#mac taylor

I'm talking about Mac taylor (and Don flack jr)

Even with criminal minds beyond borders like matt and jack are so fine!!

Bonus gif with my man Horatio cuz I wanna do them both at the same time.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk

Crime Show Meme - CSI: NY insp [3/5 characters]

Don Flack Jr x Taylor!Reader

2.3k word count

Summary You suddenly decided to take the leap with Don Flack on a whim. In less then a week you'll be living together, with a child and your father Mac Taylors disapproval. This is certainly not how your suppose to start a relationship.

Whirlwind Romance/Fast Burn/Found Family/Fluff/Angst

Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

After the world’s most intense father-daughter “talk” and a direct threat to Don’s soul, all I really wanted was to crawl under my desk and disassociate for a few hours. But no — the universe, and Mac, had other plans.

“Autopsy report on the deli shooting’s ready,” he told me on my way out of his office. “Go pick it up from Sid before Flack interviews the bodega owner.”

Because God forbid I work a case with any real danger. Mac's overprotectiveness is coded into the building at this point. No serial killers, no drug rings, no rooftops. Just “safe” jobs. Paperwork. Clean-up.

Still, I headed down to the morgue, mentally rehearsing how I could ask Sid for the file without him doing that thing — that smug, knowing smirk that said, I’ve seen your soul, and it’s blushing.

The morgue doors opened with their usual hiss, and there he was: Sid Hammerback, bent over a slab with his sleeves rolled up and a report already in hand, like he’d sensed I was coming.

“Afternoon, Y/N,” he said without looking up. “Or should I say, glowing afternoon?”

I groaned. “Sid.”

He glanced up with a grin and waggled the folder in his gloved hand. “Bodega shooting. Pretty straightforward. One dead, two witnesses, and enough shell casings to fill a change jar.”

I walked over and took the file. “Thanks. And whatever you think you know—”

“Oh, I know what I know,” he said lightly. “The shift in energy? The lingering looks? The way Flack stood outside Mac’s office like he was waiting for a firing squad? Honey, please.”

“Could we not?” I whispered, checking the hallway to make sure no one was hovering nearby. “I’m trying to stay under the radar.”

Sid raised a brow. “You’re dating Don Flack. You might as well try to hide a woolly mammoth in the lab’s breakroom.”

“It’s new,” I said. “We’re still figuring things out.”

He softened at that, setting the report down on the counter and pulling off his gloves. “Then take your time. Just don’t pretend like it’s not real. Especially not to yourself.”

I looked down at the file in my hand — simple case, simple paperwork — but my brain was still stuck on Don’s voice in Mac’s office. She’s the best person I know.

I glanced up again. “Thanks, Sid.”

He gave me a fatherly smile, the kind that didn’t ask for details but understood them anyway. “Go. Flack’s probably pacing like an anxious golden retriever.”

I turned to leave, but paused at the door. “You really don’t miss anything, do you?”

He chuckled. “Only things that don’t matter.”

…

Back upstairs, Don was exactly where Sid said he’d be — arms folded, eyes scanning the corridor like someone had stolen his gun and his last cup of coffee.

“Got it,” I said, holding up the file.

His shoulders relaxed. “Thought maybe Mac locked you in a broom closet for round two.”

“Nope. Just got emotionally waterboarded by Sid instead.”

He smirked and took the report from me. “I still say he should’ve officiated our non-wedding.”

“Let’s not start planning a ceremony just because I survived one night with you.”

He leaned in slightly, voice low enough that no one else could hear. “You didn’t just survive, Taylor. You thrived.”

I shoved his arm, laughing before I could stop myself.

Just like that, the tension cracked — not gone, but easier now.

We had a body on a slab, a case to finish, and no idea what we were doing.

But we were doing it together.

…

From my office window, I had a perfect view of the lab floor — glass walls offering full transparency, full access. Usually, I appreciated that. I liked seeing the rhythm of the place, the movement, the quiet hum of order in the chaos.

But today, all I could focus on was them.

Y/N and Flack, walking side by side, heading for the elevator. She had the case folder in one hand, coffee in the other, and that look on her face — that blend of focus and fire I’d seen since she was old enough to argue with me over bedtime.

Flack said something, and she smiled — not the polite work-smile, but the kind she didn’t give to just anyone. The one that reached her eyes.

I folded my arms and kept watching until the elevator doors closed.

“She’s not seventeen anymore, Mac.”

I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Stella.

She stepped into my office like she owned the place — which, frankly, she often did in spirit if not title.

“Doesn’t feel that long ago,” I muttered.

Stella came up beside me, looking through the same glass. “You know she’s tougher than half the people in this lab, right?”

“That’s not the problem.”

She gave me a look. “Then what is? That it’s Don?”

I paused. That was part of it, sure. But not the heart of it.

“She’s all I’ve got,” I said quietly. “I raised her by myself. Changed diapers between shifts, read bedtime stories while prepping case files. I’m her dad, Stella. That doesn’t switch off just because she grew up.”

“No one’s asking you to switch it off,” she said gently. “But maybe... loosen the grip. Let her make mistakes. Let her live. She’s not just your daughter anymore — she’s her own person.”

I exhaled through my nose, still staring at the empty elevator.

“You don’t think I notice how he looks at her?” I said. “Like he’s already ten steps in, heart first. And she’s... letting him.”

“Because she trusts him,” Stella said. “And deep down, so do you. You wouldn’t have let them work together if you didn’t.”

“That was before they were sneaking around behind my back.”

She smirked. “Oh, please. You think I didn’t know the second she started wearing her hair different and Flack started bringing two coffees to morning meetings?”

I glanced at her. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t my place. And because I knew you’d figure it out and throw a fit just like this.”

“It’s not a fit.”

“It’s a very quiet, emotionally repressed fit,” she corrected, nudging me. “But Mac… you can’t protect her from everything. And you can’t guard her heart forever.”

I looked down at the empty file in my hand — the one I’d pretended to read while watching them walk away.

“She’s my kid, Stella.”

“She’s also your legacy,” she said. “And part of that means trusting that you raised her right. Let the leash go. Let her love.”

I didn’t answer. But I didn’t argue, either.

Stella smiled softly and squeezed my shoulder. “You’ll always be her dad, Mac. But if you don’t let her live, she’ll stop letting you in.”

With that, she walked out, leaving the door open behind her.

I turned back to the glass, watching the empty lab floor, thinking of baby bottles and scraped knees and first case reports. Thinking of the man who walked out of here with my daughter like she was his entire world.

And maybe... she was.

I wasn’t ready. Not really.

But maybe it was time I tried.

…

The hum of computers, clatter of keyboards, and lab chatter had all started to die down. End of shift. That golden time when you could almost pretend the job didn’t follow you home.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, heading for the elevator, already mentally planning whether I wanted tacos or Thai for dinner when I heard the voice that could stop a riot mid-charge.

“Y/N.”

I turned. My dad was leaning against the doorway to his office, arms crossed in what looked like his serious but not angry stance.

I backtracked, stepping into the familiar glass box I’d grown up watching from the outside in.

“Hey,” I said. “Something up?”

He nodded toward his desk, like the whole conversation would be more stable if we were standing on neutral ground. “Just wanted to check if you’re coming over tonight.”

Right. Thursday night dinners. Taylor tradition. Non-negotiable when I was a kid, and still gently enforced now.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be there by 7:30.”

A pause, then the barest smile tugged at his mouth. “You can bring Flack. He’s basically part of the family now.”

I blinked, surprised. “Wow. A whole sentence with his name and no glaring? Growth.”

“Don’t push it.”

I grinned. “Okay. I’ll ask him.”

…

We showed up right on time. I rang the buzzer with my elbow while balancing the dessert in both hands. Don stood beside me with a bottle of wine, looking equal parts confident and what-if-he-hates-me nervous.

“Relax,” I muttered.

He shot me a look. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got blood ties. I’ve got trauma from the time he caught me with my feet on the breakroom table.”

The door buzzed open before I could answer, and up we went.

Mac answered the apartment door wearing a dark sweater and jeans — which, on anyone else, might’ve seemed casual. On him, it looked like he was undercover.

“Hi, Dad,” I said, stepping in and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Y/N.” He gave me a rare smile, then looked at Don, eyes scanning him with tactical efficiency.

“Detective.”

“Mac,” Don said, offering the bottle like it might shield him. “Brought your favorite.”

My dad took it. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Despite the words, his tone was almost playful. Almost.

Dinner was already laid out — roast chicken, vegetables, and roasted potatoes, because Mac was nothing if not consistent. We gathered around the table, and for a few blissful minutes, the world outside didn’t exist.

Conversation was… surprisingly easy.

Don told a story about a pigeon chasing a robbery suspect through Central Park — apparently, the bird had been more effective than two patrol officers. Mac actually laughed, real and brief.

“You know, for someone who usually reports crime with a death glare, you’re a halfway decent dinner guest,” my dad said, cutting into his chicken.

“Don’t let that get around,” Don replied. “Ruin my whole image.”

I chimed in with, “He’s only tolerable when he’s fed. And near wine.”

“Tragic,” Mac said dryly. “Your standards have fallen.”

But even as we all laughed, I could feel my dad watching. Not critically, but… observing. Calculating. Like he was mentally cross-referencing every gesture, every glance.

After dinner, Don offered to help clear the table, but Mac waved him off and told him to “go pretend to admire jazz records or something.” So Don vanished into the living room while I followed Dad into the kitchen with a stack of plates.

We worked quietly at first — like muscle memory. He washed, I dried. The sounds of running water and clinking dishes filled the silence.

Then he said, “You ever think about leaving the crime lab?”

I glanced at him. “Where’s that coming from?”

“Just a thought,” he said. “You’re sharp. You could go federal. Start your own unit. Go private sector. Less risk. More freedom.”

I handed him a plate. “You mean less dangerous.”

He didn’t answer.

I gave him a look. “This is about Don.”

“It’s about you,” he said, finally meeting my eyes. “And the kind of life I want you to have.”

“I have a life. One I like.”

He rinsed another dish and paused before continuing. “You’re my daughter, Y/N. I’ve spent every day since I was seventeen trying to protect you. Letting go of that doesn’t come easy.”

I set the towel down. “I’m not asking you to let go. I’m asking you to trust me.”

“I do,” he said quietly. “But I’m still allowed to worry.”

I leaned against the counter. “Then worry. Just don’t let it stop you from seeing I’m happy. With the work, with Don... with everything.”

He studied me for a long second — then gave a small, reluctant nod.

“You sure about him?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I really am.”

That seemed to settle something in him. He nodded again, slower this time, like he was letting it sink in.

Then his phone buzzed.

Mac dried his hands, checked the screen, and answered in the same breath.

“This is Taylor.”

I could see it in his face before he even said a word — the shift from Dad to Detective.

His eyes met mine. “That DNA collection from yesterday? Maya — the little girl. She called 911. Her mother was attacked in their apartment.”

My stomach bottomed out. “How bad?”

“Life support. They’re not sure she’s going to make it.” He was already grabbing his coat. “We need to move. Scene needs to be processed immediately.”

“I’m coming,” I said, heading for the door.

“No.” His voice was sharp. “You’ve had a long week. Let the on-call team handle it.”

“I know the layout. I talked to the mother. I talked to Maya. That connection matters.”

He looked torn — like part of him wanted to throw me over his shoulder and lock me in a closet. But the other part, the one that raised me to trust my gut, finally relented.

“Fine. But you stick with me or Flack. You hear me?”

I nodded. “Loud and clear.”

Don met us at the door already zipping his jacket. “What’s going on?”

I looked at him. “That little girl we collected DNA for? Her mother was attacked.”

His expression hardened. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, the warmth of dinner vanished — replaced by sirens, flashing lights, and another case that was about to change everything.

…

The flashing lights lit up the block like a scene from a movie. EMTs were still rolling stretchers and gear bags back and forth, and the front door hung open like a wound.

As I stepped inside with Don beside me and my father leading the way, I caught sight of Maya in the hallway — sitting on a blanket, wrapped in another, her eyes wide and unblinking.

She looked at me like she remembered, like I was the only thing in this place that made any kind of sense.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just another case.

They 100% fucking would

Don Flack x Forensic Anthropologist OC

The hum of the lab never stopped — centrifuges spinning, computers analyzing, machines whirring softly in the background. But lunchtime was a rare moment of stillness, when the day’s chaos paused just long enough for a plastic container of leftovers and a little banter.

You sat at the break room table, nursing lukewarm coffee and a container of quinoa salad you were only pretending to enjoy. Across from you, Danny Messer was mid-rant about the Knicks’ latest collapse, waving a plastic fork in the air like a pointer stick.

“…and then with two minutes left, the guy still goes for a three instead of driving in — I mean, come on, what is he thinking?”

“Maybe he’s thinking he doesn’t want to hear from you screaming at your TV again,” you said with a smirk.

Danny laughed, leaning back in his chair. “You know what, fair. But I tell you, if I coached that team—”

“You’d be arrested for throwing a clipboard at a ref,” Mac said, entering with a quiet grin and sitting beside you.

What are you going to miss the most, Mac? - Jo ...Your friendship. And your Post-it notes. - Mac

You're gonna be a great CSI one day. - Mac Thanks, boss. - Adam

I'm not as strong as I used to be. - Mac That's a load of crap and you know it. You're not as young as you used to be, but you're certainly as strong. What's that phrase the kids use? "Man up, Mac." - Sid

Thanked you for saving my life. For always having my back. - Don You're a good cop, Don. A good man. And a good friend. The loss didn't equal the gain. - Mac

You should get married, Sheldon. Start a family. - Mac Ah, you sound like Jo. - Sheldon Well, Jo's not wrong, you know. - Mac ... You can still be a father. - Sheldon Now you sound like Jo. - Mac

I don't even know her, somehow I'm proud of her. Sometimes you have to do what's best for you and make a change.- Mac Why do I get the feeling this conversation isn't just chit chat. -Lindsay

I love you, Mac. I love you, too, Danny.