.

He needed to focus on the actual case at hand and not the closed case of a serial killer from four years ago. It didn’t matter how much of a fascination he’d formed with your psychology, he needed to focus so that no one else had to die.

It was insane to think about, just how distracted he’d get with uncovering your past like it was a mystery novel that required the reader’s involvement to solve.

But now he really needed to knuckle down and actually put his intelligence forward to help the team find the unsub they were looking for or else earn a chastising from Hotch and up to 13 more victims if they followed your pattern to a T.

Why you though? Why was this unsub following your crimes specifically? Sure some people were mentally deranged enough to want to gain the same notoriety as the killers they replicated, but your case was in a small city and didn’t even make national news. Not only that, it was new. Really new.

Most copycat killers replicated national or even international-level crimes that had decades to form a legacy and settle into the back of people's minds. Your case wasn’t like that. Not to the full extent anyway. The state of California had recognised you as a prolific killer but in any other state your name was unknown.

So why you?

Spencer watched intently as the team scribbled down notes and ideas on the whiteboards taking up most of the room, leaving him sitting at the head of the conference table with his files on your background and you engaging yourself in the pass-time of making origami cranes out of discarded bits of paper to stop yourself from getting bored.

A serial killer replicating your crimes almost step by step. Bleed out the victims, put roses in their eyes, move on. Same victim pattern. Same time frame. But still with distinct differences.

This unsub bled their victims out considerably slower than you did. They used red roses instead of white roses like you did. They left the thorns on the rose stems when you pruned them beforehand.

Why did this unsub not de-thorn the roses first? After five separate murders, why would they not make their process easier by discarding the thorns to stop them from tearing up the victim’s eyes?

‘I figured it out after my first try.’

“Hey uh-” Spencer turns his head up towards you, tapping his pen absentmindedly against the table. “Do you remember what happened to your first victim? After your parents?”

“What?” You furrow and then raise one of your eyebrows at his sudden question, especially because he’d been sitting in his own little cocoon for the last thirty minutes.

It was quite a long shot of a question if you had been experiencing mania at the time, but you seemed to be remembering select details about your spree, so your first victim surely should be present in your mind at least somewhat.

“How did you… You know-” Spencer’s roundabout question was half amusing and half frustrating from your viewpoint, and you take a break from your paper crafts to indulge in it.

“Well…” You drag out the word and you divert your eyes from him to stare upwards towards the ceiling like it’ll aid your memory. “I incapacitated her first, with a… brick I think? It might’ve been a regular rock I’m not sure-”

“Him.” Morgan’s venom seeps into his correction of your account. “You killed eighteen people and you don’t even have the decency to remember the gender of your first victim? Seriously?”

“I do know my own victim pattern thank you very much,” You override Morgan’s correction with just as much ferocity. “ And it was definitely a woman. I chose her specifically because she’d be easy.”

“That’s not what our files say.”

“Then your files are wrong? What do you want me to do about it?”

Spencer runs over your victims in his head. Your first filed victim’s name was John Brandy, found lifeless on a park bench after a woman walking her dog called it in to the police.

He tried to remember any other things he’d read about your case that might indicate that Brandy wasn’t your first victim. Nothing. John Brandy was the only thing he could affiliate with the identity of the first victim from your spree. And most notably, Brandy was very male.

“…What did you do after you incapacitated her?” Spencer slowly edges his way back into a conversation between you and Morgan, mind on full alert as it continues to run through all of the details he knows about you and your case.

“I moved her against the like wall of the street we were down and then did the rest of it,” You shrug your shoulders in mild scepticism of Spencer’s sudden interest in this specific kill of yours. “You know, cut the wrists, wait a few minutes, then stick in the roses. Although I’m pretty sure I got one rose like half in because the thorns were being difficult and I gave up when she started twitching,”

You exhale exasperatedly. ”That’s probably why she’s not ‘in your files’, because the rose I did try and do wasn’t even fully inserted and probably just fell out or something,” You glare pointedly at Morgan, tilting your head back and forth in condescension. “It was my first time alright? Everyone’s gotta start somewhere.”

Sure everyone’s gotta start somewhere. When it comes to working a job or starting a hobby. You don’t usually ‘start somewhere’ when it comes to murdering people.

It’s the fact that you say it so nonchalantly that gets to him, talking about your murder spree of eighteen people like it was you learning how to bake a cake. Nineteen people. You’d actually killed nineteen people in your spree, and your poor first victim probably didn’t even get given the light of day that the rest of your victims did when it came to justice.

“Morgan,” Hotch’s voice proved to pull Spencer out of yet another spiral consisting of endless questions surrounding your psychology, even if not directed at him. “Call Garcia and have her pull up any unsolved murder cases that involved two slit wrists and trauma to the eyes in Malibu during the time they were active as a killer,”

“On it,” Honestly, Morgan would’ve taken any excuse to get out of your presence for a few minutes, feeling the overwhelming urge to punch you square in your face grow stronger with every snippet of information about yourself that you shared out loud without a single care in the world.

Did it have anything significant to catching this copycat? No. But that victim deserved just as much justice as any of your others.

One profiler down, the rest of the team turned back to fleshing out the profile, and you turned back to your half-finished paper crane, muttering to yourself under your breath about something that Spencer couldn’t quite hear.

“Okay, so we’ve ruled out mania as a possible cause of the kills because of how long it took for them to bleed out, we’ve ruled out paranoia because of the victim pattern following the original to a T instead of being random, it could be some form of ASD but that doesn’t really make sense with the rest of the profile-” Emily scans over the notes of the whiteboard as she speaks, picking absentmindedly on the red polish covering her nails and leaving small flakes of it all over the table by where you’re sitting.

“Would you stop doing that?” You make a show of wiping the table with your hand, and Emily doesn’t respond to you with more than a glance as she stuffs her hands in her pockets.

“Alright babygirl thank you,” Morgan sends a kiss through the phone before hanging it up and putting it away in his pocket and you swear you almost gag at the sight of it.

“Nothing,” Morgan shrugs his shoulders half out of resignation and half out of frustration as he takes a seat opposite you on the table. “There are no unsolved murders matching the description you gave us,”

He glares into your eyes like he’s trying to burn them right out of your eye sockets. “So? What is it? You get a kick out of lying or what?”

“Do I look like the type of person who makes the effort to lie? Because news flash, I don’t, it’s not like saying I killed one more person than I actually did benefits me in any way,” You furrow your expression with a scoff, leaning back in your chair to rest your ankles on the table.

“Right, sure, because someone like you totally doesn’t care about how they’re perceived by other people,”

“Why would I want to say I’ve killed more people than I actually have, it just makes me look more crazy than you already think I am-” You weren’t backing down on this. You were adamant that this person was your first victim and that you weren’t lying to him.

“Then why isn’t there any file of her whatsoever?”

“What if she’s still alive?” It’s like all of the puzzle pieces fall into Spencer’s mind at once, and he interrupts your arguing with Morgan yet again, except this time it’s not about keeping the peace.

“You said you gave up because ‘the thorns were being difficult and she started twitching’, was she alive when you tried to put the rose in her eye?” Spencer turns his gaze towards you, a completely different air surrounding his expression than the mildly awkward and apprehensive one you’d gotten used to.

“I don’t know, maybe?” You shrug like his question was absurd, watching as he stands from his seat to look over the whiteboard detailing the autopsies of each of the victims.

“Reid?” Hotch’s raised eyebrow asked a hundred different questions, and Spencer answered every single one of them with a single phrase muttered under his breath.

“…PTSD by proxy-”

He takes a second to study the photos on the board before continuing. “It’s a psychological disorder where victims of PTSD will project their trauma onto others,”

He pulls a few of the images from the board to lay them out on the conference table. “Of those who develop PTSD from traumatic incidents, roughly 2% then go on to try and satiate their trauma by projecting it onto other people,”

“If what you remember about your first victim was true and she survived, then there’s a high chance that the new killer we’re looking for is that first victim,” He arranges the autopsy photos in two groups, with one of the wrist gashes and the other of the eye damage.

“The victims bled out slowly, which in a lot of cases with first-time murder or murder attempts happens unintentionally because the killer doesn’t know how deep a cut like that has to be for it to be fatal,” He points towards the photos on the left first.

“And then the eyes would be pretty self-explanatory,” He turns one of the photos towards where you and Hotch are sitting. “If your first victim was in fact alive when you tried to pierce her eyes then that could explain why these victims were also still alive when the roses were inserted,”

“But that doesn’t make sense,” Emily chimes in with her two cents as Spencer gives his explanation. “We’re in a completely different city,”

“And it’s been three years since the original spree,” Rossi swirls the coffee in his mug with a furrowed expression.

“Well Las Flores is only an hour's drive from Malibu,” Spencer moves from the table to go back over to the annotated map on one of the boards, marking an invisible line with his fingers. “Maybe she decided she needed to get away from her trauma, 46% of individuals who experience life-changing trauma do,”

“But why now?”

Spencer’s eyes turn back towards you at Rossi’s question, as if you held all the answers to what the stressor was for this sudden murder spree. Your answer of course was nothing more than a shrug and an expression that asked ‘How am I supposed to know?’, which put a halt to Spencer’s theory.

That, and the fact that they hadn’t even confirmed if this woman was still alive let alone living in Las Flores.

“Alright,” Hotch cut through the team’s conversation with a wave of his hand. “Morgan, ask Garcia to track down women who went into the hospital for ocular injuries three years ago and have moved to Las Flores since then,”

Morgan gives him a determined nod as he leaves the room once more, Hotch then turning his attention towards you.

“What have you done in the last few months that would’ve been told to the public?”

“I don’t know?” You give him an exasperated expression and raise your hands in a defensive manner. “Why would I know that? It’s not like I have someone telling me when I’m on the news,”

Hotch furrowed his eyebrow at your immediate defensiveness, reminding himself to be patient and bear with your short fuse because it technically wasn’t your fault.

Although it didn’t make it any less frustrating either way.

He turned his eyes towards Spencer, gesturing towards the door and then towards you as a silent order for him to speak to you privately outside.

If anyone was going to be able to get a piece of information out of you, consciously or subconsciously, it would be Spencer.

It took him a few seconds to compute Hotch’s message, but as soon as he did he stood from his seat, mug in hand.

“I’m going to make some more coffee, do you want some?” Spencer gives you a small and slightly awkward smile as he looks at you, and you raise an eyebrow in his direction.

“You don’t know how to make my coffee,”

“You can show me,” Spencer raises his eyebrows enthusiastically, lips pressed taut into a line as he silently prays for you to take the bait. And you do.

You don’t respond with more than pushing your chair away from the table to stand, but Spencer follows after you as you leave the meeting room nonetheless, gaining a small nod from Hotch that he returns with one of his own.

In the break room, Spencer watches you prepare your coffee, taking mental notes of the precise amount of creamer and sugar you add. He's careful to keep the conversation casual, asking about your preferences and subtly steering you towards the topic of recent events.

"I got a new therapist a few months ago," you admit, stirring your coffee. "She recommended having me moved into psychiatric care." The implication hangs clearly in the air.

"Psychiatric care?" Spencer echoes, his mind eagerly piecing together the information.

“Mhm,” You give him a small nod and you leave the teaspoon on the counter, taking a sip of your coffee.

Now that was something that might’ve been made public. If you had been recommended by a specialist to be moved out of a high-security prison and into a psychiatric institute the local news was bound to know about it.

"You being moved to a psychiatric facility would definitely make the news," Spencer mutters, drawing your attention back to him. "That could be the trigger point for our unsub,"

“Me going to a hospital? Seriously?” You scoff like that being a motive is pathetic.

“Yes, seriously,” Spencer replies, his expression serious. “It could signify a turning point, a change in your situation that the unsub might interpret as you escaping justice. It could be the catalyst that pushed them into action.”

He abandons his coffee mug on the counter as he ushers you back into the meeting room with the rest of the team, and all it takes is Hotch getting a single glance at Spencer’s expression to know that there was indeed a trigger for this murder spree.

“A few months ago, their therapist recommended moving them to a psychiatric facility," Spencer shares the information as soon as you both re-enter the room, "That could have been publicised, potentially triggering our unsub-”

“We found her,” Morgan interrupts Spencer’s explanation as he hurries into the room, phone still pressed against his ear as he reaches over to scribble down the name and address Garcia had recovered.

Louise Nueves, aged 29 was born and raised in Malibu, never having left the city for more than a week her entire life. That was, until she was hospitalised for three days for a severe ocular injury to her left eye.

She left the city less than a week after she was discharged, and supposedly never returned as she settled down in Las Flores instead.

She settled down, got married, started working in a small bakery, and overall just seemed to have a well-rounded and stable life after the trauma that she had endured back in her home town.

Morgan knocked harshly on the front door of her house, gun held firmly in his hand just in case Nueves deemed the threat of their presence as an incentive to act violently. “Louise Nueves, this is the FBI,”

The silence from the other side of the door seemed only to heighten the adrenaline running through the veins of the team.

It didn’t take long before Morgan was looking for permission to force the door open, and once he gained a nod from Hotch that’s exactly what he did, kicking the door handle loose and forcing the door open as the team filtered into the house to search for their suspect.

You were an exception of course, being confined to the entranceway with Spencer as your personal babysitter in case you managed to get yourself into any trouble or think about running off.

You hear an echo of ‘clear’s from the group as they sweep the house, seemingly completely devoid of any human presence outside of the FBI team. Until…

“You guys might wanna come see this,”

Emily’s voice sounded from upstairs, and she backed out into the stairway as she gestured for the team to join her up the stairs.

You give Spencer a look before walking over to the stairs, and his curiosity overrides his need to try and keep you in the entrance as he follows after you with the rest of the team following closely behind.

“This little bitch-“ The sight you were greeted with would’ve been extremely disturbing under normal circumstances, a corpse of a man - presumably Nueves’ husband - lying in its first stage of decay on the bed of the house’s master bedroom, a red rose resting on his chest.

Instead, your response was more angry at the blatant lack of originality in the way he was killed.

"Copying my kills is one thing," you spat out, your eyes burning with rage. "But having no innovation or creativity of their own? That's just pathetic." You crossed your arms over your chest, your gaze fixed on the lifeless body in front of you.

"Unique or not, it proves our hypothesis of who the copycat is," Morgan retorted, his gaze hardening at your callous words.

You rolled your eyes, huffing in annoyance. "Great."

Ignoring your sarcasm, Hotch spoke up, "We need to find Nueves before she kills again. Morgan, Reid, you're with me. We'll check her workplace. Rossi and JJ I want you to track down some of her friends, maybe they've noticed something off."

As they left, Emily turned to you, her eyes scrutinising. "What about them, Hotch? Do we just leave them at the station?"

"No," Hotch replied without missing a beat. "They’ll stay with you as you monitor the area. Keep an eye on them. We don't know how they might react now that their 'legacy' is being threatened."

With that, they left you in the company of Emily, the silence in the room amplifying the eerie sight of the corpse on the bed.

The tension was still very apparent despite you and Emily having no previous background, and you could tell that she wasn’t exactly thrilled with your company as the two of you left the house just as the authorities arrived, presumably called by Hotch as they left the scene.

“How does it feel to babysit a grown adult instead of doing something important?”

Emily shot you a sideways glance, her lips forming a thin line. "I'd like to think that keeping an eye on a serial killer counts as important, don't you?" she retorted, her voice icy.

“You’re supposed to be finding a serial killer, I haven’t done anything in years, what makes you think that I’m the threat?” You can’t help but scoff at her intonation as she speaks to you, it feeling oddly derogatory considering that you couldn’t even remember what her name was. “That’s some audacity alright,”

Emily narrowed her eyes at you, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features. "You may not think so, but your presence here is still a potential risk," she said, her tone sharp. "And until we know more, I'm not taking any chances."

She quickened her pace, leaving you to catch up as you followed her out of the residential area and into a nearby public park. Emily’s eyes scanned the area like a hawk as she walked, making you roll your eyes. “You really think she’s just going to be hanging around right next to her own house?”

Emily's gaze flickered toward you, her expression unyielding. "We're not looking for Nueves herself. We're looking for any clues, any signs of her recent activity or whereabouts," she explained tersely. "Every detail matters in a case like this."

She continued to lead the way through the park, her pace steady and purposeful. Despite your scepticism, you couldn't deny the intensity in her demeanour, the determination to solve the case weighing heavily in the air between you as you reluctantly tailed her like a toddler on a leash.

As you walked, Emily suddenly halted, her eyes narrowing as she caught sight of a lone figure sat on one of the park benches with their back to the two of you.

“Oh come on, it’s the middle of the day, of course there are people in the park.”

“Be quiet.” Emily approached the individual with her words barked out between her teeth. As you drew closer, you could see the figure was a woman, her head bowed and shoulders slumped. Emily called out to her, her voice firm yet cautious. "Excuse me, ma'am. Are you alright?"

The woman looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with tears. "I-I'm fine," she stammered, quickly wiping at her cheeks. "Just... just having a moment." Her eyes seemed to flicker downwards towards Emily’s vest in confusion but she didn’t make any move to mention it.

Emily studied her for a moment longer before nodding, her hand slowly retracting from her weapon. “Alright. Just be careful out here, okay?” she advised before motioning for you to follow as she continued on the path.

You glanced back at the woman, her eyes following you in a mix of her previous sadness and confusion, seemingly unsure of how she should feel at an apparent FBI agent approaching her out of nowhere and then advising her to ‘be careful’.

“It’s you.” The new voice turns both of your heads in its direction.

Standing a few feet away was a woman and her dog, her demeanour tense yet strangely familiar. She looked at you with a mixture of surprise and recognition, her eyes lingering on Emily’s vest for a moment before returning to you.

“Excuse me?” You raise an eyebrow at the bluntness of her recognition of who you were, furrowing your eyebrows dismissively like she didn’t have the right to have recognised you in whatever way she had.

“You don’t know me?” Her tone carried a clear betrayal, as did the furrow in her eyebrows as she took a step towards you, one which Emily retaliated to by forcing you behind her with a heavy grip on your arm, one which you did not appreciate whatsoever as you pulled yourself from her grasp.

“Mrs Nueves?” Emily’s voice held a mix of apprehension and concern as she spoke, and she reached into her back pocket to thrust her phone into your hand before holding her fingers ready over her gun holster.

“You don’t remember me, do you? The woman ignored Emily completely, her voice tinged with bitterness as she stared at you, her features filled with betrayal as she realised you weren’t even looking at her, too preoccupied with trying to figure out why Emily had given you her phone.

“Mrs Nueves, my name’s Emily, I’m with the FBI, I understand that what you’re going through right now is extremely difficult but-”

“Shut up!” Nueves’ voice was harsh and drenched in ice as she spoke, holding her hand up dismissively. “I don’t care about you or your FBI friends-”

You had your back to the two by this point, and after a message had come through from Spencer about Nueves not being at her workplace you figured that the reason Emily as given you the phone was to get backup from the team.

oh. Right.

‘shes in the park by her house’

Of course she was. Because she was continually proving to be one of the stupidest people you’d ever encountered. Who decides to take their dog for a walk in the park two minutes from their house whilst being actively pursued by the police? Stupid people, that’s who. God, couldn’t the person copying your crimes at least be a competent one?

‘We’ll be there in ten minutes. Hold tight.’

“Look at me!” Nueves’ raised voice caused multiple heads to turn from the people wandering the park, including your own, and you turn your eyes away from the phone screen with a furrowed expression of annoyance.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much I suffered because of what you did?” Nueves’ outbreak was very quickly garnering an audience from passersby, and could could practically feel the tension rolling off of Emily in waves as she tried to figure out what to do.

“You lived, get over it,” You were not helping.

The look on Nueves’ face at your words was almost incomprehensible, like she didn’t know what emotion she was supposed to be feeling at your nonchalance about what happened. Like you hadn’t ruined her entire life and caused her eternal suffering.

“Get over it? Look what you did to me!” Nueves barked out her words as she brought her left hand up to her eye, pulling at it until the sclera fell into the palm of her hand, leaving a dark pink void in its wake.

Your eyes immediately widened at the action, eyebrows furrowed in clear distaste for what you’d witnessed and that uncomfortable feeling that you’d experienced in the coroner’s office rising in your stomach the longer you looked at her.

“This is my life now.” She held up the piece of glass in her hand. “This is what I have to live with because of you.”

“Mrs Nueves-” Emily took a small step forward in her direction with both hands raised to appear as not threatening as possible.

“Don’t move-” Nueves dropped her dog’s leash at Emily’s advance to pull a small kitchen knife from her pocket, similar to one that would be used to cut vegetables or peel a potato.

Emily’s shoulders tense at the emergence of the weapon lips pursed into a tight line, and you’re sure that you might’ve been mildly concerned yourself if the knife blade wasn’t smaller than its handle. It didn’t make her look as intimidating as you assume she thinks she is, more like a teenager who carries around a switchblade in an attempt to make themself look tougher than they actually are.

Then again, this woman had actually killed people. Just not very well.

Still, if she thought that was a ‘big’ knife then her husband must’ve not been very satisfactory when it came to the bedroom.

"Put the knife down, Louise," Emily's voice was stern yet calm, her gaze unwavering. "We can talk about this, help you get the help you need. But first, you need to put the knife down."

Nueves seemed to consider this for a moment, her grip on the knife wavering. But then, her expression hardened, her eyes filled with a cold determination. "No," she stated firmly, "I won't."

“Mrs. Nueves,” Emily tried again, her voice laced with a calm authority, “you're not a killer. You're a victim, and we want to help you.”

Nueves let out a bitter laugh at this, her gaze never leaving Emily's. “A victim?” she echoed, her voice filled with scorn. “I stopped being a victim the moment I stopped letting them control my life.” She thrusts her arm forward with the knife in hand to point it in your direction, thankfully too far away for it to actually be anywhere near harming you. “You left me alive and it ruined everything.”

“I had to live with the pain, the nightmares, the constant fear. I had to watch my life fall apart while you just moved on to your next victim and left me without so much as a footnote in your confession." Nueves continued, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. "You think I'm the one who needs help? You're the monster, not me!”

“You had a hard time. Boo-hoo. But guess what? You're not the only one who's had to deal with shit. You're not special, Nueves.” You replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

Nueves' eyes flashed with anger at your dismissive words. "You don't get to talk to me like that. You don't get to belittle my pain. You don't get to decide how I should react to what you did to me."

"Actually, I do," you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest. "I'm the one who put you in this position. I'm the one who made you who you are today. And you know what? I'm not sorry. Because without me your life would’ve been completely insignificant.”

“Maybe I am a monster. But you, Nueves, are just a sad, pathetic little girl pretending to be a serial killer.” Nueves' face twisted with rage at your words, her grip on the knife tightening. But before she could react, Emily stepped in, her voice calm and authoritative.

“Enough,” she commanded, her gaze fixed on Nueves. “This isn't helping anyone. We're here to bring you in, Louise. To make sure you get the help you need.”

“I don't want your help,” Nueves spat back, her eyes still fixed on you with burning hatred. “I just want them to pay for what they did.”

“They are Louise, they’re paying for their actions every single day in a high-security prison,” Emily stated, her gaze unwavering as she shook her head gently. “They’re getting their punishment, you don’t have to do this, please, just put down the knife…” Emily’s eyes caught the SUV that parked on the side of the road as she talked. Looks like she’d managed to buy enough time for backup to arrive.

For a moment, it looked like Nueves might actually consider following Emily’s suggestion. But then she glanced back at you, her gaze hardening at your stare of indifference. “No,” she said, her voice filled with determination. “I won't let them get away with this. I won’t let them have control of how I live my life anymore.”

Nueves’ ramble deemed her oblivious to the agents approaching her from behind, ushering the few lingering witnesses to a safe distance away so that they could contain the area, and your eyes caught Dr Reid carefully scooping up the leashed dachshund into his arms after it’d scampered away from Nueves in her fit of rage.

“You don’t remember me?” Her eyes turned from seething to desperate in the split second she looked at you, voice raised as she tried to force your attention back onto her from your seeming uninterest in the confrontation. “You will.”

Morgan didn’t even have time to un-holster his gun before Nueves utilised the knife in her hand. Not on Emily, nor on you, but on herself, impaling the blade of the knife directly into her operational eye and forcing it deeper by slamming the palm of her hand into the wooden handle until it was almost completely encapsulated into her eye socket.

The sight was ghastly, blood spurting out of her eye as she fell onto the ground, convulsing from the pain and shock. You watched, a morbid fascination in your eyes as Emily quickly called for medical attention, her gaze flitting between you and the dying woman on the ground.

As the medics rushed to stabilise Nueves, Emily looked at you, her face pale. “You-” She said, her voice barely a whisper, “stay here.” She then hurriedly joined the medics, leaving you behind. You watched as the medics tried to recover her, but it was clear that her chances were slim. The sight of her writhing in pain, the blood pooling around her, was oddly satisfying to watch. A small, twisted part of you felt a sense of triumph at the confrontation's results, if not a little discontented with just how dramatic this woman proved to be.

The rest of the team moved to properly secure the area now that it was officially a crime scene as Emily, still with the medics, was applying pressure to Nueves' wound, her hands smeared with blood.

As you watched the scene unfold, a bizarre sense of calm washed over you. This chaos, this pain, was a result of your actions, your legacy, and despite the horrific circumstances, you couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction.

From a distance, you could see Hotch talking to Emily, his expression unreadable. Emily nodded, her eyes briefly meeting yours before diverting away. She looked shaken, the dark red of Nueves’ quickly oxidising blood on her hands a stark contrast against her pale skin.

You tried to imagine the emotions she was grappling with. After all, she was a part of a team that had sworn to protect innocents from people like you. And now, because of you, she had blood on her hands.

The medics finally lifted Nueves onto a stretcher, rushing her towards the waiting ambulance. Emily stood there for a moment longer, watching as the ambulance sped away, before finally turning her eyes towards you, unfocused on how Morgan was gently trying to usher her towards another pair of EMTs so that she could be checked over.

There was zero chance Nueves was going to make it to the hospital in time.

Emily’s gaze was hard, filled with a mixture of anger, confusion, and something you couldn't quite place. Fear, perhaps? Or maybe disappointment? Regardless, it was clear that the events of the day had left a deep impact on her.

As you watched them walk away, the satisfaction from earlier began to fade, replaced by a strange emptiness. You were alone again, left with nothing but the aftermath of your actions. And as you stared at the spot where Nueves had fallen, the blood still fresh on the grass, you couldn't help but wonder if this was all worth it.

But then, you remembered the look on Nueves’ face, the horror in her expression at her own pain. And you knew, without a doubt, that it was. Maybe she was right, you just might remember her for that stunt she pulled, although most definitely not in a positive light.

“Are you alright?” The ever-calm voice of Spencer Reid pulled you away from mulling over your own feelings, and you give him an animated sway of your head back and forth as a silent communication of you not falling in either emotional direction.

It truly was fascinating how removed you were from everything, and as twisted and convoluted as it might sound, Spencer wasn’t looking forward to your departure from accompanying the team. It meant that he didn’t get to speak to you anymore. Didn’t get to slowly peel away the layers of protection you’d built over your psyche so that he could pry at your inner workings.

And he didn’t exactly mind having you around. But that was something he was going to keep to himself for a multitude of reasons.

“It’s all too over the top for my taste,” You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, stretching your arms above your head. “Here, it’s the one with the ponytail’s,” You hold the cell phone out between your thumb and index finger like it might give you a disease if you hold it properly.

“Why-” Spencer starts his question and is immediately interrupted by your answer. “She gave it to me to message one of you where we were,”

So it was you who’d messaged him then. He thought the punctuation was different.

“Right, that makes sense,” He takes the phone from you with an awkward smile as he puts it away in his back pocket. “Thank you,”

You give him a short hum in reply, crossing your arms over your torso and leaning back and forth on the balls of your feet like you were becoming bored with just standing around. You’d just been a potential hostage at knife point and then watched someone graphically commit suicide specifically to gain your attention and less than five minutes after it was over you were looking for something new to capture your attention.

It utterly fascinated him. You were fascinating.

And you were leaving.

Literally.

You were walking away, obviously having had enough of Spencer’s silence and wandering off to find Hotch and maybe experience something more enticing.

“Hey-” Spencer called out to you as you began to walk away, and you stopped with a glance over your shoulder and a raised eyebrow. “What are you feeling right now?”

You stuff your hands in your pockets at his question, turning 180 degrees to face him once more with a slightly furrowed expression as you tried to figure out the motive behind his question.

“I wonder if she saw the afterlife.”

Spencer’s shoulders drop at your admission, his expression morphing into a mix of understanding and confusion, contradiction written all over his features.

You seemed more objectively curious than humanly concerned, but you still were curious nonetheless.

That was another fascinating part about you, or just about sociopaths in general, he supposes. But he wasn’t speaking to every sociopath in existence, he was speaking to you. So it was less about sociopathy and more about you specifically.

“Do you think she saw the afterlife?”

“Logically, she didn’t have any eyes so she wasn’t ‘seeing’ anything, but metaphorically I’d like to believe so,”

Spencer has to stifle a surprised laugh at your morbid joke about Nueves’ condition, pressing his lips into a tight line with a small nod as he tried to focus on the second part of your statement. “Me too,”

There was a small sense of deja vu surrounding your conversation as the two of you fell into a mutual silence, hastily interrupted by Hotch calling the two of you to gather with the rest of the team now that the case was officially over.

You noticed the distaste in Emily’s gaze immediately, looks like you’ve gained yourself another detractor. She and Morgan stood side by side with matching expressions as the two of you joined them, although neither had time to make any comments as the team loaded up in the SUVs to head back to the station.

It was rather hard to believe it’d only been six days in Las Flores, but dates don’t lie, and by the time you stepped back onto the BAU’s private jet, it felt like you’d only left it for a matter of hours.

Nueves’ face was fading from your mind by now, as was her name, and as you plopped yourself down on the same seat you’d occupied on your flight from Quantico, you’d almost forgotten that she even existed.

Your mind was more preoccupied with what was going to happen next. You were going to fly back to Quantico, be recovered by California state officials, and taken back to the concrete hell of the California Correctional Institution until your appeal to be moved to an inpatient psychiatric care facility was considered and ultimately rejected because they still deemed you ‘too dangerous’ to be around vulnerable individuals despite sharing mental issues with a lot of them.

Spencer gave you an awkward wave as he walked down the aisle of the cabin and stopped at the seat opposite you, hoping the movement would grab your attention.

“Do you-” He half gestures to the seat facing you with his hand, and you dismissively wave him into it as you return your attention to the window. “Thanks…”

You give him a hum at his politeness but otherwise remain uninterested in his presence, fastening the seat belt over your lap as the jet pilots prepare for the five-hour flight back to Quantico.

“What’re you thinking about?” Spencer abandons his original plan to sleep through the entire flight the second he sees the pondering in your expression.

You glanced at Spencer, contemplating whether to confide in him about your concerns. Out of everyone, he was probably the one person you’d met on the team who seemed genuinely interested in your experiences. He was one of the few who could understand the complexities of your situation. With a sigh, you decided to open up a little, "Just thinking about what happens now. Back to the concrete hell of my enclosure I guess.”

“I thought you were appealing the decision? That’s why you agreed to help, isn’t it? So the officials are more likely to accept your appeal?” Spencer tilts his head slightly in your direction, raising an eyebrow in your direction as he curled his legs under him in his chair.

“You really think that it’s actually going to do anything?” Your voice is dripping in sarcasm as you let your head fall back against the seat. “They’re seething enough that I didn’t get the death penalty, there’s no way they’re going to cut my sentence,”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t,” Spencer blinks at you with a mildly furrowed expression. “You’re not an active threat to anybody, and having the help that you need could greatly improve your quality of life,”

“Yeah well you’re not the person who’s going to be analysing my case, so your opinion doesn’t really matter in the greater span of things does it, Dr. Reid?” Your tone carries no malice in your statement, although it comes off much more rude than he’s sure you mean it to be.

His opinion could matter. He knows that as a part of the evaluation you’ll have to go through Hotch will have to write a report on how you acted during the case. Maybe he could put in a few extra things he’d experienced with you. He’s sure that the psychiatrist assessing whether you were actively violent would benefit from knowing how much you adored your parents, how you wondered if your childhood pet was in the afterlife and how you engaged in a genuine emotional conversation with him despite all of your social stunts from your disorder.

You obviously still had your humanity, so he didn’t see why they wouldn’t allow you to have the facilities to improve your mental state to a point where one day you could possibly be a functioning member of society, or at least be in a position to help researchers understand more about your condition.

“Having optimism about an upcoming situation has proved to actually affect the outcome of said situation, with 36% of people who had been optimistic about negative situations physically affecting the outcome of those situations based on their outlook alone,” Spencer presses his lips into a line, another one of those awkward smiles that you’d become used to over your time with him.

“I prefer realism, but I suppose I’ll take that into account,”

“That’s all I can ask,” Spencer gives a soft exhale at your inadvertent agreement to take his advice, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. “I’ll visit you once your appeal has gone through,” The statement fell out of his mouth without any real thought behind it, simply a reflection of his brain deciding he wasn’t quite done with your company yet despite the case officially being over.

“Of course you will,”

Spencer gives a short laugh of mild embarrassment. “Of course I will.”

[ddejavvu]

omg tyler owens x shy!reader where they got separated (in a storm or whatever you’d like) and reader is usually so hesitant on public PDA but tyler got hurt and the team is shocked to see reader freaking out over him and he’s just being so gentle and calm

feel free to change whatever 🫶🏼💕 thank you for putting the imagination into words so well!!!

Aftermath - Tyler Owens x Reader

come participate in tyler owens night !

You're typically less obnoxious about your relationship with Tyler Owens in front of his mass of fans, but Tyler isn't typically bleeding from a head wound, so today is different all-around.

One of the windows of his truck had broken, shattered and disappeared into the mass of swirling winds and debris, and an unfortunately sharp chunk of the mess had slashed Tyler across the forehead, leaving an open gash in its wake. Long but thankfully shallow, the cut drips deceptively copious amounts of blood down his face, and your fingers desperately try clearing it away.

"Baby, baby, I'm okay." He vows, keeping his voice low even though it's shaking. Perhaps his adrenaline junkie habits do have a ceiling.

"You're not okay," Your voice wobbles as if you yourself had been in the twister, instead of watching on his live stream as his head was cut open, "That- that thing could have hit your eye, it was so- so close, or it could have hit-" You devolve into deep, choking sobs, one that rip gasps from your throat and leave your heart pounding.

"Breathe." Tyler prompts you, taking your face in his shaking hands the way you're holding his, "Breathe. It didn't go through my eye. It went through my forehead, and it's just a little thing. It's gonna heal up just fine- just need some stitches. And I'll get the window fixed tomorrow, before anything else. 'Cause-" He breaks off, voice still shaky and hollow, "That's- that shouldn't have happened. My truck's supposed to be stronger than that."

"If it happens again," You fret, voice slowly strengthening as you muscle down your aching sobs, "If-"

"No, it's not- it's not gonna happen again." Tyler's hands squeeze your face gently, providing comforting pressure as he holds you steadily against him, "I'll test it myself. I'll- I'll bash the windows with a hammer or somethin', and- and make sure they won't break."

"Don't bash your windows with a hammer," You laugh, and it's a wet, barely-there sound, "That's- that sounds dangerous. And expensive."

"Okay." He nods, and you stare at each other in reverie, one coming off of the high of near-mortality and the other sponging away grief that had already taken up residence over the heart. Tyler is alive, he's injured but he's alive, and you'll reinforce the truck with solid steel if you have to, just to be sure a stray chunk of debris doesn't shatter the window again.

"Can- can you take a little break?" You ask Tyler, and you're not doing it on purpose, but you're pretty sure your eyes are stuck in puppy-mode, and it must be lethal, "I don't want you going back into a storm for- for, I dunno, a few weeks maybe. I just- let your head heal first, please?"

"Alright. Yeah, a- a break sounds nice," Tyler admits, grinning absently at you. You wonder if his body is out of its fight-or-flight response yet, "Maybe even a month? We'll see how the channel does, 'make sure we don't lose too much of an audience. We can pay the bills until then."

"Thank you," You breathe, inches away from Tyler's face as you drink him in, and you're unsure whether you're thanking him for stepping down and playing it safe, or whether you're thanking the universe for sparing him by an inch.

"Mm-hm," He nods, and you really can't tell whether he's talking to you or the universe either. Maybe a transcendent mix of both, but as long as there's still air in his lungs and fire in his eyes, you don't care too much about the details.

[paperbackribs]

update: 🐺werewolf Steve, 🦇bat Eddie completed on Ao3 here

How to survive a werewolf attack, Eddie mentally repeats to himself in a determinedly bright manner, channelling every nature documentary he’s ignored. His resolve does little to quiet the jolt of fear that had run through him as it turned into— that.

“How to survive a werewolf attack,” Eddie mutters to himself as it pads one giant paw towards him in the middle of Steve’s living room, hoping that speaking aloud will clear the bees buzzing in his brain, focusing all his thoughts in one direction: he should run.

“How the fuck do I survive a werewolf attack?” Eddie frantically yells at Dustin standing by the couch, grinning a gummy smile back at him with his hands casually thrown in his pockets.

The wolf growls lightly at his tone and Eddie’s head snaps back, alarmed that he’d allowed himself to look away from those intent yellow eyes for even a moment. But as scary as the predatory look is, the size of its head is just as terrifying. As large as Eddie’s torso with a wide, fanged mouth to match. Faintly, Eddie mentally compares one long tooth to the length of his hand.

This is how he dies Eddie realises with a thumping heart.

Not the bats.

Not Vecna.

No, a giant, golden mahogany werewolf nearly as tall as his fully grown adult body is going to open that massive mouth and swallow him down whole.

The beast stops, gaze narrowing to the pulse pounding in Eddie’s neck and he quickly slaps a hand over it, trying to limit the temptation of the tasty blood slash fresh meat vibe he must be giving off. It sits back on its heels; a movement Eddie feels shudder through the carpet at his feet and turns its head to Robin with a slight whine.

She scowls at Eddie, stepping forward to bury her hand comfortingly into the plush at its furry neck. “Don’t listen to him, Steve. He’s just being a big baby.” Shifting her fingers to scratch under its ears, the werewolf—Steve, Eddie hastily corrects himself as Robin continues to glare at him—half-closes its eyes in bliss. Though, he notes that it—he—still keeps his gaze steadily trained on Eddie.

Swallowing, Eddie tries to remember what they had just been talking about, but it’s lost in the chaotic whirlwind of his thoughts and the adrenalin urging his heels back. All of it consumed by the conviction that Eddie is prey in front of predator and about to be fed to what used to be Steve Harrington.

“Oh my god,” he moans, hands coming up to pull his hair down to hide behind, “Am I a sacrifice?”

Lucas sighs in exasperation, “I told you we should’ve showed him photos or something first.” Max makes a derisive sound and sits cross-legged next to Steve’s wide chest; he gently leans against her with a small thump of his tail. “He was always going to freak out, may as well get it over with.”

Eddie would really like to get the small child away from the massive beast right now; despite the fact that Max is a sophomore and would likely rip him a new one at even the suggestion. But it does help, seeing her casually play with the fur under her hand, and the bees die down a little, just enough to remember why they had called him here.

“You wanted to show me this—” Max squints at him and Eddie changes tack “—show me Steve turning into a wolf because you’re concerned about me.” The ridiculousness of it strikes through him, bubbling over into half-hysterical laughter. “Shouldn’t you be worried about the massive fucking fangs near Max’s head right now.”

The wolf lets out a gusty sound that Eddie can only imagine is a sigh and thumps onto his belly, stretching his head out to rest on crossed-over paws as big as dinner plates. The position should look less threatening, but all Eddie can see is how the jaw of the creature has been thrown into sharp relief, emphasising how far it could probably unhinge if given an incentive. He slaps his hand back over his pulsing neck again.

El appears by his side and he nearly jumps a foot, not having noticed her approach while focusing so fiercely on the wolf. She takes his hand, gently saying, “It is okay, Eddie. He’s only Steve and he would never hurt you.”

He keeps a hold of her hand. The Steve he’s come to know since Spring Break has seemed like a pretty good dude, sure; but, the one thing he does know, is that the guy would take a bullet for every kid in this room.

It's not cowardice to hide behind a kid, he reassures himself. Not when the kid isn’t in any danger. Max shoots him a dark look again and he suspects that she’s seen through his intentions. He clears his throat, focussing on El’s kind and reassuring squeeze of his hand, “Right. Why is Steve a werewolf?”

“Good question,” the bill of Dustin’s hat bobs in his approval, “Back in ’84 we were in these tunnels, you see and —”

“Short version, Dustin,” Robin interrupts, which is frankly ironic of her Eddie thinks, knowing she falls into extended explanations herself.

Dustin screws up his face, but condenses the story, “We were attacked by dog versions of the demogorgons and since then Steve has gone all furry whenever he wants.” He waves a hand at the prostrate wolf who continues to placidly watch their conversation, “I see where you went with werewolf but technically, he’s not forced to turn at a full moon.”

Will exchanges a look with Mike as they lean against the opposite wall, “Not technically, no. But he does get weird around it.” El tugs him to sit down with her and Max, but Eddie lets go of her hand, unwilling to let cede the high ground when it’s the only thing keeping his feet ready to run if Steve decides to demonstrate how weird he can get.

“Shouldn’t he have…” Eddie waves a hand over his face with a splaying motion of his fingers. He hasn’t seen a demogorgon yet, but the kids had described them to him, and the demo-bats apparently had the same set-up of gaping maws exploding like a fanged cross over their face.

“Another great question, Eddie,” Max rolls her eyes, “Let me just consult my instruction manual on the Upside Down and get back to you.”

“It’s a fair question, Max,” Lucas says softly and she relents, “Yeah, but he looks like he’s about to throw up and Steve would hate the mess.” The wolf snorts and nudges her with his muzzle; she lightly strokes the top of his nose with a responding smile.

“Our best guess is that the demo-dogs and demo-bats are a weird mix of actual animal and Upside Down creepiness,” Robin says, letting go of Steve to sit on the couch behind him, “And Steve got infected with the actual animal part but the woo-woo creepiness is what helps him turn into the wolf.”

Eddie’s guts turn to liquid, and he hovers suddenly uncertain hands over his body; right beside the areas still scarred from his own demo-bat bites. “Wait a second,” he rasps, “Steve got bit by the dog version and he turns into this. So if I got bit by the bat versions…”

“That’s why we’re telling you,” Lucas explains frankly, “It didn’t happen straight away with Steve so we thought that you should have a heads up at the very least.” Dustin gestures down Eddie’s body with a demanding hand, “And you can tell us if you notice any weird changes.”

“What?” Eddie asks a little wildly, “Like if my voice drops and I get hair in new and wonderful places?” Robin and Dustin exchange worried glances and the latter falls back on a soothing tone that he hasn’t managed since cornering Eddie in the boathouse while he was on the run, “There’s no guarantee that you were infected…” Robin winces at the word choice as Eddie’s eyes widen. “…but you should tell us if you notice anything different, just in case.”

Eddie wants to collapse onto the floor. Just crouch there with his hands pressed comfortingly against his eyes to shut out the insanity this afternoon has turned into. But eyeing how close Steve with his monster fangs is, Eddie refuses to get any closer. He may as well lay on his back and strip for good measure. That way Steve won’t get any denim stuck in his teeth; he thinks the last thought with a small hiccup.

The massive head raises and turns to look over its—his—shoulder with a questioning whine. Robin’s faces hardens slightly, and her arms come up to cross over her chest. “You go for a run or something, I’ve got this.”

Eddie watches those tree trunks for legs rise and feels something quake inside, doing nothing for his pounding pulse that had only just started to subside. Steve looks back at him one more time before licking Dustin’s hand and butting his head against Robin’s knee to trot through the living room towards the backyard.

Chapter 1

[cherrydbear]

Since y'all seemed to like this I'll keep rambling on the subject, I can do this all day. Here are some of those examples where I think their friendship really shines through:

From Sanji's perspective, this guy just showed up outside his restaurant one day, dueled the legendary swordsman who slashed Don Krieg's fleet to pieces, willingly got cut almost in two, nearly bled to death, was tied up by his own crew and then captured by the Arlong pirates, still singlehandedly escaped and came back to join the fight and defeated one of Arlong's best fighters, then nearly bled to death again and woke up just in time to drink himself silly at the afterparty. I've heard people say they "match each other's freak" and that's the truth. Sanji watches this absolute wackadoodle of a man and knows he's found someone who matches his freak. From Zoro's point of view, some cook at a floating restaurant just fed all of their enemies out of principle before kicking their butts. How could he not respect that sort of unconditional adherence to a sense of honor and justice? Especially considering he himself experienced starvation not too long ago in Shells Town. Now this cook, the newest stray in Luffy's collection, immediately proves himself to be immensely capable both in the kitchen and on the battlefield, incurs injury to himself without complaint to protect these people he barely knows, and still is the only person to come sit by Zoro and check up on him. So Zoro knows that Sanji has a heart of pure gold, and I think that's a big part of why he gets frustrated when Sanji tries to cover it up with bravado and perviness.

This scene was really interesting to me because usually when someone demands that Zoro does something, he grouches and grumbles about it, so in this case it seems he just spontaneously started helping out himself. And if there was ever a man whose love language is acts of service, it's Roronoa Zoro. He seems to be more of a "companionable silence" kind of guy, while Sanji's a talker and will say anything to keep feeling connected. Now, I don't know if this is just a me thing, but I like to say my friends' names a lot, even just because the association with them brings me joy, but I rarely use the names of people I'm not close with except to refer to them in third person or to get their attention. In this scene, it seems to me that Sanji keeps repeating Zoro's name as a way to show he's thinking about him and appreciates him being there, though I might just be projecting.

Now, I know shippers go crazy over this one, but I think it's honestly really solid platonic evidence and I'll tell you why (not to dissuade shipping, I think you have to be friends before you can be more than friends so all of this can be fuel for the ship too if you want it to be). Firstly, they're comfortable enough to sleep this close together. Sanji's resting his sleepy head right on Zoro's shoulder (it should have been me, not him) and Zoro just lets him. Also note real quick, only a short distance away Luffy is using Usopp as a pillow, so they're all a cuddly cozy little family. When Zoro notices Sanji mistakenly trying to kiss him, he doesn't even move away, he just makes a face and waits for Sanji to wake up so he can make fun of him. Sanji, for his part, doesn't act embarrassed or disgusted that it turned out to be Zoro there, only playfully mad about his expression. They squabble for a few moments before Luffy pushes past them and they turn their attention to the next thing, argument forgotten, proving that neither was actually angry about anything and they were merely enjoying the opportunity to bicker.

This is from the hunting competition in Little Garden that I mentioned before. I just wanted to point out that both of them are grinning and clearly having a grand time.

(I love how Sanji's hands are just massive sometimes.) They have the entire forest clearing, and Sanji chooses to sit his little booty down right next to Zoro and toss his food at him. They're just like those kids in elementary who had beef over who has a more impressive Pokémon collection and would always sit next to each other at lunch to compare cards and play together at recess but claim they're archnemeses. And for as much as Sanji implied to Usopp (though oblivious) that the heart shaped vegetables were just for the ladies, he did choose to make it and serve it to the whole crew. Speaking of the ladies, Sanji is always adamant about protecting them, but he was perfectly fine with leaving Nami and Robin in Zoro's care, just as Zoro trusted Sanji to take care of Luffy and Usopp.

I also loved how Sanji packed Zoro a cute little lunchbox for exploring and he was NOT going to let no stupid south bird take it from him.

Alright that's all for today folks I gotta wake up in like 5 hours for work lol

Continuation from this post

[librarygarten]

#2 Chain x Space Orc! Human! Reader - Body Swap

Part 2 includes Legend, Hyrule, and Twilight Part 1 ✿ Part 2 (you are here) ✿ Part 3

Duck. Dodge. Punch. Repeat.

The wizzrobe before you was growing incredibly frustrated. Most of its spells seemed to simply glance off of you with no effect. Others simply stung, leaving angry red marks where they touched your skin. You socking it in the face repeatedly probably just upset it further.

You were different from your traveling companions. Your ears were round. You had never wielded a sword. Magic seemed to have no effect on you. Oh, and you could bench press a Lynel without breaking a sweat.

Link swung his sword, slashing at the wizzrobe’s back. The thing cried out, flying up toward the ceiling of the room.

How had it gotten like this? The chain had entered the dungeon together, but now it was only you and Link. You hadn’t even seen them leave. You had been talking with Link, and when you turned around, the rest of the chain was simply. Gone.

The wizzrobe muttered something to itself in its strange language. It held its hands in front of itself, and you realized, perhaps too late, that it was chanting something. An orb of dark energy appeared between its palms. You didn’t even have time to think when it flung the spell at Link. You just knew whatever it was would be bad news if it hit him. You sprinted towards him, trying to get between him and the spell. Unfortunately, you were just a bit too slow. The energy hit your back, but you weren’t able to shield Link completely. You aren’t sure where it hit him, but right now it felt like your bones were on fire.

You screamed, falling to the floor. Behind you, the wizzrobe snickered, and you heard the damned thing teleport away. Great. Groaning, you got up. You muscles screamed at you in protest, demanding a break you couldn’t give them yet.

“Ugh, stupid wizzrobe,” you sigh before deciding to check in on your traveling partner. “You okay?”Your voice sounded weird. Had your ears popped? Man, that spell had hurt.

Legend

The room feels strangely quiet now. You look around, only to find a second you in the room with you, lying face-down on the floor nearby. Your heat jumps into your throat as they lift themselves up on their elbows. Before you can ask who they are (and why they have your face), an utterly filthy series of curses, insulting the wizzrobe, the dungeon’s architects, and the absent chain, falls from their lips.

You know exactly who that is.

“Legend?”

“Yeah?” He rubs his head. Well, your head, but you suppose it’s his for now. He hasn’t looked at you yet, but you can only assume that if he’s in your body, you must be… well.

“Try not to freak out.” Your request is met with a puzzled look, followed by another string of curses as he jumps to his feet. His hand moves to where his sword should be… only your outfit doesn’t have a sword (the flimsy Hylian metal bends in your hands). So much for not freaking out.

“Y/N???” He sputters your name, flabbergasted, then winces. “Ack. Why is the room so echo-y now?”

“What are you talking about?” You strain to listen to the room. It’s still almost eerily quiet. You can’t quite place it, but you feel an emptiness in the air. Like something is missing.

“That!” Legend clutches his ears, trying to block out the noises of the room. “Every time we talk it echoes in the room about a million times! And there’s a pounding noise that won’t stop! How can you not hear that?”

“Wait… what’s the pounding noise sound like?” You ask hesitantly. You have a sinking feeling that you already knew the answer.

“It’s kind of like… da dum… da dum… Like a drum or something.” He keeps his hands clasped tightly over his ears.

“Oh. Oh!” You realize what was missing. Why the room felt far too quiet. “You have my hearing now! You can hear my heartbeat!”

“You can hear people’s heartbeats!?” His cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink at the revelation. Unfortunately, his own voice echoes off the walls of the room, causing him to curl into himself, tightening his grip over his ears.

“Shoot. Sorry, this is gonna take some getting used to.” You pat his back. You remember how hard it was when you had first come to Hyrule. Everything seemed louder and sharper and smellier. Not to mention your strength.

“How on earth can you deal with hearing everything all the time?” Legend groans, his voice quiet in an attempt to spare his poor ears.

“Here,” you pull the bag on his back open just enough to fish around inside and grab what you need. You slip the headphones over his head, and almost immediately he relaxes. “I use these to sleep sometimes. They block out some noise, but not all of it.”

“I am never yelling at you again,” he adjusts the headphones on his head, ensuring they properly cover his ears. “This is pure torture.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” You reach into your new bag. The magical trinkets Legend carries around glitter inside. You pull out the first thing that catches your eye: a red stick with a ball on the end. You have no idea what it does. “Now that I’m not human I can use these things!”

“Hey! Those are mine!”

“You took my body, I take your junk, you hoarder!”

“Y/N!”

“>:]”

Hyrule

Your entire body is buzzing, as if you had rubbed your socks on the carpet and then touched a piece of metal. That wasn’t good. The spell had hit Hyrule, too, and he hadn’t responded to your question yet. You turn to look for him, only to come face to face with a terrified-looking copy of yourself.

“Ack!” You jump backwards, fists ready for a fight. As if responding to your panic, the static feeling intensifies. The other you scrambles to their feet and tries to grab something off their back. When their hand finds nothing but air, they pause, shooting a quizzical look over their shoulder. Then they look down at their clothes and squawk in surprise.

“Y/N?” The other you asks. Against your better judgement, you nod. “Umm… look down?”

You do as the other you asks, only to discover something horribly wrong: you’re wearing Hyrule’s clothes.

And skin.

You are Hyrule now.

“What!?” You look at the other you. “Hyrule?”

He waves sheepishly. “The spell must have swapped our bodies. Don’t worry, this kind of magic usually wears off on its own.”

“Darn it,” you slump your shoulders forward. You liked your body. Hyrule’s was pretty good, but you’d much rather look at his than be in it.

“Sorry,” he gives you an apologetic smile.

“It’s not your fault,” you drag a hand down your face. The buzzing in your veins continues. “Your body just feels weird. It’s all tingle-ly and stuff.”

“Tingle-ly?” Hyrule repeats, puzzled. Unfortunately, you don’t have time to explain further as the wizzrobe makes it’s presence known again, laughing with glee as it teleports beside you.

Without wasting a moment, you punch it, just as you had been doing before. You hand connects with its face, but this time, pain explodes out from your knuckles.

“Owwww,” you wince, holding your injured hand close to your chest. That’s right. Fragile Hylian bones.

“Hyah!” Hyrule holds his hands out towards the wizzrobe.

Nothing happens. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen and he looks at his new hands with a growing sense of dread. “I can’t feel my magic at all.”

That was to be expected. Most magic didn’t seem to affect you, which also meant you couldn’t use it. Still, for Hyrule, being separated from it, even for a short period of time, must have been strange.

Wait… if he had your lack of magic… did that mean?

You snap your fingers experimentally, sticking your tongue out in concentration as you try to mimic what you’d seen Hyrule do dozens of times. A small spark of electricity dances between your fingers.

“Sick,” the smile that makes its way on your face can only be described as deranged. You turn to look at the wizzrobe, who appears to be slowly backing away from you in fear.

“Y/N?” Hyrule asks. The magic thrums in your veins, the static feeling intensifying in your hands as you call forth more electricity.

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” you giggle. Then, you chuck the ball of lighting from your hand directly at the wizzrobe. It falls to the floor in a pile.

“Woah! Careful, don’t use up all my magic!” Hyrule warns.

“Aww, but it’s so cool,” you pout. “I’m never going to be able to do this again! Can’t I have just a little fun with it?”

“...”

“Please~?”

“...Fine.”

Twilight

“I’m alright,” Twilight mumbles. His voice sounds… different. You turn your head, trying to look at him, only to get a face-full of something hairy. Your heart skips a beat as you try to attack whatever animal suddenly attached itself to your face. Your arms feel heavy and sluggish as you throw the creature to the floor. When you finally get a good look at it, you realize it’s not an animal at all. It’s a pelt. Specifically the one that Twilight is supposed to be wearing right now. 

“Dang. I didn’t think my fashion choices offended you that much,” he laughs. His voice still sounds weird. You spin on your heel to face him and find, not Twilight, but yourself looking back. They smirk and wave.

“...Twilight?” You ask. You’re afraid to know the answer. When he nods, you’re only left with more questions. You decide to start with just one: “How?”

“I’m guessing the wizzrobe swapped our minds,” he shrugs, as if this were only the fifth weirdest thing he had seen that day. “Weird. I thought magic didn’t affect you.”

“Swap?” You look down. Sure enough, you’re Twilight now, complete with green tunic and weird pinecone-looking necklace full of dark magic. You reach down to pick up the cloak that you had so violently discarded a few moments ago, wrinkling your nose at the wet dog smell that greets your nose. It takes more effort than you expect to lift it. Strange. Twilight looked muscular enough. Were Hylians really that much weaker than humans? Still, it was strange that the spell had affected you at all. You try to respond to Twilight’s statement, but the smell wafting from the cloak distracts you. “Must have been a pretty powerful spell– I’m sorry, but when was the last time you washed this?”

“I washed it… recently,” he refuses to meet your gaze, and you can practically hear the sweat drip down the back of his neck. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“I’m using this as an opportunity to do your laundry. Smelling you from across camp was bad enough, but how can you live like this, man?” You pick at his tunic (well, your tunic, for now). Somehow it also smells like a wet dog. Actually, now that you think about it, maybe Twilight’s body is the thing that smells like a dog, because the scent seems to cling to you in an almost unnatural way.

“You cannot smell me from across camp,” he blushes, offended.

“Yes, I can,” you grimace, still examining your new clothing. Did he roll through a mud puddle? No, it hadn’t rained in a while. Where did all this dirt come from? “One of the perks of being a human. Sensitive nose. And ears. And eyes.”

“Huh. Now that you mention it, it does feel like when I’m in wolf form,” he sounds surprised. Oh yeah, his wolf form. Is that why his body smelled like a dog? Surely, he bathed since last transforming, right?

“Glad it’s you and not one of the others, then. Can you imagine the cow Legend would have if he could suddenly smell Wild,” you snicker. Twilight looks shocked for a moment before breaking out in laughter.

“Oh man, he’d never shut up,” he chuckles, but the expression looks alien on your face. You already miss the way his nose would scrunch up when he laughs. Hopefully this swap would be a short one.

“Maybe it’d finally make Wild bathe,” you muse.

“Unlikely.”

[princetore]

radiohusk's dynsmic goes so fucking crazy. control freak alastor who's only comfortable in relationships where he holds one hundred percent of the power slash the only former overlord he's ever decided to keep alive. who he lets get away with near constant backtalk while ocasionally making sure to remind him he's not free and any lenience he has is because alastor gracefully allows it to him and that it could be revoked at any moment. because husk is not a person, he's alastor's pet.

the idea that alastor is lonely but will not allow himself to be vulnerable enough to form a true bond with something of an equal (not after what happened last time) and the way to circumvent that is instead to get that camraderie with a person who's soul he owns and has total control over. no trust needed, no compromises. comfort zone secured

[brucewaynehater101]

I’d love to see more of the Emotional Marks AU. I want to see the reveal and the Bats having the realization that just because they’re doing better /now/, it doesn’t fix the damage they did before. And that they can’t force things to heal. Healing takes time.

Post being mentioned is here

What I'm curious about is if it's a human only thing or if others (like Kyrptonians, Martians, Atlanteans, etc.) also get marks.

Anyways, here's some more stuff I thought of. As always, take as little or as much as you'd like of it ^^

Tim never takes off the object hiding his marks, even for himself. It's part habit and part desperation to never see how much his loved ones have actually hurt him.

He's unique in that he isn't sure where most of his marks come from. People usually see the marks within 24 hours of their appearance. Tim has gone years between seeing his own marked skin.

As I've stated before, the object works like glamor. Therefore, those with enough magic power would be able to see past it. This is part of why Tim wanted pants for the Robin uniform (any magicians working with Robin would see the moment they saw any of Tim's bare skin). Tim is very lucky the marks on his face only appeared a bit before he became Red Robin (and part of his reason for the cowl).

Marks typically stay away from the face. They only appear there if symbolically significant or if the marks are running out of space elsewhere on the body. Bart and Kon dying really did a number on Tim even though it wasn't their fault.

YJ and Dick have helped soothe some of the marks left behind by the Drakes (and Bruce too if you want good dad Bruce). Quite a bit have even fully disappeared due to them.

Tim still collected them like Halloween candy, though.

Major marks and their placement [though feel free to offer different ideas]:

Bruce calling Tim "Jason" - x on the back of neck

16th birthday - Major gash on right temple hidden by hair

Janet dying - splintering cracks along hand (bigger version of the one Janet fakes)

Jack coma then death - line in left calf then up to mid back of thigh

Bart dying - right side from under armpit to end of ribs gash

Kon dying - giant oval over sternum

Jason's TT attack - left foot/ankle cracks

Damian's attacks - stomach area

Losing Robin - largest slash diagonal across back (left shoulder to right hip)

There's more marks, but the ones on his face are caused by people not believing in him [this is not a "they should have" argument. It would have hurt regardless of what they should have done]

Hmm... So, the reveal? I'm thinking a magician. This would be after Tim switches back to just a mask and no cowl. His face marks would be on display for magicians but no one else. He, wrongly, assumed he'd be fine.

He's playing nice with the Bats at this point, even if he doesn't fully trust them. He loves them and wants to keep the peace. He'd never voluntarily show them his marks or tell them about it.

The Bats are being nicer under the idea that their assumptions about markless were incorrect. It weirds Tim out and usually has him ghosting them for a few days if they try to initiate feeling conversations with him. He kind of wishes they would just go back to normal.

It's a few months of this behavior before some magician makes a remark about Tim's facial marks. Something along the lines of, "You okay, Red? You're aware of how dangerous it is for marks to progress as far as the face, right?"

Cause what happens when there's no more room for marks? Drastic decrease in physical health. Could lead to death.

The Bats overhear and promptly freak the fuck out again.

Tim, who has been dealing with their bullshit for the last few months and doesn't want to deal with the confrontation, disappears. He's waiting for them to process their shit before returning [he loves them but does not want to be caught in that fucking whirlwind. Bats notoriously do not handle emotions well]

[alyakthedorklord]

Bat Poker Face Training

Dick, Steph, Cass, Tim, and Jason all crammed into someones room, with a kidnapped Duke sitting awkwardly with them, kinda scared.

Duke: “Uh… what’s going on?”

Steph, completely blank faced and standing ominously in the corner: “It has come to our attention that you require training.”

Duke: “Bruce is already teaching me really well-“

Jason, also blank faced: “That’s bat training. This is robin training.”

Cass, carefully but without a single emotion: “Sibling training.”

Dick, face just as blank as all his other siblings: “It’s much more fun.”

Duke, freaked out by the empty faces: “Am I being hazed?”

Jason: “Eh, maybe. Scared?

Tim, not giving Duke a second to reply: “Yes, he is. It’s written all over his face. And while its okay to be scared, sometimes hiding your true emotions in the field is a matter of life, death, and secret identities.”

Dick: “You’re going to be flustered. Humiliated. Terrified. Angry. Relieved. Your vigilante ID dragged through the mud in front of you as a civilian. Someone worried about your civilian ID and you need to keep them away.“

Tim: “Not just as a Bat, but a Wayne. Some dinosaur at a gala is going to say the most out of pocket thing you’ve ever heard in your life and you’ve just got to stand there.”

Duke: “So that’s the reason you’re doing the creepy thing?”

Steph: “Yes Duke. You need to have a poker face that Even Superman can’t break. That even a Fifth-dimensional Imp can’t crack! And that is the purpose of our training tonight!”

Duke, getting the program now: “Okay. I’m ready.”

Jason, allowing a creepy grin to slide over his face: “Don’t be so sure. Because what we are about to show you… it has broken Batman.”

Dick: “Damian is too innocent to see it, which is why he isn’t here.”

Steph: “If you can handle this, you can handle anything.”

Tim, tapping on his computer, chanting under his breath: “the horrors, the horrors, the horrors…”

Duke, terrified of what Tim is about to pull up, on the edge of his seat wondering what on earth can shake the Bat of Gotham, what the family considers too awful for thier arguably LEAST innocent member to see, what vile images he’s about to be shown…

Tap. The screen lights up white.

Duke: “No.”

Jason, grin widening: “We’ll be reading this aloud, for your entertainment.”

Duke, trembling and inching towards the door: “No.”

Steph, vice grip on Duke’s arm: “There’s no escaping it, Signal. This is your mission- to stay completely pokerfaced through Real Person Fanfiction of us- the Batfamily. And co, of course.”

Duke, sobbing: “Please, why… why would you do this to yourselves… oh god, is that… is that… is that Kate with Bruce? She’s a lesbian! And his cousin!”

Steph: “They don’t know that, Duke. They know nothing. And the depths of a human imagination is comparable to the depths of the ocean… there’s some weird shit down there.”

Tim, without a single emotion on his face, least of all mercy: “I had to sit through Young Justice fawning over Dick and Bruce. Do you know what they said? About my own father figure? Right in front of my salad? I was lucky I was wearing a mask. I cried, and I cried in silence. They knew NOTHING, because I showed nothing. This is what you must achieve.”

Jason: “I’ve had to listen to criminals talk about what they’d do to the ‘Prince of Gotham’ and not twitch. I’ve had to listen to both goons and civilians play fuck marry kill with our vigilante identities and not move a muscle. I know this feels like overkill, but trust me, it’s not.”

Dick: “Don’t worry, we’ll keep it mostly PG. Tim? Begin with the wildly out of character and aggressively heteronormative Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman love triangle. Then maybe we’ll work our way up to slash readers and…” shudders in horror, “…batcest.”

Duke: “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

[circledwithaheart]

you don't get to tell me about sad | T | 1.2k

mind the tags and remember that i love you 🫶

“It's a real shame about your boss, Evan." Phillip stabs his fork into his salad. He may as well be stabbing it directly into Buck, Chim and Maddie’s hearts as far as Buck's concerned. "But you and Howard know as well as anyone how risky this job can be. Sometimes these things just happen." He shoves the bite into his mouth, acting like what he just said is as neutral as announcing a freak accident in another country.

Buck clenches his jaw, taking a deep breath he hopes no one else notices. He knew this was going to be a tough visit from the moment Maddie told him. He begged her to keep them away, knowing she’d already pulled every excuse she could manage.

In the end, as usual, their parents found a loophole into inviting themselves anyway. Said they didn't want Maddie to have any extra stress with being so far into the pregnancy and all. Evidently getting kidnapped and having her throat slashed didn't warrant that same level of attention.

"Bobby wasn't just our boss," Buck grits out, staring a hole into his baked salmon. He can't look at them. If he does he knows he'll see the twin looks of ignorance in Phillip and Margaret's faces.

"Well, of course not," Margaret replies as if she could ever understand. "Being there as long as you both have I'm sure he was more than that. It's common to get close to the people you work with. Take Howard and Maddie for example."

The was rings in Buck’s ears, pounding out a grating reminder that Bobby's dead. That he's in the past, no longer a part of their present or future.

It's been barely two days since the memorial. Since the 118 and LAFD buried the closest thing to a father that Buck's ever known. There won't be anymore late night talks at the station, with sage advice only Bobby could give, after a tough call. No sunrise meditations, or dropping in at Bobby and Athena's for a barbecue.

"I'm just glad we could both be here for you," Margaret adds, and Phillip makes a sound of agreement.

Buck curls one hand into a fist under the table while he tries to make the other, clenched around his fork, stop shaking. Maddie lightly clasps his wrist across the table, reminding him she's there. That she sees him.

"Maybe," Chim interjects, as low and tense as Buck's ever heard him around their parents. "Maybe you shouldn't be."

read the rest on ao3

[lyubovsdiary]

Difficult Realisations

a.aretas x reader

summary: after witnessing armando kill a man, you have difficulties connecting the man you love with the one that is a killer

warning: violence, blood, angst

a/n: english isn’t my first language and this was written on my phone, so please excuse any mistakes you see. i wanted to explore a reader with conflicting feelings about armando’s killing and i’m quite happy with how this turned out. enjoy!!

A kick to the chest. A slash with a knife to an arm. A punch being caught in the air. Twisting the same arm to force its belonger to the ground and gain the upper hand. A well-timed turn, causing the opposite. Blood dripping from both men, staining the ground beneath them.

You had been watching the fight before you with bated breath for a while now. The hired killer was good, but Armando, your boyfriend, was better. It was hard to tell who had more experience, but it was clear who was more willing to play dirty to finish this quickly and get back to his waiting and slightly freaked out girlfriend.

When the two of you had left to go eat out this evening, you never expected to find yourselves in this situation. You - hiding behind a dumpster, trying to breathe as quietly as possible and Armando - fighting someone whose interests and loyalties were unknown to him, though it was sure one of those was to kill him, and by extension, you. He couldn’t let that happen.

Finally, Armando managed to knock his attacker’s head against the wall with enough force for him to actually stay down long enough for your boyfriend to grab his previously discarded gun and shoot him. His aim was as precise as ever.

Letting out a ragged breath, Armando turned to look for you and found your hiding spot. Seeing your eyes focused on the corpse next to him, he quickly hurried over to you.

“¿Estás bien? Did you get hurt?” Armando asked while softly taking your hands in his and looking them and your face over for injuries. Feeling content after discovering no such things, he kissed the back of both your hands and tucked your face into the crook of his neck.

Letting the familiar gesture soothe you, you let the man before you wrap his arms around you and breathed in his scent. As always, Armando brought your soul comfort and got rid of any stress that dared enter your nervous system.

Yet, nothing could fully make you forget where you were and what had just happened. You knew what Armando was capable of. He hadn’t lied to you about his past and the things he’d done. You were always aware of how deadly the man who slept in your bed every night was.

But you had never seen him actually use his skills. You had never seen him kill.

“No- no, I’m okay. Are you alright?” you stuttered out, stepping away from Armando and wrapping your arms around yourself.

Looking anywhere but his eyes, you didn’t notice the concerned look he eyed you with, before reaching for your arm. You flinched, taking a hurried step away from him.

Armando looked as if he had been slapped. No - he could take a slap. A punch even. But this felt like you were ripping his heart out and stomping on it. Did you think he would ever- no, surely not. You were the sole thing keeping him sane, keeping him good.

You were the reason why he had taken the deal his father had offered him. Being out of jail in return for help carrying out missions, sometimes carrying them out alone. Armando had to promise more than half his life away to the police for at least partial freedom.

Still, he had accepted the deal, and was currently going through with it, because it meant that he could spend his time with you.

And now you were flinching away from him?

“Nena? ¿Cuál es el problema?” Armando questioned quietly, trying to keep his composure. If he had known that you would have such a reaction to his sins, he wouldn’t have let you see any part of this ordeal.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine. Just fine,” you muttered, still not looking in his eyes.

Turning away from him, you accidentally turned in the wrong direction and were now looking straight at the dead body still in the alley with you. A pool of blood had formed around it, the dark colour a stark contrast to the corpse’s pasty white skin colour.

You let out a choked gasp, unable to look away from it. You had honestly forgotten it was still there, too deep in thought about Armando. But of course it was still here, it couldn’t magically vanish, just because you couldn’t deal with the fact your lover was the reason it was here in the first place.

Starting to hyperventilate, you tore your eyes off the dead man and hurried in the opposite direction of the body, successfully leaving the alley and ending up at an almost completely empty street. This made sense since it was late into the night - it was probably around one, maybe two in the morning.

Taking a deep breath, you focused on the light coming from the few lamps around you. It was warm and full of small shadows, which belonged to the insects crawling around the lamp itself.

While you were inspecting the light, trying to calm yourself, Armando had come up behind you. He kept his distance, though every fiber of his being wanted to touch you, be close to you. He figured he should give you space right now and let you sort through your thoughts. He wouldn’t let the absolutely smitten part of his brain overpower the rational one.

Finally realising you weren’t alone, you turned to look at Armando. The dim lights made him look dangerous. Like a predator waiting in the dark to snatch his unsuspecting prey. You shook your head, trying to get these thoughts out.

This was your Armando, the one who laid his whole body on yours when you were ignoring him and he wanted to cuddle. The same Armando as the one who had tried to bake you muffins one time when he knew you were having a hard day and managed to activate the fire alarm. The same Armando who never once got violent when you two were fighting. You had never feared for your safety when you were in his company.

And yet you couldn’t get the look on the man’s face in the split second in which he realised he was going to die, out of your mind. The sheer terror mixed with desparation reminded you that at the end of the day, humans were more similar to animals than people think. It was as if the image was burnt into the back of your eyelids.

“Let’s go home,” you suggested in a tight voice. You tried to muster up a smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

Armando only nodded and followed your lead. Your apartment wasn’t far from here, so you walked the way back in silence. Each of you was deep in thought about the same thing - each other.

After arriving at the place you called home, you fished your keys out of your purse and went to unlock the door, when Armando spoke up.

“I could spend the night somewhere else. Sé cuando no me quieren,” he offered, looking at a spot over your shoulder.

You tried not to consider it, you really did. But this evening’s events had messed up the impression you had previously had of Armando and now you were having issues distinguishing who you thought he was, who you fear he might be, and who he really was.

But that didn’t mean that you wanted to throw him out on the street. You still loved him.

“What? No, baby, no. I do want you. Here and overall. I just…,” you started but couldn’t finish. How could you explain that one evening, one singular evening, had confused you so much that you weren’t sure if him staying over at your place was a good idea.

“Need time,” Armando finished for you. “No hay ningún problema con eso. Just tell me when you’re ready to ignore that part of me again so we can play happy couple like before.”

His words shocked you momentarily, but he was right. Though now your confusion mixed with anger. You were high-strung anyways, so there wasn’t a lot needed to rile you up.

“Well, what exactly do you expect me to do? Parade around the fact that my boyfriend has killed more people than most people have met in their lives? Be proud of what you do?” you hissed, daring him to continue.

Of course, Armando has never backed down from a challenge.

It’s not even that he’s proud of what he’s done, the people he killed. He wasn’t. But the thought that you were judging him - you, the one person he thought accepted him and all his faults and mistakes and loved him anyways. That thought rattled him more than he’d ever want to admit. It also scared him. Was this the final straw that made you leave and not look back?

“¿Qué puedo esperar? Maybe some gratitude for saving you from the man who was trying to kill both of us earlier. Or maybe understanding that I had to do what I had to do. My life wasn’t the same as yours,” Armando spat back, advancing on you, trying to back you into a corner. He was unknowingly using the same intimidation methods he used to interrogate people of interest on his missions.

His words made you deflate. Who were you to judge him? He had done what he had had to do.

“I am thankful for that. I just need a second to process the fact that I just saw a man die right in front of me. It was- I’ve never seen anything like that before, Armando. I don’t mean to hurt you, I swear. I just need some time, that’s all,” you spoke while sighing. The fight had vanished out of you as quickly as it had appeared and now you just felt wrung out.

The man before you slumped and finally let you open the door to your bulding. After taking two flights of stairs, you arrived at your apartment.

Stepping inside, you turned on the lights and took off your shoes. You were too tired to do anything else, so you just changed into your pyjamas and crawled into bed.

Armando was standing in the living room, considering his options. He was already here, so he might as well stay. But should he sleep on the couch or in your bed?

He went into the bedroom to grab some clothes to sleep in, since his current ones had quite a bit of blood on them. After throwing his dirty clothes in the washing machine, Armando went to your bedside, where you had closed your eyes and seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep. He had already decided to only be in your space if you initiated it, so he’d take the couch tonight. He had never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, Armando couldn’t stop himself from tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear and pressing a soft kiss to your temple. Standing there, looking at you was better than not being near you at all.

Just before he could leave, your hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “Where’re you going?” you asked tiredly. You had almost fallen asleep before he came into the room.

“I’m gonna take the couch tonight, amor,” Armando replied quickly, turning to leave again.

“No, you aren’t. Stay right here. The couch is uncomfortable to spend a whole night on anyway,” you said in a firm tone, dragging him by his arm into the bed.

Due to the awkward angle, he stumbled a little before managing to get under the covers. Once he was there, Armando visibly hesitated, not sure if he should touch you like he usually would or act differently.

Solving his dilemma, you turned to him and laid your head on his chest. The familiar action eased Armando’s stiffened muscles and banished his worries. The two of you would get through this. You always did.

Translations:

“¿Estás bien?” - Are you okay?

“Nena? ¿Cuál es el problema?” - Babe/Baby? What’s the matter?

“Sé cuando no me quieren” - I know when I’m unwanted

“No hay ningún problema con eso” - There’s no problem with that

“¿Qué puedo esperar?” - What I expect?

amor - love

All translations made with a translator!!