You'd been having horrible nightmares of him not coming back from deployment, and the recent extended missions have not been helping. When he's finally home, all battered and bruised but allowed to go home, you're sobbing in his arms all through the night.
You feel guilty. You should be the one comforting him, the injured, traumatized man, yet when you even mention your worry, he's quick to shut you up. He lifts you up from the couch and carries you to the bedroom just to show that he's the same capable man as before.
He settles you on his chest, warm, calloused hands running down your back. Hands that were too used to the trigger of a pistol than the fragile skin of a human.
He calmed himself for you, softened himself for you, and he found a great happiness in taking care of you. He continued rubbing your back, letting you press your ear to his chest so you could count his heartbeats. Slowly, you're lulled to sleep in his embrace.
Satoru comes home with an annoying grin on his face, already planning how he can press his darling wives buttons. He could attack you in kisses while you're finishing dinner, glaring at him in between stirring whatever you decided to muster up. Or, follow you around like a puppy begging for attention, affection, and love. His personal favorite, stealing a taste of a desert you're making for “inspection,” even if he gives every single one a 10/10.
What Satoru didn’t plan for was to come home to you still curled up in bed. Although, now there is an empty water bottle and chips bag on your nightstand, and your face has black streaks from your mascara. Satoru paused, his heart aching, the goofy grin falling to a worried frown.
“Sweetheart…?” he says quietly while walking over to where you're curled up in bed.
Hearing your husband's voice you turn your head just enough to see him, making his heart break even more at the hopeless look in your eyes.“What happened, my love?” he whispers as he cups your face with his hand. It’s cold, but you don’t flinch away, instead you melt into it.
You sit in silence for a few minutes, Satoru staring at you and you staring at the wall behind him. Blinking to wet your eyes from the dryness staring at them, you finally look up at him fully. The worry on his face makes you want to crawl under the covers and never come back out. “He shouldn’t worry about me, he is too good for me, he deserves so much better,” and other shame fueled thoughts fill your head.
The tears start to form in your eyes, and fall before you can even think to stop them. You turn away from Satoru and hide your face in your hands, quiet sobs coming out as you try to speak “m’ just sad, Toru… I don't know why… I just woke up n’ hated myself…”
He was frozen for only a second, before wrapping his arms around you in an attempt of a hug. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he didn’t continue until you removed your hand from your face and looked at him, “I’m here for you. It’s okay to have bad days. Can you try to walk me through what you are thinking a bit more?”
His patients when you’re hurt should be studied, since he is never this patient. You huff, trying to recall all that was going through your head all day. “I feel like I'm not enough for you…I-” you were cut off by Satoru covering your mouth with his hand.
“You are enough. I come home every day to dinner, whether it’s freshly made, leftovers, or you went out and got something. You have to deal with my shenanigans, no other person has done that without wanting more from me. Well maybe Suguru, but that's not the point.” That earned him an eyeroll, a small one, but it was definitely there. “My point is, those are only two of the billions of reasons why you are perfect and more than enough for me. I wouldn’t be the strong, handsome, funny, charming, and sexy man I am if I didn’t find you, my sweet girl.”
“You mean it?” you whisper, coming out of the tight curled up position you were in to be closer to him.
“I am strong, handsome, funny, charming, and sexy aren’t I?” his annoying grin, slowly trying to make its appearance. He laughs when you roll your eyes and a small smile finds its way to your lips. “Yes, of course I mean it. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn't.”
“Thank you, Toru. I love you.”
“I love you too, you just gotta tell me what's wrong, ‘kay?” He shifts into your shared bed so you curl up onto him better. Once you're comfortable, he kisses your forehead.
“I didn’t make dinner and we don’t have any leftovers…” you mumble against his chest.
“I can make dinner,” he suggests.
“Ordering pizza sounds good, great idea babe” you smirk already knowing his response.
“Hey!! I said I could cook! I wouldn’t burn anything this time… hopfully!” he pouts. You sit up a bit to look him in the eyes with a questioning glare, and with a huff he says “fiiiiiine i’ll order pizza.”
In the end, no matter how many bad days you have, and no matter how many thoughts get the better of you, Satoru will always see you as the perfect woman for him.
my first written fic!! i would love some requests for these now that you can see my writing style a little bit!
copyright @starobsessions all my work is my own! please do NOT plagiarize, put my work through ai, or repost without permission.
─ summary: Your literary works seem to be attracting the most curious people, standing out for your rawness and bitterness towards life.
─ Warnings: sad reader, kinda gloomy thoughts about life, reader inspired by Clarice Lispector
This was requested by @alicedash2 (love u pookie :p)
The night's chill pricked your exposed skin, not too intense, but enough to send a slight shiver through you, the night was still, the stars shone with a peaceful quiet, the only thing offering a faint warmth being the half-finished cigarette between your fingers.
You were exhausted, you had squeezed every last drop out of your brain, writing new ideas, rewriting old books, unfinished projects, meaningless scribbles, all just to feel something, to stop feeling so empty, so hopeless, it was a way to cope with the burden of sadness your heart carried.
You didn't just limit yourself to writing to rid yourself of the negativity in your thoughts; you also had a book signing —your books— which left you mentally drained, overloaded, and stimulated. You need the tranquility, the bitterness of your solitude, to recharge that little bit of energy and write again.
It was pure chance that Kurapika found you here today, he didn't know much about you, aside from your most famous books, he hadn't read much, but what little he had read moved him enough to want to know a bit more about you. He was there during the book signing, observing your small smile, a smile meant to express happiness, but which didn't, it was just a smile, not a happy one, not a sad one, just there.
He recognized the raw, bitter, lonely look that expressed a torment of presumably negative emotions, he recognized it because he, too, had felt that way at some point in his life when he thought he was lost, that revenge was —and is— the only way to feel anything.
"It's too beautiful a night to be this quiet, if you're here, it's for a reason, am I wrong?"
Your voice cuts through the silence like a knife, not soft, not rude, but direct, Kurapika feels a brief moment of embarrassment at having been caught staring at you so brazenly, but he quickly recovers from your words, clearing his throat. You don't meet each other's eyes, but you both acknowledge each other's presence.
"I was just wondering… about certain parts of your recent work, is it inspired by something personal? I feel like it perfectly captures the feelings and the harshness of the world, almost as if I could feel like the character."
You let out a murmur of understanding, letting his words sink deep within you, reflecting, recalling all the words you write every day, some more heartfelt, others meaningless, some more generic, some more convoluted…
"I wouldn't know how to answer you, I only know that I write so as not to torment my mind any longer; real experiences are mixed with fiction, I don't necessarily tell personal things; all I do is strip myself of all my senses and feelings, and mold them with ink and paper."
Kurapika nodded at your words, he understood what you were saying because you expressed it in your writing as well. He could identify with the sadness emanating from you, from your slightly hunched posture, from your distant gaze. He found familiarity in your writing, felt a connection with the quiet sadness that surrounded you, understood you perfectly, almost as if you were two sides of the same coin.
"I see… your book is unique in its own way; it's made me think about a lot of things about myself."
"I'm glad you can feel it, even if you don't necessarily understand it."
Kurapika offered you a small, genuine smile, he certainly understood negative feelings more than he understood them, and it was refreshing to find you, as an author, so aptly captured that rawness, depression, bitterness… without any ceremony in your writing.
Chrollo was always curious about new things, things out of the ordinary, completely captivated by philosophy and ancient texts. He found you, a small author slowly but surely making a name with your short books, full not of fantasy, but of reality, of everyday life, without ceremony, straight to the heart of the matter, without mincing words. Your writing was… somehow simple and complex, conveying so much with so few words.
He did some research on you, of course, curiously, in all the interviews he found about you, which were rather few, you always seemed downcast, as if you didn't want to be there, as if you belonged to a quieter, more peaceful, darker world… your words left a bitter taste, both when heard and read. You didn't intend to sound sad, you were just direct, but it was always there, the quiet sadness clung to you like a little devil, so you simply let it live with you and embraced your depression.
Your eyes scanned the room, it was a small café that seemed full, you gave up rather quickly, deciding you could go somewhere else, but Chrollo recognized you immediately. Your gaze said it all, and he wasn't going to waste the opportunity to speak with one of the authors who was slowly captivating him.
"Please, allow me to invite you to my table, I would appreciate the company of one of the writers I've been reading most lately."
"Oh… thank you."
You hadn't expected to be recognized, not many people knew of your existence because your books had only reached a very specific audience. Chrollo led practically the entire conversation, curious about your thoughts on certain topics, current, historical, more general, or more specific, he savored every answer you offered, analyzing each of your words just as he did in your books.
"Your mind is incredible, you shouldn't stop writing."
“I don’t plan to stop, it’s the only thing that saves me from drowning in my thoughts, the only thing that keeps me sane, the only thing that makes me feel anything, when I don’t do it… everything is empty.”
Chrollo hums at your response, he understands what you mean, he feels that same emptiness, that sense of insignificance in his own life. He thinks, just like you, that everyone in this world is disposable, that they’re only passing through life, some last less time, others longer, but all are destined to perish regardless of their circumstances.
You reflect this so well in your writing that he thinks you really should consider yourself a philosopher. You deny it. You don’t want to make people think; if anything, you want them to feel, and above all else, you just want to stop feeling dead inside when all you do is write, your only way out of cutting your time on earth short.
“We should meet again sometime, I’ve enjoyed your company, and I’d like to read a preview of your upcoming books, if possible.”
“Of course, I wouldn’t mind.”
You offer a smile; it’s not happy, just polite. You don’t care if your work is read, because its purpose is purely personal, but you also don’t care about recognition. You’ll remain the same even if you become a famous writer; fame won’t fill your void as well as writing does.
SUMMARY :: where, after a difficult week, Matt takes out all his stress on Y/N, causing great damage to their relationship.
FEATURING Matt Sturniolo x reader REQUESTED? yes.
WARNINGS :: fighting, yelling, cursing, dark thoughts. ANGST!
AUTHOR'S NOTE :: that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.
"I don't know where you want to get with that, Matt." Y/N sighed, closing her eyes tightly for a few minutes before opening them again, keeping them fixed on the road in front of the car. She had her head resting on her right hand, and her elbow braced next to the passenger door window.
Matt, as usual, had gone to pick up Y/N from work after her shift, but he was surprised to have to wait for an hour in the car for his girlfriend to finally be released, as her boss had demanded that she had to work overtime.
Despite being wrong, Matt felt furious.
His week was more than hectic with the start of sales of the 6 million clothing collection, as he and his brothers had to spend hours autographing photos of themselves that would go with each order. In addition to - by Nick and Chris's choice -, the three of them were the ones who hand-packed the first ones, which resulted in Matt having to stay awake until late hours, and waking up early everyday to fulfill his other tasks.
With all that, having to sit in his car for an hour, with only his phone and in such an uncomfortable seat seemed to increase his irritation, and he couldn't help but start an argument with his girlfriend, feeling like a pressure cooker about to explode.
"I'm just saying that you don't stop at home anymore. You just work all day, as if it was your number one priority in life. And now you've started this nonsense of working overtime!" Matt accused, gesturing exaggeratedly with his right hand while keeping his left one on the steering wheel.
"It's not like I asked to work overtime, Matt! You and your brothers have worked in a grocery store once, you know how it works-"
"Don't you dare bring up Chris and Nick's name. They have nothing to do with your lack of responsibility within a relationship." The boy took his eyes off the road momentarily, giving her a cold look that sent shivers running up her spine.
"Matt, you're being ridiculous! I understand your week has been tiring-" Matt cut the girl off again, shaking his head nervously.
"No, you don't know nothing, Y/N!" His tone was arrogant, a tone that the girl didn't remember ever hearing from him. "I'm exhausted because of my own work, and I still have to come and pick you up every day! And now you make me stay stuck in this car for an hour, waiting for Miss Perfect here to decide to leave." His voice gradually increased in volume.
Y/N could already feel the sensations of the ugly crying that was about to come, taking a deep breath and counting to 10 in her head.
"Then don't pick me up anymore, Matt! You were willing to come every day after my work just until some days ago, but if it's so hard for you now, don't come anymore." Y/N replied, her tone lower than her boyfriend's but still carrying much stress.
"How can you be so ungrateful?" Matt shouted, slamming his hands against the steering wheel violently.
"Matt, look, I'm sorry- Hey, keep your eyes on the road!" Y/N ignored the pang she felt in her heart at the brunette's words, fear rising through her veins as she saw the car move further away from the main road, as a result of his lack of attention.
Her eyes were wide as she raised her hands, ready to grab the steering wheel if necessary.
"You know what? I'm done." Matt spoke through gritted teeth, turning the car sharply to the right until it stopped on the side of the road.
"What are you doing? Matt?" Y/N asked, her breath coming out shakily as her eyes traveled down the dark, deserted street, to her boyfriend's face, which seemed to be covered in a gray cloud of hate.
"I'm done with this. If you don't want to take responsibility for your own mistakes and don't understand the seriousness of this relationship like I do, then maybe it's not worth the effort." He unlocked the doors, crossing his arms and keeping his eyes fixed on the road ahead, his nostrils flaring as a result of his hard breathing.
"M-Matt, don't do that." The girl tried, swallowing hard.
She reached out her hand towards him with the intention of gently touching his arm, but Matt pulling away roughly, as if she were a plague, made her stop abruptly for a few seconds, her hand slowly lowering.
“I need to think, Y/N.” He shook his head, resting his elbows on the steering wheel and laying his head in his hands, closing his eyes tightly. "Get out." He demanded sharply.
Y/N's eyes widened, her heart stopping momentarily.
"W-what? Are you crazy? Look at the time, Matt. How am I going to-"
"Get out." Matt interrupted her, not once looking up. His tone was flat and cold.
Y/N looked at him for a few more seconds, as if waiting for him to apologize and say it was all a sick joke. But that never happened.
She quickly pulled the car handle, grabbing her purse and getting out of the passenger seat. The cold night air hit her body with force as if needles were piercing her skin, eliciting a strong shiver from her members.
Her hand pushed the door hard, closing it, the sound echoing like a dull thud. Her eyes watched the car restart not even a second later, screeching away.
Y/N remained still for a few seconds - or minutes -, watching Matt's car disappear into the distance, her hope of him turning around slowly disappearing.
"Come back." Her voice sounded so broken, just like her insides. "P-please."
She spun around, taking note of the street completely deserted of cars or humans, the only source of life being the streetlights.
The girl quickly hooked her purse onto her right shoulder, crossing her arms tightly around her torso and beginning the steps of the long walk she would have to take to get home - if she even could call that place her home anymore. The possibility of Matt kicking her out after the events made her legs tremble.
Her throat started to hurt from the crying that she was still holding back. The emotions rising in her chest were like bile in her throat; It burned and hurt like never before. Her heart felt like it was being crushed by a human hand, and it didn't take long for loud sobs to escape her lips, her eyes stinging from the hot tears in contact with the freezing wind.
It was minutes of walking without stopping, her feet ached from the tension in her body, a result of the intense cold and the several times she turned back, checking if she wasn't being followed.
The familiar street soon took over her blurred vision, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Thick tears were still rolling from her eyes, but her sobs had stopped, being replaced by small sniffles.
Y/N shuffled down the sidewalk, passing the houses neighboring hers, before finally stopping in front of her front door. Her hands, practically frozen by the cold, opened her purse in a quick movement, rummaging through the smaller pockets, looking for the key.
She closed her eyes tightly when she couldn't find it, vaguely remembering just throwing it in the glove compartment of Matt's car that morning since she was in such a rush and still eating her breakfast.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she fished out her phone, cursing under her breath when she noticed that the battery was almost all gone. Just her lucky day.
She quickly unlocked the screen, going into her contact list and clicking on Chris's one. The boy answered on the second ring, surprising Y/N.
"Y/N? Thank God, where are you guys?" Chris's voice sounded relieved. Y/N frowned, her mind creating thousands of horrible scenarios as to why Matt hadn't gotten home yet.
The path she took, which took her almost 30 minutes of walking - or more, since she was walking slowly due to the cold - would not even take 15 minutes by car.
"C-Chris, open the door for me. Please." Her voice was broken, her teeth chattering as her body felt the temperature drop even more now that she stood still.
"Are you out there? Alone?" He asked exasperatedly. The sound of his bed shuffling sounded from behind, probably the result of him getting up.
"Yeah... Just hurry, please." Y/N repeated, her tone completely vulnerable.
The line went dead at the same instant. Her right hand - which was holding the device - moved away from her ear quickly, her eyes only finding the negative battery icon.
She threw her phone into her purse again, her eyes prickling with new tears that wanted to flow. Her mind created terrible thoughts about herself and her day, and all she wanted most was to sleep and perhaps never wake up again.
The sound of keys sounded on the other side of the door seconds before it was abruptly opened. Chris's figure appeared, his wide eyes carrying immense concern as they roamed Y/N's body, seeming to search for any injuries.
"Oh my God, you're freezing." He confirmed when he noticed her shaking, gently pulling her inside, before closing the door again. He rubbed his hands over Y/N's arms, which, even though they were covered by the fluffy jacket, were still extremely cold.
The warm air from the heater inside the house welcomed the girl's body gracefully, surrounding her like a thin blanket. She sighed, closing her eyes momentarily.
"Where the hell is Matt? I thought he was going to pick you up." Chris asked exasperatedly, helping her take her purse off her shoulder, hanging it on the rack next to the door.
Y/N felt her eyes fill with tears again at the mention of her boyfriend's name. An ugly sound of choked sobs escaping her throat caught Chris's attention, who stopped his movements and turned his eyes to her.
"Oh no, what did he do?" His tone was gentle as he approached, pulling her into a tight hug as he watched her shake her head in denial repeatedly, her lips trembling. "Let's go to my room, you need a hot shower and fresh clothes."
Chris slowly stepped away, keeping one of his hands on Y/N's shoulders, guiding her through the kitchen and down the stairs towards his own room.
The door was already open - being left like that when the boy rushed after receiving her call -, the two of them just passing through it before Chris closed it, keeping the hot air trapped between the four walls.
"Go take a shower, I'll get you some new clothes from your closet, okay? There's a clean towel in the cabinet under the sink." The boy indicated, watching his sister-in-law nod weakly, a low "thank you" escaping her lips before she could enter the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
It didn't take long for Y/N to step out again, already dressed in the Fresh Love sweatshirt set that Chris placed on the sink - just by putting his arm between the door and the frame.
Even though she wanted to melt like hot water and go down the drain just like her tears that fell imperceptibly, her feet hurt too much to support her weight for even another minute, begging for a rest.
Chris was sitting on the right side of the bed, his back against the headboard and his legs above the duvet, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone, seeming to be waiting for her.
The sound of the bathroom door closing attracted his attention, and he quickly locked his cell, putting it on the bedside table before tapping the empty space next to him, silently calling Y/N to sit there.
The girl walked to the indicated side, lifting the duvet and sitting on the mattress, staying in the same position as Chris, but with her legs covered.
"Do you want to talk about what happened?" He asked calmly, watching her closely, trying to read her expressions, but seeing only an ocean of pain in every line of her face and eyes.
"Matt left me in the middle of the road." She swallowed hard, shaking her head while closing her eyes tightly. "We had a fight. My boss demanded from me to work overtime and I forgot to tell Matt, so he ended up waiting for me for an hour in his car. He was tired from the day and the week, and I think the stress built up on both our sides, and he just started yelling at me." Y/N shrugged, sniffing momentarily, trying to hold back her tears.
"Wait, he left you in the middle of the road, alone and in the cold? To come home walking?" Chris's eyes widened, a look of disbelief occupying his blue orbs as he tried to process the information.
"Yeah." The girl's voice sounded low and vulnerable, her head lowering and her eyes focusing on her hands above the duvet, feeling embarrassed by her boyfriend's actions. "I tried to intervene at some point, but he was so mad." She took a deep breath, biting her bottom lip hard, the pain almost numb next to the one she felt in her heart. "I don't know what I did wrong, Chris." Her voice broke, a dry sob escaping her throat.
"I'm so sorry for my brother's actions, Y/N." Chris sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. "I promise you did absolutely nothing wrong. Don't let those thoughts get the best of you."
"I just... Maybe I'm not really giving our relationship enough credit. Or maybe I'm not enough to fit into Matt's life patterns and busy days." She douted, playing with her fingers as a nervous act.
"Why don't you try to get some sleep? I imagine how tired you are and it's late. We can talk about this tomorrow, but try to clean your mind for now, okay?" He suggested.
Chris helped her lay down after receiving a nod of agreement, adjusting the duvet over her body. The girl moved her head, laying it on his left thigh, seeking comfort. He quickly put his hand on her hair, stroking the area calmly, lulling her into sleep.
After making sure she was already dreaming, the boy moved her slowly - so as not to wake her -, laying her completely on the mattress before getting up. He sat down in his gaming chair, crossing his legs on the seat.
Chris closed his eyes tightly, massaging his temples, trying to reduce the tension there. His eyes remained on Y/N's figure, caring for her sleep like a worried older brother, longing to have the power to erase the entire event from the girl's memory.
Synopsis: In the high-pressure world of the BAU, love is often treated as a liability—something Spencer Reid has quantified through logic and statistics to keep himself safe. When he inadvertently rejects the person he cares for most by categorizing their bond as a "platonic constant" to avoid the "noise" of a real relationship, he leaves her emotionally shattered. What follows is a painful journey through misunderstanding and isolation, as one woman tries to disappear to protect the man she loves from her own heartbreak, only for a brilliant genius to realize that some things are more important than being right.
Content Warnings: Emotional Distress, Heavy themes of unrequited love and perceived rejection, Depressive Symptoms, Descriptions of a severe emotional breakdown, sobbing, and feelings of worthlessness, Self-Isolation, Anxiety Physical manifestations of anxiety, including shaking and hyperventilation, Miscommunication
Word count: 5k~ ✏
The thing about being in love with a genius is that you expect them to know everything—including how you feel. But Spencer Reid, for all his knowledge of micro-expressions and human behavior, can be remarkably blind when the subject is you.
Here is a short scenario of that "wound" opening up.
The Setting: 11:42 PM
The bullpen was empty except for the two of you. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sterile glow over the stacks of files. You had spent the last three hours "helping" him cross-reference geographical profiles, but really, you were just waiting for a moment that felt right.
"Spencer?" you murmured, your heart doing a nervous gallop against your ribs.
"Did you find a discrepancy in the transit maps?" He didn't look up, his pen moving in a blur of ink.
"No, it’s not the case. I just... I’ve been thinking about what you said the other day. About the statistical probability of finding someone who truly understands you." You took a breath, stepping into his personal space. "I think I’ve found that. With you."
Spencer finally paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He looked up, his hazel eyes bright with intellectual interest, but entirely devoid of the romantic realization you were praying for.
"Oh! You mean our friendship," he said, a small, genuine smile breaking across his face. "I agree. In fact, based on the sheer volume of shared interests and the baseline of trust we’ve established over the last three years, our platonic compatibility is in the 98th percentile. It’s a remarkable anomaly, really."
He chuckled softly, tapping his temple.
"I was actually telling Garcia earlier that I don't think I could handle a romantic entanglement right now—the cognitive load is too high, and the divorce rates for law enforcement are staggering. But having a 'constant' like you? It’s the only thing keeping me sane."
The words hit you like a physical weight, knocking the air out of your lungs.
To him, he was paying you the highest compliment—calling you his "constant."
He had just preemptively shut a door you were halfway through opening.
He wasn't even trying to let you down easy; he didn't think there was anything to let down.
"Right," you choked out, the back of your throat stinging. "98th percentile. That’s... that’s a lot."
"Is something wrong?" He tilted his head, finally noticing the shift in your energy. "Your pupils are dilated and your breathing has shifted to shallow thoracic movements. Are you having an allergic reaction to the takeout?"
"I’m fine, Spencer," you said, quickly gathering your coat. The rejection felt like a serrated edge because it was so innocent. He wasn't being cruel; he just couldn't see you the way you saw him. "I just realized I left my stove on. I have to go."
"But the stove is an induction cooktop, you told me that last month, the risk of fire is—"
"Goodnight, Spencer."
You walked away before he could finish the sentence, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the bullpen, looking confused at the empty space where you had been. He didn't realize that in his attempt to quantify your value, he’d accidentally broken your heart.
The elevator doors hadn't even fully closed before the first sob ripped out of your chest. It was a jagged, ugly sound that echoed in the small steel box.
You didn't go to your car. You knew you weren't steady enough to drive. Instead, you stumbled into the darkened breakroom on the floor below, collapsed onto the linoleum floor behind the snack machine, and finally let the dam break.
This wasn't just about tonight. It was the weight of every lingering look you’d misinterpreted, every "scientific" late-night conversation you thought meant something more, and the crushing exhaustion of loving someone who analyzed the world but couldn't see you.
Your chest felt tight, like your ribs were collapsing inward. You curled into a ball, tucking your face into your knees to muffle the sound of your crying. You were shaking so hard your teeth rattled—a cold, shock-like chill that no coat could fix.
His voice kept playing in your head on a loop: “Our platonic compatibility... the cognitive load is too high...” It was the clinical nature of it that hurt the most. He had categorized you as a "constant"—a fixed point in his life that didn't require effort or evolution.
You felt a profound sense of humiliation. You had stood there, vulnerable and trembling, and he had responded with a math problem.
The door creaked open. You tried to choke back a sob, holding your breath until your lungs burned, but a hiccup gave you away.
"Hey, kid? I thought I saw you—"
It was Derek Morgan. He stopped dead, the light from the hallway catching the silhouette of you crumpled on the floor. He didn't ask if you were okay; the state of you made the answer obvious. He was across the room in two strides, dropping to his knees beside you.
"Whoa, whoa. Talk to me," he whispered, his hand hovering over your shoulder, wary of startling you. "Is it the case? Did something happen?"
"He doesn't... he doesn't even know," you gasped out, the words barely intelligible through the hyperventilation. "He just... he mapped it out, Derek. He turned me into a statistic. He’s never going to see me."
Morgan’s face softened, his jaw tightening as he put the pieces together. He’d seen the way you looked at Reid for months. He’d probably been waiting for this collision, but he hadn't expected the impact to be this devastating.
"Reid," Morgan breathed, a flash of frustration crossing his features. "That brilliant, idiot boy."
He reached out and pulled you into a firm, grounding hug. You buried your face in his leather jacket, soaking the material with tears you’d been holding back for years. You weren't just crying because he said no; you were crying because for Spencer Reid, there wasn't even a "no" to give. You weren't even on the map.
"I can't go back in there," you whispered into the dark. "I can't look at him tomorrow. I can't be his 'constant' anymore."
"I know," Morgan said, rubbing your back as the tremors finally began to subside into a hollow, exhausted numbness. "I know. But you’re not going back in there tonight. I’m taking you home."
The drive home was a blur of streetlights and Derek’s quiet, concerned glances. He had offered to stay, to make coffee, to sit on the sofa until you fell asleep, but the shame was a living thing in your chest. You had insisted you were fine, pushing him away with a fragile, watery smile until he finally relented.
But the moment the deadbolt clicked into place, the silence of your apartment hit you like a physical blow.
Usually, your apartment was your sanctuary. Tonight, it felt like a cage. Every corner of the room held a ghost of him:
There was the copy of The Narrative of John Smith he’d lent you, filled with his tiny, frantic marginalia.
A stack of crossword puzzles you’d started together, the ones he finished in three minutes flat while explaining the etymology of "synecdoche."
Without his constant stream of facts and statistics, the quiet was deafening. It reminded you that while he was your world, you were simply a high-percentile data point in his.
You didn't turn on the lights. You didn't even take off your coat. You just slumped against the front door and slid down to the floor, the cold wood pressing against your back.
This was the "worst" part—the hollow aftershock. The initial explosion of grief at the office had been loud and frantic, but this was a deep, soul-deep ache. You realized that you weren't just mourning a relationship that never happened; you were mourning the loss of your comfort zone. How could you go back to being his "constant" when every time he looked at you, you’d be reminded that he’d already calculated your worth and filed you away under Platonic?
Your phone buzzed in your pocket. A text.
Spencer: I forgot to mention—the reason the 98th percentile is so significant is because it suggests a rare level of neurological synchrony. I really value that we don't have the "noise" of a traditional relationship. Get some sleep!
The "noise."
Your heart, your longing, your desperate need to be touched by him—to him, it was just noise. You let the phone slip from your hand, the screen glowing against the floorboards like a mocking eye.
You curled onto your side on the rug, the darkness of the apartment swallowing you whole. You started to shake again, but there was no Derek there to hold you steady this time. You gripped your own arms, trying to provide your own warmth, but you felt transparent.
The realization settled into your bones: he hadn't just rejected your love; he had unintentionally invalidated your entire shared history. He was sleeping soundly, likely satisfied with his "logical" assessment of your bond, while you were a wreck on the floor, wondering how you were supposed to show up to work at 8:00 AM and pretend your heart wasn't in pieces.
The fluorescent lights of the BAU always felt a bit like a spotlight, but today they felt like a scalpel. You had spent forty minutes in front of your vanity mirror using cold spoons and heavy concealer to hide the evidence of your night on the floor, but you couldn't hide the hollow look in your eyes.
You walked in at 8:02 AM, your movements stiff, your gaze fixed firmly on your desk. You didn't look toward the coffee pot. You didn't look toward his desk.
"Morning," you muttered as you sat down, immediately clicking open a file. Your hands were trembling, so you gripped the edge of your desk until your knuckles turned white.
"Good morning!"
The voice was bright, energetic, and devastatingly familiar. Spencer appeared at your shoulder, a paper cup in each hand. He set a tea in front of you—the exact blend you liked, steeped for exactly four minutes.
"I noticed you were three minutes later than your average arrival time, which I assumed was due to the rain-slicked roads affecting the coefficient of friction for your tires," he said, leaning against your desk. He looked refreshed. He looked fine. "I also wanted to follow up on my text. I found a paper on the neurobiology of 'constants' in high-stress environments. It’s fascinating how—"
You didn't look up. You couldn't. If you looked at him, the concealer wouldn't hold.
"Spencer, I’m really busy," you said, your voice paper-thin. "The Chicago PD just sent over the ballistics report."
He paused, his head tilting in that bird-like way he did when he was processing a puzzle. "You haven't touched your tea. The optimal drinking temperature for black tea is 140°F, and you're losing approximately two degrees per minute in this climate-controlled—"
"I don't want the tea, Spencer."
The sharpness in your voice was like a physical slap. The bullpen went quiet. From across the room, you felt Morgan’s eyes on you, heavy with protective concern, and Prentiss’s gaze, sharp and knowing.
Spencer blinked, his expression faltering into something small and wounded. "Oh. I... I'm sorry. I thought the routine was helpful for your morning dopamine regulation."
He stood there for a moment, hovering, waiting for the "usual" you to come back—the you that would laugh at his statistics or challenge his facts. But that version of you was gone, buried under the weight of the "noise" he didn't want.
You stared at the words in the file, but they were just black blurs. You felt a tear threaten to spill, and you bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted copper. The sadness wasn't a sharp pain anymore; it was a vast, cold ocean that was slowly filling your lungs. You realized that being near him was no longer a comfort. It was a chore. It was a haunting.
"I'll... I'll just go," Spencer whispered, his voice losing its academic confidence. He retreated to his desk, looking confused, like a child who had followed all the rules of a game only to find out the rules had changed overnight.
Across the bullpen, Morgan stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He didn't look at you; he looked straight at the back of Reid’s messy hair, his expression darkening.
The guilt followed the snap almost instantly, a cold wave of regret that felt even worse than the sadness. You watched him walk away—shoulders slightly hunched, his long fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sweater—and you felt like a monster.
He didn't know. That was the tragedy of Spencer Reid. He wasn't being cruel; he was being Spencer. And you had just snarled at the only person who spent his morning calculating the "optimal drinking temperature" of your tea just to make you smile.
Ten minutes later, the silence between your desks felt like an electrified fence. You couldn't take it. You stood up, your legs feeling like lead, and walked over to his desk.
"Spencer?" you whispered, your voice thick with the remnants of last night’s tears.
He flinched. It wasn't a large movement, but it was a visible one. He didn't look up from his book; instead, he buried his nose deeper into the pages, his body tensing as if he were bracing for another impact.
"Spencer, I’m sorry," you said, reaching out a hand toward his arm. "I shouldn't have snapped. I’m just... I didn't sleep well, and I—"
Before your fingers could even brush the sleeve of his cardigan, he recoiled. He pulled his chair back abruptly, the wheels screeching against the floor, creating a physical gap of three feet between you.
"It’s fine," he said quickly, his voice high and clipped. He finally looked at you, but he wasn't looking at you—he was looking at your forehead, avoiding your eyes entirely. "Your irritability is a logical byproduct of sleep deprivation and fluctuating cortisol levels. I shouldn't have intruded on your workspace. It was an inefficient use of time."
"Spencer, look at me," you pleaded, your heart breaking all over again.
"I actually have to go to the archives," he blurted out, standing up so fast he nearly knocked his stack of books over. He began gathering his things with trembling hands, moving with a frantic, desperate energy. "The, uh, the thermal imaging reports from the 2004 case need to be re-indexed. It’s a solo task. Very quiet. No... no noise."
He used your own word against himself. He wasn't being petty; he was protecting himself. To him, you were a "constant" that had suddenly become unpredictable and volatile. He was treating you like a dangerous variable he didn't know how to solve.
He practically ran toward the elevator, his head down, his satchel bouncing against his hip. He didn't look back.
You stood in the middle of the bullpen, your hand still hovering in the empty air where he had been. You had tried to fix the bridge, but he was so scared of the fire that he had burned the rest of it down himself.
The message was loud and clear: You had lost the right to be close to him. By trying to love him, you had made yourself a stranger. By snapping at him, you had made yourself a threat. Now, you weren't just the girl he didn't love—you were the person he was afraid to talk to.
You sank into his empty chair, the scent of his old books and stale coffee clinging to the air, and realized that this was the loneliest you had ever been in your entire life.
The guilt was a physical weight, heavier and more suffocating than the rejection itself. Watching him practically flee from your presence—seeing that brilliant, gentle man treat you like a source of impending pain—convinced you of a new, devastating truth: You were a "toxic variable" in his carefully ordered life.
You didn't just want to hide; you wanted to erase the version of yourself that had made him flinch.
For the next three days, you became a ghost within the BAU. You mastered the art of being present without being there.
You moved your laptop to a small, cramped carrel in the back of the library or stayed in the breakroom under the guise of "organizing files."
You stopped contributing to the banter during case briefings. When Spencer spoke, you kept your eyes glued to your notepad, scribbling nonsense just to avoid the chance of your gaze meeting his and seeing that flicker of apprehension again.
When the team went to lunch, you claimed you’d already eaten. When Garcia tried to pull you into a hug, you stepped back, citing a "scratchy throat."
You weren't just protecting yourself anymore; you were protecting him from you.
From his desk, Spencer was spiraling in a different way. He didn't understand why the "constant" had vanished. He kept glancing at your empty chair, his brow furrowed, his fingers tapping out a restless, rhythmic pattern on his thigh. To him, your isolation was a puzzle with a missing piece. He thought he had failed a social metric so badly that you could no longer tolerate his presence.
One afternoon, you were in the kitchenette, staring blankly at the microwave as it spun. You heard the door swing open and the familiar, uneven gait of his footsteps.
Your instinct was to run. You immediately gripped your mug and turned to leave, head down.
"I checked the air quality index for the building," Spencer said softly, his voice echoing in the small room. He was standing by the door, blocking your exit—not intentionally, but his lanky frame took up just enough space to make leaving impossible without brushing past him. "I thought... perhaps there was a localized irritant causing your withdrawal. Or perhaps a viral load with an unusually long incubation period."
You couldn't look up. "I'm fine, Spencer. I’m just busy."
"You’ve been 'busy' for seventy-two hours," he countered, his voice trembling slightly. "Statistically, even the most demanding caseload allows for 4.5 minutes of social interaction per hour. You’ve had zero. Did I... did I do something to move our compatibility into a lower percentile?"
The sheer vulnerability in his voice made your eyes sting. He was so worried about his "percentiles" and he didn't realize that you were dying inside because you loved him too much to be near him.
"You didn't do anything," you whispered, finally looking at him. But the look wasn't one of affection; it was one of profound, weary sadness. "That’s the problem, Spencer. You didn't do anything at all. And I... I can't be around you right now without feeling like I’m breaking something."
Before he could process the word breaking, before he could ask for a definition or a derivation, you ducked under his arm and hurried down the hall.
You locked yourself in a bathroom stall and leaned your forehead against the cold metal door. You had tried to isolate to keep from hurting him, but you realized that in the process, you were both starving.
The bullpen was quiet, the air heavy with the kind of tension that usually precedes a breakthrough on a case—except this time, the victim was sitting at his own desk, staring at a crime scene photo he hadn’t turned over in twenty minutes.
Derek Morgan didn't use his "FBI voice." He didn't use his "big brother" voice either. He used the voice he saved for people standing on the edge of a ledge.
"Reid. Breakroom. Now."
Spencer followed him like a confused puppy, his long limbs awkward and jerky. As soon as the door swung shut, Morgan turned on him. He didn't yell; he just looked at Reid with a mixture of pity and frustration that made the younger man shrink.
"I don't understand," Spencer started, his words tumbling out at 250 words per minute. "I’ve analyzed the shift in her behavior. I’ve looked at the environmental factors, the stress of the last case, the—"
"Stop it, Spencer," Morgan snapped, holding up a hand. "Stop the math. Stop the statistics. You’re looking at everything except the person standing right in front of you."
"She’s isolating," Spencer whispered, his hands knotting together. "She’s avoiding me because I’m... I’m a stressor. I made her snap. I’ve reached a point of diminishing returns in our relationship and she—"
"She’s in love with you, you genius idiot!"
The silence that followed was deafening. Spencer’s mouth stayed open, a half-formed syllable dying on his tongue. He blinked, once, twice, his brain clearly trying to re-catalog every interaction from the last three years through this new, terrifying lens.
"That's... that's not possible," Spencer finally choked out. "The probability—"
"The probability is 100%, Reid! Look at the 'noise' you told her you didn't want. That 'noise' was her heart. You told her—to her face—that you didn't want a 'traditional relationship' because the 'cognitive load' was too high. You didn't just reject her; you told her that loving you was a burden you weren't willing to carry."
Spencer’s face went ghost-white. He slumped against the counter, the realization hitting him with the force of a physical blow. He remembered the tea. He remembered her red-rimmed eyes. He remembered the way she flinched when he tried to use logic to explain her pain.
"I told her... I told her she was a constant," Spencer breathed, his voice breaking. "I thought it was a compliment. I thought I was telling her she was the only thing I could depend on."
"You told her she was a fixture, Reid. Like a chair. Or a lamp," Morgan said, his voice softening just a fraction. "And now she’s hiding in corners and crying in the dark because she thinks she’s a 'horrible person' for wanting more than that from you. She’s trying to disappear so she doesn't 'bother' you with her feelings anymore."
Spencer looked at the door, his eyes wide with a sudden, sharp panic. He thought of you sitting in that cramped carrel in the library, making yourself small, starving yourself of his company because you thought you were the problem.
"I hurt her," Spencer whispered. It wasn't a deduction. It was a confession. "I’ve been analyzing her micro-expressions for years and I missed the most important one because I was too afraid to look for it."
He didn't wait for Morgan to respond. He spun around, nearly tripping over his own feet, and bolted for the door.
He found you in the very back of the archives, tucked into a corner where the motion-sensor lights had already flickered off. You were sitting on a footstool, your head resting against a stack of dusty cold-case boxes. You looked small. You looked extinguished.
The lights hummed to life as he approached, but you didn't look up. You didn't want to see the confusion or the clinical concern in his eyes.
"I'm almost done re-indexing, Spencer," you said, your voice thick and exhausted. "You don't have to be in here. I'm staying out of your way."
He didn't reply with a fact. He didn't cite a study on the efficiency of archive filing. Instead, he did something he almost never did: he sat on the floor, right at your feet, making himself lower than you.
"I'm not a very good observer," he started. His voice was raw, stripped of its usual academic cadence. "I tell people I am. I have the credentials. But I spent so much time looking at the patterns of your behavior that I completely ignored the person behind them."
You finally looked down at him. His hair was a mess where he’d been running his hands through it, and for the first time, his eyes weren't searching for data. They were just searching for you.
"Morgan told me," he whispered. "He told me that I... I called your love 'noise.' And I haven't been able to breathe since he said it."
You tried to pull away, your heart jumping in that painful, jagged way again. "He shouldn't have said anything. I was handling it. I was making sure you were comfortable—"
"I don't want to be comfortable!" Spencer burst out, the sudden volume making you flinch. He immediately reached out, and this time, when you pulled back, he didn't recoil. He stayed there, his hand open and pleading in the air between you.
"I’m scared," he admitted, his lip trembling. "I’m scared of the 'staggering divorce rates' and the 'cognitive load' because I don't know how to be a person that someone like you loves. I know how to be a genius. I know how to be a profiler. But I don't know how to be... a partner. I thought if I kept you as a 'constant,' I could keep you forever without ever having to risk losing you to a mistake I made."
He took a shaky breath, finally closing the gap and resting his hand gently over yours. His skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the coldness you’d been feeling for days.
"But I realize now that by trying to avoid the risk of losing you, I’ve already lost you. I’ve made you feel like you’re something to be managed instead of something to be cherished."
The "horrible person" feeling you’d been carrying started to dissolve, replaced by a devastating ache for the man in front of you. He wasn't rejecting you; he was terrified of his own inadequacy.
"You're not a statistic," he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "You're the only thing in my life that I haven't tried to memorize, because I wanted to be surprised by you every single day. I just didn't tell you. I'm so sorry I didn't tell you."
He looked up at you, his hazel eyes wet and desperate. "Please stop hiding from me. I’d rather have the 'noise.' I’d rather have all the chaos and the risk and the heartbreak of a 'traditional relationship' than spend another minute in a room where you’re trying to make yourself invisible."
You didn't answer with words. You leaned down, pressing your forehead against his. You heard him let out a long, shuddering breath—the sound of a man who had finally stopped calculating and started feeling.
The transition from "constants" to something more was not a seamless formula. It was messy, it was loud, and for the first time in your life, it was exactly what you needed.
A few weeks later, the atmosphere in the bullpen had shifted. The cold, sterile tension was gone, replaced by something softer. Spencer no longer hovered at the edge of your desk with tea; he sat on the edge of your desk, his knee occasionally brushing yours as he spoke. He was still Spencer—he still talked too fast and forgot to blink when he was excited—but there was a new intentionality in the way he looked at you. He was no longer looking for data; he was looking for you.
"I've been reading about the chemical composition of lavender," he said one evening as you both walked toward the elevators. "It's supposed to aid in deep REM sleep. I noticed your caffeine intake has decreased by 20% this week, which suggests you're resting better."
You smiled, reaching out to catch his hand. His fingers tangled with yours instantly, a reflex he had developed the moment you’d given him permission to touch you. "I am, Spencer. Thank you."
He led you not to the subway, but to a small, quiet park a few blocks from the Hoover Building. The city was loud—sirens in the distance, the hum of traffic, the chatter of people passing by.
"Is the noise okay?" he asked, his voice low. He looked at the bustling street and then back at you, a flicker of that old nervousness in his eyes. "I know I said I didn't want it. But I realized... the silence without you was actually much louder."
"The noise is perfect," you whispered.
He pulled you to a stop under a budding maple tree. The lights of the city reflected in his eyes, making him look less like a distant genius and more like a man who had finally found his way home.
Spencer leaned in, hesitating for just a fraction of a second—a final calculation—before he pressed his lips to yours. It wasn't a clinical kiss. It was clumsy and sweet and smelled like old books and peppermint. It was the sound of a 98th percentile compatibility finally becoming a 100% reality.
When he pulled back, he was flushed, a bright, genuine grin stretching across his face.
"Technically," he whispered against your forehead, "the oxytocin release from a kiss of that duration should sustain a sense of well-being for at least several hours. But I think, in this specific case, the effects might be permanent."
You laughed, pulling him closer, the wound from that night in the bullpen finally, fully healed. "No more statistics, Spencer."
"No more statistics," he agreed, squeezing your hand. "Just us."
The cool night air of the park was perfect, but for two members of the BAU, the view from a black SUV parked haphazardly across the street was even better.
Inside the car, Penelope Garcia was practically vibrating, her colorful glasses sliding down her nose as she pressed her face against the window. Next to her, Derek leaned against the steering wheel, a smug, satisfied grin playing on his lips.
"Oh! Oh, look! He’s doing the hand thing!" Garcia squealed, her voice a hushed, frantic whisper. "He’s doing the 'I’m-nervously-fidgeting-but-I’m-going-in-for-the-kill' hand thing!"
"Babygirl, if you fog up that glass any more, we won't see anything," Morgan chuckled, though he didn't pull her away. He adjusted the side mirror to get a clearer angle of the maple tree. "I told you. All that kid needed was a little bit of 'tough love' and a reality check."
"You called him a genius idiot, Derek! That’s not tough love, that’s just factual!" Garcia gasped as she saw Spencer lean in. "Wait—is it happening? Is it? My eyes are watering, I can’t blink—"
In the park, Spencer had just pulled back from the kiss, his forehead still resting against yours. He was smiling—a real, dizzying smile—until his gaze drifted past your shoulder. His eyes narrowed, his head tilting in that sharp, analytical way that usually meant he’d spotted a piece of evidence.
"What is it?" you whispered, still a little breathless.
"Based on the tinted windows, the government-issue plates, and the fact that I can see a pair of glittery cat-ear headbands reflected in the windshield..." Spencer sighed, though he didn't let go of your waist. "We are currently being surveilled by 28% of our team."
You turned just in time to see the SUV’s headlights flash accidentally.
"Abort! Abort mission!" Garcia’s muffled voice echoed across the quiet street.
The engine roared to life, and the SUV peeled away from the curb with unnecessary drama. As it sped past, you caught a glimpse of Morgan giving a quick, triumphant thumbs-up through the driver's side window, while Garcia blew frantic kisses until they disappeared around the corner.
Spencer looked down at you, huffing a soft laugh that vibrated in his chest. "I should probably file a formal complaint about the invasion of privacy."
"You could," you teased, looping your arms around his neck. "Or you could just ignore the noise."
Spencer’s expression softened, his arms tightening around you as he pulled you back in. "I think," he murmured, "I'm finally getting the hang of ignoring the noise."
You’ve always had a habit, of whenever you got stressed or everything was going wrong you’d hide in a corner cover your ears and pretend to be somewhere else. For a while you were able to hide it from Caleb, the one time he found you doing it was after a fight with you.
You were sitting in your closet, at first he was terrified that you were missing he couldn’t find you anywhere. Then he heard rustling from your closet, the door of it was closed and when he opened it. There was a tuft of hair peaking out from a storage container with two blankets on top. You didn’t want him to see you so you just closed your eyes and curled up further. He didn’t even remember what you guys argued about earlier, the thought that he made like this sent chills down his spine.
Breathing heavily and pressed by his gaze you scratched your hand, a nervous habit of yours. The problem was that you’ve been so anxious after your fight that the skin on your hand was raw by how much you scratched it. You held the blanket on top of you even those tried to pull it away. Instead he pulled the container and used the blanket to ball you up in it.
Your room was messy so he took you to the living room. You quickly ran out of his hands and hid behind the door, not wanting him to look at you. Caleb sighed and sat next to the door.
“I’m sorry pips, I don’t want to ever see you like this. Especially if I caused it,” Caleb’s eyes start to well up.
“Can I see you pips? Come on, lemme see your pretty face?” You let out a small laugh and slowly push the door. The thought of him seeing your face right now is unbearable so you keep your head down, your hair covering your face. Caleb seems to understand and he closes the door and he sits next to you.
“You broke the mirror huh, did you get hurt? We can replace the mirror but nothing can replace my pipsqueak..” He carefully reaches out to you and grasps your hands in his. Caleb’s gaze lands on your hand scratched raw but only smiles.
“Does it hurt? Don’t worry I have some bandaids we can use ok?” He places kisses on your hands, avoiding the parts you’ve scratched to avoid causing you pain.
“Come on, you hungry? I can cut up some apples for us, and I can make us a pillow fort.. wouldn’t that be fun?”
Slowly you nod your head taking his hand in yours, keeping the blanket on your head. Small sniffs and tears fall, your breaths calm down with only small hiccups coming from your mouth.
“I love you pips, don’t forget that ok?”
“…..ok”
LADS MASTERLIST
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This one’s a bit weird but I self inserted HARDDDD Idk what these thing are but I do them. BUT I FOUND THE BEST SOLUTION I just cut my nails rlly short so I can scratch the skin on my hand and it works. But i lowkey forget some times so not the best solution
Does this could as a vent post???? Prob not but whateves!!
SUMMARY: Y/N Y/L/N is considered a danger to everyone. She killed three people at the age of only twelve. After eight years she's released back into society. How will the world react to the girl they see before them?
If you haven't read chapter one you can find it here!
Looking for more stories? Find my master list here!
FEBRUARY 1st 2014
“ROUNDS!” Yelled the guard as he walked down the corridor.
One by one each door was unlocked and the boys stepped out of their rooms until all of the girls were standing in the corridor but one.
“Where’s 261?” Asked the guard.
He stepped into the room to see her sitting on his bed. Head in hands. Staring at the floor.
“261?!” He called again, “We’re on rounds.”
The girl didn’t react.
“261! Move, now!” The officer approached the bed to see blood staining the girls light coloured sweatpants. When he looked properly he realised the crimson substance was soaking into her black t-shirt.
He picked up his talkie.
“We need a medic in room 261.” He spoke clearly,
Almost immediately there was a voice on the other end saying that someone was on their way.
“You can talk to me,” She said gently as she sat down next to the girl, “I’m not like the guards. It’s just the two of us.”
The medic had quickly arrived. She saw the state the girl was in. She was completely unresponsive and so she’d convinced the guard to step outside and close the door as she thought she’d have a better chance of getting through to her if it was just the two of them.
“Now, I need you to pull up your shirt and lie back.” She instructed.
The girl showed no response and so she gently placed a hand on her shoulder.
She slowly looked up to her, making eye contact. She was shocked at how (y/e/c) her eyes were. Although they were dull, there were still a stunning shade of (y/e/c).
She slowly reached for the hem of her shirt and when she didn’t stop her, she pulled it up just enough to access the wound. She then placed a hand on her shoulder, pushing her slowly back onto the bed.
Once she was lying down she could see the source of the blood clearly. There were two wounds. Once running along her stomach, starting just below her ribs on the left, trailing diagonally down to just below her belly button. The other was slightly smaller, just above her right hip. Both required stitches.
She quickly got to work, noticing how she didn’t even flinch as she touched them and didn’t bat an eyelid when she put the needle through the flesh. It was like she just didn’t care.
She made quick work of fixing him up before handing her a clean shirt and bidding her a goodbye.
Once she was in the corridor the guard locked the door and turned to her.
“So, self inflicted or inmate violence?” He asked,
She shrugged, letting out a gentle sigh.
“I really don’t know Matt. She wasn’t very talkative. However, by her reaction, I’m thinking it was self inflicted.” She looked down briefly before looking back up. “I’ll file a report requesting that we keep her on watch as if it is self inflicted we need to know and she’ll need to be moved. I mean, she’s only thirteen. If it’s self inflicted we need to deal with it as soon as possible.”
“She’s fifteen… In fact, turned fifteen today.” Matt muttered sadly.
Most of the girls locked up in here were very rough and rowdy. However, 261 was extremely quiet and she kept to herself. Sure she’d been in a few fights but she'd easily won them and so people learned to just leave her be. Not that he would ever admit it out loud but Matt had quite a large soft spot for the girl.
Since he spoke to her just after she was arrested he knew something wasn’t right with the situation. So when he was offered the job in the detention centre, he knew he had to take it. He needed to figure out what really happened and what was really going on inside the girls head.
“Oh my,” She replied sadly.
“She’s been here almost two years.” He added, “Meaning she’s almost a quarter of the way through her sentence.”
She nodded in response.
“Well, I’m going to write up the report so we can get it sorted quickly.” She gave Matt a small smile before walking down the corridor and through the exit.
Matt briefly looked at his watch knowing the other girls were on yard time and would be going to the cafeteria soon. 261 would need to be there.
He opened the door, popping his head around the door.
“Lunch is starting.” He stated,The girl just nodded.
“Are you coming?” Matt asked as the girl made no movement.
The girl just looked up slowly, glaring at him.
“If you don’t come now, you won’t be able to eat until dinner.”
“Then so be it,” Muttered the girl standing up, walking over to a small desk in the corner of his room, letting herself fall into the chair.
Matt shook his head lightly.
“Alright, it’s your choice.” He muttered walking out of the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
FEBRUARY 3rd 2014
They’d all just gotten back in their rooms after lunch. She, however, hadn’t gone to lunch. They’d tried to make her but he’d flat out refused. Well, she wasn’t vocal but he didn’t speak or move. She just sat, looking down, refusing to make any attempts at communication.
The guards had shouted, threatened, tried to force it but they got frustrated by her lack of response and in the end they’d given up, deciding she wasn’t worth their trouble.
A few hours after dinner she was sitting at his desk once again when she heard the tell tale click of the lock. She looked up to see the door opening to reveal, much to his surprise, the medic who’d stitched her up two days prior.
“Hi,” She said gently, “Can I come in?”
It surprised her when she asked. She was locked up, she had no say in anything. Surely enough, she gave a small nod. The medic smiled in response as she stepped in further letting the door close behind her. Once again it was locked.
“They told me you refused to go to dinner?” She asked gently and she once again nodded, “Any reason?The girl just shrugged lightly.
The medic nodded as she moved closer into the room.
“I brought you something,” She said, handing her a small package. “I know it was your birthday two days ago and I would have given it to you then but I had to get it cleared.” She explained,
The girl hesitantly took the package from her, opening it slowly to reveal a brown leather notebook and a black pen.
She looked up at the medic, her eyes wide as she took the paper the book was wrapped in away from her.
“I thought you could use it to write down your thoughts or, well, whatever really,” She smiled, “I have to warn you, the guards here are allowed to confiscate it if you do something against the rules. Especially since the pen is an item considered to be dangerous, so if you want to keep it, keep yourself out of trouble.”
The girl nodded. Her face straight. She looked down at the notebook.
The medic didn’t expect a vocal response from her and so she turned and began to leave.
“Thank you Miss…” She whispered, trailing off at the end.
“Call me Madeline,” She smiled,
“Thank you Madeline,” She repeated, still almost silently.
“It’s no problem.”
She then knocked on the door before speaking to the guard, “I’m finished.”
“Alright ma'am.” The door was unlocked and he gave the girl one last smile before stepping out of the room, the door being closed and locked behind her.
She turned the book over in his hands before hesitantly opening it and beginning to write.
Snape propose reader right after end of the war. She is like.: You are alive ? But she say yes anyway.
Title: You're Alive
Warning: Kinda depressed reader....
Words Count: 1700+
A/N: Girllll, your requests are literally my favorites to write
Masterlist
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It had been months since the war ended, but for Y/n, peace never truly came. While the rest of the wizarding world began to piece itself back together, she was trapped in a ceaseless cycle of grief and loss. Her days became repetitive, like a cruel loop, each one identical to the last, and every morning, when she forced herself out of bed, felt like another small act of survival. There was nothing left for her but the weight of an unspoken goodbye, a farewell she had never had the chance to utter.
Severus was dead.
The words echoed endlessly in her mind, like the tolling of a death bell. When she had first heard the news, it hadn’t felt real. It had come from Minerva, her voice soft and laden with sympathy, eyes full of sorrow as she delivered the news. Y/n had stood there, numb and silent, as Minerva explained what had happened in the Shrieking Shack. Severus had died alone, his body found hours later among the debris and bodies scattered across the battlefield.
He was gone.
For days after, Y/n had simply wandered through life like a ghost, unsure of where to place her grief. She barely remembered the days following his death—the endless condolences, the quiet murmurs of pity. The world continued to move around her, but it had lost its meaning. There were times she thought the grief might swallow her whole, that the crushing weight of it would pull her down into a pit she would never be able to climb out of.
She stopped seeing friends. Stopped talking to the people who reached out. What was the point? They couldn’t give her back what she had lost. She spent most of her time alone, secluded in her small cottage, where the silence was only broken by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The space she had once loved now felt like a tomb—its quietness amplifying the hollow ache inside her.
Her only solace came in the routine. Each morning, she rose before dawn, despite the ever-present exhaustion that clung to her bones. She would make herself a cup of tea that she rarely drank, then head out to the greenhouses. The plants there didn’t judge her, didn’t expect anything from her. They simply grew, day by day, providing her with something to nurture, something to keep her hands busy.
Tending to the plants had become a way to distract herself from the constant ache. In the quiet of the greenhouses, she would lose herself in the familiar rituals—watering, pruning, checking for pests. She would kneel in the dirt, feeling the earth between her fingers, grounding herself in the life that persisted around her. It was the only thing that seemed real anymore.
She remembered how Severus had once stood at the edge of the greenhouses, his dark eyes watching her as she worked. His expression had been unreadable, but she had known, even then, that he found some strange comfort in seeing her amidst the greenery, her hands busy with life. He never said as much, but she could always sense the unspoken bond between them, the way he softened just slightly in her presence.
But now… there was nothing. Just the emptiness where he used to be.
As the weeks passed, the numbness gave way to something darker—anger. How could he have left her? How could he have gone off to fight in the war and not come back? It wasn’t fair. She hated him for it, hated him for being so brave and selfless, for choosing to sacrifice himself when she had needed him most.
And yet, even in her anger, she missed him with a ferocity that bordered on madness. The memories of him consumed her—his quiet, sarcastic remarks, the way his lips twitched ever so slightly when he found something amusing. She would catch herself sometimes, expecting him to walk through the door, to hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under his boots, only to be met with silence.
The nights were the worst. Alone in her cold bed, she would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment they had spent together. She longed for the warmth of his body beside her, for the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. But those moments were gone now, like a dream she could never return to.
As time wore on, the others began to accept Severus’ death as an unfortunate but necessary casualty of war. They moved on. They rebuilt their lives. But Y/n couldn’t move forward. She was stuck in the past, trapped by the memory of what had been and the unbearable weight of what never would be.
It was a stormy evening when the impossible happened.
The rain had started in the late afternoon, a slow drizzle that steadily grew into a downpour. Y/n had finished her work in the greenhouses early, her head pounding from a persistent headache. She trudged through the rain, not bothering to cast a spell to shield herself from the wet. What did it matter? Nothing really mattered anymore.
As she approached her cottage, something caught her eye—a figure standing near the front door, half-hidden in the shadows.
For a moment, she froze, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest. She squinted through the rain, trying to make out who it could be. Her mind immediately leapt to the worst possibility—had something else happened? Was someone here to deliver more bad news?
But as she stepped closer, she saw the unmistakable silhouette of a tall man, his dark robes billowing slightly in the wind.
Her breath hitched.
No. It couldn’t be.
“Severus?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain pounding against the ground.
The figure turned, and in that moment, her world shattered and reassembled itself all at once.
It was him.
Severus Snape stood before her, alive and whole, his dark eyes staring at her with an unreadable expression.
She felt as if the ground had been pulled out from beneath her, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of the shock. She had spent months mourning him, months believing that he was gone forever. And yet here he was, standing in the rain like some ghost returned from the dead.
“You’re alive,” she breathed, her voice trembling with disbelief.
He nodded, his face pale and gaunt, but unmistakably real. “I am.”
For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her hands shaking violently. This was real. He was real. But how? Why hadn’t he come to her sooner?
“I—I thought you were dead,” she managed to choke out, her voice breaking. “I… I thought you were gone.”
Severus’ expression softened slightly, a rare crack in his usual stoic demeanor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean for you to think that.”
Y/n shook her head, her emotions a chaotic storm inside her. She didn’t know whether to scream at him or collapse into his arms. Anger and relief warred within her, and she wasn’t sure which one would win.
“I waited for you,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I waited… for so long.”
Severus stepped closer, his dark eyes never leaving hers. He reached out, hesitant at first, then cupped her face in his hands. His touch was warm, solid, and the reality of it sent a shiver down her spine.
“I’m here now,” he said softly.
Tears welled up in her eyes, the dam breaking after months of holding everything inside. She had been so strong, so determined not to let the grief consume her, but now, with him standing before her, the weight of it all was too much to bear.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
Severus’ thumb brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “You didn’t.”
They stood like that for a long moment, the rain pouring down around them, soaking them both to the bone. But neither of them seemed to notice. The world had shrunk to just the two of them, the space between them charged with the weight of all that had been lost and found again.
And then, as if spurred by some unseen force, Severus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, simple ring. Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as he held it up, his dark eyes flickering with something she hadn’t seen in him for a long time—hope.
“I should have asked you this a long time ago,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… will you marry me?”
For a moment, Y/n couldn’t breathe. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and full of meaning. She stared at him, her mind racing, trying to process everything that had just happened. He was alive. He was asking her to marry him. It felt surreal, like a dream she was afraid she might wake up from at any moment.
She didn’t answer right away.
Severus’ expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He lowered the ring slightly, his grip tightening around it. “You don’t have to say yes,” he said quickly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I understand if—”
“No,” Y/n interrupted, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. “No, I just… I need a moment.”
He watched her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of rejection. But Y/n wasn’t rejecting him—far from it. She was just trying to wrap her mind around the fact that the man she had mourned for months was standing here, asking her to spend the rest of her life with him.
And finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded, a small, teary smile breaking through her grief.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Severus’ face softened, and without another word, he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was simple, elegant—just like him. And as he pulled her into his arms, Y/n let herself collapse into him, her tears mixing with the rain as they clung to each other like lifelines.
For the first time in months, Y/n felt something other than grief.
