Mel

Obsessed with house, wizard of oz, batman, and the marauders

[mousebitesmel]

💌About me💌

Mel, Bi, Age 👀, Single, Cabin 7

Kinnies

Sirius Black

Percy Jackson

Glinda Upland

fandoms

Wicked

House Md

Mauraders

Dc (Batman)

Marvel (Spider-Man)

Be more chill

Heathers

The Owl House

Percy Jackson

Epic The Musical

Next to Normal

Music I LOVE

Taylor Swift, Sabrina Carpenter, Conan Gray, ABBA, Maisie Peters, Chappell Roan, Peach PRC, Meg Smith, Beth Mcarthy.

[edawgz]

# EVIDENCE IN GRAPHITE

⤿ JASON TODD has never stuck around anything as long as he's stuck around with you. Even then, he refused to let himself just exist, or so he thought, because your sketchbooks of him certainly seemed to prove otherwise .

!! fluff. sorta bittersweet. artist!reader. gf!reader. batfam cameo. established relationship. no real warnings. little bit of language. as an artistic girl this made me happy. ILY ANON this was scrumptious i think jason + artist is untapped potential. pls bear w this i did this from my phone ENJOY.

Jason had never thought of himself as something worth keeping.

He had learned early that people didn’t hold on to things like him.. not permanently, and certainly not without conditions. Even when they tried, their hands eventually slipped, or he slipped out on purpose, because staying had always felt like tempting fate. Jason had just been... useful.. for most of his life, which meant he had never really belonged anywhere.

Your apartment didn’t feel like a place that expected usefulness. It felt lived in, cluttered in a way that was the aftermath of hobbies rather than chaos, every surface carrying evidence of time spent there slowly and without apology. There were old cups with paint rings at the bottom, a chair draped with jackets that hadn't made it to their hooks, and on the floor near the window, stacked in uneven columns, were your sketchbooks.

There were wayyy more than he had realized.

He stood there longer than necessary, helmet still tucked under his arm, boots heavy on the hardwood, staring at them like they might shift if he looked away. Each one was different, some thin and warped from overuse, others thick and nearly bursting at the seams, elastic bands stretched and fraying like they’d been forced to accommodate too much, and some looked like they'd been abandoned halfway through. (They had, you just didn't like the vibe so they became scrap paper.)

“You can look if you want,” you called again, from the kitchen this time, your voice light, distracted, as if you weren’t offering him something sofragile.

Jason didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to.

He crouched eventually, movements slow and deliberate, as though the stack might react badly to sudden motion. The closest sketchbook was warm from where sunlight had hit it earlier in the day, the cover soft beneath his fingers, edges worn smooth in places where you must have held it absentmindedly. He hesitated, then opened it carefully, expecting.... well, he wasn’t really sure what he was expecting. Studies. Strangers. Fruits?

The first page was empty except for faint graphite ghosts, erased lines that never fully disappeared.

The second wasn’t.

It was him, unmistakably, drawn from an angle he recognized because he’d seen you watching him like that. He had been leaning in a doorway, weight shifted onto one hip, shoulders loose, helmet dangling from his fingers like he’d forgotten it was there. The lines were quick and confident, like your hand had known him without needing to think about it.

Jason’s breath caught, shallow and quiet.

He turned the page.

And then another.

And another.

He was there again, and again, and again, scattered throughout the book without ceremony, tucked between studies of hands and the curve of someone’s spine. He saw himself caught mid-motion or mid-thought like you’d reached for him as muse the same way you reached for light through a window or the fall of fabric over bone.

Some versions of him were rough, unfinished, with eyes nothing more than suggestion. Others? Others lingered, shadows built patiently under his eyes, the line of his mouth softened into something that felt almost unfair. You hadn’t tried to make him prettier than he was. You had just let him be.

He saw himself sleeping with his head tipped back, mouth slightly open, jacket bunched under his neck like a makeshift pillow.. and the vulnerability of it made his chest ache. He didn’t remember that moment. He didn’t remember giving it to you. But there it was, preserved like proof that he could exist without being alert, without being ready to react.

Jason closed the book, hands steady despite the noise in his head.

He understood then that this wasn’t about obsession or fixation. You weren’t hoarding images of him because you were afraid he’d leave. You were recording him because you liked how he stayed, because he took up space in your world in a way that felt natural enough to document.

That realization scared him more than being watched ever had.

It was Tim who noticed the sketchbook first, because Tim noticed everything.

Jason’s bag hit the table with a dull thud, heavier than usual, the familiar weight of gear shifting as he let it go, and for half a second everything was normal. The screens were humming, the Cave breathing around them, Bruce’s presence was a steady gravity at the edge of his awareness. Then something slid free from the open zipper, quiet and almost polite, landing flat on the metal surface like it belonged there.

Tim’s hand moved on instinct.

“Jay, you dropped-..”

Jason turned too fast, heart kicking hard enough to make his ribs ache, the word don’t already sharp on his tongue. He saw it then, the worn cover, the bent corner he recognized immediately, and the certainty hit him all at once, cold and immediate.

“No,” he said, too quick, too loud for the space, already stepping forward, but Tim had frozen, eyes flicking down to the open page before he could stop himself.

The cave went quiet in a way it rarely did.

Tim didn’t say anything at first. His grip loosened, careful, like he was afraid the paper might tear under the weight of what he was holding, and his expression shifted through confusion, recognition, and something softer Jason didn’t know how to interpret.

Bruce looked over then, attention drawn by the break in rhythm, and Jason felt that familiar tightening in his chest. It was the reflexive dread that came with being noticed by him. Bruce’s gaze landed on the sketchbook, then on the page, and stayed there longer than Jason liked.

Dick moved closer without realizing he’d done it, curiosity pulling him in despite himself, and Jason hated how predictable that was, hated that this moment was happening at all, hated that he hadn’t checked his bag before leaving.

The drawing was simple, one of the quieter ones. Jason knew it immediately. Him, seated on the edge of your couch, forearms braced on his knees, head bowed slightly, helmet resting between his feet. No costume. No mask. Just him, caught in the kind of stillness he rarely allowed himself.

No one spoke.

Jason stood there, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked, pulse roaring in his ears. This wasn’t just privacy breached.. it was evidence, laid bare in front of the people who had known him longest, that someone had looked at him gently and often.

Bruce was the first to touch the page, fingers hovering before settling on the corner like he needed to reassure himself it was real. His expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes did, a tension easing into something closer to regret.

“These are…” Bruce began, then stopped, as if he couldn’t find the right word without weighing it too carefully.

“Intentional,” Tim muttered quietly, flipping the page before he could think better of it.

Jason flinched, but he didn’t stop him.

There were more of him, then. Pages full, variations subtle but unmistakable. his profile softened, his eyes half-lidded, the scar along his cheek rendered not as something jagged but as a line that belonged. None of the drawings tried to make him bigger than he was. None of them tried to fix him.

They just showed him existing.

Dick let out a slow breath. “You look… calm,” he said, almost to himself.

Jason swallowed hard. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt calm in a way that wasn’t forced.

Damian stepped closer, silent as ever, and studied one sketch for a long moment, his head tilting slightly. Then he looked up at Jason, eyes steady and unflinching.

"These are your girlfriend's? She clearly knows her skill, and she wouldn't waste it."

The word landed harder than anything else.

Jason didn’t know what to do with the way his throat tightened, the way his chest felt too full for the space it was in. He had spent years proving, over and over again, that he could survive on his own terms, that he didn’t need anyone to frame him as something gentle.

But this wasn’t framing. It was just recognition.

Tim finally closed the sketchbook, careful, reverent, and slid it back across the table toward Jason. “Y'know,” he shrugged slightly, “most people don’t draw things they don’t want to remember.”

Jason took the book, hands steadier than he felt, and tucked it back into his bag like it was something fragile, something that could still be taken from him if he wasn’t careful.

No one teased him. No one pushed.

Bruce looked at him once more before turning away, voice low but certain. “You’re allowed this, Jason.”

Jason didn’t respond. He just nodded once and left with the weight of the sketchbook pressing against his side, heavy in a way that felt grounding rather than burdensome.

Jason didn’t tell you right away.

He moved through your apartment like he was relearning the space, boots quieter, shoulders looser but his eyes were thoughtful, lingering on things he normally passed without comment. He noticed the stack of mail by the door, the chipped mug you always reached for first, the familiar scatter of pencils across the coffee table.

He sat beside you on the couch eventually, close enough that your knees brushed, and stayed there longer than necessary before saying anything at all.

When he did speak, his voice was low, careful, like he was testing the shape of the words before letting them exist. “The book fell outta my bag,” he grumbled. “In the fucking cave.”

You looked up from your sketchpad, attention shifting fully to him, but you didn’t interrupt. You just waited, your pen resting still between your fingers.

“They saw it,” he added. “All of it.”

You set the sketchpad aside without any drama and turned toward him, your body angling in a way that felt intentional and open. “Okay,” you spoke softly, not alarmed, not apologetic, like the situation wasn’t something to be afraid of.

Your shoulders shrugged once, your eyebrows quirked in dismissal. It wasn't directed towards him or his words, but rather the tension oozing off of him.

Jason exhaled, his posture easing and the line between his brows lessening with each second. He hadn’t been worried you’d be angry. He’d been worried you’d be embarrassed of him, or worse, of how much space he took up in your work.

“They didn’t say anything bad,” he went on. “Just… surprised.”

You reached for his hands then, your touch warm and familiar, thumbs brushing over his knuckles the way you always did when you wanted to calm him. “I’m not shocked, like at all,” you smiled lightly. “You’re kinda hard not to notice in there.

That earned a huff of a laugh from him, quiet and incredulous, but the corner of his mouth tipped up despite himself.

Later, when the apartment had settled into its usual nighttime hush, you curled into the corner of the couch with one of your sketchbooks balanced on your knee. Jason sat beside you, arm slung along the backrest, pretending not to watch while watching anyway, the way he always did.

“What’re you working on?” he asked, casual, though his eyes kept flicking back to the page.

You glanced up at him, lips curving. “You.”

He shook his head slowly. “You’ve got a whole city right there,” he breathed out in mild amusement, gesturing vaguely at the room, at the world beyond it. “And you’re still stuck on me.”

You shrugged, pencil moving again lazily. “You stay still long enough.”

Jason snorted, but he didn’t argue. He just shifted closer, letting his hand drop from the cushions to your leg, the contact easy and unguarded.

You sketched quietly for a while, the soft scratch of graphite filling the space between breaths. When you finally turned the book toward him, you poked your smiling face over the top of the page to peek at his reaction.

“You always make me look like that,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m… gentle or something.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, gentle and brief, like punctuation rather than emphasis. “That’s because you are.”

Then your eyes found his, and before you could settle back again, he pulled you into a tender kiss that spoke more of love than he ever could.

Here, with you, he didn’t feel like something waiting to be taken away.

He felt chosen, again and again, in charcoal and graphite and the quiet consistency of being drawn not because he was extraordinary, but simply because he was yours.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

taglist form!! @lailqll @matildavol6 @tamyyyy2005 @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @velvetxthunder @fmejenson @sleepilysworld @angelpvps @secretpaperflower @vanillakirstein @foquest @depressed-eternal @ainandra @cassiecasluciluce @love4lando @grapejuicedays @uselessnewt @snoopylover1304 @unclearblur @audreyownsdiamonds @oh-buttercup @jaehyunloml143 @piatosniathenie @thecutestholly @snowynightsbytheoceansbreeze @lyuuu88 @st4rrrship @arvlr @lulasagna @planetevermore @solflor33 @b3oo @valiantpenguincherryblossom @stilestotherescue @xsehion @meltingcherries @bonecrushingfeng

[finco99]

Soft. I'm so soft reading this 😭

[iri-sponsible]

The Pitt is baby's first fandom for so many people. Wdym I should hate Langdon, because he was stealing pills and treating patients high? I was 9 years old watching Dr House pop 3 stolen Vicodin with a half bottle of Whiskey and then treating the Black Plague. Who am I to judge?

[be-the-glenn-to-my-maggie]

What I think is so so compelling about The Pitt, and is so gratifying in the fandom, is the empathy it forces you to have for every character while also forcing you to confront their flaws. We love Dr. Robby and we empathize greatly with his immense trauma, but we also can't accept how it makes him treat Dr. Mohan. Santos is completely valid in her dislike of Langdon and her disinterest in forgiving him, at the same time though it's clear her attitude is the real issue she has with her coworkers, and she finds it easier to blame him. Garcia is right to point out these issues to Santos, but she's also being incredibly hypocritical at the same time because she's also rude and confrontational and she's having an inappropriate relationship with Santos. Langdon is right he's been through a lot the last ten months, but none of that is appropriate to bring up in his apology to Santos. It's equally not fair of her to ask him to tell people his personal information. Like many people in the world, Ogilvie can't empathize with a situation unless he is in it or experiencing it, but once he does, it kinda seems to affect him a lot. Dr. Robby can't handle people confronting things within themselves that he isn't ready to handle in himself, and it makes him kind of drag them down to his level and it's been ugly to watch this season.

Anyways. Lots of things can be true at once, your perception affects your reality, and you can be valid but also not doing the right thing. I think we should all try to have the empathy for each other that we do for the characters on The Pitt.

[stardust-daydreamss]

i love you trinity santos. i love you victoria javadi. i love you cassie mckay. i love you samira mohan. i love you melissa king. i love you dana evans. i love you baran al-hashimi. i love you emma nolan. i love you joy kwon. i love you parker ellis. i love you heather collins. i love you perlah alawi and princess dela cruz and yolanda garcia. i love you women of the pitt. if you have no fans im dead

[flowersforbucky]

i am so worried about my dear and personal friends nurse jesse and nurse emma

[matt-murdockk]

Doctor Doctor

house md x criminal minds muahahahaha (reduce your expectations to zero)

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader words: 2.7k warnings: FLUFFIEST FLUFF IN ALL LAND, language, canon doesn't even exist at this point rip, established relationship, spencer and reader being sooooooo in love, House is in it for like 2 minutes T_T, new jersey slander, vegas slander, florida slander (only for funsies, i have never been anywhere except vegas teehee), minor Chase slander (this is solely for the plot i love my problematic daughter) a/n: listen i TRIED but house has like 2 minutes of screen time I'm SORRY I'M SORRY OKAY? I only now got back after the hiatus and I didn't know how to end it and well yada yada yada this cesspool of disappointment happened. also apparently I cannot write a fic of anything without making a brooklyn 99 reference so here you fucking go <3

Getting shot did not feel as badass as expected. It hurt like a bitch. Damn every single movie that made it look cool. And damn every single paramedic who said you were lucky it didn't hit any vital organs. My brother in Christ, I am the most vital organ. It hit ME. I am in inexplicable pain. Fuck you, you thought.

A case in Princeton? What could go wrong? Well, several things, apparently. A, you had been shot, as we already know. B, you were probably going to run into Chase, which was the last thing you needed right now. C, much worse, by the end of your little adventure, your boyfriend was going to be well acquainted with Gregory House, for all the wrong reasons.

You didn't exactly have a say in which ER they were rushing you to, but even in the barely conscious haze, you tried to mutter "Mercy... Mehr...," before you passed out, which the paramedics unfortunately interpreted as you begging for mercy. What you were actually trying to say was that you wanted to be taken to Mercy General Hospital, and by no means, Princeton Plainsboro. You were taken to Princeton Plainsboro.

You had no idea how much time had passed. All that you were aware of at the moment was the static white noise that you'd been hearing for hours on end slowly dissolving into proper sounds that your brain could interpret. Shrill beeping of medical equipment, the faint hum of the AC, muffled voices and rushed feet, presumably outside whatever room you were in, pages being turned. Pages being turned? Of course. A sound you were well accustomed to. Spencer. You were instantly at ease.

You opened your eyes as slowly as you could, so as to not overwhelm your eyes with all the light after being unconscious for so long. It didn't work. It was still too bright. You couldn't see shit for a few seconds. After taking a couple of seconds to adjust, you carefully looked around the room.

It was a typical room for a hospital, you thought. Simple, minimalist, boring, mildly drab, if we were being honest. But something about the interiors seemed... off. Familiar. The walls. This sickly shade of green (which was a poor design choice, by the way— no sick person would get better in this sorry excuse of a room). You knew this place. Oh, shit.

You tried to call out for Spencer, let him know you're up, but then decided you didn't want to do it like this. You wanted to wake up all nonchalantly, like it didn't matter that you were shot by a bullet; you were still extremely cool and awesome. You thought to ask "Enjoying your book?" so you'd seem mysterious and also convey that even in this state, you were observant enough to know what was going on around you.

While in the process of deciding how to soft-launch your newly found consciousness, your throat, your very own throat, betrayed you. The only sound that left your throat, despite having an entire monologue ready in your head, was a pained cough. But it got his attention, so that's something? He quickly shut his book and sprinted from across the room to be at your side, his entire focus on you.

"Hey. You're awake."

"You're, like, so pretty right now."

"Really? Oh, uh— well, thank— thank you. You, uh, you look really pretty too," he managed to muster up, clearly caught off guard by your declaration, despite the fact that you were his girlfriend of well over months at that point.

"Sorry. Painkillers," you explained, even though it was a completely conscious decision to make him blush like that. "You okay?"

He exhaled a laugh at your question. "You ate a bullet, and you're worried about me right now?"

"Yeah, I'm considerate like that. You still didn't answer my question."

"Yeah, I'm okay," he replied, his eyes soft as he scanned you. You never stopped catching him off guard, be it with your concern, your intellect, your care, your love, or even just your mere presence, captivated him. He loved being loved by you. "You feeling okay? Doctors said you'll be fine, mostly, save for some internal bleeding."

"It's okay. That's where the blood's supposed to be."

Spencer gave you a deadpan look, clearly not amused.

"Actually, though, my mouth is feeling a bit tingly?"

"Oh. Well, that's not normal. You shouldn't be feeling anything right now, also you got shot in the abdomen, so it really—"

"Yeah, yeah, I was hoping you could just kiss it better for me? You know, cause technically you're a doctor and everything?" He visibly relaxed after he understood what you were actually doing.

"Gotta say. You make a compelling argument. That is the prescribed treatment, yes," he played along, as he leaned in to close the distance between you.

Every time you kissed him, it felt like the first. This time was no exception. Modern medicine be damned, you could survive just off his kisses. He kissed you like a man starved, and you, well, you were a giver. The smile on your faces as you broke apart couldn't be erased even if you tried. Just pure joy and bliss.

"Next time, though, you can just, you know, ask me to kiss you. Radical concept, I know. But I'm your boyfriend. We sorta tend to do that. It's all part of the package."

"Yeah, it's these crazy painkillers, man. I swear. It's like I'm horny for you, but, like, emotionally."

"And they say romance is dead."

You exhaled a laugh, straining slightly as it reverberated through your wound. It wasn't an exaggeration that your laugh was music to his ears. Any time you laughed, it was instinct for him to laugh along with you. With love like this? Romance could never die.

"Seriously, though, you're okay?"

"Never better, Spence," you promised, noting that his concern didn't reduce one bit. "Seriously. I'm, like, zooted out of my mind right now. I can't feel a thing. I'm fine. I swear."

He deflated a little, knowing that you weren't in as much pain as he thought. Still, he had to be sure you were okay.

"I'll go tell your doctor you're up. Just in case."

"Honey, I'm fi—"

"We're just making sure."

You sighed, knowing there was no winning this. Besides, it's probably a good thing. The sooner your doctor was convinced you were okay, the sooner you can get the fuck out of this place.

"Hey, Spence?"

"Hmm?" he questioned, stopping halfway out the door, already on his way to call your doctor.

"Who's my attending?"

"Oh, Dr House."

The few minutes you were alone in that room were pure agony. This did not make sense. Even Remotely. House was your attending? Gregory House, who famously does not see patients, doesn't even do clinic duty or help at the ER when the hospital is short-staffed, was your attending physician. Either something truly drastic had happened since you left, you were actually in a coma and hallucinating, or he was fucking with you. Which does sound like a very House thing to do.

You watched as House entered first, cane tapping against the tile, followed by Spencer, whose face screamed I am doing my best to be polite, but I have so many questions. House, to your horror, was wearing his white coat. Clean-shaven. Professional. Smiling. There was a clipboard in his hand. Coma theory wasn't looking all too far-fetched right now. You were definitely hallucinating. This was The Bad Place.

“There she is,” House said, flipping through a chart that probably wasn’t even yours. “The FBI’s own bullet sponge. Looking good, Agent.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re being nice?”

“I’m being professional,” he corrected. “You know, the thing you insisted I didn’t know how to be.”

Spencer raised a brow at you.

“I…” you gestured weakly, “may have painted a picture.”

“Don’t worry,” House said smoothly, still not looking up from the chart. “I’m sure you told Beautiful Mind over here that I’m a misanthropic, narcissistic, cane-wielding reprobate who shouldn’t be allowed near scalpels or people. Which is why I’ve decided to dedicate the rest of this week to being the poster boy for medical decency.”

Your eyes narrowed further. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Absolutely,” he said brightly, still not breaking character. “I took one look at him and thought, yeah, let’s make her eat her words,” he taunted, the last part of the sentence in faux glee.

Spencer, clearly still confused, looked between you two. “I’m sorry— what’s happening right now?”

“Don't worry about it, honey,” you said, your voice too high-pitched to be reassuring. This day couldn't end faster.

"I can't exactly help it, I'm your—"

“Boyfriend,” House interrupted. “I picked that up when she asked you to kiss her gunshot wound better," he explained, stressing on gunshot wound.

"Okay, how the hell do you kn—" You were interrupted before you could finish, once again by House.

"Just FYI, that’s not in the AMA’s list of recommended interventions.”

Spencer’s ears pinked, but he stood his ground. “Actually, she’s not wrong. Oxytocin release from affectionate touch can lower cortisol levels and reduce perceived pain.”

House blinked once. “So it talks back. And it knows things.”

"House," you warned.

“He's right,” House replied, now facing Spencer. “Unless her libido is compensating for cranial trauma. In which case, you should maybe keep the tongue down until we run an MRI.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. You knew that sound all too well. That was the sound of Spencer Reid’s neural pathways short-circuiting.

"House, I swear to God—"

“No, no, this is good!” he beamed at Spencer, ignoring you completely. “You’re weird. I like that. And considering your girlfriend once got back together with Chase for exactly 3 days because he made her a mixtape, you're something of an upgrade.”

Was that... was House giving you his blessing? Is that what this was? Or were you reading too much into it? Either way, you couldn't get out of there any damn sooner.

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh, God. Sedate me. I beg you.”

"Relax. The bullet didn't hit anything. You'll be up and gun-slinging in no time." He snapped the chart shut. “Reid. Want to come talk about your girlfriend’s insides with me in the hallway?”

Spencer looked at you for permission, ever the gentleman. Also, he looked sceptical. And mildly afraid.

“Go. Please. Maybe he’ll behave if you’re watching.”

“I won’t,” House said cheerfully. “But we’ll both pretend I will, and that’s basically the same thing.”

As they left, you heard House murmur, “So. You ever try Vicodin recreationally?”

"Dilaudid, actually."

You slowly reached for the morphine dispenser and set it on the highest possible level.

~

The morphine wore off soon. Too soon, honestly. You were up, staring into bright white lights and sad green walls in no time. Spencer, thankfully, was by your bed. Alone. House-less. That was vaguely terrifying, actually. He looked confused. Confuddled. Not exactly dumbfounded or scared, but very concerned. Typical House interaction aftershock.

"Honey? You okay?"

"Either everything he said was definitely sarcastic, or we need to deliver a profile as soon as we possibly can."

You managed to muster an amused laugh, which quickly died down after you sensed the genuine horror in his face.

"Oh, you're seri— honey, he was kidding. He likes to mess with people, that's all. He wasn't being serious, I promise." Well, for the most part. But he didn't have to know that. He needed reassurance right now. He needed to know he wasn't crazy. Again, typical House interaction aftershocks.

"Okay, that helps a bit. A tiny bit. Although I definitely have questions."

"How about I answer them while I cuddle my boyfriend in this huge-ass bed?"

"It's like you're Romeo," he teased, as he climbed into said huge-ass bed.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, the interrogation began.

"Exactly how are you acquainted with Greg?"

"Oh, he's Greg now?"

"Long story. Again, how do you know him?"

"Well, you know how I joined the team as a forensic pathologist? Before that, I had a brief stint as a medical fellow in his differential diagnosis team at this here hospital," you admitted, like just the memory had mildly inconvenienced you.

"Somehow, I'm more disturbed that you had to live in New Jersey."

"Hey. Just because I'm too tired to argue doesn't mean I'll tolerate New Jersey slander."

"The state animal of New Jersey is the orange construction cone."

"Please, like Vegas is any better. What happens in Vegas stays the fuck there 'cause no one else wants it."

"Alright, compromise. Florida sucks," he suggested a truce. His eyes were on you, already waiting to lock it in.

"Florida sucks," you concurred with a satisfied smile, closing the deal and the distance between you. He broke away after god knows how long, albeit begrudgingly. Damn oxygen.

"Alright. Next question."

"Shoot. I'm so ready right now."

"So... Chase." He begins. Well, you weren't prepared for that.

"Alright, maybe not that ready."

"No, no, I'm just curious. Was it, like, a really good mixtape, or—"

You hit him with the pillow you had at your side for support, just as he braced for impact and failed. The bastard laughed at your agony and pulled you in closer, into a harder embrace.

"I'm kidding. I'm just messing with you. If you don't want to talk about it, we don—"

"No, no. I do. It's not a touchy topic or anything. He was just... well, a lousy boyfriend."

"Hmm. Lousy how?"

"He did try. I'll give him credit. But whenever he fucked up, it was big, you know? And having House meddling the entire time didn't help either. It's just, it never felt right. Like it was so close to being what I wanted, but no matter how much we tried, it could never be... that."

"What about me? Am I what you want?" he inquired, his tone playful, yet you sensed the hesitation that lingered.

"Honey, you are what I need."

"I think we need to renegotiate on the painkillers."

He drew another laugh from you and joined you in your glee as he admired you in silence. Just as he was thinking about how much he loved you, he was met with a revelation.

"You know, in a weird, twisted way, we wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for House."

Your face scrunched into pure disgust, and much to your chagrin, he was right.

"Ugh, honey, I need you to promise never to tell him that."

"Agreed. Also, follow up on the last question."

"Come at me, lover."

"Oh wow, okay. Moving on. So, if I were to over majorly screw up, what songs would you prefer on the mixt—"

You hit him with the pillow once again.

"Truce, truce," he proposed for the second time that day, still laughing.

"You are so lucky you're cute."

"I am aware, yes," he replied, his voice all playful.

"Are you? 'cause you're blushing real hard right now."

"I think I'm allowed to be flustered by my girlfriend's shameless flirting."

You fake an exaggerated gasp. "Who you callin' shameless? You know, I could take you in a fight, Reid."

"Oh, we're on last names now?"

"Keep deflecting, I'll show you what a proper uppercut looks like."

"I'd rather you don't rip your stitches, actually. You're still very much healing."

"I'm letting you go. For now," you warned, pointing a finger at him threateningly. Menacingly.

"I am shivering in fear. On the inside. I swear." He kissed your temple and got off the bed rather unceremoniously. It made you laugh, so he'd take it.

"Rest, okay? Get some sleep."

"I'll be dreaming of you."

"I take it back. I love your painkillers."

He heard you laugh yet again, his favourite sound in the entire world. Part of him wanted to record it and play it on loop. Other parts of him wanted that sound, that music, etched on the insides of his ear.

"Oh, and before you go to sleep, I do have one last question."

"Ask away, darling."

"I met Greg's oncologist friend earlier?" he posed it like a question, like he wasn't really sure if he was right.

"Wilson?"

"Yeah, him. It's just, do they— do they know gay marriage is legal now?"

[little-jana]

"Caffeine and Affection"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: Fluff

Words: 2k

Warnings: excessive caffeine consumption, but otherwise pure fluff

Summary: For Valentine’s Day Spencer surprises you with a very special bouquet!

a/n: requested: yes! Thank you very much, hope you enjoy it!

The BAU ran on coffee.

At least, most of it did. Hotch practically had a coffee IV, Rossi wouldn’t touch anything under espresso-level strength, and even Spencer—who could rant about the adverse effects of caffeine for hours—drank coffee when cases ran late.

But you? You were different.

Your fuel of choice came in cans, not cups. Whether it was soda or energy drinks, you always had something sugary and carbonated in your hand. It had become part of your identity—something the team liked to tease you about but ultimately accepted.

Spencer, however, took a particular interest in your habit.

“You know,” he had told you one day, watching you crack open yet another can, “the excessive consumption of sugar and caffeine can lead to increased heart rate, insomnia, and dependency.”

You had grinned at him, unfazed. “Sounds like a problem for future me.”

He had sighed, shaking his head. “Future you is going to be very disappointed in past you.”

Despite his concerns, he never actually told you to stop. If anything, he seemed intrigued by your preferences—often asking which flavors you liked best, what brands you preferred, and even quizzing you on why you liked soda over coffee.

It was… cute.

Spencer had always been the kind of person who paid attention, but when it came to you, it felt like he noticed everything.

Which was why, on Valentine’s Day, when he approached your desk with a nervous expression and something hidden behind his back, you immediately knew he was up to something.

“Spence?” You tilted your head, setting down your can of soda. “What are you doing?”

His lips twitched in that shy, almost awkward way he did when he was nervous. “I, uh… got you something.”

Before you could respond, he revealed what he had been hiding.

It wasn’t flowers. It wasn’t chocolates.

It was a bouquet. But instead of roses or lilies, it was made entirely of your favorite sodas and energy drinks, all carefully arranged and tied together with a big, bright bow.

You blinked. Stared. Opened your mouth. Closed it.

Then, finally, you burst into laughter. “Oh my God, Spencer!”

His ears went a little pink. “I read that people appreciate personalized gifts, and I know you don’t really drink coffee, so I figured this was a more… suitable alternative.”

You reached out, taking the bouquet from him with wide eyes. It was surprisingly well put together—each can securely fastened with ribbon, the entire thing looking both ridiculous and oddly adorable.

“This is—Spencer, this is amazing.” You grinned up at him. “Did you make this yourself?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had to look up a tutorial. It took longer than I expected.”

You could just picture him sitting at home, carefully arranging cans of soda into a bouquet, meticulously tying them together with absolute precision. The thought made your heart swell.

Without thinking, you threw your arms around him, squeezing tightly. “You’re the best.”

Spencer tensed for half a second before quickly melting into the hug, his arms wrapping around you just as firmly. “I’m glad you like it.”

You pulled back slightly, grinning. “Like it? Spencer, this is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me.”

His smile was small but full of warmth. “Then it was worth it.”

You looked down at your wonderful bouquet and then back at him, your heart hammering a little harder than usual.

Maybe it wasn’t just the caffeine making it race.

[mousebitesmel]

PLEASE GOD LET THIS TYPE OF LOVE FIND ME 🙏🙏🙏🙏

[crowdedimagines]

Showtime

Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him? word count: 7 K 🌵

-

“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.” 

Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality. 

You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it. 

“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.” 

“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file. 

Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”

“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.” 

Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”

Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.” 

Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.” 

“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”

You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.” 

Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.” 

“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.” 

All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch. “Theft of youth.” 

Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”

“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes. 

“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues. 

Hotch exhales slowly, “So we canvass. Interview neighbors. Increase patrol presence.” 

“That could spook him into hiding.” JJ argues. 

“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.” 

Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.” 

You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch. 

Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.” 

It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup. 

“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”

“No.”

Hotch’s answer immediate. 

You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.” 

His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.” 

“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”

JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”

“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment. 

“Which means?” Garcia questions. 

“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”

More eyes fall back to you. 

You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”

Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.” 

“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins. 

You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.” 

“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?” 

The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow. 

“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh. 

Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.” 

The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work. 

“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”

“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense. 

“Somehow I’m still offended.”

Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.” 

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.

“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team.  Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan. 

“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.” 

“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly. 

“Immensly.” She continues to beam. 

A long pause. 

Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”

He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod. 

“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”

You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.” 

“Yes,” He said flatly. You grin wider, “Then I’m in.” 

He looks at you. Really looks. 

“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”

Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.

This is going to get complicated. 

-

The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful. 

“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.” 

Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”

“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help. 

“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”

He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.  “Progress.” You bite your cheek.  “Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.” 

“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.” 

His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.” 

“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.” 

Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”

“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”

“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly. You beam, “Exactly.” 

His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?” 

“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.” 

He exhales quietly. 

“I want to add something else.”

He looks back up. 

“Power.” 

He frowns, “Explain.” 

“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”

He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.” 

“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”

The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea. 

“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.” 

“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.” 

The silence stretches back over the jet. 

“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.” 

“That’s the point.”

He stares for a long moment, “Fine.” 

You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”

“A conference.” 

“Boring. Try again.” 

He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.” 

“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.” 

“You did not.” 

“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”

Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it. 

“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”

“Why twice?” 

“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.” 

Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.” 

“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”

Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.” 

You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you. 

The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family. 

As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second. 

“Breathe. Like you like me.”

“I don’t-”

“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”

Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun. 

You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches. 

“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck. 

You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.

“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.” 

He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.” 

“Immensely.” You tease. 

They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease. 

“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.

You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!” 

Hotch blinks, looking back down at you. 

You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.

When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you. 

“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.” 

His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.” 

You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.” 

You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism. 

-

The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside. 

Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts. 

She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.” 

You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”

You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."

”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.

Word spreads fast in this neighborhood. 

The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.

You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.” 

Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.” “I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.” 

He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.” 

“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”

You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.

“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face. 

“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”

The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him. 

“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room. 

By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right. 

“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.” 

He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too. 

“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.

You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross. 

The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.” 

You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.” 

He exhales slowly, “Understood.” 

You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt. 

You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department. 

He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real. 

You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence. 

You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open. 

You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him. 

“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep. 

He freezes for half a second.

Then recovers, “Sleep well?”

You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good. 

“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows. 

You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support. 

By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be. 

Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”

“Tell me about it.” Emily whined. 

Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub. 

Neighbors slow as they pass.  A man across the street checks his mail. Twice. 

You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned. 

It’s bait. 

And it’s effective. 

Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.

“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!” 

You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”

Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does. 

“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s. 

It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response. 

“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”

Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house. 

“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”

“What-”

“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”

His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.

“Forty-five minutes.” She answers. 

“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face. 

“I’ll work on it.” 

He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow. 

-

Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story. 

“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”

Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.” 

“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.” 

Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”

“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.” 

Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear. 

“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.” 

He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled. 

“Understood.” 

The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic. 

An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space. 

A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter. 

Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view. 

“You good?” You ask quietly. 

“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”

You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”

His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.” 

“No, but it gets the job done.” 

You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back. 

“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral. 

“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.” 

You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now. 

Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”

Garcia typing away furiously. 

“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.” 

Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”

Garcia hesitates before answering. 

“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.” 

“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron. 

“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”

“Let’s give him a show.” 

You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him. 

He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard. 

“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips. 

Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.

You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera. 

“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel. 

“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”

There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.” 

Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.” 

Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity. 

“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia. 

“Mhm.”

You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.

“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps. 

It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off. 

-

You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once. 

All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display. 

“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil. 

Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.

You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.” 

He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over. 

Too many faces. 

You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves. 

He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable. 

From the street, it’s enviable. From the cameras, he’s raging. 

“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece. 

JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.” 

You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur.  Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.

You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food. 

“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”

“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”

Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”

Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”

Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.

“I know,” he says. “I really do.”

The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.

From just behind her.

A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.

Too still.

You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too. 

“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.” 

She then turns where the other boy still watches. “And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.” 

Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens. 

You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia. 

“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”

There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece. 

“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together. 

You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.  “So, how long have you guys lived here?”

“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him. 

“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”

Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch. 

Sharp. Hurt. Furious. 

Hotch squeezes a warning. 

His eyes flick up to your face for the first time. 

You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.

Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.

“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.” 

“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds. 

“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-” 

“Garcia.”

“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”

Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear. 

“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.” 

Bingo. 

You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too. 

“Does anyone have eyes on him?”

No answer. 

You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless. 

The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.

-

Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.

“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells. 

“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously. 

“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.

“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds. 

“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.” 

-

Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.

“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door. 

His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast. 

He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”

Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.

“On your knees.” 

Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet. 

Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time. 

“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”

You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?” 

You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.

“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”

“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs. 

“Correcting my theft of youth?”

Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes. 

“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”

Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone. 

“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.

You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”

Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.” 

The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake. 

“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.” 

Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill. 

“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.” 

You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”

His head bobs. 

“Then put the gun down.”

He hesitates. 

Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”

The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready. 

“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.” 

Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols. 

-

The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.

“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.

“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?” 

“No ma’am!” “We’re going!” “Okay, okay!”

Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings. 

“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle. 

“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.” 

You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror. 

Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”

He matches your lean, a step closer. 

“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”

The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.” 

“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”

A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks. 

You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.” 

Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle. 

“Neither do I.” 

-

The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins. 

For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing. 

“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”

You close your eyes. Hotch exhales through his nose. 

JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”

Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-

“Garcia.” Hotch warns.

You groan, “Oh my god.” 

Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.” 

Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.” 

Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”

“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.” 

“That was tactical.”

You snort loudly before you can even stop it. 

Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”

Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”

You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”

“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”

“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.

JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.” 

“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab. 

Hotch’s ears turn red. 

“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.  “Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face. “I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees. 

Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch. 

“It was part of the profile.” He reminds. 

Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”

Silence. 

Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”

His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”

Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”

You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.” 

“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”

Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”

"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"

“You’re welcome, you pervs!” 

You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold. 

Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac. 

“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.” 

The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase. 

“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open. 

He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.

“Probably not.”

extra of the team finding out here!

an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!

[hyperfixations-and-hecticness]

Love the Clarisse development we’re getting this season. She can’t flirt. Her daddy issues are apparent. She befriends people by going ‘doesn’t it suck being a LOSER’. She is so sick of Percy Jackson.

[hyperfixations-and-hecticness]

Clarisse has gotten even better! Her therapist is a thirteen year old boy. She carries an emotional support sharp stick after losing her spear. She’s a kind but naive leader. Will steal your snacks and treat your armory like a shopping mall. She can defeat four adult demigods in a fight but a child can get the drop on her and yoink the fleece. If you tell Clarisse her father is merciful it will remove all manipulations put on her as she gives you the ultimate side eye. She caught Percy and dropped him immediately. Her hair is perfect and lipliner unsmudged despite going through the Trials. Clarisse La Rue, the woman that you are.

[moonyontrack]

when i say i hate men, my man (fictional character i'm currently obsessing over) is right behind me, nodding

[cherrygarcia-07]

Cat Fights // Spencer Reid🐾💗

summary: an outsider to the team witnesses spencer and reader arguing over who gets to pick up their baby, except it’s not quite what he thinks.

pairing: spencer reid x bau! reader

genre: idk man this was just cute and funny to me

content: established relationship, not serious bickering, a glimpse of domestic! spencer

word count: 0.9k

masterlist

——————————————————————————❤️——————————————————————————

It had been a long case and the team were all exhausted, slumped in chairs in the police precinct while they waited until it was time to leave for the jet home. One of the Chicago police officers entered the room carrying cups of coffee, much to everyone’s delight as they perked up in their seats eager for the bittersweet boost of caffeine. Silence stretched over the room, everybody too drained to even think of anything to say- that was until your voice broke through the empty atmosphere as you turned to your boyfriend.

‘When we get back would you mind taking over my paperwork so I can go and get Bella from the neighbour a little earlier?’ You asked before murmuring a thank you to the police officer as he handed you your coffee.

Spencer’s brows furrowed for a split second before he answered, ‘why can’t we just pick her up together when we’re finished?’

‘No, Spence, you know she won’t sleep in her own bed if we’ve been away for too long.’ You took a long swig of your coffee.

‘What’s the harm in letting her into bed with us? It’s nice after being away from her. Beneficial, in fact. There’s been numerous studies on the effects of-’

‘She’s gotta learn sometime, honey.’ You sighed, cutting him off because you knew you were too weak in your tired state to defend yourself against his rambling that always made you crumble.

The officer chuckled as he took a seat across the room next to Rossi to discuss the prior case, but he kept his eyes on the two of you, somewhat amused.

Spencer took a sip of his own drink, reaching into his bag for a book to read while he spoke. ‘She’ll be fine for a couple hours more. We left her with plenty of toys to keep her busy, anyway.’

‘But you know they only last her so long before she misses us and starts getting antsy and acting out. The neighbour’s been so kind to look after her again, I don’t want Bella giving her any trouble.’ You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you watched him flick through his book at lightning speed. ‘I’ll just pick her up, you’ll get through the paperwork much faster than me anyway. Besides, I bet she’s missed me the most, she’ll be happy to see me.’

At this, Spencer slammed his book shut and practically threw it onto the table, mouth hanging open as his eyebrows furrowed once again.

‘You? Please, we both know she always misses me the most. Actually, maybe I should go pick her up early-’

‘Yeah? What makes you say that, genius?’ You interrupted, scoffing at his audacity.

A smug look washed over his face as he placed his cup of coffee next to his haphazardly discarded book. ‘Contrary to popular belief,’ he began, accusing eyes scanning the team around you both, ‘I’m actually the fun parent. You’re far too strict with her, I give her extra snacks throughout the day.’

Crossing your arms over your chest, you narrowed your eyes at him. ‘Yes and that’s why we were scolded at her last appointment, doctor.’ Sarcasm dripped off of that last word as it left your mouth.

‘Ah yet when we get home whose lap is it she curls up on while I read to her?’ Spencer picked his book up in one hand, mischievously waving it in the air with a smirk, earning a light laugh from the officer who was still watching. ‘If one of us is picking her up, it should be me.’

‘You’re not even her real father, Spencer.’

At this, the officer’s wide smile abruptly dropped, alarmed by the harsh words he’d just heard and worried that this seemingly innocent domestic dispute was quickly souring. His eyes frantically darted around the room, expecting a member of your team to step in but he was baffled to find not one of them even remotely phased, not even reacting as they each focused on their own things. On edge, he turned his gaze back to the two of you.

‘How dare you, and after I’ve graciously opened up my home and accepted Bella as my own.’ Spencer tutted, shaking his head with one hand dramatically clasped over his heart.

‘Well I’m her mother, and what I say goes.’ You shrugged, slamming your own coffee cup on the table for emphasis as you rose to your feet and began heading out of the room with Spencer following in tow.

It was Spencer’s turn to scoff as he retorted, ‘well don’t call me when she’s refusing to eat because you won’t make her food how she likes it.’

‘Excuse me for actually having our babies’ dietary needs in mind. You’re supposed to be a doctor, mind you.’ A grin pulled at your lips and you couldn’t hold it back from spreading across your face.

‘I know but I just can’t say no to that little face of hers,’ he cooed, a small pout on his lips and your voices began to fade as you got further from the room, ‘it’s those big eyes…’

The officer allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief at the lightened mood, chuckling softly as he shook his head, turning to face Rossi beside him.

‘I take it Bella’s their daughter?’

Rossi sighed now, one of boredom as he’d experienced this argument God knows how many times before, and he replied- monotonously.

‘Their cat.’

-

[reidbeloved]

wonderland masterlist

Who are you?

You’re the girl imprisoned in a house with an unsub and your infant daughter.

Until your favorite profiler comes to rescue you.

Who are you to Spencer Reid?

You’re his wife and the love of his life. But he has to pretend to be just your friend.

Because you only remember him as your best friend, Reid.

18+ MDNI slow burn series between soft sunshine wife reader x post prison reid (the father of reader’s daughter).

warnings: age gap (reader is 28, spencer is 35), amnesia, eventual smut

part one

part two

part three

[mousebitesmel]

OH. MY. GOSH?!?!!! THIS IS SO GOOD!!

[wikiipediabf]

percy thinking that disarming luke the way luke taught him was the end of the fight but luke just continuing to fight using brute strength because percy is fighting to end the fight, but luke is fighting to kill his opponent... percy learning how to fight from luke and therefore luke always having the upper hand on him.... percy, months after luke is gone, admitting that he still hears luke's instructions in his head when he fights.... i think it's very interesting that everyone regards percy as one of the strongest modern demigods, but in his own head - subconsciously or consciously - he's always going to be trying to live up to luke.... whatever idgaf !!!

[murasaki-cha]

I made a joke to my sister that Luke keeps stabbing the people Annabeth loves most, first Thalia's tree, then Percy. And in the end I said "At this rate all Luke has to do is stab himself"

And she laughed.

And I have never felt more evil.

[murasaki-cha]

MY FAVORITE RELUCTANT FOUND SIBLINGS!!!!!

[ladykvetchingradish]

It really is so disturbing to see a Percy Jackson without the inner monologue.

In the books, even if he was absolutely slaying, eating, serving BAMF in the middle of the fight, the book would be saying like "gosh I'm so awkward and clumsy haha who let me hold a sword lol I'm such a silly goose"

In the show we see him in pain and literally doing the most insane stuff with the most stoic facial expressions. Killing, stabbing, getting stabbed. He isn't some quirky funny kid on the outside, even if canonically on the inside he sees the world like a real kid. The show Percy seems different for these reasons but that's not OOC, that's just what Percy looks like to EVERYONE ELSE.

thank you for coming to my TED talk