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the-wild-wolves-around-you · 3 years

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hear those bells ring deep in the soul (a katsuki bakugo/reader fic)

Summary: Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. He'd worked hard to achieve his position, his fame. And now it was all going down the damn drain, along with his hearing.

~*~*

Bakugo is suffering from hearing loss as a side effect of his quirk, and he struggles with how to face this new challenge. Enter Reader with a healing quirk.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo/Reader; Katsuki Bakugo/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood & violence.

A/N: No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

Ao3 Link: Here

*****A/N Part 2: This post has now been updated to include the links to Ch 2

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here

Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. Actually, he’d argue he was tied for first place with the current Symbol of Peace, Shitty Deku. Their victory statistics were basically the fucking same, the only difference was the freckled idiot was made of smiles and sunshine and stupid fucking sugar or something. The whole world ate out of his scarred, fucked up hand, and Darling Deku ate up all the media’s attention in return.

In contrast, Bakugo wasn’t a “people person,” as Deku loved to put it, but… he also wasn’t the same fifteen-year-old brat who got muzzled on live national television. Pro Hero Dynamight was known for his crass, blunt language, his vicious streak of justice when it came to villains, but people also looked up to him. Extras cheered for him in the streets as he exploded past mid-battle. Children ran up to him on patrol and asked him to sign their books, their photos, their Dynamight merch. On one memorable occasion, that he may or may not have saved on his computer, a national news channel ran a live clip from a disaster site, a villain attack turned rescue mission after a building collapsed. The soundbite was only thirty seconds, a close up of a pale, dusty woman with a shallow cut on her brow. The splash of crimson and her bloodshot blue eyes were the only spots of color on her, everything else washed out in white plaster and cement dust, tear tracks carving grooves down her cheeks.

But the smile on her face could have lit up goddamn Tokyo.

“Dynamight saved us,” the woman had said to the news reporter, her voice full of awe and tears. “I-I got stuck under some debris, but I heard the moment Dynamight arrived, and I just knew we were safe. The battle was over a minute later, and then he just… pulled me out of the wreckage. He pulled us all out. He’s… the greatest hero I’ve ever seen.”

That was a nice stroke to his ego. And the dazed woman had been right. He had pulled everyone out of that building, and not a single person died that day, which only confirmed what he already knew:

Katsuki Bakugo was the best of the best. Deku might have been the better show pony, but Dynamight was an undefeated hero, fierce, fearless, ferocious.

Except right now… he was fucking scared out of his mind.

This couldn’t be happening.

“What?” he snarled at the extra in the white coat standing before him.

The man flinched and visibly recoiled, shuffling back a step and partially ducking behind his tablet device. When he spoke again, he’d raised his voice an entire fucking octave.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the doctor stammered, but then he seemed to regain his composure and lowered his voice a little. “I… I wish I had better news for you, Dynamight, but…”

He trailed off and swallowed, the jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the thin skin of his throat.

“But what?” Bakugo spat, something like magma roiling in his veins, pops of heat crackling against his palms like splatters of hot oil from a stove.

“B-But this… can’t come as a complete shock to you,” the doctor said as he glanced back at his tablet. “Other physicians before myself must have warned you of the risks.”

The risks. Bakugo bared his teeth in a silent snarl. What did this fucking extra, with his soft hands and softer body, know about risks? The heat in his palms grew until he could see their red-hot glow out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, who and how much do I gotta pay to fix it?” Bakugo demanded as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“That depends,” the doctor hedged and adjusted the square black glasses perched on his stupid face. “There are a variety of aid types—”

“I don’t want fuckin’ support gear or aids,” Bakugo sneered. “I want mine fixed.”

Now, the doctor’s face grew pitying. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, given a number of factors, most importantly your current occupation.”

“My current occupation?” the hero seethed, teeth bared again like a wounded dog, a cornered wolf, snapping at the world. “Are you fucking KIDDING—”

A hint of fear sparked in the doctor’s eyes, but he suddenly raised a hand, palm out in the universal symbol for stop. “Dynamight, sir, I know this is distressing, but there are other sick patients in these walls, so please refrain from using your quirk.”

“I’m not usin’ shit,” Bakugo snapped, but then the doctor’s eyes flicked downward, and Bakugo followed them to his hands, wreathed in sparks and flares of flames, lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

The breath stuttered in Bakugo’s lungs.

He hadn’t even felt himself call upon his quirk.

Even worse… he hadn’t heard it when he did.

He dropped his hands quickly, shoving them back in his pockets. Bile rose in his throat, but he washed it down with blood as he bit through his tongue.

“There has to be… something,” he gritted out, curling his hands into fists in their confines. “A healer—”

“Healers are rarer than you think,” the doctor sighed and shook his head. “And what’s more, they’re usually specific and limited. Their abilities are tied to blood types or restricted to relatives or even limbs. One nurse here can only heal femur bones.”

“Bullshit they’re rare, I’ve met at least two goddamn healers just this month,” Bakugo spat. “These paramedics—”

“And how strong where they?” the doctor cut him off again, raising an eyebrow. “You said paramedics, so I’m going to assume their talents mostly lie in the superficial and basic: triage, stopping the bleeding, knitting skin back together, etc.”

“What’s your fucking point?” He was this close to punching the asshole right in the glasses.

“My point is the inner workings of your ear are much more delicate than a broken rib or lacerated arm,” the doctor said in a really condescending tone that Bakugo did not appreciate. “But let’s say you do find a healer specific enough and skilled enough to restore the hearing you have already lost without damaging anything else in the process. What then? I don’t imagine Japan’s Number Two Hero retiring less than ten years after his debut and hanging up his quirk.”

Bakugo scowled, heart kick-starting in his chest, his gut tying itself in a knot.

No. No, that wasn’t possible. Katsuki Bakugo was a hero, the best of the best. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he would be damned if it was taken from him.

The doctor must have seen as much on the blond’s face because he sighed and adjusted his glasses again. “Exactly. Which means you’re just going to keep destroying your ears again and again, and even if say Recovery Girl was still alive, the repetitive healing sessions would destroy your own body’s healing factor, and after a while, you would still lose you’re hearing.”

“Tch.” Bakugo looked away and gritted his teeth so hard they ached.

The doctor sighed. “You’re already at moderate hearing loss, Dynamight, so while we do still have some options, they are limited. Honestly… I’m surprised you didn’t come in sooner.”

He should have. He fucking should have. He’d been noticing little things for years, but he just brushed it off, yelled at Deku to speak the fuck up and stop mumbling, told himself his phone must be a piece of shit and that’s why he didn’t hear a call or message. The low persistent ringing he’d been experiencing since UA was harder to write off, but after a while, it was also easier to ignore.

Then, on his last mission, Bakugo was shoving some weak ass villain at a couple of cops. The battle had lasted less than five minutes, and he was still itching for a fight, his quirk burning just beneath the surface of his skin, like embers waiting to explode back into flame. In the next moment, a hand had suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind, and he’d reacted out of reflex, flipping his attacker over his shoulder and nearly blasting them in the gut for good measure.

“Whoa! Fuck, dude, it’s me!” Kirishima had yelped, his skin rippling and hardening in an instant. Wide, red eyes gaped up at him, and Japan’s Number Three Hero even looked a little worried. “Didn’t you hear me? I called your name like five times.”

Bakugo had dropped Red Riot like he was on fire. No. No, Dynamight hadn’t heard his patrol partner. In fact, all he could hear in the moment was the muted wailing of sirens, the low murmur of shouting extras, and the blood roaring in his head.

Now, two days later he was standing in front of a doctor who was telling him there was nothing more they could do.

But that was fucking unacceptable. He couldn’t lose his hearing. What kind of shitty hero would he be if he couldn’t hear where the villains were in battle or where stupid extras in need of saving were in rescue situations?

He wouldn’t be a hero at all, just a fucking liability.

Bakugo tried to imagine having to retire, to hang up his hero costume, to leave Shitty Hair in charge of their joint agency. What would he do? He’d wanted, and planned, to be a hero since he was five years old. He had no other skills, not really. It wasn’t like he could work a damn desk job. Well, UA might throw him a bone, offer him a pity faculty position.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

“What… are my options?” he asked haltingly as he snapped his eyes up and locked gazes with the doctor. “You said I still had some.”

The man in the white coat blinked in surprise, but then he straightened up and tapped at his tablet. “Currently, you have a few options, but you’d receive the best outcome if we did them all together. First, we can get you fitted for some hearing aids for you to wear while you are off duty. They would significantly increase your hearing capacity in your normal day-to-day life.”

Bakugo felt his face pull into a scowl. “Off duty? I need them while I’m on duty!”

“If you wear them while using your quirk, you’ll ruin the rest of your hearing in one blow,” the doctor said with a straight face. “Hearing aids amplify sounds. Amplifying your explosions is the last thing we want.”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” the hero snapped, heat flaring through his body with a supernova.

“Since I assume you’re going to continue your hero work, I would recommend contacting a support gear company.” The doctor made a note on his tablet. “We’ll email you the contact information for several companies the hospital has connections with, and once you chose one, we can send them your file. There are numerous noise-cancelling devices out there, but given your situation, you will probably need to collaborate with them for something custom. The goal is to having something to protect your ears-- a helmet, headphones, anything really—while you are using your quirk. Between such a device and the hearing aids, I hope we can preserve what’s left of your hearing and maybe give you a little bit back. But I will warn you… you’re hearing will never be as it was. You should know that now.”

You’re hearing will never be as it was.

The words cycloned through Bakugo’s head, round and round and round, destroying every other thought in their path. He felt detached from himself, the doctor’s voice fizzling out into a muffled drone. His vision seemed to narrow and darken, like he was viewing the world at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. One minute, he was standing there in that examine room, and then he blinked and was on the street, people rushing past him like a river unbothered by the boulder in its current.

He glanced down at his hand, at the paperwork for his follow up appointment and his fitting for the hearing aids. Heat squirmed under his skin, in his veins, like something living, something that wanted to get out.

Bakugo bared his teeth, crumpled the paper in his fist, and let the heat rush through his body, down through his arm, and into his hand. He didn’t hear the crackle, but he saw the flares of light, trapped between his palm and the paperwork like fireflies.

Then he opened his hand, and he watched the wind catch the ash and carry if off down the street, out of sight.

He needed a fucking drink.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Several hours later, Bakugo stumbled out of his usual dive bar, the taste of whisky still burning a hole through the back of his throat. The night was colder than he anticipated, colder than it should be for the beginning of autumn, and he grumbled and cursed as he hunched against the wind. He squinted at his phone, debating on whether to call a car, but in the end it was too much trouble. He was less than a half an hour’s walk from his apartment, and it was late, so he wouldn’t have to worry about extras coming up to him for photos or goddamn autographs.

Besides, the whisky hadn’t helped to quench the heat writhing through his veins, in fact the alcohol only made it worse. Bakugo felt restless, all pins and needles and ants, so maybe the brisk walk would burn off some of that energy.

Decided, Bakugo turned in the direction of home and began the long, stumbling journey through the midnight streets.

Time passed as sluggishly as his feet, which he made sure to stare down at so he didn’t trip over them. Like he anticipated, he passed no one on the sidewalks, and few cars rumbled past him. It wasn’t surprising, this neighborhood was mostly shops that closed by sundown and a few residences. The dive bar he’d left was a holdover from past decades when this side of town was rougher, but Bakugo suspected the old man who owned the joint would live on for at least another decade, if only to spite the development companies that kept trying to buy him out. The ornery bastard was half the reason Bakugo loved that bar, the other half being their decent whisky and usually empty stools.

“Shit,” he mumbled as he suddenly slipped, tittering on the edge of the curb.

He shook his head and managed to regain his balance, but when he took another step, he wobbled again.

“Come on, you drunk idiot,” he hissed at himself as he stumbled once more.

Except… he’d been standing still that time.

“Hah?” Bakugo squinted down at his feet.

The pebbles around his shoes rattled and jumped. He didn’t think he was that drunk, but he slapped his cheek with a bit of heat to his palm. The snap of warmth and pain woke him up a little, but when he glanced back down at the ground, everything was still moving.

“What the fu—”

Then the road undulated under his feet like a living thing, and the shockwave hit him a moment later.

Bakugo barked a curse as he was bucked several feet into the air, twin explosions blooming from his palms so he could right himself and land on his feet. He snapped his head up as he skidded to a stop, and the breath stilled in his lungs.

Up ahead, a man stood in the middle of the intersection, staring down the road to Bakugo’s left. Black rubble and goo floated around him like asteroids trapped in a planet’s orbit, and even from a distance, Bakugo could see the crazed smile on the man’s pale, black-streaked face.

A moment later, several heroes lunged out from around the corner and barreled straight for the villain, only to be blasted backwards as the villain flung out his hands and commanded the black debris and goo to slam into the idiots.

The villain threw back his head and seemed to laugh maniacally. Bakugo couldn’t hear it, but that didn’t matter. Lava was starting to boil in his veins, burning off the last of the whisky, and Dynamight felt an equally crazed smile stretch across his mouth.

This idiot had chosen the wrong road to fuck up tonight.

Heat condensed in his palms like collapsing stars, and then he was exploding forward, the taste of ozone and nitroglycerin on his tongue.

Within moments, Bakugo was able to determine the villain’s quirk revolved around asphalt. The bastard was able to pull large chunks of it out of the road and then liquify parts of them until they were scalding and sticky.

The other heroes—whoever they were, Bakugo didn’t even care to check—struggled to evade the villain’s attacks, but evasion wasn’t Dynamight’s style. He came at the bastard head on, exploding every rock and tar puddle in his way.

Of course, asphalt was flammable, so flames were flaring up all around the street now, but Bakugo wasn’t stupid enough to get burned. If the other heroes were, that was on them.

Dynamight was here to get the job done.

“Come here, ya sonvabitch,” Bakugo snarled as he blasted apart a chunk of asphalt aimed for his head.

The villain shrieked out something high-pitched that Bakugo didn’t catch, and then the fucker was swinging out his arm, a blob of black tar following the arc.

Bakugo let out a controlled burst toward his feet and backflipped through the air, crunching down on the roof of a parked car. He could see some of the other heroes waving at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the wailing of the car alarm below him.

The villain’s sneer was a white slash on his black, goo-streaked face, and Bakugo bared his teeth back in an expression halfway between a feral grin and a beast’s snarl. He could feel the heat crackling along his palms as he contemplated his next move, but then the villain shouted something, and all the asphalt floating in the air rocketed back towards him like the fucker was a magnet.

As Bakugo watched, the debris and goo coalesced into a singular shape, liquifying and hardening in turns until a giant black arm the size of a semi was hovering over the road. The fingers wiggled in a jaunty little wave as the villain shouted something again that was lost to the car’s still wailing alarm, and then the giant hand curled into a fist and dropped down on Bakugo like the hammer of some god.

He exploded out of the way and up into the air right before the fist smashed into the car he’d been standing on, and the siren cut out with a muffled crunch.

Bakugo had barely landed before the arm was shooting out again, but this time it wasn’t aimed for him.

A stupid fucking extra had stumbled out of one of the buildings and stood gaping like a goddamn moron on the sidewalk. Several of the on-scene heroes rushed forward, but the hand swatted them aside like annoying flies. The idiot civilian was still just standing there, though, and Bakugo found himself airborne before he could even process the thought.

“Run!” he roared as he reached the extra and shoved him out of the way, but an instant later, he felt stony fingers wrap around his torso and squeeze.

Bakugo wheezed out a curse as the giant hand lifted him into the sky, the pressure around his ribs increasing with every second. The asphalt was hot in some places, too, scalding the skin of his left arm where it was pinned against his hip. He wrenched his right arm around and tried to aim at the wrist of the asphalt appendage, but the angle was off, and the few chunks he was able to blast were quickly replaced by more rubble and boiling tar.

“Fuck!” Bakugo screamed as the fist clenched down around him. His ribs strained, his lungs unable to expand, pain licking at him like the flames flickering in his peripherals.

Distantly, he heard the villain’s laughter below him, and as the arm swayed to the side, Bakugo realized he was right above the bastard. His vision swam, his ribs screaming, his arm burning, but Bakugo gritted his teeth as he aimed his right palm down. He concentrated every ounce of his quirk into his hand until it glowed white-hot, and the asphalt around him began to liquefy again.

The villain’s eyes widened as he realized what the hero was doing, and the fucker wildly swung out his arm in a last-ditch effort. The giant asphalt limb responded in kind, but Bakugo unleashed his quirk right before the arm flung him through the air.

A massive explosion rocked the street an instant later, and the subsequent shockwave slammed into his back and propelled him through a window.

He felt the impact and pain as he struck the glass, and then…

Nothing.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Ouch, fuck!” you cursed as your pricked yourself for the millionth time.

A red drop of blood beaded up on the pad of your index finger, and you scowled before you sucked the smarting appendage into your mouth. It was more of a reflex than anything, since by the time you pulled your finger out, the pinprick of a wound was already healed. Healing such a small injury would usually barely even register to you, but the clock above your desk was inching closer and closer to midnight, and you’d been up since 6am. You also skipped dinner so you could finish altering the dress you were currently working on, which didn’t help your energy levels, but you were just a few stitches away from completing your task, so you hunched back over and powered through the next five minutes.

When you were finally done, you sat back in your chair with a sigh and threw down your needle and thread. The sewing table before you swam and doubled as your vision struggled to focus on something, and you rubbed at your tired, burning eyes. You always tried to work reasonable hours, have a healthy work-life balance, but somehow you always found yourself slaving away into the dark hours of the night. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your fault. You’d lived here less than a year, so you didn’t know many people beyond your few neighbors and the old ladies who frequented your alterations shop.

You were also trying very hard to keep your grandparents’ business afloat.

Your grandfather had been a tailor, your grandmother a seamstress. They’d opened a shop together over fifty years ago, and if your parents hadn’t moved to America before you were born, you were sure you father would have taken over the family business. In the end, though, after your grandparents passed, you were the one to take up the needle and pull up your roots. You’d always loved making your own clothes, and you’d always felt… disconnected in America. Nothing had ever felt… right, no matter how many jobs you hopped around to. The US had been the only home you’d ever known, but when you and your parents spoke Japanese together, it had made something ache deep in the center of you, something you couldn’t name or place.

So, when your father said he was taking a trip to the homeland to sell his parents’ shop, you’d gone with him and somehow convinced him to sign everything over to you. Which was more than just a little insane. Your prior work history had been in food service and clothing retail, and your degree was in linguistics for fuck’s sake. You had no idea how to run a business, let alone in another country. Thankfully, you spoke Japanese fluently, so that had been one less hurtle to overcome, but everything else had been a dramatic learning curve. Getting to know the new city, figuring out the currency, hell even navigating the vastly different social norms of Japanese culture was daunting, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t have numerous fumbles along the way.

It, everything, had definitely taken some getting used to.

Now, a year later, things were just starting to really look up. You had used most of the money your grandparents left you to renovate the shop, get new equipment, and fix the upstairs apartment you lived in. About two dozen loyal customers helped to pay your bills and keep you afloat, and one-to-two new customers walked into your shop each month just on word of mouth. You weren’t rich by any means, but you weren’t struggling like you did in America. You felt… happy here, if a little tired. Fulfilled.

That might also have had something to do with your little… side business.

You bit your lip as your eyes shot to your window guiltily, like someone was watching you. You weren’t doing anything wrong—right now, anyways—but for the last six months, it’s been hard to shake off your paranoia.

And your guilt. Which was ridiculous. You weren’t hurting anyone. In fact, you were doing the exact opposite.

But it was still against the law. Here in Japan, at least.

That was another thing that took some getting used to. The Japanese government had strict laws on quirk usage, unlike in America where everything was about individualistic rights. In Japan, only heroes were given almost free reign, but even they had some restrictions on when and how they could use their powers.

For the rest of the Japanese populace, using quirks in day-to-day life, without official permission, was frowned upon at best and illegal at worst.

Because of your specific quirk, you leaned more toward the illegal side of things.

Healing quirks were rare. That’s what you’d been told all your life. Your mother’s quirk was the ability to lower fevers by somehow using her own body to regulate the temperature. Nothing super special or powerful, but she’d gone on to become a pediatric nurse, so she had used her quirk to its fullest and made a long, happy career for herself.

When you were young and your quirk manifested, you thought you would follow in your mother’s footsteps.

But as a teenager, you’d come to some hard realizations about yourself.

One, you weren’t strong enough to be a hero. You’d tried to get into a hero course in the States, several in fact. One course rejected you solely on your application, and then you failed two entrance exams. It had been a devastating blow to your youthful dreams and self-esteem, but your mother encouraged you, said being a hero wasn’t the only way to use your quirk for good.

So, you turned your focus to medicine… and quickly discovered that wasn’t right for you, either. Your mother hated when you said this but… you just weren’t smart enough. You had tried, really did, but everything was such a struggle, like Sisyphus slogging uphill through the mud. It just didn’t click for you like it did for your mom. You also hated to admit it, but you were a little squeamish. You were fine with small stuff, cuts and bruises, broken fingers, but once you had to dissect a large pig in an anatomy class, and the smell and weight of the pig’s slippery organs in your hands made your lunch rise up into the back of your throat. You somehow managed to make it through the class, but directly after you ran to the bathroom and emptied your own guts into the toilet.

With your dreams of being a hero and doctor dashed, you’d been a little aimless in college, taking random courses to fill your time and see if anything spoke to you. Then, during an 8am linguistics lecture you signed up for on a whim, something ignited inside you. Languages spoke to you like science and medicine never did. So, you’d changed your major to linguistics, minored in Japanese to feel closer to your parents, and took ever other language credit you could get your hands on. In between classes, you’d taken up sewing again while you listened to your audio assignments. It was just something to keep your hands busy at first, a skill your father taught you as a child until you abandoned it, but then your roommates complimented your work and started asking you to hem their jeans or take in their skirts. They offered to pay you, but you always declined, saying it was no trouble, you liked the work, and you liked being able to help.

At some point, you realized that was all you had ever wanted to do. Help people. And if you couldn’t save them as a hero, you would find some other way to make yourself useful.

So, you studied languages in the hopes of being able to help others communicate. You altered your friends’ clothes and made them small things like a monogrammed scarf or mittens. And, occasionally, you healed your roommates’ hangovers or food poisoning, stopped the bleeding when they cut their fingers making dinner, pushing through their pain to make them whole again. It wasn’t a lot, nothing really, but it was something, and it made you feel purposeful.

When you moved to Japan, you mourned the loss of being able to use your quirk on others, but you shoved the thought aside and focused on your work and the shop and figuring out how to settle down in your first home on your own.

Then, six months after you took over the shop, Mrs. Kojima, a little old lady in her seventies, had brought in her grandchildren’s uniforms to be patched and altered. She’d known your grandparents for many years, so she was always kind and had a story to share with you about your father in his youth or the gorgeous dresses your grandmother used to make. You always looked forward to Mrs. Kojima’s visits, and she always had a way of making you feel younger than you were, but not in a bad way. She just made you feel… nostalgic and safe, like you were listening to your late grandma talk over the phone.

This was probably why, when Mrs. Kojima slipped and fell in front of your counter, you reacted without thinking. The old lady barely had time to hit the floor and cry out before you were hovering over her, a green aura illuminating your hands. Her pain hit you a moment later, like a heated slap to the face, a bone-deep ache in your leg, but you gritted your teeth and pushed through the discomfort. Then you moved your fingers over to the hip Mrs. Kojima was clutching, and a moment later you felt the drain as your energy siphoned into the elderly woman’s body. Thankfully, it had only been a fracture, not a full break, so you barely even felt the difference in your strength, but as Mrs. Kojima gaped up at you, realization struck you like a freight train.

You had used your quirk, without a license, without permission, hell without the consent of Mrs. Kojima. Healing quirks were illegal for a reason, so many things could go wrong, and you weren’t properly trained. Your breathing hitched as panic seized your heart, squeezing like a vise, and your entire world had just begun to crash down around your ears when Mrs. Kojima sat up and threw her arms around you.

“Thank you,” she’d sniffled into your hair in Japanese. “Thank you so much.”

After the initial shock wore off, you had helped Mrs. Kojima into a chair, and she’d continued to thank you over and over again, saying how money was tight and she would have hated to be a burden to her children with hospital bills and a long recovery. She talked about how a lot of her elderly friends were in similar positions, dealing with perpetual aches and pains but having no way to pay for treatment or seek relief.

The sadness in her face had twisted something in your chest, an ache you were all too familiar with. It was the one you felt after you failed the hero course entrance exams. The ache you felt when you realized you could never be a doctor. The ache of being helpless in the face of suffering.

Your mouth had opened without your permission, and you told Mrs. Kojima that you would help her, and her friends, whenever they needed it. The elderly Japanese woman tried to wave you off, saying she didn’t want to get you in any trouble, but you had just smiled and said, “I’m fine with making a little good trouble.”

You didn’t know where your courage had come from, but you let it carry you past your fears and doubts.

So, for the last six months, Mrs. Kojima had brought all of her friends, and sometimes their children and grandchildren, to you when they were in need of healing. They always brought dresses or pants or blouses for you to fix as a cover, and you did do alterations work for them, but you also eased flaring arthritis, cataracts, fevers, and scrapped knees in the backroom. You refused to take payment for these secret services, it just felt wrong, but the little old ladies somehow always snuck large “tips” into your register when you weren’t looking.

Mrs. Kojima and every one of her friends and family members swore to their ancestors to keep your secret, and you trusted them, but you still couldn’t help proverbially looking over your shoulder, holding your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the police to barge in and take you away.

It hadn’t happened yet, but the worry of it kept you up most nights, which was maybe another reason why you threw yourself into your work until you were so tired you just passed out.

You sighed again as you stretched and felt your back pop, releasing some of the tension in your spine. Glancing at the clock, you saw it was just past midnight, and you winced. You had to be up at five tomorrow—today, now—because Mr. Akane wanted to come in early before you opened the shop. His bad knee was giving him trouble again, an old injury he’d obtained as a boy. You were unable to fully reconstruct the joint—that took more strength and stamina than you currently possessed—but you were able to soothe his pain for weeks at a time, which he was immensely grateful for. He always brought you fresh fish when he came by, “gifts” he’d emphasized when you reminded him you didn’t take payment, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. You weren’t exactly hurting for money, but you also didn’t normally splurge on fish caught just that morning, and you told yourself you deserved the small treat. Besides, the protein helped boost your energy and stamina levels, which meant you could heal more people, so really Mr. Akane was merely investing in his future treatments.

Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food, and you dragged yourself out of your chair before picking your way across your messy apartment to the kitchen. The apartment wasn’t very large, one large space for kitchen, dining, and living room, with one small bedroom and one bathroom down a hallway to the right when you walked in the front door. But it had been your grandparent’s home for many years before they bought a larger house after having your father, and it sat right above the shop, so you never had to worry about running late for work.

Bolts of fabric, some client pieces, and a few of your own personal sewing projects were strewn over every available surface of the main room, but you had the cleared path through the chaos memorized, so you were tossing leftovers in the microwave barely thirty seconds later. The warmed-up curry and rice—another “gift” from Mrs. Kojima—tasted as good as it had the last several days, and you hummed as the spiced meat slid down your throat and settled in your belly. After the first bite, your hunger seemed to hit you in full force, and you scarfed down every last bite in a matter of minutes. When you were done, the minor headache that had been pulsing behind your eyes abated, and you yawned as you rinsed off the dishes.

You set the damp plate on the edge of the counter as you reached for a towel, but then a sudden tremor, followed by a loud boom, seemed to shake the building, and the plate tittered on the counter’s edge for a moment before it crashed to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasped as you jumped back and away from the ceramic shards, but another tremor-boom combo had you stumbling, and you scrambled to grab the back of the couch so you didn’t fall on your ass.

Your wide eyes took in the broken plate scattered at your feet before they jumped to the window on the opposite side of the room. The night sky was dark beyond, cut only by the dim street light just beyond the window’s view. You held your breath as your heart hammered in your ears, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, sweat slicking your palms.

What the fuck was that? Your first thought was earthquake—you hadn’t experienced one yet, but you knew they were common in Japan—but then you remembered the booms.

Maybe… maybe an electrical box blew? But no, the lights were still working. A car crash?

Then another boom vibrated you down to your very bones, and you fell to one knee as the breath hitched in your lungs.

That sounded… closer.

With your heart in your throat, you half scrambled, half crawled the last few feet to your window, and you peeked your head over the sill just as a flash off white-hot light lit up the night sky.

“Shit!” You squinted your eyes against the glare as you leaned back from the window, but then you saw a shadow streak through the air before it crashed into a car just at the edge of your peripherals.

You had the distant thought that Mr. Takeyoshi’s vehicle was very obviously totaled before you realized the thing that had crashed into the car was a person.

Your jaw gaped open as a hero pulled himself from the wreckage and shook his head groggily. The shadows—only broken by more flares of light as more explosions and fire seemed to erupt along the street—made it difficult to tell how injured the hero was. You didn’t recognize their yellow and teal costume, but you saw patches of blood along the hero’s bulky frame, and bile burned at the back of your teeth.

Holy shit. This wasn’t an accident. It was a villain attack.

Just as you had the thought, another explosion rattled your windows, making your ears ring, and you snapped your head to the side to see a man standing in the middle of the road about half a block down.

The man—villain, you realized quickly—swung his arms around like a conductor of an orchestra, but his instruments seemed to be the black rocks and liquid swirling around him. The debris glistened like an oil slick in the light of the flames, and as you watched, the villain shouted something and slashed his arm through the air.

Then a figure suddenly exploded onto the scene, lunging out from the shadows in a flare of white-hot light. It moved too fast for you to track, but the villain swung his arm again, and rocks and viscous black goo shot toward the figure still in mid-air.

A futile scream of warning caught in your throat, but then the figure seemed to explode and backflip through the air, landing on his feet but crushing the roof of a car beneath his boots. The wailing of the car’s alarm split the air, and you clenched your teeth until they ached.

The flames illuminated this new man’s face, a snarl of white teeth against the flames and smoke, but only the barest hint of recognition flared through you before everything exploded into chaos again. Another shout from the villain had all the rocks and black slime streaking back towards him, and you watched in horror as a stony black arm fifty feet long formed above the ruined street.

You knew you should be running, trying to find cover, calling the police, but you were glued there, on your knees before the window, you fingers digging grooves into the sill.

The next fifteen seconds seemed to simultaneously happen in slow motion and at hyper speed.

The giant rocky hand wiggled its fingers before it curled into a fist and slammed down on the wailing car and the man atop it.

The man—hero, you distantly thought, although your chaotic thoughts still couldn’t place him—launched up into the air with another explosion that rattled your windows, the car alarm cutting off as the vehicle was crushed an instant later.

The blond skidded into a landing half a dozen yards away, but then you suddenly saw Mr. Takeyoshi standing on the street, a ghostly apparition framed by smoke and flames.

You blinked, and the giant hand shot toward Mr. Takeyoshi, batting away several more heroes who tried to intervene.

Then the explosive hero was just there, pushing Mr. Takeyoshi out of the way, right before the hand wrapped around him.

You could hear the hero’s anguished scream through your window as he was crushed in the fist’s grip, and the sound hit you right in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of you, bruising your insides, the pain settling into the familiar ache of being helpless in the face of suffering.

You watched uselessly as the hero was lifted up into the sky, struggling, setting off explosions left and right. Then the massive arm seemed to pause in the middle of the road, right above the villain, and your eyes locked onto the hero, his pale hair and skin stark against the black, rocky hand that held him trapped.

In the next instant, a white light, like a star going supernova, bloomed to life around the hero, illuminating the white slash of his snarling teeth before it became too bright for you to take. You slammed your eyes shut against the burning light, and the hair on the back of your neck stood on end, like the moment before lightning struck, as you dropped to the floor below your window.

Then the world exploded, the building shaking to its foundations, right before the window burst into a million shards of glass.

#bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo katsuki/reader #bakugo/reader #bakugo katsuki/you #bakugo katsuki x you #my hero academia #mha spoilers #boku no hero academia #bnha #anime #fanfic #my writings #katsuki bakugo

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danielleslegacy · 4 years

Text

For the Soul || Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

MASTERLIST

Request: yes / no

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: Reid Request because you gained a follower with your recent story!!: Can you do one where Reid and the (non-BAU) reader have a flirtationship and he’s trying to hide being a genius/being FBI because she’s more “on track” with their age range and he doesn’t want to freak her out (idk how specific you take your requests lmao)

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: it is just fluff that is all, its tooth-rotting, you’ve been warned.

Pairing: fem!Reader insert x Spencer Reid

All writing is my own, so please don’t steal this. Also, I would appreciate any feedback/comments/requests! xx

*GIF IS NOT MINE SO CREDIT GOES TO THE OWNER*

“Amazing Coffee for the huge loser in the corner,” I shout out, a grin stretched across my face. The man stood, a magnetic smile on his face, and walked over to the counter.

“Is that any way to talk to a loyal customer, Y/n,” He says, taking the black coffee (with like 6 sugars) and bringing it to his lips. I lean down onto the counter in front of me, resting my chin on my hands.

I roll my eyes in response, “What are you gonna do? Report me to the manager?”

He smirks up at me, knowing good and well that I own the little coffee shop that we’re currently standing inside of. “That and all of the other patrons might take offence,” He gestures to the empty cafe.

A laugh erupts from my chest, “We’re only empty because it’s after hours, you’re the only one that drinks coffee at this time of day, Spence.”

“We get it, you’re successful,” Spencer says, a smile still playing on his lips, “And I’m not the only one that drinks coffee at night thank you.”

“Oh yeah?” I say teasingly, raising an eyebrow in question, “Tell me, who else is drinking coffee right now?”

“Well, statistically speaking,” He begins and it's almost as if he catches himself, and he stumbles for a moment, “With there being seven billion people alive right now, there is bound to be at least one other person drinking coffee.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” he says breathily, stifling his laugh, he leans down onto the counter too so that our faces are level.

I rake my bottom lip between my teeth, his eyes watch the action intently, “I’ll have to take your word for it, pretty boy,” I say, reaching up to ruffle his hair.

“I like to think you’re the pretty one,” He says smoothly, “Must be why I keep coming back to this god awful coffee.”

My mouth drops open with a gasp, “How… DARE.. you, Spencer!” I shout, taking the cup of coffee out of his hands, “You’re not allowed to have my amazing coffee anymore, I will ban you.”

He lets out a hearty chuckle that makes my heart squeeze with affection and takes the coffee out of my hands again, “I was joking, it’s my favourite coffee.”

“That’s much better,” I say a grin spreading across my face, “How was work?”

“Long,” He says, taking another sip, “I’m just glad to be home. I missed my bed.”

“And me,” I finish for him, giving him a wink.

He nods his head bashfully, “Yes and you.”

“Where did you go?” I ask rounding the bench and begin packing away the rest of the furniture for the night.

“Florida,” he says, grimacing.

“Oh gross,” I say with a laugh, “What was happening there?”

“Nothing really,” He says quickly, “How’s the shop been? Uneventful without me dropping in at,” He checks his watch, “Seven-thirty?”

“Same old, same old,” I say waving my hand, “Can you throw me the spray and wipe?” And he does, “We had one guy come in on Tuesday morning completely hammered, he could barely stand, I had to ask him to leave.”

“You okay?” Spencer asks, walking over to hand me the tools and I begin to wipe down the tables.

“Yeah, but he was freaking out my employees, kept talking about the FBI and stuff,” I huff, “He must have been drinking at the Bar across from Quantico and walked down the street to try and have breakfast here. But I didn’t like the vibe I was getting from him and neither did the girls that were working so I asked him to leave.”

“What was he saying?” He asks, voice completely serious.

I wave my hand, “Just saying things like the FBI, only consisted of robots and people who wanted the world to burn. You know normal conspiracy theorist stuff.” I laugh. Spencer doesn’t. In fact, I can practically feel his discomfort radiating off him. I finish the table I'm on and turn around to face him, “What’s wrong?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, he left pretty quickly, I wasn’t too worried. I think a couple of my regulars are agents so I wasn’t too worried that he would get violent,” I say, letting him know that it’s not something that was bothering me.

He nods his head and leans against the counter once more letting me finish my cleaning.

After finishing it all up, I throw the spray and wipe into the back room, and walk back out to Spencer. “What’s your plans for the night?”

“I’m about to head home,” Spencer says, finishing his coffee and handing the cup back over to me, “Why?”

“I was planning on a quiet night,” I say honestly, placing the cup into the sink for the morning crew to deal with, “But if you didn't have any plans, did you want to stay here a little longer? My apartment is upstairs.”

When I was looking at a place to start my business, I remember meeting the landlord, who loved me and offered to rent me the place above it for a decreased rate if I accompanied both places, and I was quick to jump on the offer. I knew how convenient it was to be so close to my workplace and it was in a prime part of town. And quite honestly I loved the place before I even stepped into the space. It was a fairly small apartment, pretty much entirely open plan except for the bathroom, and a small space that I had turned into my study. My bedroom, living area and kitchen were all connected, with no walls separating them. And I loved it that way.

“Yeah sure,” He says, following me around and up to my apartment.

“This is where the magic happens,” I say opening the door and gesturing for him to enter, “And by magic I mean the cooking and sleeping kind.”

Spencer lets out a hearty chuckle. He throws his eyes around my apartment, and they land on my coffee table, which is littered with books. “I didn’t know you were a reader.”

I nod my head, “I love it, it lets me relax before I sleep. What about you?”

“You could say that I enjoy it,” He says taking a seat on my sofa and pick’s up the book that was on the top of the stack, C.S Lewis’ “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland”. “I’ve read this one before, it is speculated that Lewis was actually experimenting with hallucinogenic drugs when he wrote the book. So it’s not really the innocent story that it seems like originally.”

“Okay, wow, how did you know that?” I ask, impressed with his knowledge of the book.

Spencer adverts his gaze, “I think I read it in a journal once.”

I take off my coat and come to sit down next to him, sitting on it sideways, so that I can face him. “So you’re a smartie,” I say giggling.

He places the book back down and turns to me, “My coworkers like to call me the resident genius,” He says, almost as if he wasn’t sure what he was saying.

“Wow, impressive,” I say smiling up at the man, “What other things do you know?”

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” He says facing me, “I know a lot about a lot of things. That’s kind of my job.”

“What?” I ask, slightly shocked, “What do you do?”

“I’m with the FBI,” Spencer says, voice laced with self-consciousness, “I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Spencer!” I say enthusiastically, “That is so cool! Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t want to freak you out, it’s a pretty intimidating job, and I didn’t want to lose you,” He says honestly, placing a hand onto the one I have rested on the top of the sofa.

I take his hand in mine, “I am continually surprised and impressed by you mister Spencer Reid.”

“It’s actually doctor,” He smirks, his confidence building.

“Sorry, Doctor Spencer Reid,” I giggle, “so tell me, mister FBI, what’s it like?”

Spencer rolls his eyes, “It’s not as fun as you would think.”

I nod my head, listening to him tell me about his job. It’s almost like a different version of Spencer appears as he talks animatedly about each of his coworkers and what it is that he does. “And my eidetic memory helps me remember all of the things I need for cases.”

“Okay, when you said that they call you a genius you weren’t joking.”

The blush rises in his cheeks and Spencer bites his lip softly. “This isn’t freaking you out?”

“No, Spence,” I say shifting so that I’m closer to him, “Not at all, it’s incredibly attractive.”

His eyes flick down to my lips, and before either of us could make a move, his phone lets out a loud ring. To which Spencer groans and throws his head back, fishing it out of his pocket. “Sorry, it’s work,” he confesses.

“It’s fine, answer,” I say, smiling at him.

“Hello Garcia,” He begins, and I get up and walk away, to give him a little privacy.

“I’m actually with a friend,” He says, his gaze drifting to me, “Is he sure? Okay, I’ll get back to you. Bye.” He hangs up and stands, crossing the room so that he’s in front of me, “What we’re your plans for the night again?”

I look at him sceptically, “I was spending time with you, why?”

“Would you like to come to dinner with my coworkers, well they’re more like my family, because I spend so much time with them,” He starts rambling obviously nervous.

“Yeah, I would love to come, Spence,” I cut him off, “You want to drive or me?”

Tension releases from his shoulders and he beam at me, “I’ll drive.”

Once in the car, Spencer tells me that his whole team is having a group dinner, a kind of team bonding session. He briefed me on each of the members, trying to help as much as he can.

“You know I can take you back home if you’ve changed your mind, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” He says as we pull up in front of the impressive mansion, and turns the car off.

“Spencer Reid,” This draws his attention towards me, his eyes lock with mine, “I’m excited to meet them, no need to be worried.”

He nods his head and we exit the car and walk up to the door. Spencer rings the doorbell and is quickly back at my side. Nerves begin to bubble in my chest, until hours ago I didn’t even know who these people were, and they most definitely didn't know me. What if they don’t like me? Or that I’m not welcome or don't fit in? I don’t think Spencer would stop being friends with me over that, but my growing feelings for the man would complicate the situation. It’s almost as if Spencer can feel my doubts, as his hand reaches down to join with mine, he squeezes it softly.

“Thank you, pretty boy,” I say, throwing him a wink. The door opens to reveal a man, with a cloth tossed over his shoulder.

“Ey, Reid,” The man says, pulling a laughing Spencer in for a hug, and a kiss to each of his cheeks.

“Rossi,” Spencer says, stepping back, “This is Y/n.” He gestures to me.

“Hi,” I say softly, extending my hand out to shake his. But instead, the man wraps me in a hug and I let out a surprised laugh and hug him back.

“Sorry I’m a hugger, I’m David Rossi, but please call me Dave,” He says once he releases me. “Come in, Come in. We were just about to pour the wine.”

We make our way into the large kitchen and I notice the group of people stood around the island. Their laughter and conversations subside as they notice our presence. My eyes flick over the group. Each of them wears a matching expression, surprise, eventually my eyes make it to a familiar face.

“Wait, JJ?” I say, my face breaking out into a grin. The woman makes her way over to us and wraps me in a hug, which I return quickly. Once we release, she hits Spencer’s arm softly.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew, Y/n?” JJ says accusatory.

“Wait, how do you know each other?”

I let out a giggle, “JJ was my first customer when I opened my shop, and now shes my second most regular customer, I can always guarantee that she will come in and order her black coffee as soon as I open the shop.”

“Hey, I can’t help that the coffee is so good,” JJ says, shrugging.

“So you know JJ and Spencer, but not the rest of the team. So let me introduce,” Rossi says, placing a hand on my arm to guide me over to the rest of the team, JJ and Spence following soon behind. Dave introduces me to each of the members, all of them give me a warm smile and tell me that they’re glad I’m here.

“So how long have you two been dating?” The dark-haired woman, Emily, asks. “Uh,” Spencer stutters, “We’re not dating.”

“No?” Morgan questions, clearly puzzled.

“Nope,” I say, “We’re just friends.”

“Pretty boy come on,” Morgan groans.

“That’s what I call him,” I laugh, to which Morgan hums, asking what I meant without words, “Pretty boy.”

Morgan lets out a laugh, muttering that he likes me already under his breath.

“Wine?” Dave calls out to me.

I shake my head, “No thank you, I’ve got the morning shift.”

“Wait you didn’t tell me that, when do you need to be home?” Spencer quickly interjects, clearly unsure if I should be out, as he knows that I have to be up to open the shop at 4:30 if I’m on the morning shift. I wave my hand letting him know that it’s okay. Looks are thrown between members of the team, all silently swooning of Spencer and I’s obvious feelings for each other.

“Where was your shop again Y/n?” Penelope asks, a smile on her face.

I smile back at the woman, “It’s actually just down the street from where you guys work, next to Taylor’s bookshop.”

“Wait, what was the shop's name again?” Hotch questions.

“Pour l'âme, It’s french,” I laugh, “It means for the soul, but doesn’t the french version sound so much better.”

“Spencer has definitely brought group coffee to the BAU from there at like 9 o’clock at night,” Morgan says, “And there is no way that you’re open that late.”

My eyes flick to Spencer, whose face is red, “You would be right.”

“So that means that you’re making at least seven coffee’s for dear boy wonder here in your after hours,” finishes Penelope.

I nod my head in response.

“Far out Reid, if you don’t make a move I will,” Emily jokes and the group lets out a collective laugh.

The rest of the night goes on without a hitch, the team continues to make jokes at Spencer’s expense, and I'm sure that it's a normal thing for them to do anyway.

The clock ticks over to ten thirty, and Spencer and I say our goodbyes to the team. Each of them gives me a hug, aside from Hotch who had already left.

“Thank you for dinner, Dave, and thank you for having me everyone, it was great to meet you all,” I say, placing my coat over my shoulders, hoping they understand how truly grateful I am to be included.

“You’re more than welcome at my dinner table any night of the week,” Dave says, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

The rest of the team makes comments that suggest they agree. And my heart squeezes, they have successfully made me feel so welcomed and like a part of the family already. We throw goodbyes over our shoulders, and Spencer's hand falls into mine and we walk down to his car. He opens the door for me, but before I get in I wrap my arms around his waist.

“Thank you for taking me, Spence,” I say, burying my head into his chest. Spencer’s arms wrap around me and we just stand together for a moment. My heart races at the intimate moment.

“I’m so glad that you could come,” He mutter’s into the top of my hair, “I don’t think I’m going to be allowed to come without you anymore.”

I let out a laugh and pull away from him and get into the car, and we travel back to my apartment. Spencer parks his car and gets out following me to the back entrance to my apartment. We stand outside of my front door.

“I don’t want to leave you yet,” I confess, a surge of confidence racing through me, “I like being around you. In fact, I think I’m going to surgically attach us together so that I’m always around.”

The two of us laugh. Our eyes lock in the light of the moon, cliche I know, and I can tell that Spencer’s eyes are concentrated on me. His eyes flick down to my lips and I rake my tongue over them.

“I like being around you too,” He whispers, inching closer to me. I can feel his breath on my face at this point, the cinnamon scent that he's always wearing envelops my nose and I feel at home, I feel safe. He leans down slowly and hovers his lips over mine, leaving me time to pull away if it’s not something I want. And oh god do I want it. I step up onto my tiptoes and press my lips to his, bringing my hands up to hod his face. His own go around my waist and pull me closer to him. Our lips move together in perfect harmony and it's almost as if the rest of the world slips away. I swipe my tongue over his lips and he opens his mouth to me. We fight for dominance and eventually he wins, pushing me backwards a little bit and we hit my door with a thud, causing us both to laugh and break apart. I grab the back of my head.

“Ow.”

“I’m so sorry,” He says laughing. He places a hand to the back of my head, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say smiling, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth slightly. “So, when are you finally going to ask me out?” I tease.

He lets out another laugh and steps back from me, oozing confidence, “Hey you're the one that told the team that we’re just friends.”

“We are just friends,” I quip back.

He shakes his head, “Do you want to be just friends?”

I shake my head no.

“Good, me either.”

Taglist

@saucybeeches

#spencer reid #spence #dr spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal #Criminal Minds Reid #Criminal Minds AU #coffee shop au #penelope garcia #derek morgan #jennifer jj jareau #emily prentiss #david rossi #aaron hotch hotchner

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mimeparadox · 3 years

Text

The New Half-Truths about Corsets

As true as it is that corsets are often misrepresented in audiovisual and written media, and as glad as I am to see people defending them, GOD, am I annoyed by the current discourse. Not because the defenders are wrong —they’re not, in general terms—but because Twitter, Instagram, and their incentivitization of easily digestible sound bites over nuance haves stripped the conversation from all the complexity inherent in a subject as big as corsets. In seeking to be more accurate, corset defenders have often just muddied the water further, with a brand-new set of half-truths.

Here are my favorite (least favorite) talking points.

“Corsets are literally just bras!”

As a cis dude, I’ve never had reason or occasion to wear bras. I have worn corsets, though, and let me tell you, things like having to take off one’s boots after one has been out in the snow while wearing a corset is work—moreso, I imagine, that if I’d been wearing a bra. Actually putting on boots before a corset? Even harder, enough that “boots before corsets” is a common bit of advice. Corsets aren’t torture, but they do force one to rethink how they interact with the world, in ways different than bras do.

To be less glib though, yes, corsets could and did provide the sort of breast support that is now provided by bras. This doesn’t render the multiple differences irrelevant! For one, breast support is the one thing bras are meant to do: with corsets, it is secondary or even inessential, evidenced by all the corsets that do not provide breast support, such as corsets for men, old-timey corsets for kids, and underbust corsets, which are still definitely corsets.

(Megan Fox in Jonah Hex, wearing a corset that is doing exactly the same thing as a bra. Yes, I know it’s not historically accurate; that is not the point.)

What most miffs me about this argument is that it is exceedingly reductive, and displays simplistic thinking regarding both corsets and bras. Because yes, corsets were like bras…and? What is this argument trying to say, given that bras their own baggage? Is the argument that corsets aren’t torture because corsets are bras? Plenty of people find bras uncomfortable, and something to be abandoned as soon as it becomes feasible. Corsets were purely practical because corsets are bras? Plenty of bras exist for primarily aesthetic purposes—some even do a fair amount of shaping. In the end, both garments have complicated, multifaceted, and distinct features, histories, and semiotics, and trying to equate them in a single sentence says nothing useful about either of them.

“Stays are not corsets!”

Amusingly, this argument seems somewhat incompatible with the previous one, given that stays have much more in common with corsets than with bras, but here we are.

Yes, 18th- and early 19th-century stays are significantly distinct from the corsets that we see later in the latter century, and if someone wants to don Bridgerton-inspired looks that accurately reflect Regency fashions, they should not look at Victorian corsets to obtain it. And yes, one can make the case that stays and corsets were entirely different animals.

Here’s the thing, though: historically, that’s not a case that people made. Corsets are we know them weren’t considered to be a completely different thing from stays, but rather a different style of stays—two different breeds of dog, perhaps, but dogs all the same. Once the term corset entered regular parlance, the two terms were usually used interchangeably, as can be seen in multiple 19th century documents, including technical ones where differences between the two, if they existed, would have been noted.

The Duties of a Lady's Maid: With Directions for Conduct, and Numerous Receipts for the Toilette (1825)

English Patents of Inventions, Specifications, 1865, 3186 - 3265 (1866)

----

What’s more, it’s not until very recently that people began treating stays and corsets as altogether different things. Gone with the Wind, the book? The terms corsets and stays are used interchangeably. The Oxford English dictionary? Describes stays as a sort of corset. The longest-lasting site dedicated to corsets on the internet calls itself the Long Island Staylace Association, with no indication that doing so represented an inaccuracy on its part. Sure, Elizabeth Swann should have properly said “You like pain? Try wearing stays”—at least it one wanted to be more accurate (if not good: good writing is partly about making oneself understood). But speaking here, and now, looking backwards? Very few people are trying to be that precise.

Additionally, it’s worth noting that corsets have had a variety of styles and features throughout history, and the term is by no means exclusive to what we most often see as corsets. The S-shaped corsets from the Edwardian era are very different from Victorian corsets, as are the more girdle-like garments that followed. While not everything is a corset, I’ve yet to see a convincing argument that the term isn’t broad enough to include 18th-century stays.

Tightlacing, Part 1: “Almost nobody did it”

Statements about tightlacing annoy me more than most, largely because they involve clearer instances of wrongness, but also because they hit closer to home.

Tightlacing has always been an imprecisely defined term: Lucy Williams, one of the best-known contemporary champions of corsetry, talks a little bit about the various ways the term has been used in her post “Waist Training vs Tight Lacing – what’s the difference?” found on her site. Usually, it refers to a quantitative measure—your corset must reduce X amount to be considered tightlacing—although recently, the discourse appears to have adopted a more qualitative definition, applicable to any instance where someone is shown displaying discomfort at being laced into corsets, regardless of how tightly they are (or aren’t) being cinched.

(Left: Moi, wearing a custom corset from The Bad Button Corsetry; Right, Upper: Scene from Bridgerton; Right, Lower: Scene from Enola Holmes)

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Take, for example, the scene that has most recently caused a stir, from Bridgerton, where the character Prudence Featherington is seen grimacing as she is laced into her corset stays corset, while her sisters wince in sympathy and their mother, Portia, insists that she be laced tighter. Others have raised objections to this scene, focusing mainly on the fact that Portia’s mania for a smaller waist is anachronistic and makes little sense given fashions that de-emphasize the waist, but fewer have noted that for all the hemming and hawing that is being done by the characters, Prudence’s figure is ultimately not all that compressed, and seems perfectly in line with everybody else’s. Is what is been done to her tightlacing? A lot of people appear to think so! And yet, that assertion carries some implications. If Prudence is being forced to tightlace here, is everyone else with a comparable silhouette (again, pretty much everyone) also tightlacing? The answer is kind of important, especially if one also wants to claim that tightlacing was rare.

It’s worth noting that Valerie Steele’s The Corset: A Cultural History, one of the seminal works on corsetry throughout history, doesn’t actually attempt to make a case for the rarity of tightlacing. What it does attempt is to determine the accuracy of claims that women regularly laced down to 18 inches, 16 inches, or even smaller measurements, which is not quite the same thing. When exploring the question by looking at collections of surviving corsets from the era, the book has this to say: "Statistics from the Symington Collection [...] indicate that out of 197 corsets, only one measured 18 inches. Another 11 (five per cent of the collection) were 19 inches. Most were 20 to 26 inches.” While Steele readily admits this is hardly conclusive evidence, she took it as a sign that women with 16-inch waists were nowhere near as common as accounts suggested they were. Case closed, asked and answered, no one tightlaced, right?

Well, no.

Again, it comes down to definitions. Even speaking quantitatively, very few people define tightlacing as “lacing down to nineteen inches or fewer” (certainly no woman in Bridgerton is that tightly laced). The consensus, rather, is that tightlacing is not about the size of the corseted waist, but about the size of the reduction. How much people cinched, however, cannot be determined by looking only at corsets, because doing so requires not only those corsets’ measurements (and even those don’t tell the whole story, given that they don’t necessarily indicate how tightly they were worn) but also the starting measurements of the people wearing them.

In other words, say someone with a 33-inch waist uses corsets to reduce their waist measurement to 25 inches. This, according to most definitions, would be considered tightlacing—a 24% reduction!—and yet the absolute measurements would be nothing to write home about. How is that reflected in Steele’s sample of corsets? Impossible to say. A 25-inch corset could also be worn by someone with a natural 27-inch waist.

What, then, can we say about the frequency of tightlacing? Well, if we’re talking about dramatic reductions of, say, more than four inches (a two-inch reduction, by the way, can look like this—again, more dramatic than what we see in Bridgerton) one can say, with a fair level of confidence, that it was probably not the norm. And yet, “not the norm” is itself a very broad category, and given the numbers involved, “a minority of people” can easily still be “loads and loads of people”, as seen, for example, with COVID-19. Even if two percent of the population who wore corsets tightlaced, that’s still hundreds of thousands of people—hardly “almost no one”, as some argue. And if wearing corsets as seen in Enola Holmes or Bridgerton counts as tightlacing, the number becomes even higher.

Tightlacing, Part 2: “Tightlacing is bad”

Perhaps not coincidentally, another element of the current corset discourse involves taking all the baggage usually assigned to corsetry in general and applying it to tightlacing instead. Corsets are not painful, goes the argument, but tightlacing is. Corsets are not unhealthy, but tightlacing is. People could do everyday things in corsets, they’ll say, but not when tightlaced. Arguments made against corsets in the 19th century were slander made by people who just hated women (another half-truth I have little time for), but are apparently utterly unobjectionable when applied to tightlacing. This, as many modern-day tightlacers will tell you, is bullshit, but it feels like an especially odd argument to make in light of everything else.

As in, what is the point? It feels a lot like saying “I’m not sex-negative, but having sex with more than X partners is icky.” And given the history-focused slant of the current discourse, it’s safe to believe that most people arguing against tightlacing are not people who have attempted it. There is, however, an existing community that will happily tell you, based on personal experience, what tightlacing is actually like.

So from personal experience: tightlacing may not be like wearing a bra, and there are definitely some considerations that you have to take while doing it— getting dressed, sitting down, and eating are all done differently when tightly laced—but this is more logistical than anything, and also applies to other things—running in steel-toed boots is much different from running in sneakers, and the advice when doing the former is often “don’t”. Additionally, the margin for error decreases the more tightly laced one is, but corsets aren’t special in that regard: proper care is much more important when one is flying a commercial jet than when one is flying a one-seater. But yes, you can do physical activity while tightlaced. Not necessarily the sort that you could do in exercise clothes, but then, the fact that suits are not optimized for running doesn’t make suits bad.

Tightlacing, in the end, is not really different from wearing a corset. Some people will like it, some will not, but ultimately, how pleasurable or how unpleasurable it is (it’s very pleasurable, in my book) depends on what you put into it, and that’s something quite a few people—not a majority, but also not “almost nobody”—who are often far more tightly laced than people in movies, would attest to, if people listened.

#Corset #Historical Fashion #Bridgerton #Enola Holmes #Tightlacing #Stays

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mallowstep · 3 years

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Genetics ask! I know that male torties/torbies are very rare and caused by a genetic mutation, but with those who do exist, are there any prerequisites with their parents? I’m assuming they’d have to carry the red gene since tortoiseshell is one red, one not-red, but I barely know anything. And based on this, is it better to just headcanon cats like Redtail as biologically female?

alright! hello, anon.

since i had to do more research than usual for this one, reminder that:

i am not an expert. i can and will be wrong. you can find my self-corrections under #corrections, but those are only things i or others have noticed, and that i've had the time to write a correction to and explain.

disclaimers out of the way, let's talk about tortie toms. (and torbie toms, and calico toms, it's all the same deal.)

if you know how ginger works, you can skip the next few paragraphs.

orange (ginger, red, etc.) is sex-linked in cats. what this means is that the gene that causes orange cats is on the x chromosome. it is also codominant, which means that having an orange x chromosome (Xo) and a non-orange x chromosome (X) is not black or orange, but both.

basically:

X or XX: black

Xo or XoXo: orange

XXo: tortoiseshell

yeah?

now, for the rest of this post, i'm going to be writing O and o instead of Xo and X because it's one less character and i don't run the risk of putting three x chromosomes together.

okay. so because torties need two x chromosomes, they're typically female. the way tortie itself works is basically, cells activate one of the genes (O or o) at random, creating patches. so you need two copies.

wikipedia says about a third of male torties have klinefelter's, which is the XXY karyotype. while this does have physical changes associated with it, the only way to confirm (humans have) klinefelter's is to test it genetically.

luckily, cats are very helpful about demonstrating it. what with them being tortie and all.

(we're also lumping in the variations of klinefelter's here. you can get XXYY, etc., and they all fit into the same broad idea.)

anyway, the extra x chromosome can come from either the mother or the father. this makes tortie toms...not quite easier, since the prereqs are the same, but y'know. if mom is Oo, dad doesn't matter. if mom is OO, dad has to be o, and if mom is oo, dad has to be O. same rules as usual.

XXY toms are going to be...not sterile, but pretty infertile. using human stats, about 50% can produce sperm, although the likelihood of them having kits is still low. humans with klinefelter's are also taller than average, so keep that in mind.

again, and this might be a correction on my part, i can't remember, but tortie toms aren't strictly going to be visibly different than other toms.

okay, so most people stop at klinefelter's, but there are two other ways to get tortie toms: mosiacism and chimerism. these are often confused/combined, but because i strive for generally being accurate, i'll go over them both.

mosaic cats carry multiple genetic lines, because of a mutation. this can either be somatic (happens in the body, is not hereditary), or germline (happens in reproductive cells of parents, is hereditary).

this is not always a gain of a line, you can lose a chromosome as well. the difference between somatic and germline and how it affects torties goes over my head, so i'm not going to speak to it, other than i'm pretty sure we're talking about somatic mosaicism. i think. again, not a biologist or geneticist, just a hobbyist with an internet connection.

right, so what happens is basically, some cells lose their extra x chromosome, giving you a cat with karyotype XXY/XY. these cats are more likely to be fertile and generally have less effects of klinefelter's. i'm not entirely sure how this affects tortie presentation, if at all, but it does happen.

i suppose you could also have some kind of mutation that gives you an extra x spontaneously, but that would be unlikely to cause torties, because it would also have to mutate into the other O allele.

again, i really want to stress that while i'm not bullshitting, i'm also not speaking definitively here.

last up is chimerism, where two embryos fuse in the womb, creating mixed genes.

i'm using a picture of a dog, here, because this is what goes through my head when i think of chimeras. you'll have to take my word for it, but while this would be a normal tortie cat, it can't really happen in dogs without some kind of mutation. and chimerism, given the extent of the patching, is pretty likely.

right! chimera torties are going to be, afaik, normal levels of fertile, although it's likely that they can pass on either black or red, not both.

(while i'm here, before we move on, there are a lot of types of chimeras. this type is called tetragametic chimerism, and it's rare in humans but more common in other animals. it's hard to know how common it is, because the differences are often very subtle, and hard to test. it's also not mutually exclusive with mosaics or klinefelter's, just to really muddy the waters.)

i don't have statistics for how common mosaics and chimeras are, and there's always, "a different type of mutation that doesn't fall into this category"

for mosaics and chimeras, the rules for inheritance seem to be the same as for klinefelter's. there's the added note that, because there can be multiple sires within one litter, a ginger queen could have kits with a ginger tom, and get a tortie son, as long as she also...ahem...with a black(/brown, etc.) tom. (or vice versa, with all brown and a ginger.)

okay! so that's basically how it happens.

as for the second part of this question, well. "is it better?" is a matter of opinion. i don't think anyone is wrong for having tortie toms. i don't care. (a) it is possible, and (b) we're all just having fun.

i, personally, do not think redtail is karyotype XX, because i like him being sandstorm's father with brindleface. idk. i like brindleface. yes, i know this raises huge genetic problems, and it's not very canon. i don't really care. i read that redtail fic where he thinks about sand&brindle as he's dying and it hasn't left me.

that said, i'm still a sucker for trans redtail. love it. idk, this is kind of hard to explain. like? it's not my headcanon, but i still appreciate it.

anyway! to the point: if you care about statistics and likelihoods and how many tortie toms you've had in the clan, yes, you're probably better off saving your chromosome anomalies for when they need to have kits, and using XX karyotype for the rest.

(under the cut: matthew rambles about trans cats and gender identity for a while)

i'm pretty sure cats don't have the western concept of gender. i don't think they have a human concept of gender, either, but at some point i need to be able to pin down something, and i think a third/fourth gender is closer to what they have.

i've been thinking about this a lot lately, because i decided i wasn't satisfied with my old approach to trans cats. i can do better than that. i decided cats don't have gendered pronouns, so why should the solution be, "trans cats don't really get to do anything about it"

no. i am dissatisfied with that.

at the same time, for specific reasons: i also don't think cats are trans in the western sense of the word.

because if for nothing else, remember that cat sexual dimorphism has a bigger effect on their life than in humans.

like, queens are going to be uncomfortable around male cats they don't hella trust and their kits. that doesn't go away if said male cat isn't a tom. y'know?

i'm in a constant state of tweaks with this, because i basically: form opinion, test opinion, refine opinion. my initial opinion was too harsh. and!

part of what's changed is i decided i wanted fernsong to be able to raise his kits in the nursery instead of ivypool. so i had to adjust how i think the nursery and queens work, slightly, to permit for that. now, i can turn back to gender and think about it some more.

i'm not going to coin any new terms, because i'm not in that kind of mood, but i think there is some idea of a female cat who is not a she-cat. i don't think the cats would call them a tom, but i'm not sure what they would say or how they would describe it.

i think they would just, on some level, get it.

actually okay you know what! i do need some lingo here. queens = cats who are raising kits in the nursery. she-cats = XX karyotype, considers self female (cis, if you will). toms = XY karyotype, considers self male (cis, again). and uh...we'll go with...

god i hate. i don't want anything i say in this ramble to be considered "words i am going to now use consistently" because i literally just need some way to describe this for my own sanity. with that in mind, let us use molly for XY karyotype, but not a tom, and...how about gib for XX karyotype, not a she-cat.

again, i don't want that to be considered permanent, i'm just fishing at words people use to describe cats so i can have something to work with.

right so, i don't think cats think gib and tom are equivalent, but i also don't think they (as a society) care about that.

like, okay, let's say redtail is XX, but not a she-cat. there's nothing to really be done (heck, if he wants to be a queen, that's still fine), cats don't have gendered pronouns or names, but at the same time, there's an intuitive understanding of what that means.

this kind of ties into the matriarchy, kind of? like, hm, queens are an important part of the matriarchy, but at the same time, she-cats inherit family lines. not that cats inherit much, but still.

i'm getting very abstract here. take, uh, like let's say a hypothetical trans mothwing. i think a lot of people have that headcanon?

and i think, like, mothwing would not be considered a tom. if cats had a concept of sexuality, leafpool would not be straight, because she likes mothwing, and mothwing is not a tom.

but! i would still think willowshine probably is the first line for nursery visits, at least when the kits are very young.

and i don't think anyone there would be unhappy with that deal.

right. i just kept rambling for a while, because i've been thinking about this and obviously it's semi-tied to the question.

tl/dr: cats don't care about gender, because they are cats meowing at each other in the woods. if a cat says they're not agab, everyone is just cool with that.

#ask #anon #essay #long #ask to tag #jic #mine #txt #genetics #redtail #warriors genetics #trans cats

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skold · 3 years

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if 1 in 5 cis men have foot fetishes then somebody in motionless is into feet. dislike

1 in 5 cisgender heterosexual men. it’s actually slightly more than that it’s like 22% i think. it’s 1 in 4 for cis mlm. it’s rarest in cishet women, like 12%. cis wlw i think it’s in the 15% range.

assuming none of them is currently closeted then statistically speaking yes at least one member of miw likes feet

i don’t “dislike” though i mean. i’m not into feet (trust me yall would know if i was lmao) but i get it psychologically and physiologically. the part of the brain that controls the feet and the part of the brain that controls the genitals are next to each other, touching. some overlap makes sense. and yknow, from a submissive standpoint it makes sense. feet are dirty and the lowest part of the body so being under them feels very submissive. the only issue i have with dudes who are into feet is that the majority of them come into my inbox like “feet pics now” and don’t wanna pay for them lmao. nothing to do with their foot fetish specifically.

all i really mean to say here is frankly i think foot fetishes are not even that bad and people dunk on foot fetishists so hard when it’s like. who cares. if chris motionless wants to suck toes then let him.

#anonymous #asks #not that i think chris is the foot fetishist if one of them is #he strikes me as more of a boots/heels kinda fetishist than the feet themselves yfm

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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Not Your Average Love Story (SPN x CM)

Sam Winchester x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~3490

Warnings: Show-level violence, but that’s about it! It’s bizarrely fluffy.

A/N: My first square for @cmbingo: “meet the parents.” This is essentially a rewrite of Supernatural 12x01, “Keep Calm and Carry On,” except Spencer and Sam are adorable dorky murder boyfriends.

Thanks to @fangirlxwritesx67 for the read-through!

When Spencer realizes he’s in love with Sam, he’s on a plane, hoping to make it to Kansas before the sun goes dark.

He looks out the window at the too-orange light, thinking, this is a weird twist for a love story. He turns that thought over in his mind and realizes: love.

Oh.

It takes him by surprise, for some reason, but only for a second. He’s starting to get used to surprises.

* * *

Spencer has always been self-aware enough to realize that his intellect and his lack of social skills would not make it easy to strike up a traditional relationship. Then, of course, you factor in his obsessive tendencies, his attachment issues, and the stresses of his job, and it’s not actually surprising that he made it past the age of thirty before he fell in love for the first time. Considering how that ended, it’s definitely a surprise — if not a minor miracle — that he’s made it this far with Sam.

Then again, nothing about their relationship has been predictable. Spencer never guessed he’d meet his future partner while dissecting a dessicated brain.

Ever since Spencer Reid met Sam Winchester, his life has been one surprise after another.

* * *

The third unanswered call makes him nervous, but he figures Sam must be asleep, or at least he should be asleep. If Spencer finds himself doing ninety mph in his tiny rental car, it’s mostly because Kansas highways don’t seem to follow the usual laws of physics. They’re flat and endless and eerie in the grey pre-dawn light.

The moment he opens the door, Spencer knows something is wrong. He spares a wishful thought for his Kevlar, and then he draws his gun, falling automatically into the too-familiar stance as he silently descends the stairs.

There’s blood on the floor.

This doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

* * *

Spencer tends to spend a lot of time visualizing hypothetical problems and their solutions. He’s good at imagining all the potential outcomes of a particular scenario and calculating their likelihoods based on given variables. He frequently does this at night, instead of sleeping.

In other words, he worries a lot.

If he were in a normal relationship he would probably worry about normal things. For example: whether Spencer was misreading the situation, whether it was okay to run a thorough background check on them, and what to wear on a date. What would their first argument be about? What would their parents think of him? What would his mom think of them?

About thirty-six hours after they met, Sam saved Spencer’s mom from a wraith; first impressions don’t get much better than that.

The normal worries were rapidly eclipsed by Sam-specific worries. For example: what if he got cursed, what if he got possessed, and were there angels or demons after him this week. Why couldn’t Dean either drive a little slower or get a car with less antiquated safety features? How would Spencer help if Sam got hurt on the job? Should he tell the B.A.U. what he’s been learning about the supernatural?

He does end up telling them everything; Sam and Dean show up at a crime scene, Hotch almost arrests them, and it turns out that one of the serial killers they’ve been hunting for a decade is actually a skinwalker.

But the point is that when Spencer sees blood on the floor, he isn’t surprised. He’s visualized this scenario — and several hundred variations on it — before.

* * *

He hears a raised voice in the library and takes the steps two at a time. There are two complete strangers there, a blonde woman aiming a gun at a man, and Spencer’s training kicks in before he can figure out why she looks familiar.

“Federal agent, hands in the air,” he barks.

He can see the split-second when the woman thinks about turning her gun on him, but she seems to think better of it, and she sets the gun down slowly before putting her hands in the air.

“Who are you?” the man demands. “What did you do with Sam?”

“What — Sam?” Spencer asks, panic rising in his throat. “Spencer Reid, FBI. Who —”

“You’re Spencer?” he asks, brow furrowed.

Spencer realizes: “You’re Castiel.”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, gun down,” Dean interrupts. “It’s okay! She’s okay, Spence!”

“Dean? You’re alive?” Castiel grabs him before he can say anything else.

Spencer lowers his gun slowly. He’s starting to hyperventilate. He wants to know how Dean is still alive, yes, but he’s watching the way they embrace, the smile on Cas’s face and the way Dean’s shoulders seem to drop like he’s relaxing for the first time in a long time, and all he can think about is —

“Can somebody tell me where the hell Sam is?” Spencer asks, voice cracking embarrassingly.

“He’s not here,” Castiel says.

The woman looks between Cas and Spencer, eyes wide, and it’s not clear who she’s talking to when she asks, “Who are you?”

“He’s my —” Dean starts.

Cas cuts him off by saying, “He’s Sam’s —” at the same time Spencer blurts out, “He’s an angel.”

“Come again?” the woman asks, and when she sees the way Dean shifts nervously, she adds, “Not that, I don’t care about — you said angel?”

“Angel. You know. Wings, harp.”

“Not actually,” Spencer tells her, just as Cas scowls and says, “No, I don’t have a harp.”

“Cas, Spencer,” Dean says, and he pauses, swallowing hard. “This is Mary. Mary Winchester.”

Spencer and Cas speak in unison again, Cas in a gruff monotone as Spencer’s voice goes squeaky: “Your mother?”

Of all the things Spencer has worried about, he never thought he would never have to worry about making a bad first impression on Sam’s parents. Sam’s parents are dead.

Except… apparently not. Apparently Sam’s mom has been resurrected, and Spencer just pulled a gun on her.

“Nice to meet you,” Mary says softly, with a tentative smile.

For a second he freezes, staring at her, and his mind starts racing, recalculating, replanning, getting his worrying done after the fact, and Spencer has no idea what to say. He never made a plan for this.

“Nice to meet you,” he responds, flushing. “Um. Sorry about that.”

“I’d have done the same thing if I were you.” She smiles, and she doesn’t look much like Sam, but the kindness in her eyes is so very familiar. Spencer’s breath catches.

“She’s not kidding, shoulda seen the way she pinned me when I tried to introduce myself,” Dean grumbles. Then he turns to Castiel and says, “Tell me what happened to Sam.”

As Castiel starts to explain the details, Spencer calls Penelope.

“FBI, office of the brilliant but under-caffeinated,” she says, slightly less chirpy than he’s used to, and Spencer realizes how early it is. Oops.

“It’s me.”

“Oh! Boy genius! They did it, huh? Hotch called us back in, like, as soon as the sun came back on, because apparently criminals don’t stop just because the world is ending, or whatever, but he wanted to give you a day at least — hey, are you okay? How’s that handsome lumberjack of yours?”

“Sam’s missing,” Spencer says without preamble. “I need your help.”

It takes Penelope approximately a minute to find the car and identify the driver, but the identity of his passenger is a little more elusive. She types away, keys clattering ceaselessly in the background, as Spencer yawns.

“Got it! Okay, I have a cell number. If you call her, I can track it. You ready?”

“Dean, give me your phone?” Spencer asks, holding out a hand. “You stay on the line with Penelope. She can tell you as soon as she gets the address.”

“I can make the call,” Dean says. “I want to have a word with this bitch.”

“Dean,” Spencer snaps. “First of all, I’m the only person here who’s trained in hostage negotiation. Finding people is literally in my job description.”

“This isn’t a fuckin’ bank holdup, this is my brother,” Dean retorts. “It’s my job to take care of him.”

“If you call her a bitch and start in on your threatening macho bullshit, she’s going to hang up, or worse, she’s going to believe you, and then she’ll be trying to get you before you can get to Sam. I know how to talk to people like this. If I can convince her I’m scared, that I’m not a real threat, she might give something away.”

“But —”

“Secondly, the only people who know you’re alive are in this room right now, which means you’re our best chance to take her by surprise when we get there, so shut up and let me do my job.”

“You really think you can find him,” Dean says, and it’s not a question. He holds out his phone with a look of begrudging respect.

“Yes.”

Spencer thinks, I have to.

* * *

People aren’t all the same, but if you could quantify the concept of normal, if you could look at it statistically, most people would fall within the standard deviation. Most of their lives take an even, predictable shape, Spencer thinks. There are plenty of other people like them, and they seem to fit with each other, too, interlocking in an easy way that Spencer has always envied.

Spencer’s got all these awkward uneven edges and strange angles. He’s not normal, and he’s always known that.

For a long time, he doesn’t think he’ll ever find someone who’ll fit easily, not without changing him, trying to reshape him in some way. He doesn’t want to change, but he gets lonely. Most people (friends, let alone lovers) don’t last long before they get sick of his quirks. Some try longer than others, but one way or another, there’s always some jarring part of him that doesn’t match what they want.

What if they like to sleep with the windows open, even in the winter? Or if they sleep with the air conditioning cranked up in the summer? Spencer knows he should be better about compromising on little things like that, but he really prefers things a certain way. He knows it’s neurotic. He can’t help it.

Spencer is used to people staring blankly when he starts talking, but at what point will it drive someone away? When will they stop pretending to care about his Doctor Who opinions? When will they get bored of his info-dumping?

And then there are the really difficult questions. How does he tell someone he used to be an addict? What if he doesn’t want to tell them about being kidnapped and tortured? What if he does, and then they start asking questions? How does he explain his PTSD, or his nightmares, or his bedtime routine of triple-checking every lock and setting his gun within arm’s reach?

At first, when he met Sam, Spencer worried about arguments and parents and all the other normal things, but more importantly, he worried about himself. He wondered which of his irregularities would finally make Sam give up on his attempts to fit Spencer into his life.

Neither of them sleep much, but when they do end up sharing a bed, Sam has his own routine; while Spencer checks the locks, Sam draws warding symbols, lines each window and door with salt, and sets his gun within reach. He likes the windows closed and the thermostat above 68, because, he explains simply, “Lucifer runs cold.”

Speaking of Lucifer. Sam understands addiction, kidnapping, torture, PTSD, and nightmares, and he doesn’t ask Spencer to tell his stories before he’s ready. Sam has stories of his own.

Sam also has his own Doctor Who opinions, and those opinions were the cause of their very first argument. Sam is wrong, but Spencer loves that he cares enough to argue.

The first time Spencer started rambling about serial killers, he noticed Sam frowning and cut himself off, embarrassed, ready to apologize. Sam just pulled out a journal and asked him to repeat what he’d said, so that Sam could do more research on the subject later.

Sam doesn’t expect him to change. He doesn’t try to re-shape Spencer. His life is just as weird, and by all logic they shouldn’t fit, but they do. And Spencer doesn’t feel any less himself, but suddenly he realizes that he must’ve changed along the way, because he can’t imagine his life without Sam any more; if they can’t find him, his absence is going to tear Spencer apart.

* * *

It’s a tense car ride, to say the least.

Hell of a first impression, Spencer thinks again, glancing at Mary’s pale, worried face in the rearview.

Castiel and Mary are in the backseat, and they’re trying to make small talk, but Castiel seems to be about as good as Spencer at the whole “casual conversation” thing. Sam’s told him so much about Castiel, Spencer feels like he knows him, but they’ve never actually crossed paths before.

And then there’s Dean, who’s got his jaw clenched, staring straight ahead. Spencer gives him directions, and he grunts or nods, but he doesn’t say anything else.

Dean intimidates the hell out of him, but they’ve always gotten along fine, maybe because Spencer’s never yelled at him before. He’s very aware that arguing with Dean Winchester is usually fruitless at best (and deadly at worst), but he’s never been good at holding his tongue when he’s upset.

“I’m sorry,” Spencer manages to mutter eventually.

“Huh?” Dean looks at him, frowning.

“About earlier. I didn’t mean to — um.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Dean says gruffly.

“I was upset. I’m sorry.”

Dean shrugs, and he hesitates before adding, “You were right.” He looks as surprised to be saying it as Spencer is to hear it.

Spencer blinks at him a couple times before hurriedly saying, “Turn left. There.”

Cas and Mary are having a quiet conversation about the weirdness of technology, and Spencer is about to join them when Dean speaks up again.

“Garcia — she said something funny.”

“Uh oh.”

Dean snorts. “Nah, not like that. Before she hung up, she told me not to worry. Said of everybody she knows, Sam probably has the second-best odds of escaping any poor sap who tries to abduct him.”

“Second best?”

“That’s what I said. But apparently that title belongs to you.”

“I wouldn’t bet on it. All I can do is talk myself out, he’s stronger.” Spencer gives him a crooked attempt at a smile; it feels awkward on his face, but he means it when he says, “He’ll be okay.”

* * *

The funny thing is, Spencer has been in this situation before.

When it was Maeve, though, he panicked, because all he could think about was how she must feel: scared, helpless. Spencer has too much empathy sometimes. Imagining Maeve’s helplessness made him feel like he was drowning.

This is different. He’s not exactly zen about the whole situation, of course; it feels like a piece of him is missing, but he’s clear-headed, because he knows that Sam is anything but helpless. He trusts Sam to take care of himself.

Aside from the supernatural element, Sam’s job is astoundingly similar to Spencer’s, and he’s astoundingly good at it. The Winchesters have consulted on a couple cases, now, for the B.A.U. (Spencer’s still not sure how Hotch manages the paperwork) and they try to find cases in the same general area as wherever Spencer winds up, so they’ve gotten to work together a few times. Sam’s sheer competence at his job might be the most attractive thing Spencer has ever seen.

Spencer used to imagine a quiet, mundane romance. He always just assumed he’d find someone whose life was more normal than his, and he was resigned to the stress it would cause in a relationship. He’d forget to call, he’d miss dinner, he’d have to cancel plans and be absent from so much of what constituted a normal domestic life, and his partner would be left at home, alone, all too aware of how much danger Spencer could be in, helpless to do anything about it.

Instead, Spencer found Sam. Spencer never has to feel guilty about missing dinner, because Sam isn’t at home worrying about him. Sam is out there saving the world.

Sam is not going to wait for Spencer to rescue him; he might not even need rescuing, at this point. Instead of worrying about what Sam is doing and whether he’s scared, Spencer can focus on his own plan.

* * *

He and Dean circle slowly around the house. They spot the entrance to the basement, and Dean almost runs right to it, but Spencer grabs his arm and points to the sigils around the door.

Spencer notices movement through a window next to the back door, and when they creep up to get a glimpse inside, he sees two women. One is the blonde — the brains of the operation — and the other is stockier, clearly the muscle.

After a quick conversation in whispers and gestures, Dean sneaks around to the side of the house opposite the basement, and a second later Spencer hears him shout. He waits a couple seconds and glances in the window again, and sure enough, the bigger woman is gone while the blonde is watching something on a computer monitor, looking agitated. Security cameras, maybe.

Spencer is about to go inside when he sees the blonde start, look around, and grab a cattle prod. Then she’s hurrying toward a door, sliding back a heavy deadbolt, and Spencer sees a dark stairwell that must lead to the basement.

He slips through the door and follows her.

For a split-second, the scene in the basement almost stops his heart. Sam is lying on the floor, completely still, his head surrounded by a puddle of blood.

But before Spencer can really process what he’s seeing, let alone react, Sam is in motion: lashing out, grabbing her by the throat, shoving her against the wall. Spencer descends the stairs quietly with his gun at the ready, trying not to make any noise that might distract Sam right now.

Sam doesn’t need his help. There’s blood on his damp clothes and his arms are shaking as the blonde goes limp in his grip, but he’s alive; he doesn’t need Spencer’s help, and Spencer isn’t the slightest bit surprised.

When Sam turns and sees him, he doesn’t look surprised either. He just smiles, all dimples and sparkling eyes in spite of his obvious pain as he limps over.

“Sorry that took me so long,” Spencer says casually, trying to control his grin. He doesn’t want to holster his gun yet, so he keeps it trained on the woman and hugs Sam one-armed.

Sam wraps his arms around Spencer, holding on tight. Spencer rests his forehead on Sam’s shoulder, taking a second to breathe as he feels missing pieces sliding neatly into place.

“Love you,” Sam says, and the words sound like a sigh of relief. He pulls back, and he looks surprised, like he didn’t actually mean to say that out loud.

Spencer’s about to reply when he sees the woman struggling to her feet, reaching for her cattle prod, and so instead he says, “Look out.”

Sam steps sideways to give him a clear shot. Spencer shoots her in the thigh and she screams as she falls to the floor.

“See how you like it,” Sam tells her, with a vicious little smile.

“I love you too,” Spencer blurts out.

For a second they both pause, grinning at each other like idiots, their surroundings forgotten.

Then there’s a sound from overhead, and Sam asks hurriedly, “The other one. Did you take her out already?”

“Dean’s got her,” Spencer tells him. “We should check on him, then we can come back down and deal with — Sam?”

At first he can’t figure out why Sam’s mouth drops open like that, shocked and disbelieving. Then he remembers.

“Dean’s alive?” Sam asks, a smile spreading slowly over his face. Spencer nods, wrapping an arm around Sam’s ribs, supporting him as he limps gingerly toward the stairs. It feels like he’s forgetting something.

There’s another noise, and then Mary is in the doorway, looking down at them.

Oh.

Sam turns to Spencer silently, like he’s waiting for confirmation that she’s real.

Spencer nods. “Yeah. So — um. Surprise?”

Sam doesn’t actually seem all that surprised, because… of course he doesn’t. He blinks at Spencer a couple times and then he grins.

“You met my mom before I did,” Sam says, breathless and amused, and grabs the banister to haul himself up the stairs. Spencer laughs and follows him, smiling to himself.

It’s not your average “meet the parents” scene, but somehow, it fits Sam and Spencer perfectly.

Nothing about their love story has been normal. Why start now?

#cmbingo21 #criminal minds #supernatural #sam winchester x spencer reid #spencer reid fic #sam winchester fic

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moonflower-31 · 4 years

Text

I Won’t Forget You - Spencer Reid x Reader

Masterlist

Part 2

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings: Descriptions of dead bodies and cases. Usual CM stuff.

Tags: @dra-reid, @eevee0722, @ceeellewrites

~~~~~~~~~

Okay, so, maybe you'd admit that sitting next to Reid on a plane was making you nervous.

After you had made it to the jet, you carried your go back to the back of the jet where they stored the luggage. Right as you did so however, your phone began to ring. You looked at your watch and sighed. You would have to answer the phone and get on the jet. Whoever it was was going to have to accept that it would be a short phone call.

"Hello?" You answered, adjusting your bag as you made your way back to the boarding stairs of the jet.

"So~? It's probably not your lunch break yet… but how did seeing mister teacher's pet go? Did he give you any hair care tips cause he looked good for having such messy hair."

You fought the smile that formed on your face, staying put near the bathroom so your phone call could be semi-private. Though you knew that Gabriel wouldn't have cared otherwise.

"Hello Gabriel. And for your information, I'm headed out on my first case. On an actual jet of all things. So don't expect me home tonight. I don't think these cases are usually as quick as a day."

"Ah okay. So you’re avoiding the question now? Jesus, you're really into this guy." He teases.

"Gabriel I swear-!" You growl. After a much needed sigh, you close your eyes and start your statement over again. "You tease me enough about my study habits. If you don't stop this you'll need to sleep with one eye open. Maybe start wearing a night-cap so I don't cut that hair of yours." You playfully threaten. Gabriel lets out an offended gasp.

"You wouldn't!"

"I totally would. Try me."

"Grr… Fine. Get me lover boy's number and I'll call it even. I'll tell Iris we'll be alone for a few nights~" You could hear his tell-tale smirk in his voice, causing you to roll your eyes.

"Don't you even dare. You know you'll wake up in the middle of nowhere in nothing but your rainbow underwear. She's capable of more than you realize." You laugh as you warn him of what you both knew Iris was capable of doing to him if he pissed her off.

"Yeah yeah, sure don't want that to happen again. Anyway, have a good trip with that pretty boy of yours~" Gabriel teased.

"What did I say?" You warned sternly.

"What? You didn't get me the guy's number yet, so teasing is still on the table."

"Leave it to you to find a damn loophole." You groan, rubbing the creases of your forehead out with your fingers.

"Everyone please take your seats, we need to go over the case, see if we can start building a profile." Hotch announces behind you.

"Sorry, I gotta go. We're about to take off. Don't die, please." You teasingly beg before you hang up and put your phone in the slot on your belt.

"So… Gabriel, huh?"

You gulp a bit and turn your head frantically until you find where Derek had sat on the jet. You roll your eyes and specifically choose the seat farthest away from him out of spite.

"Oh hush. He's my roommate. Not what you think." You insist as you grab your bag and place it in your lap, situating the case file in front of you. As soon as you get settled into your seat, you feel a presence suddenly sit next to you.

"Sorry, I had to grab something real quick."

You feel a slight blush grow on your face as you realize who the presence was. That was also accompanied by the sudden increase in the smell of mahogany wood and soft musk. It was pleasing.

"Don't worry about it, Pretty boy. We were just talking about L/N's little 'roommate'. Weren't we?" Morgan teases. Instead of taunting back you feel like almost sinking into your seat. Why did he have to bring that up right now? Especially when Spencer was here to fucking hear?

"Living with roommates is actually more common than you think. There was a study done recently that showed a total of 18-34 percent of people have roommates. It's more logical as it helps people afford apartments with minimum wages." He explains. You sigh with relief. You were glad for Spencer’s statistic. It moved the conversation away from you. At least you hoped.

"Whatever. Still. Who is this 'Gabriel'?" Morgan asked with a determined smirk, ignoring Spencer’s statistics. You sighed. You weren't going to get out of this as easily as you thought.

Spencer swallowed a bundle of nerves as Morgan pushed aside his attempt at changing the subject. If he was truthful, he didn't want to speak about the possibility of you having someone special in your life already. Although he doubted he ever had a chance. Who was this Gabriel though? He wouldn't deny that he was curious, at least to his own conscience.

"Fine," you sigh. "Gabriel is my best friend. Well… one of my best friends. He is gayer than a rainbow and is currently working as an FBI undercover agent. Happy?"

Morgan raised his hands in defeat, chuckling.

"I'm just asking baby girl, no hard feelings." He teases.

Spencer let out an undetectable sigh of relief, his unknowingly clenched fist loosening against his leg. "He's an undercover agent? How did he get hired as one as a new graduate?" Spencer asks. "Of course there are some rare occasions where recently graduated agents have gone immediately to a semi-high position, but that in itself is exceedingly rare. Almost impossible." He rambled, finally finishing and turning towards you.

"Oh, well I think it might've been because of his family ties. His father works in the CIA. Though I doubt that his father pulled any strings. He's kind of homophobic." You shrug. "But hey, it's not too impossible. It happened for you and me, right?" You asked, wiggling a teasing eyebrow.

Spencer chuckled a bit and nodded, laughing gently. "I suppose it isn't as impossible as I make it sound. Although it still is rare. We just both happen to meet the requirements." He answers, flashing you a genuine smile.

"For someone who's pretty private about her own personal life, you're pretty open about sharing your roommate's life." Morgan speaks up with curiosity. Spencer bites back a growl and glares at Morgan to knock it off.

"Don't worry, Gabe's not that worried about his own life being leaked. He's got a squeaky clean record, and he says anything that someone finds out from someone other than him is always hearsay in court without proof."

Morgan shrugged and pulled out the case file, getting the notion that the conversation was over.

"We should get started. We'll be touching down in Illinois in a couple hours." Hotch announces, gathering everyone's collective attention. Garcia's face popped up on Derek's laptop he opened up as Hotch began to go over the case. "Any outstanding details yet, Garcia?" He began.

"No sir, the only thing I could find was that each of your victims visited stores for newborns to toddlers. Babies R Us, Bottles and Babies, you name it. Each of them also had either a wife or serious romantic partner who had recently given birth." Garcia answered, looking up from her list.

"What kind of job would you have to have to know this stuff about your victims? I don't think our unsub is stalking them." Rossi spoke up.

"Maybe they work at one of the stores? Garcia I'm gonna need a list of employees at each of those locations." Derek started.

"No wait, if they're all different stores then the idea of the unsub working at one doesn't fit… do each of these stores have the same supplier?" You speak up, looking over the case details before looking up at the rest of the team.

"Uhh… yes, a company called Mommy and Me supplies all three of the stores these men visited." Garcia clarifies.

"Good work, (L/N). Garcia, I'm going to need that list of names." Hotch informed.

"I'll get that straight back to you sir as soon as I can. Garcia out." She says, disappearing from the screen.

"So what are we thinking about behavior? Why would our unsub attack these men? And why now?" Emily spoke up.

"The stressor in this situation is most likely to do with a partner. Or perhaps something to do with our unsub's physical appearance or self-esteem. Since each of the men are dark haired and left out for anyone to find." Spencer explained, laying the folder down onto the table in front of him.

"Maybe something to do with a child? This unsub might just be a customer at each of these places. Maybe their partner recently left them and they're lashing out at surrogates for that partner." JJ suggests.

"Are we looking for a female unsub?" Morgan asks.

"I believe so." You spoke up.

"Why is that, (L/N)?" Prentiss replied.

"Well, in one of the crime scene descriptions, it was said that the newborn of one of the men was fed after their father had been murdered. I don't believe any man could do that. There weren't any leftover bottles either." You answered.

"Actually, it is possible for a man to lactate. Although very rare, some men still produce the hormone prolactin even if they have a Y chromosome. This produces the process of lactation. But I doubt that is the case here, as most examples of this happening have been influenced by medical means." Spencer expressed, his eyes widening and sparkling with wonder at his fact.

Derek groaned. "I really, really did not need to know that man."

"But he's right. If there is no trace of a bottle having been used, or of one missing, we could be dealing with a woman." Hotch affirmed. "That paired with the obvious craving of power in the way the bodies are dumped and each victim is tortured."

"What if our unsub recently had a baby also?" JJ spoke.

"That would make sense, if our unsub is finding men at these different stores, then it could be plausible for her to have taken these men while alternating between stores." Rossi points out.

"Good work everyone. When we land JJ and I will talk to the families. Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, I want you three to investigate the last dump site, see if we can gather any more information on this unsub's methods and cause. And (L/N) and Reid, I need you two to take a look at the bodies. See id there are any patterns we missed. However we need to be quick, or Galesburg is going to have another body on their hands very soon." Hotch divides the jobs, closing the folder for the case. "Reid."

Spencer looks up and turns towards Hotch. "Yeah?"

"Show (L/N) the ropes for Prentiss. Try to teach her if you can. This is a learning opportunity for her as much as this is a case for us." Hotch orders. Spencer nods in understanding, feeling nervous butterflies building up again in his stomach.

"Well, I guess you're stuck with me for a couple hours. I promise I don't bite too hard." You tease, nudging his shoulder. He smiles at your tease, letting out a soft laugh.

"Oh I know that. The question is…" he pauses, raising a teasing eyebrow. "..if I do."

You snort and laugh, shaking your head. "You wouldn't hurt a fly, Reid. No offense."

"Wouldn't hurt-" Spencer playfully scoffs. "You hearing this, Morgan?" He says with a teasing smile on his face.

"I've hurt a fly. I outsmarted its mother." Spencer insisted. Morgan snickered and looked towards Prentiss with a knowing look. She gave him one back, smiling smugly.

"Really? Outsmarted its mother? Reid, a human infant is capable of outsmarting a damn fly. But whatever you say, Fly Genius." You teased. Morgan let out a long 'Ooo' in response.

"You just got told."

"Whatever Morgan." Spencer playfully rolled his eyes, smiling still under his attempt at trying to look annoyed.

"You're just mad I ended up getting you to prove your innocence." You insist.

"You totally didn't." He retorts.

"Spence, you've always been innocent." JJ interjects.

"See? You can't deny that." You insist, a playful smile cemented on your face.

"Who knew of all of us to bond with, you'd choose Pretty Ricky first." Morgan teased.

"You're just jealous I got to talk to her first." Reid insists playfully. You roll your eyes.

"Yeah, cause without seeing a map I assume your sense of direction is terrible." You tease. He looks at you mock offended and laughs a little.

"Is not. Your eyes just met mine and you looked friendly." Spencer defended.

"Alright children settle down before you give me an aneurysm." Rossi teases in a playful sigh. You giggle and shake your head. You didn't expect that amount of welcome feelings coming especially from Spencer. But everyone was already warming up to you. It felt nice. You just hoped you didn't let everyone down.

○●♡●○

Walking off the jet, you immediately were greeted by the chief of the Galesburg PD.

"Hi, you must be the BAU. I'm Chief Anthony Sherwood. Thanks for comin' down so fast." The chief thanks, shaking Hotch's hand.

"Of course. I'm Agent Hotchner. This is Agent Morgan, Prentiss, Jareau, Rossi, Reid, and our trainee, Agent (L/N)." Hotch introduces. The chief goes down the line, shaking almost everybody's hands. (Spencer gave him a peace sign instead)

"So, a trainee huh? If we weren't so crunched for time to find this guy, I'd ask how you're liking the BAU. Come along now, we got everything you need set up at the station." Sherwood spoke to you before he gestured to everyone else and began to lead you all to the rental SUVs they had waiting for you all.

You gulp softly and sigh, clenching and unclenching your fists a couple of times before you begin to follow. It was your first case. You were a big bundle of excitement mixed with nerves that wouldn't go away.

Once inside the police station, you found a place for your things, setting them down in the main room that the Chief had set aside for you all to use.

Once you had everything settled, you began to head out to the SUVs again without much of an introduction to everyone else. Hotch had said to get to the morgue as soon as you could to take a look at the bodies. You told yourself you were just following orders.

You climbed into the driver's seat of the SUV that you had ridden to the station and immediately groaned, placing your now aching head against the steering wheel. With all the excitement of being on a case you hadn't been prepared to go on yet, you hadn't noticed you were having one of your head splitting migraines from your hyperthymesia. And lucky you, you had left the bottle of acetaminophen in your bag that you had left in the station. Great.

"Rough day already?"

You jumped with sudden fear, banging your head against the window of the car. You groan and rub the affected area, turning your attention to the owner of the voice who just spooked the shit out of you.

"Reid…" you sighed, turning back to the wheel. Of course he had followed you. He was supposed to go with you. How dumb could you get?

"Yeah… that's me." He says, a slight smile on his lips. "You okay?" He asks.

"Yes… No… No not really. With my condition, I get occasional head-splitting migraines. They usually happen at least once a month. I hadn't gotten one yet, till today. And I left my prescription in my bag." You groaned, running a hand through your hair.

"I see… but I don't think it's just the headaches."

"Guess you caught me. I'm just nervous about this being my first case. Trainee or not. I've thought about this experience plenty of times. But you can't predict what the case is gonna entail." You conclude, squeezing the steering wheel.

"That's understandable for any new agent, (L/N). Whether you're wide-eyed like Hotch and Rossi, or cautious, I think it's pretty normal. At least from my own experience."

You can't fight the urge to smile as he finished his advice. He really didn't have to do this. You were new. But then again, he probably just saw a piece of himself in you.

"Thanks Reid."

"Of course, (L/N)."

○●♡●○

"I've seen plenty of messed up injuries in my time, though I've never seen something as crude as this." The mortician said as she guided you and Spencer into the cold chamber room.

"Most places like this don't usually see much serial killer action, so it's to be expected." Spencer says, trailing off as the mortician pulled out the most recent victim.

"He looks pretty athletically built. Garcia texted me and told me they all were pretty active in the gym too. Not the same ones nor the same days though." You point out, pulling on a pair of gloves to take a look at the different injuries. "Each of these bruisings seem to be done by hand, no remnants of wood or anything else. So then how did our unsub subdue these men? They had to have been stronger than her." You questioned, looking over John McAllister's wounds near his neck.

"He wasn't strangled around his neck either… she might've used some sort of drug to temporarily paralyze the body. We've seen it before in a few cases. Was there any traces in their systems?" Spencer asks the mortician.

"Unfortunately, no. Nothing other than an increase in the production of glutamine, epinephrine, norepinephrine, and a few others." The mortician clarifies.

"Hm…" you pondered, crossing your arms briefly. "Are there any needle marks at all?"

Spencer considers what you say before he takes a gloved hand and tilts the head of the victim to the side. "Yes, behind his ear. Though the access to the blood supply would be harder to reach."

"I doubt that mattered to her." You remind.

"Can we see the others? Or have their bodies been claimed?" You ask.

"The first one, yes. But the second one no." The mortician says, putting the latest victim back in the cold chamber before pulling out the second.

"Is there a needle mark?" You ask, hoping this connection would help the case.

"Yes, around the same area too…" Spencer trails.

You turn your head to the second victim's file and narrow your eyes. "Hey… from this photo, our second victim is supposed to have long dark brown hair, our unsub is cutting the hair."

"She's trying to make them look like a partner." Spencer realizes, pulling out his phone to alert Hotch. You nod to the mortician and help her put the second victim's body back into the freezer.

Then you began to follow Spencer out of the morgue, your nerves finally having calmed down. Maybe this is what you had needed, as morbid as it was. Just to see the reality of the case instead of just your own worries and ideas of the case. You were going to be fine. You felt like a real profiler.

Of course it helped that Spencer was there, but still. It felt good. And you knew this case needed the good.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x reader fic #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #Criminal Minds Fanfiction #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid fanfic

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imaginesandinserts · 4 years

Text

Irreverent Pt. 17 - Big Brother

Title: Irreverent Pt. 17 - Big Brother Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Rating: T (Teen) Words: 2050

Irreverent Series Masterlist

Things had gone back to normal - or as normal as they ever got when you caught serial killers for a living. Cases at work had picked up with Hotch back in the driver's seat, and you were all starting to heal.

The team had successfully wrapped up a case in Kansas City involving missing children, so needless to say spirits were high. You drove back to the airport with Hotch, Spencer, and Garcia, with the others in another car behind you. Garcia had tagged along since the Unsub had been known to hack into home alarm systems and it would be good to have her on the ground with the rest of the team.

"What does everyone have going on for the weekend?" Penelope had obviously bored of listening to Spencer's lecture on quantum physics he'd been telling her about for the past 20 minutes. You and Hotch had conveniently tuned out, choosing instead to argue over your taste in music. You had been doing your best to introduce him to new artists instead of listening to The Beatles for the millionth time, and currently you were making a good case for Hozier.

"Jack's away at the lake with his cousins, so I have a free weekend for once," Hotch revealed. You were happy for him to be getting a break - he'd been working himself ragged trying to be Super Agent and Super Dad - a break was definitely a good call.

Before you could answer Penelope, your phone rang, distracting you and leaving Spencer to tell Penelope about his upcoming weekend of hustling with Emily in Atlantic City. The two of them made a dynamite duo in scheming drunk guys out of their money and had turned it into an annual tradition.

You quickly pulled your phone out of your pocket and saw - for possibly the fiftieth time that week - the name Dominic flash on your caller ID. Your brother had been pestering you for a few weeks now, trying to get in touch. No doubt he was doing your father's bidding. Being rid of him entirely had been too much to ask for.

You quickly dismissed the call, catching Hotch's glance in your direction. You shook your head at him, mouthing, "Later." He nodded in understanding, before tuning in to the conversation in the back once again.

"What about you, sugar?" Penelope asked, looking at you eagerly, awaiting your answer.

You thought for a second - what did you have planned for the weekend? With Jack away and Emily and Spencer off to Sin City, you didn't really have much to do. I should really get friends besides people I work with and their children. "Nothing planned," you said, turning in your seat to look at Penelope.

"Oh come on, Y/N! You're young! Vibrant! You should have plans. Men courting you." Penelope had been the most disappointed when you'd ended things with Cedric during the peak of the Foyet case. You had had more important things to worry about and between both of your busy schedules, actually seeing one another was becoming impossible. That was when you'd started to understand how hard it must have been for Hotch with Haley. He loved the job and he loved her, but she'd asked for him to leave it and in the end he hadn't been able to. While you sympathized with Haley, you got why Hotch had chosen the job. It would have killed him not to.

You chuckled, rolling your eyes good naturedly. "When would I meet men, Pen? The only men I meet are serial killers."

"Actually, statistically speaking, you run into at least fourteen eligible mates every time you step outside," Spencer rattled off in his all knowing voice. "Plus, you're a female of above average attractiveness, so it is actually closer to twenty for you."

"And yet, somehow, I'm single," you retorted. "I must be chasing them away with my attitude." You heard Hotch chuckle from next to you. He should laugh more. It makes him look younger.

*------------*

Penelope had talked everyone into going out once again, using the excuse that Hotch was free and didn't have Jack. You could tell he wasn't thrilled about being used as the excuse - he was so bad about enjoying bar type settings. However, he'd agreed under the agreement that everyone turned in their report to him before they left for their weekend activities. Spencer, Penelope, JJ, and Rossi had gone ahead, having quickly rushed through their reports. Hotch wouldn't leave until everyone had turned theirs in, and you didn't want him to be waiting alone, so you were sitting in his office keeping him company while waiting for Emily and Derek to wrap up as well.

When you'd brought your report up and then turned and sat on his couch instead of leaving, Hotch had quirked an eyebrow at you in question. "Can I help you?"

"Nope!" you said flouncing down on his couch. "I'm just waiting up here to make sure you can't just bail."

He rolled his eyes at you, but then fixed you with a contemplative look.

"What?"

"It's later now."

You looked at him, confused. "Yes…"

"The phone calls. You got them all week. Don't think I didn't notice."

"Right." Nothing ever really got past Hotch. "Dominic has been calling me, incessantly," you admitted.

"Your brother?"

"Yeah. I think my father put him up to it, and as he and I are no longer on speaking terms, I don't want to open any doors to communication."

"You know," he said quietly, as he walked up from his desk to come sit on the couch by you. "You don't ever talk about your mother."

"Well," you began slowly, focusing on a spot on the opposite wall as you spoke, "she wasn't really much of a mother, I suppose. My parents were that couple that should've separated a long time ago. Pretty sure I was the save-the-marriage-baby." You expected to see some pity on his face, but he simply sat and nodded, so you continued. "But, when it didn't work my mom sort of went away, always in her own world. Say what you will about my dad, but at least he was around, as much as he could be. She could've been there all the time - she just chose not to be."

Hotch had a way of making you want to talk to him. You'd tell him something awful, and sometimes he'd try to help. More often he'd just listen.

This time, he chose to speak, in his deep comforting voice. "You know, you should be proud. It's kind of amazing that you came out the way you did, given everything."

You felt a warm glow surround you as you looked up at him, sincerity radiating off of him. "Thanks, I think," you laughed.

Derek's voice cut through the moment, "Hey, let's go you two! I've got mine and Prentiss's report here," he said, striding in and placing two files on Hotch's desk.

You saw Hotch get up, undoubtedly to check their work, but you were done waiting. "Nope, that's for Monday. Come on!" And against his protests, you grabbed his jacket and led him out the door.

The four of you drove over to the bar and found a spot a couple of blocks down. As you started walking towards the bar together, you heard a voice calling you from behind, causing you to tense up immediately.

"Y/N! Y/N, wait!"

You turned to see a large dark figure moving towards the four of you, and as it got closer you recognized your brother's face. Hotch and Derek were both instantly on alert as well, ready to come between you and the man hurrying towards you.

He looked much the same as he had the last time you saw him. He stood as tall and broad as Derek, looking even more intimidatingly large in his dark suit. "Dominic! What're you doing? Following me?" You were pissed.

"I need to speak with you," your brother said, moving as if to usher you away from the others.

You took a step backwards to avoid him and instead bumped into Hotch. "Anything you want to say to me, you can say it in front of them. But remember, they're federal agents, so I'd watch my words if I were you."

He glowered at you for a moment, before accepting that he wouldn't be able to catch you by yourself. "Father has a message for you," he announced.

"Oh yeah? Still playing dad's lapdog, are you?"

"You need to go man," Derek came to stand by your side, intimidatingly.

"You're being ridiculous!" Dominic seethed ignoring him, "You're disgracing yourself and everything we've been taught."

"What's the message?" You tried to remain calm, knowing it would rile him up more to see you unaffected by his old bullying tactics. Maybe then he'd just leave.

"Come home. The family needs you." He repeated what were obviously words fed to him by your father.

"Tell father to leave me alone, Dom. I won't be his pawn anymore." You tried to do an about face and move the others along with you, grabbing Derek's arm with you.

"You're Emily Prentiss, aren't you?" You'd thought he was done, but his words towards Emily gave you all pause. "I've got a message for you as well…Valhalla says hello."

As you watched Emily's face lose all color, your brother turned around and vanished back into the shadows from where he'd come.

The mood sufficiently ruined, you all ended up back at the office so that Emily could fill you in on whatever or whoever Valhalla was.

As Emily explained her undercover role playing the IRA terrorist's girlfriend - Ian Doyle, codename Valhalla - you started to realize that you never truly know a person. Not that it changed how you looked at Emily per se, but that there are parts to people and their histories that you might never know, despite feeling as close as sisters to them.

"So, if Dominic L/N has a message from Valhalla, then that means that L/N Sr. knows Valhalla too, right?"

"Yes, most likely. I'm going to have my contacts at Interpol look into this," Emily said, in response to Derek's question.

Hotch had been pretty quiet, so the three of you turned to him to see what he was thinking. Noticing all eyes on himself, he looked at the three of you and then more specifically at just you, before sighing and pushing up from the table. Hotch spoke, carefully choosing his words, not quite meeting your eyes. "For some time now I've suspected that the CIA has a case open on Mr. L/N, and I think this pretty much confirms those suspicions."

"Wait, what? Why would you think that?" you asked, unsure of why this was the first time you were hearing about this.

Hotch sighed again, unsure of how to tell you. Slowly, he explained, "To be honest Y/N, I've suspected it since you told us about your dad. Your rejection from the CIA never sat right with me. After your dad was here the last time and the case with Dawson, it made sense that your rejection was tied to some conflict of interest they would have with you being part of the agency and not anything to do with you personally."

You swallowed, trying to process what Hotch had said. If you were honest with yourself, a small part of you knew he was right. It had never sat right with you either, but at the time you hadn't been feeling confident and had assumed your year of partying had somehow been to blame.

"You really believe that, don't you?" You looked up at him as he stood with one hand tucked into his pocket and a furrowed brow.

"Yes, I do."

"Well then, I think a visit to the CIA is also part of knowledge gathering before we can more forward and assess the full threat." Emily's past as a rogue was definitely showing here as she drew herself into commanding position. The rest of you agreed to defer to her experience, deciding that she would get in touch with Interpol and visit the CIA alongside Hotch.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds reader insert #aaron hotchner #hotch x reader #hotchner x reader #hotch x you #hotchner x you #irreverentseries #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #hotchner imagine #hotch x y/n

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jbbuckybarnes · 4 years

Text

We need to talk...

I knew that this topic of interactions will come up again, because it has never been talked all the way through, so I had this drafted for a while. So much of this old draft still resonated with this permanently unfinished discussion that I just had to edit it and post it, because I feel like it has to be said and put into one post. We can’t keep starting this conversation and then make it so dramatic that there is no conclusion or compromise. The only reason this time is more mellow is because people have better standards for this stuff due to a pandemic going on. This is written for the MCU fandom, but I’ve seen this go down in different fandoms, so here we go:

Things that are NOT at fault for readers not interacting:

The Readers. Should be clear after asking them again and again. And nothing changing. The readers at large are not at fault for a couple people being demanding or hateful. Neither are they at fault for this website and other social medias automatically putting writers at a disadvantage. They do their best with the time they have in their life (just like writers). And after asking them over months to try and reblog more and not much changing, it should be obvious that it isn’t where the problem lies. At least not 95% of it. NOW:

Things that ARE at fault for readers not interacting:

Pushing them, thinking they owe you stuff, while you tear other writers down saying that nobody owes them stuff. That happens time and time again. To me, to friends, to writers I check in with. Don't expect community to come to you when you don't come to them.

Not putting anon asks off when demands and hate get too much. It’s literally THAT easy when people get nasty. It’s sad for the nice anons, but they will understand. Save your mental health! Save the mental health of people reading that hate on their dash. I don’t know how many people constantly answering to hate I have unfollowed and I’m sure people have unfollowed me for doing the same.

Ego and hypocrisy. You can't say numbers aren't a problem and then say they are. In the same post. AND then also deny it later in some of the cases we’ve seen in recent months. Yes, that happened. In several fandoms where this topic comes up semi-regularly. And that might also be the reason people are tired of this stuff and speak out against it.

The fact Tumblr is only used approximately twice a year by most people. And has a shitty tag system. And a shitty algorithm. You are at an automatic disadvantage.

The fact some of you can't understand that 3-5% of your following interacting is a good and normal rate on pretty much all social media. The bigger you get in followers, the bigger the gap gets between followers and interaction (and demand and hate). There are literal statistics on that. 1% interaction at 10k is still good for a platform you have no power over!

The fact some of the people here call anons *haters* for pointing out that you interact w the same 10 people, making that speace seem excluding, when it's literally true what those people say!? Nothing wrong with only support the same 10 people on your blog, but then don't say that you practice what you preach (cause you don’t). You can’t demand more interaction when you don’t interact more yourself. That is how it works, for anyone, not just people of a certain follower count. If I reblog more fics, my blog gets more clout. Logical conclusion. Works for everyone. You have no time for that? Then don’t expect more back. It’s called SOCIAL media for a damn reason.

Telling people asking for Tumblr advice to interact more to make new friends but being the most defensive/indifferent person once they talk to you in DMs. Yes, that keeps happening and I know it from either my own experience or from others sharing their experiences with me. It’s kinda sad. It’s more of a minor factor in people not interacting, but I’ve seen it enough to mention it.

Making shitposts and personal posts all day and then saying you don't have the time in your life to interact w peoples' writings. Like, drabbles exist on almost anyone's masterlist. 5 minute read, easy support for a writer that might be losing motivation. Not every work has to be written like a novel to be great as hell or “quality proven.”

Oh, and there hasn't been a MCU movie in a while, making most of our readership probably currently not care about the fandom as much. Especially after Endgame ended up being a total opinion splitter.

Bonus: The misunderstanding that pushing shy readers to interact does the exact opposite. Not to start about the fact that we are in the middle of a pandemic at the moment. That means they may not have time to read and you may not have time to write. Normal. Logical. The same reason lots of people currently don’t publish. Don’t expect anything predictable and controlable out of current times.

Bonus: Check how you connect interactions to self worth and worth/fun of your writing hobby. Define what success means for you in this space, otherwise you will never be satisfied. It won’t matter if a post has 1k reblogs, you’ll always want more, because you chase an infinite metric.

Bonus: Maybe take a month to concentrate on community, getting outside of your bubble that you deny but very likely have (I’m not excluding myself from this), and actually improve interactions. Some people seem to have forgotten that when you interact with other writers, they probably interact back. Surprise! Your followers already know your tried and true fanfic friends, they want some new stuff without searching for it. Basic Marketing knowledge, know what your audience wants. If you do this for the interactions you gotta look at it from a marketing standpoint and not a pure passion standpoint. Oh: And maybe they find you interacting in the notes of someone else’s post and become an active follower. Win-Win-Win situation.

Bonus: Community is a loop, a net of interactions. Some people here have clique behavior, sound defensive and/or simply don't practice what they preach. That is not me or anyone else hating on specific blogs (I’m also no complete exception), it’s people trying to tell you that you can’t ask for shit you don’t practice yourself. Nothing wrong with supporting your friends only, but then don’t go around expecting new people to find your stuff. It’s literally THAT simple. You can’t have both!

Bonus: Ignoring some of the ride or die readers that are already there. Some of the people on here wish they had that and it’s deadass taken it for granted by some. Meanwhile I'm sitting here with Serotonin levels like christmas when someone I know reblogs my stuff and my fic gets some clout. Imma repeat myself: If you do it for the numbers, you gotta look at it more like marketing and less like pure passion.

And again: You are on a social media platform that will always put you at a disatvantage. That is not the readers' fault. It's how social media works at this point. If you want as much interaction as you can without putting in more interaction work yourself, simply share your works on here, AO3 and Wattpad simultaneously. Problem solved.

Bottomline: If you want more love on your work you gotta go beyond what you currently do, since it’s clearly not working for you. Reblog stuff from people you don't know. I don't give a sh*t if it's a 5k or a 100 follower blog. Hell, there is the whole 366 reblog challenge and some of you deadass went on reblogging the same people when that’s not really what this was made for. I, personally, haven't run out of new people to reblog, so this shouldn't be hard. Actually take time to talk to people in DM's, it takes 10 minutes in the evening to write a few people a message asking how they are or sending a cute gif. If you want stuff, you have to give it. Not leave it. People have come to me before, telling me "the community doesn't owe you stuff", no, they don't, but they do owe if they wanna be owed something back or even demand to be owed something back. Community is about back and forth. You give, you get. It's work, cause it's a big hobby. If you don't have time, that's cool, but then don't be sad about lower interaction. It’s logical that low activity from you leads to low activity from others in the long run, unless you do something worldshakingly new. You don't wanna look beyond a circle of friends or your go-to writers much? That's fine, but don't be upset about barely new people interacting cause they feel excluded or simply don’t find your work because of the same people seeing the same people reblogging the same works. What's not fine is not seeing how readers are NOT THE PROBLEM.

I haven’t talked to a single person about this that DIDN’T find the posts surrounding it demanding and completely ignoring the arguments some others had...repeatedly. Every single time it came up. Not just once but time and time again, whenever this topic comes up. You want interaction? Interact. You don’t want hate? Don’t give it a platform. As harsh as that sounds, I’ve never felt better on this platform since I put anon asks off, even when I miss the nice anons. They probably understand. PS: Again, this was written a while ago and edited to fit into a more general context now. I hope people can discuss this in a civil, non-judgmental way, because that is how I tried to write this. This is not again a specific person or group, it’s pinpointing what I see repeating for two years on this platform now, in all corners. I’d also like to mention that we are still in a pandemic and lives have never looked so vastly different, so you can’t demand anything normal in this very not normal time. Even if you do it all right, your interactions dropped in the pandemic cause people likely stay away form this platform for mental health reasons. There is so many layers to look at, these clearly aren’t all, but I hope it makes some people think about what and when they complain. Numbers will never satisfy you, they will always leave you wanting more if you don’t know why you do what you do and for what. Anyway: Be nice to each other and me in the notes in case this gets shared! No drama please! Ignore any grammar and typo mistakes, lol. Love ya!

#mine #rant #reblog discourse #discourse #long post #I didn't put the read more higher up cause it didn't work #Here we go #I already regret posting this but it has to be said in one clear post instead of a bit everywhere #rebecca talks #pls don't blow this out of proportion #I just wanted to create a list with reasons to NOT push stuff onto readers #check your own doing and your own thoughts first #I'll go hide in my blanket fort now

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batmanisagatewaydrug · 3 years

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Hey sex witch! I had sex with my girlfriend (both of us are cis women) for the first time recently and while it was a nice experience, I didn't manage to orgasm because I was too in my head about it. We talked about it and I explained to her it wasn't her fault but I can tell she feels quite bad about it. Do you have any tips for how to get into a more receptive headspace during sex? I tend to overthink a lot and I know that's causing me some mental barriers, although I'm happy to just be with her even if there's no "Happy ending" so to speak (not to be sappy but the real happy ending is just being with her) but I'd like to have that experience with her. Additionally do you have any advice on how to reassure her that it's not her fault? Even if it's just statistics or something I could quote to her, that would be helpful. Thank you for doing what you do and I hope you're keeping well!

hi anon,

we have a lot to talk about here, and in true sex witch style I’m going to begin by suggesting that we examine a bit of language you used and work to reframe it.

you mentioned explaining to your girlfriend that it’s not her fault you didn’t have an orgasm, and that’s true! but I would love to take that thought even further and point out that saying she isn’t at fault implies that somebody else is, because something happened that was sufficiently undesirable as to necessitate finding somewhere to place the blame.

that’s not the case at all! you said yourself that you had a nice experience, which should really be the only goal in mind anytime anybody has sex. (with the obvious exception of people trying to get pregnant, which also a very cool goal.) as long as everyone had a nice time, there’s really nothing to fret about at all.

but it sounds like you are blaming yourself, anon, based on the way you’re laying out what you’ve decided are your shortcomings in this area and the fact that you’ve asked for advice on how to fix them. and I hate to see that! so let’s talk about why neither you nor your girlfriend have done anything wrong and this is 100% completely totally normal and fine.

first off: you’re just... not going to orgasm every time you have sex. nobody is. it’s just not gonna happen! and that’s FINE. orgasms aren’t magical indicators of pure sexual pleasure, they’re muscle spasms that happen in response to certain stimuli. they’re nice, but they’re also not the defining factor of having good sex. (that would be, like, consent and mutual reciprocity and communication.)

second: this was literally the first time y’all had sex!!! I’m sure you have an absolutely lovely relationship, but learning how to have sex with a new person takes time and practice and, again, communication. it doesn’t matter how good sex in previous relationships might have been, there’s no universal Good At Sex skill that will let you give instant orgasms to every new partner.

each person has their own grab bag of likes, dislikes, sensitivities, wants, and needs to explore, and the exploration period with a new partner should be a time to have fun, ask questions, and keep an open mind, rather than kicking yourself because things don’t go the way you think they should.

third: speaking of the way you (and this is the hypothetical ‘you,’ dear anon, not you specifically) imagine sex should go - if I haven’t already made this clear, there’s no particular thing that’s supposed to happen during sex except that everyone present agrees to be having sex and has a pleasant time. that can involve any configuration of bodies, parts, positions, toys, kinks, and snack breaks that you like, and can end whenever you want. I tend to emphasize focusing more on quitting when it stops feeling good and/or being fun, rather than waiting for an orgasm to pop off.

since you trust me at least enough to ask my opinion on this, let me offer you some personal insight: I don’t really orgasm with partners. I mean, I don’t really have partners anymore, because I was on a year long no sex streak when COVID hit and it was all downhill from there, but back in the olden days, when I had sex with other people? I would tell them up front that they probably weren’t going to make me cum and that they shouldn’t worry about it too much or take it personally. getting that out of the way right off the bat was tremendously helpful, because it absolved everyone involved - myself included - of any expectation that we were waiting for me to cum and allowed us to focus on other, more interesting things, like literally every other part of sex.

am I saying that you should give up entirely? absolutely not! what I’m trying to communicate here is that “having an orgasm” is absolutely not the same as “having a cool and fun sexual experience,” and the faster we separate those ideas, the better.

fourth: “Makenzie this is all great, but what if I actually want to have an orgasm? how to I stop overthinking?”

okay, fine. if you’ve hung around this long you’ve earned the spicy secret sex witch tips for How To Do A Good Sex Every Time:

talk to your partner and keep having sex.

like, obviously have a big ol’ conversation about what your expectations are, how you’re defining “good” sex, ways to take that pressure off each other, etc. as one of my housemates generously pointed out while I was telling him about this (because living with me is an experience) talking about sex when you’re not actually having it is SO HEALTHY AND GOOD on every conceivable level. hop to it!

and then, like, just keep practicing. just keep having fun explorative sex to learn each other’s likes and dislikes with no baggage or expectations except growing your relationship and becoming more comfortable with one another. it’s amazing how much easier it is to relax and stop overthinking when you’ve put the work into building that kind of vulnerability and trust with another person.

#sex edventures 2021 #Anonymous

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eideticmgg · 4 years

Text

Take It Like A Man

Okay so this is a first draft of the Take It Like a Man scene and it is also my first ever fic so I would greatly appreciate any and all feedback! Also I used most of the lyrics from the bridge because I love this song okay thanks enjoy!!

“I don’t get it. Why are we here?”

“Spencer, you know I love the whole casual Friday vibe you have but you can’t wear a corduroy jacket in court. Especially not in spring!” You teased him, pulling at his old jacket.

“I- Hey! I happen to like this jacket!” Spencer mocked offense, a soft smile creeping onto his face all the same.

“Come on! Don’t just stand there, have a look around. Pick out something nice, okay?” You giggled, rushing around the store picking out shirts that Spencer couldn’t tell he wouldn’t be able to afford.

Looking around the store, Spencer was overwhelmed by how out of place he felt. To be fair, he normally felt that way around y/n but recently whenever she was near him he felt as if his heart was going to beat through his chest.

Spencer picked up a plain shirt that seemed relatively okay but winced looking at the price tag. He put the shirt back, trying to figure out why y/n had brought him to shop where he would have to sacrifice food for two months to afford one jacket.

“Spence! Over here!” Your voice called our over the music playing in the shop. Spencer felt his heart swell with affection at the nickname. He made his way over to you, seeing you stand at the dressing room with a pile of different clothes.

“Okay so, I’ve picked out a few outfits for court but I also picked some cute shirts that I thought you could wear just for the sake of looking nice!” You smiled at him, handing him the first outfit and gesturing for him to enter the cubicle.

Spencer stared at himself in the mirror, wishing he was anywhere else but here right now. He was never confident in his body, how could he be when he was so scrawny. Despite his slim stature, his clothes were almost always a bigger size as most thrift shops don’t carry formal wear in smaller sizes. He never cared much for his physical appearance because he knew he could make up for his shortcomings in the brain department. However there was something about how passionate y/n was about wanting to find him something nice to wear that made him smile. She didn’t want to fix him, she just wanted to make him feel more confident. Too bad he won’t be able to afford any of these clothes.

“Uh... Spence? You alright in there?”

Shit.

“Yeah, sorry I’ll be out in a second!” He threw on a casual shirt and exited the dressing room.

“Do you like it? I really like it, Spencer!” You smiled at him. You looked like a small child, proud that they had dressed their doll so perfectly. Spencer nodding in agreement.

“Try on the rest of the casual ones and then come out in the suit okay? I’m gonna look around for some shoes.”

Spencer nodded before heading back into the dressing room. He tried on another two shirts before giving up, sighing softly.

Looking at himself in the mirror he began to put on the suit. It felt weird to wear one that actually fit him properly.

“Hey, y/n? I-I’m ready to come out in the suit.” Spencer called out, starting to feel nervous. Why was he feeling nervous? It was just y/n. His friend, y/n. Who he saw at her lowest and then helped to become a great lawyer. Because that’s what friends do, and they were definitely friends. Nothing more. Right?

“Ah, come out!” You couldn’t help but feel excited, finally getting to see Spencer in the whole reason you organized the shopping trip. Spencer constantly over-worked himself, rarely taking care of himself and if there was one thing you were passionate about, it was self care. Plus, you like to spend time with your favorite genius, so it’s really a win-win.

Spencer slowly opened the door, walking over to you in front of the full length mirror.

“Woah...” You both breathed out.

Spencer was nearly unrecognizable in the suit. Gone was the scrawny kid who started college when he was 12, standing in front of them was a confident young man.

“I look like Warner.” Spencer grimaced, wondering if that was your plan the whole time. He stared at your reflection, trying to gauge your reaction

“But it’s just me.” You smiled softly.

“That’s the best part. Sure, the outside is new but now it just reflects what’s already inside of you. Couldn’t change that if I wanted to.” You grinned bumping his shoulder gently. “Which I do not.”

“Thank you...” Spencer gave a small smile to you, still trying to get used to his reflection. Throughout his whole life Spencer has been told he needed to change his personality if he ever to fit in. His father, his teachers, his peers all hated his ramblings and constant use of statistics. Their comments eventually led to Spencer doing his best to just not talk to them. That wasn’t very hard as none of them actually wanted him to speak to him. But now, right next to him was someone that didn’t want him to change. That for the first time liked him. All of him. Not just the fact that he was smart and seemed to know the answer to everything. “But I can’t afford this. Any of this...”

“That’s okay, I’ve got it. Spence, this isn’t just a gift. This is payment in kind. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be here right now. It was you that saw behind all this blonde to my mind.” You curled a lock of your blonde hair around your finger, a smile gracing your face. “And I’ll never be able to thank you enough for helping me, Spencer. You really are the best thing that’s happened to me here.” You grinned at him, gently putting your hand on his shoulder to turn him so you were now face to face. Looking him up and down one last time you beamed at him.

“Okay we have to buy this, I mean look at you! Spencer, you look hot! Is he not hot?” You asked the sales assistant, laughing.

Did you just say hot? Never in his entire life has Spencer Reid been described as hot. He’s never had any kind of positive comment made about his physical appearance. And for the first time, Spencer is truly speechless, the only thing he can do is blush deeply before turning back into the dressing room.

He changed back into his own clothes, grateful for the comfort they provided. He brought out the pile of clothes and met you at the till. He felt an overwhelming sense of guilt hit him as the cashier revealed the total but you seemed completely unfazed by what he considered an egregious amount for so few items. You smiled at him reassuringly before handing him the bag.

“For the new, more fashionable Spencer Reid!” You smiled at him, chuckling slightly at the growing blush on his face. He was cute when he blushed. When did Spencer get so cute? More importantly, when did he get so hot? Woah, those are not appropriate thoughts to be having about Spencer, y/n.

“Come on!” You said, quickly changing the subject. “I’m gonna go get an iced coffee, you want something?”

“Oh, uh, no thanks. I think I’ve spent more money today than I have in my entire life.” Spencer stammered out, laughing slightly at his own joke.

“Well, you know you didn’t actually spend any money today...” You teased him, a smirk spreading onto your face.

“Please don’t remind me. You know I can pay you back some of it. It might take me a while but I prom-“

“Spencer!” You cut him off promptly.

“I was just joking. You are not paying me back because you deserve this. Honestly. It’s the least I could do for all the hours you’ve spent tutoring me.” You smiled, touching his arm softly.

Both of your eyes drifted to your hand on his arm before meeting. You both jumped back slightly, not entirely sure what the feeling you were both experiencing was. Both of you froze, unsure what to do or say after a surprisingly intimate moment.

“I was actually looking over my notes from State of Indiana v. Hurn and I found some interesting similarities between that and...” Spencer broke the silence, rambling on about the similarities between two cases. You smiled fondly at him, chiming in a few times with your own points. Still you couldn’t stop your mind from wondering. More specifically you couldn’t stop thinking about how handsome Spencer looked in his suit.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #legally blonde! spencer #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot

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drprettyboyspence · 4 years

Text

Memory Lane

Dr. Spencer Reid/reader

Summary: Reader just can't seem to get to sleep one night so she decides to walk around the house she shares with her boyfriend, Spencer Reid. As she travels around the house she remembers significant moments in their relationship.

words: 2.9k

warnings: season 12 spoilers, mentioning of mental illness, nothing else to my knowledge! (just a lot of fluff)

a/n: This is my first Spencer Reid fic and I kinda went off the rails with the word count, let me know if you enjoy it :)

I turn myself over in bed for what feels like the four hundredth time this hour, facing the ceiling now. I can hear the rustling of leaves outside and the distant sirens of the city, remembering how those sounds used to bring me some sort of comfort as a child, now all I can think of is the death and tragedy being an FBI profiler has brought me into contact with, the horrors at the end of the trail of sirens. Mostly noticeably though, I hear the steady breathing of the man lying next to me in the king bed, glancing over at my boyfriend of almost 4 years I smile warmly, his unruly hair draped over the pillow, glad to see him in deep sleep. Recently he hasn’t been sleeping well, suffering from PTSD from his time spent in prison as well as all the trauma the poor man has been through in the last 10 years of his life. I quietly get out of bed, making sure not to bother him, he deserves a good nights sleep and we have to be at the BAU in a depressingly minuscule amount of hours. My feet hit the cold wooden floors and I wonder for the uncountable time “Why did we decide on wooden floors?” A memory of an argument with Spencer answers my question,

“Because silly, don’t you know that carpets can hold up to 200,000 bacteria per square inch, this room is 100 square feet, 144 square inches per square foot, that is 28,800,000 bacteria in our bedroom alone.” I remember shaking my head at him, he’s always been such a germaphobe. In fact, when we first met, he shook my hand, and later when I confided in JJ and Penelope that I had pretty intense feelings for the resident genius of the BAU, they mentioned that he usually hates shaking hands, is known for refusing to shake the hands of many people the team comes into contact with on cases. He shook my hand right away, it’s one of the things I love about him and we always say we knew right away that we had a special connection. I glance at Spencer’s sleeping frame one more time before leaving the bedroom and making my way down the hallway. There are pictures there, pictures of me and Spence, him and his mom, pictures of the team at work, Spencer won’t admit it often, but he wakes up every morning scared that he won’t remember those he loves, his mother’s dementia and schizophrenia have impacted him greatly. I stop in front of a picture of me and Spence, it’s the first picture we ever took together, Halloween almost 5 years ago now, at the FBI Halloween party.

October 2015

“Come on Y/n! How can you not love Halloween!”

“Spencer, what’s so great about Halloween!” I had asked laughing while filling up a plastic cup with punch. The party is fun, but all this dressing up just seems silly to me sometimes.

“It’s a uniquely American holiday! I mean, despite its obvious origins in the Celtic festival of Samhain and the Christian All Saints’ Day, it really is a melting pot of various immigrants’ traditions and beliefs. It became a little more commercialized in the 1950s with trick-or-treat, and today it rivals only Christmas in terms of popularity!” I catch JJ’s eyes from across the room, she gives me a sympathetic look as I’m stuck in another of Reid’s constant statistics rants. Frankly, I don’t understand how the rest of the team can cut Reid off when he’s like this. He’s so genuinely excited by this holiday it makes my budding feelings for the man standing in front of me even stronger.

“Aw you guys look so cute! Say cheese!” the always-hyper voice of Penelope Garcia shouts from across the bullpen, snapping a quick picture of me and Spence before running after Derek. I glance down at my phone and see a text from Penelope “It doesn’t take a profiler to realize how gone you are for him Y/n” I blush profusely before continuing my conversation with Spencer.

Present day

Tearing my eyes away from that specific picture, I continue walking to the end of the hallway, painfully aware that the floorboards are squeaking with my every step, hoping Spencer’s just-finished-a-case level of exhaustion will prevent him from waking up. I pass the threshold into the kitchen and see the dim light of the clock over the stove, the red 2:15 blinking back at me through my tired eyes, I just can’t seem to get to sleep tonight, I’m sure Spencer would say something like

“Chronic insomnia is usually tied to an underlying mental or physical issue. Anxiety, stress, and depression are some of the most common causes of chronic insomnia but even if you do not suffer from chronic insomnia, 35% of Americans report their sleep quality as poor or only fair.” Dating a living encyclopedia definitely has its perks I suppose. I walk towards the fridge and glance at the refrigerator, my eyes traveling to a postcard held up by a doctor who magnet. Houston, Texas the postcard reads.

February 2017

Me and Spencer had been dating for less than 6 months but as we had known each other for over a year I was falling head over heels in love with him. The last few months hadn’t been easy, Spencer learned that his mother had been diagnosed with dementia and not a day had gone by where he didn’t try and find a cure, he had been traveling to Houston,Texas to talk with his mother’s doctor, he then brought her to live with him in Virginia, it had been difficult to say the least. My fingers traced the edges of the postcard I had received in the mail this morning, then flipped it over and saw Spencer’s familiar scraggly handwriting, it read

Dear Y/n,

I was able to speak with my mother’s doctors today, I feel as though there must be more I can be doing, she seems to be responding to the medicines but I am looking into new methods of treating the disease. I miss you so much Y/n, and I miss the rest of the team as well, tell them I will be back as soon as I can, I hate the thought of you putting yourself in danger on cases without me there, not because I doubt your ability to protect yourself, but because I doubt my ability to handle being 1,402 miles away from you. Please do not worry about me, if you’re anxiously awaiting my return, stop looking at the clock because remember, when looking at a clock our brains anticipate what we’ll see faster than we actually see it, so the clock seems to stop, Ill be back before you know it Y/n.

With all my love, Spencer Reid.

I giggle quietly at the added facts, only Spencer would describe the phenomenon of a clock appearing stopped when glanced out. I’m concerned about Spencer though, I’m not sure what is going on, but there is definitely something not right with him and if I didn’t trust him so much I would consider asking Garcia to do a background check to check the legitimacy of his travels to Houston.

Present Day

This postcard is extremely bittersweet, the next week we were all rushing to Mexico, responding to a call that Spencer was in jail, I was a nervous wreck, we all were, it was an extremely rough 6 months, truly showing me how strong the man I love is. I push some of those harsh memories out of my brain, choosing to focus on the happy memories if I ever want to fall asleep tonight. There’s a coffee machine next to the fridge, if there’s one thing Spencer loves more than me, its coffee, or rather coffee flavored sugar with the amount of sweetener he puts in his cup every day. Spencer smells like coffee, almost always, he struggles to sleep most nights and therefore is always hyped up on caffeine. It's actually played a huge role in our relationship.

August 2016

Dr. Spencer Reid and I are walking to the BAU together as we do every single day, we live close to each other, close enough that he walks about 5 minutes before arriving at my house, we then walk to the coffee shop on the way to the train station. We’re best friends, but I’ve been secretly in love with him for months. Walking into Quantico, we get the daily glances from Penelope, Derek, and JJ who are sitting together looking at pictures of Henry. Penelope always teases me that we’re both so in love with each other that everyone can see it but us, it’s ironic actually. As much as I don’t believe Pen, I have been noticing small changes in Spence’s behavior the last couple months, prompting me to, in the deepest corners of my mind, hope that maybe he feels the same way, our friendship is worth too much to risk him not feeling the same way though, so I’m forever stuck. We aren’t on a case right now, so there’s a lot of paperwork to be done, at one point during the day I get up, asking Spence if he wants another cup of coffee before walking to the break room. I return after a brief 5 minutes and am surprised to see Derek sitting in my seat, arguing with Spencer.

“Come on Pretty boy! We both know you’re in love with her! Just ask her out man, she’ll say yes!”

“Morgan, quiet down, she’ll be back any minute, besides I’m 35 and Y/n is 32, I’m not saying there would even be a chance that we would get married but the marriage success rate in the United States is only 50%, the worst it has ever been, that therefore shows the state of relationships in the country as well, I don’t want to ruin our friendship, I could never lose her. Besides, I’ve never been good with women.”

“But that’s the thing pretty boy, you don’t have to be good with women, you’re already good with Y/n, she’s the one who matters, just ask her out man, you’ll regret it if you don’t.” With that Morgan walks away and I take a deep breath, its now or never, walking over to Spencer and setting down the cup, whispering in his ear,

“You never know how good with women you are until you try, Spence” He looks up at me with wide eyes and licks his tongue across his lips, something he does often.

“Um, Y/n, y-you heard all of that?” I nod and I can see Spence take a deep breath just as I did before walking over, “W-would you like to um- go to dinner with me Y/n?”

“Hmm I don’t know…” Spencer’s face starts to fall as I quickly continue “Of course I would love to go to dinner with you silly, what did you think?” His smile lights up the entire room as he pulls me into a deep hug.

“Well finally you two. You couldn’t have waited just a few more months though, I assumed you lovebirds wouldn’t get it together until after Spencer’s birthday” Rossi says from behind us, passing a pretty hefty stack of bills to Penelope.

That was the day that started the greatest adventure of my life.

Present Day

I leave the kitchen and walk to the living room, a chilly breeze blows my hair slightly askew, its June in Virginia, warm enough that all I’m wearing is one of Spence’s oversized MIT shirts with pajama shorts, but the night air causes slight goosebumps on my skin, sending me into my memories once again.

August 2019

Spencer and I are sitting on the couch, participating in yet another Doctor Who marathon on the tv, it's a rare day off from work and the hot summer air fills our living room even with the fan blowing through the house. I lie my head in Spencer’s lap as we watch the tv and his strong hand strokes the back of my neck, causing goosebumps to pop up all over my arms. I giggle and glance up at him causing him to pointedly look at me asking me with his eyes “What is so funny that you dare distract from Doctor Who?”

“It’s just strange, its 95 degrees outside but your hands on my neck give me goosebumps like its a crisp fall day, isn’t that funny baby?”

“Of course the most common cause of goosebumps is cold weather, but when you’re experiencing extreme emotions, the human body responds in a variety of ways. Two common responses include increased electrical activity in the muscles just under the skin and increased depth or heaviness of breathing, resulting in goosebumps.” I roll my eyes at him and playfully swat his hair out of his eyes.

“Only you, Dr. Spencer Reid, would take a romantic statement and turn it into statistics, and I love you for that” he kisses me and well, the Doctor Who marathon was quickly turned off after that.

Present Day

As I turn the corner into the living room I smile warmly, it’s the room that Spencer and I like the best. There are book cases lining the back wall, Spencer loves books, I’d ask him what made his books so special and he’d tell me stories of his childhood, his mom reading him 15th century literature, I loved when Spence told me stories about his childhood.

December 2017

I knocked on the door of Spencer’s apartment, it wasn’t like him to be late for our daily walk to work especially because he had been on probation after his time in jail. I received no answer, prompting my concern as I unlocked the door with the key he had given me. I walked into his living room and saw him, Spencer was sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by books, running his fingers up and down the pages as he does when he’s reading at his top speed.

“Spence what on earth are you doing! Where did all these books come from? We aren’t on a case are we?”

“This year in the United States alone there have been 328,259 new books published, I read at 20,000 words per minute but at an average of 100,000 words per book, it would take me 27,377 hours to read all those books!”

“Oh Spencer how I love you, you don’t need to read every book ever published, are you going to start reading romance novels?” I tease while picking up a copy of 50 Shades of Gray from the ground at Spencer’s feet.

“Okay maybe you’re right, I just feel like I missed so much time when I was incarcerated, all that reading I could’ve done when I was trapped in that place, it's time I can never get back.”

“Spencer, I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you, but this is not going to help that feeling go away, let’s go to work.” Spencer nodded and began to tidy up the floor before following me out the door.

“Wait, Y/n, I have to ask you something that I’ve meant to say since I’ve gotten out of jail, and I might as well say it now, will you move in with me?” He’s chewing on his bottom lip again and I jump into his arms in excitement, kissing his hair as he caresses the back of my head.

“Of course I’ll move in with you! I love you, Dr. Spencer Reid.”

“And I love you Y/n Y/l/n.”

Present Day

I’m coming around to the opposite side of the living room now, sitting down on the couch in front of the fireplace. I love the fireplace in our house and I think secretly Spencer does too. We argued for days over the safety of having a fireplace in our house, Spencer of course supplied with enough knowledge of house fires to last him 5 lifetimes, “But Spencer it’ll be so cozy, doesn’t it sound romantic to cuddle up by the fire?” I had pleaded with him the day we toured the house for the first time.

“Y/n, there were an average of 357,400 residential fires per year in the US between 2012 and 2014, an average of 22,300 of those fires were caused by a fireplace or chimney!”

“But Spenceee, that’s only 6.24% of the residential house fires during that period, 43.9% were from cooking equipment, are you going to forbid us from having a kitchen too?” Hey, don’t underestimate how useful a cellphone calculator and a quick google search can be in winning an argument against your genius boyfriend. Obviously, we had ended up agreeing on the fireplace, but Spencer was still overly cautious whenever it was in use. As I stood in front of the fireplace I became hyper aware of the floorboards creaking in the hallway just as they had done when I left the room earlier, I felt a presence enter the room and the 6’1” frame of my boyfriend wrapped his long arms around me from behind while burying his face in the hollow of my shoulder.

“Hi, baby, what are you doing up so late? Are you feeling okay? Can’t seem to get to sleep?” I nod back at him and recline my head so it rests on his strong chest.

“I was just taking a trip down memory lane I suppose” I say before smiling up at the love of my life.

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