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bleakviolet · 10 months

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dormitory imp (version 1)

Author's note: I wrote this one shortly after turning 21, and at the time, I was lonely, dangerously malnourished, and experiencing severe symptoms of what I presume might be classified as "mania". My writing here is clunky and unnatural; I'm well aware. For the sake of preservation, I don't have plans to revise it.

Context: I’m twenty. I’m a student. I bus tables for my campus cafeteria.

I pace the cafeteria with my head drooped as I scrub tables and fill napkin containers and restock silverware and trash empty salt and pepper shakers to make space for fresh ones and promptly forget that I accomplish any of the former tasks, and while shuffling between booths with my drippy towel in hand, I look up and find that an unkempt and vacant booth in need of cleaning is not, in fact, vacant, and that there is somebody still there, whose eyes meet mine only momentarily, just long enough that I catch their pupils contract before averting at the same time as the person exhales a short and embarrassed breath of relief—not so much, I suppose, the sort of breath one expels upon feeling relief but the sort of breath one expels in order to feel relief, though the exact qualities of sound and expression which contribute to one impression over the other I cannot place. An instinct, I suppose. In frank terms, I am unfocused, and I know I am unfocused because I assure myself of such; I warn me that I need to be careful of my physical surroundings to avoid startling another person while my boss or a coworker or someone willing to report me to either happens to be in the room and can get me fired, and I remind me of the reason for my being distracted in the first place, which is that I hate my name. And thinking about my name, or—as I learn in the next brief period of awareness due after several more fleeting chores elapse—thinking about how I need to stop thinking about my name, gets me thinking about how my roommate pronounces it (the correct way, albeit, but except for him saying it, it is easy to forget):

“keR-”: There is no letter in the English alphabet more masculine than the R. Robert. Roger. Red. GolfeR. CigaRette. EntRepReneuR. And there is no sound more masculine than keR. The first step to uttering my name is to spread the lips vertically, just as if to enunciate that R sound, only wider and while maintaining nearly clenched teeth. To pronounce a ‘keR’, one must bare their teeth like a snarling dog or a soldier slamming the side of his right hand against his forehead and barking “SiR, yes, siR”.

“-iSs-”: Next, the lower lip has to descend a little further, to make room for an I, and hold position—slimy yellow teeth still exposed—while the tongue pulls backward and a hiss blows over it, flinging all the mouth’s saliva behind the upper incisors.

“-chin”: Finally, the whole motion repeats, this time faster, but upon completion, the tongue slaps into the pool of spit gathered in speaking the prior syllable.

Gwen, Emily, Kyle, Tom, Kobe—I speak names silently to the floor. I conclude as I march around the cafeteria that mine is not only subjectively shitty, but objectively, demonstrably so. I try perhaps two dozen names—all the ones that come to mind over the course of however many minutes are in one circuit of the room—and not one of them precludes me from kind-of smiling except my own. KeRiSschin. A name that can never be spoken sweetly, a purely professional name. KeRiSchin. I envision my roommate’s fat pink lips undulating before his corn-tinted teeth, two pulses in every utterance. KeRiSchin. It’s disgusting, try it. Disgusting and—I decide as I pace the cafeteria with my head drooped etc.—degrading; seeing and listening to this guy addressing me over and over and degrading the both of us: he, who snarls and laps up his mouth’s saliva to converse with me, and I, whom he can freely beckon to watch him do it. “Hi, keRiSchin!” “How’s your day going, keRiSchin?” “Are you doing alright, keRiSchin?” He speaks my name with the casual frequency afforded to a pronoun, like it belongs not particularly to me, nor to anyone, like the password to my attention is public property. Him and I have not even been acquainted; I had first arrived in the room I would be staying in for nine months when here had been this man, already situated, greeting me and my parents and talking about his degree and—by the time the room had vacated to just the two of us—continuing to ask vapid questions to which I would barely respond: just “fine”s and “sure”s and the kinds of nasal exhalations that emulated what it would be like to chuckle without opening my mouth. The impression I had tried to give was that I wanted never to see him nor to hear his voice, that I wanted to pretend to live alone, and, in return, I would keep my side of the room and the bathroom and the appliances tidy, just as if it were my sole responsibility to do so, on account of the fact that nobody else resided in my space. Of course, I had never voiced my wishes. I had needed him to understand without being told. We had been nowhere near to acquainted enough that he should have been allowed to know so much about me, and I had had no desire to shorten that distance between us, because here had been a man—tall, modestly overweight, and ginger-bearded, wearing plaid button-ups and blue jeans and whose only interests had seemed to be his very blonde, very traditionally pretty girlfriend and the Avengers movies—who had regarded me with the sort of faux-enthusiasm that meant ‘this is awkward; we have nothing in common, but I don’t know what I’ll do if there is even one person on this planet with whom I can’t be friends’. He is valueless to me, and because he is free to call me by my name whenever he wants without feeling guilt, without even knowing what he should be guilty for, I can be no more than his equal-in-standing. I.e.: because this person I do not respect acknowledges no amount of the disrespect he repeatedly commits in calling me by name, I too am valueless, delimited by he.

At five until 1:00, I return my rag to a bucket of grimy soap and leave the cafeteria. I show up five-to-seven minutes late to my last class of the day, as per usual, but due to my good standing with the instructor and a prior email pleading with him that because my shift officially ends at the very minute his class is to begin on its biweekly basis, could he please excuse my tardiness and leave the door to his classroom open until my arrival, to which he obliged, and so anyway nothing comes of my being late, and at 2:45 or thereabouts, class ends without trouble, and shortly thereafter, I arrive at the door to my dorm room. Rooting myself adjacent to the door’s hinged side, I hunch over and plant my ear against the wood. Nothing. In most cases, it is impossible to hear my roommate, but if he happens to be in the midst of a call with his girlfriend, listening to his Calming Scandanavian Music Mix, flushing the toilet, microwaving lunch, sleeping, or exercising, I can flee preemptively and spare myself from having to return a greeting. I straighten, then turn the door handle; but for what will likely be a barely perceptible moment for anyone potentially watching, yet which is, nonetheless, a deliberate pause, I do not enter. Hearing still nothing, I then press the door open perhaps twenty or thirty degrees without moving my feet, maintaining full cover from the pair of eyes I suppose linger above the desk chair beside the opposite wall from the entryway. Nothing. I stride into the room and lock the door.

First thing: I walk through my half of the room into his, passing between his one-by-four-by-one (measured in cubic slots, each of which is probably two feet to a side) modular plastic shelf standing against the right-side wall on the room’s median, whose (the shelf’s) every space is occupied by dozens of packaged foodstuffs semi-neatly arranged, and our two wardrobes align like a barricade parallel to each of our beds and perpendicular to the left-side wall, one wardrobe facing each of the room’s halves. On either side of the shelf are our desks, his far from the door and right of the window and mine nearer the entrance so that every time he enters or exits, I will have to sit up straight and wheel my little maroon swivel chair forward to provide him ample space to maneuver between me and the corner of my bed. His side of the room—contrary to mine, which, save for my desk carrying two monitors, a coffee machine, a rice cooker, and several nigh-empty notebooks, is unadorned and monochromatic—has been inconsistently decorated: several pairs of shoes and patternless rugs of mismatched colors occupy the floor before his bed. His wardrobe stays open to display a collection of plaid outerwear and two or three sweatshirts emblazoned with brands or colleges hanging below numerous supplement bottles on the high shelf, all above a modest pile of books, including Pet Sematary, which he seems to shift frequently to/from its place here and his pillow, yet which he never seems to get any closer to finishing, and likewise a copy of The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck that I know he had been reading but that remains perpetually bookmarked. His walls look for the most part like the hall of a theatre that only plays Marvel films, except by the left side of his desk where he hangs a corkboard of motivational quotes and minor academic accolades, among them something of a people’s choice award for pleasant and productive dorm residents. Upon the desk itself, a coffee brewer he uses only for hot chocolate, as well as an instant pot, a laptop, a spare monitor, and always a psychology textbook or an associated notebook, sit. His side stinks because of the food he leaves around some days in his pot, occasionally so long as from morning until evening, braising in the near sunlight.

I take one of his mugs from its place beside the brewer and fill it with tap water from the bathroom (left of the foyer; my side of the room). When I return to where I had been, I set the mug on his desk, unplug his laptop, then submerge the snout of its charging cable. I remove my hands like extracting a Jenga block, and—satisfied that the cable will not slip out of position—flee to my own chair and shake my mouse until my screens reignite. On the left display I can keep track of my online friends while on the right I watch video somethings. I don headphones but leave my right ear uncovered. As I put something on and listen impartially, I leap my feet to the forward edge of my seat and hug my shins, resting my chin between my kneecaps.

My room is so close to an outside entrance that I will hear anyone entering or exiting the hall, and because said entrance happens to be airlocked, I can differentiate entering from exiting based on the order of closing sounds, as the nearer of two doors always makes a bigger noise than the farther on account of being impeded by fewer walls. Therefore, the first door in-sequence slamming louder than the second denotes someone’s exit, and the second slamming louder than the first, someone’s entering. I can disregard leavers; what matters is that I prepared for him arriving. Given the sparse number of residences closer to this entryway than any of the building’s others, few people come through these doors, and few of those who do are without nagging friends or extensive daily occupations to keep them elsewhere constantly. Probably roughly half of all entering persons are my roommate.

crash-click. Crash-Click.

By the second click I have already punched pause on whatever it is that I had been listening to and risen from my seat—a singular motion: legs craned down propelling the chair backward, my body upward—both—such that without so much as an extra step, I can reach my roommate’s drowning charger cord and pluck it from the mug, which (the mug) I take and hide into one of my desk drawers upon realizing how obvious it might otherwise have been that I am the only one who could have filled his mug while he was away. I then push my chair into its slot under the desk and flee to cover behind the wall separating the bathroom from my bed. I open the Fellowship of the Ring—which had been planted on my pillow in advance—and pretend to have been reading it.

Creak—thump-thump: A neighbor opens and closes their door two rooms down.

I flip Fellowship onto its open pages and return to the cord. I shake the plug in the air and then rub the head with a finger and a thumb until it feels cool and dry. After plugging his laptop back in, I redraw his mug, dump its contents in the sink, plunge it with one of his hand towels I find hanging by the bathtub until the mug looks as though it had not been full of anything since morning, and return both to where they had been before I came in. I try really reading after that, but find myself distracted by the repercussions I might face for ruining his laptop. I figure that it will be impossible for him to deduce personally that I had done it, but suppose he gets it checked by a professional, might they establish water damage as the cause? If so, how else except by someone’s tampering can the cable have come into contact with so much water for so long? And the timing!—owner leaves his perfectly functional laptop in plain view of a stranger for just one entire day and, coincidentally, it happens to sustain water damage? Perhaps I can spin it that my roommate keeps all his appliances within inches of this laptop, that a leak or a spill may easily have spread over the exposed cable to cause the rusting. But only the cable? The rest of the computer is untouched. Will they check the laptop itself against my story? Whatever the case, a charger cable on its own is not too big an expenditure; I can handle that—ah, but I may be expelled from the dorm for bad conduct. Not to mention, living here with a man of indifferent opinion toward myself is too much to bear already; I am not prepared to progress to a relationship of mutual hatred. My computer sits unguarded in its place under my desk with hundreds of little air holes exposed, through which a retaliatory water-based attack can be made against my motherboard, processor, and what had been, just a couple years prior, a state-of-the-art graphics card. I cannot afford a replacement PC—especially not a more modern model, which it will have to be, because games’ ever-improving graphical fidelity threatens obsolescence for my current card as it is.

crash-click. Crash-Click.

I whisper a flurry of screaming into Middle Earth: “You fucking son of a bitch asshole worthless piece of shitty useless flesh! Go the fuck away! Stay outta my fucking room!”

A key clatters at my room’s door handle for several seconds.

To read on my bed I sit with my legs as right angles, knees in the carpet, abdomen pressing into the side of my mattress, book upon the covers, my eyes an inch from the pages, and I think—or maybe hope, rather—that this posture impresses of great concentration, so that when my roommate’s fat hairy fingers finally remember how to finagle that key into the lock, he will open the door, walk into my side of the room, see me (barely at the edge of his field of view, preferably), and decide I seem too engrossed to disturb. But really, when he does get that key to fit and the door handle squeals from turning and his heavy footfalls come slowly into the room and the door bangs closed and strikes its little metal tooth into the securing niche and he keeps walking into my half of the space carrying a sorry iceberg salad in a black plastic bowl with his right hand and forearm—which I guess is why the door had been so hard to open—what he does is in fact quite the exact contrary to what I think or hope: he turns to me with a smile on his face and speaks: “How’s it goin’, keRiSchin?”

Too late to ignore him; I have already obviously pivoted enough that he is full into my left eye’s ambit. “Fine~,” I say.

He stands there a second before disappearing behind the wardrobes. The rubber pads underneath his laptop roar as he pushes the computer across his desk to the wall, presumably making space for his meal, though I am not looking. He sets the salad onto the desk—presumably where the laptop had been—with a high plastic thud and drops his backpack at the foot of his bed somewhat delicately. He sits down, his seat creaking, and he slurps on the salad, for minutes. I know he must have seen the book in front of me.

Between the time he starts eating and the time he finishes, two or three pages have elapsed, but I remember not a phrase thereof. The swish of a shopping bag signals my roommate’s tossing an empty salad bowl into the garbage, after which point he scoots his laptop back into position—again, this is not actually seen, but rather implied by the horn-like cry of rubber friction—and, most quietly, he opens the machine and begins clacking keys. The budding hairs on my arms stand. He types on; meanwhile, I get through probably fifteen pages, the whole time overwriting Tolkien’s fantasy with my conceiving a means of leaving the room unsuspiciously. To that end I conclude that I will keep reading for a few more minutes before packing my satchel as loudly as possible to let my roommate know I have places to be in a hurry and that my subsequent leaving has nothing to do with him being in the room—because (from his perspective:), ‘see? He tolerated my being around for so long that I even finished my salad; it couldn’t have been me that made him want to leave. And look! Such haste! He must have just remembered something pertinent. I shouldn’t bother him.’

“Hey, keRiSchin? Can we talk for a second?” He says abruptly. A creak from the floor as he stands from his chair and a creak from his wardrobe as he leans upon it. Text bleeds into itself and congeals on the pages before me.

At length, I respond: “Sure,” a soft, elongated syllable terminating with a lilt to connote innocence and ignorance of whatever crime was committed that I must be innocent of.

“Are you doing alright?” He pauses. I say nothing, offer him the air. He is patient.

“I’m fine,” I say. A beat passes. “Why do you ask?” I flip my book onto its face and turn, staring, though, at where the wheels of his chair meet the floor.

“Just checking; when I came in it almost looked like you were crying.” I was not. He begins his chickeny chuckle but cuts it after the first cluck.

“Nope. I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he says, before returning to his seat.

The text has become illegible. There is now no feasible way for me to leave this room inconspicuously. Whether I exit now or in another twenty minutes, he will suspect that I had just lied to him, even in spite of my having told him the truth.

Idea: I shut Fellowship over a folded page corner. I reach under the bed’s skirt to where several shelves open up in the bedframe and draw from one such alcove various Dungeons & Dragons manuals. I thump them (noisily) onto the covers, ruffle the satchel I keep by my bedside and unzip it (noisily), then one by one deposit (noisily) each of the manuals into the largest of the satchel’s compartments. I sling the now rather heavy bag over one shoulder and hurry to the door.

My second foot is on its way out when my roommate says his “Ope! Seeya later, keRiSchin.” I let the room door fall shut and shove through the airlock. Outside, the sky gradates upward from yellow to blood orange to periwinkle and blues darker from then on, culminating to an ultramarine cosmos periodically obscured by fiery cloudbanks. The sun lays arms between campus buildings in an otherwise saturated and lightless suburban desert. My dormitory stands across a road from the back-east corner of campus, perpendicular to the sun’s rays, merely half the height of the towers on the horizon: the psychology ward, like a slice of concrete penitentiary; the newly constructed freshman hall, all glass and artsy geometry; and along the distant frontward face of campus, the old “normal school” towers, which, so far away— with their vaulted roofs and cyclical windows—make clock tower silhouettes. I exhale the entire capacity of my lungs and without urgency don a pair of aviators, drenching all of everything in bronze film.

#my writing #writing #postmodern #transfem #traumaqueer #transgender #deadname

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niannianyabao · 10 months

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Recent Reading: Biography of X by Catherine Lacey

Angered by an unauthorized, inaccurate biography of her late wife, the multi-disciplinary artist, public intellectual, and provocateur known only as X, journalist C.M. Lucca sets out to correct the record by writing her own biography. Biography of X is a metafictional exercise that is absolutely committed to the bit, complete with second, internal copyright and About the Author pages, copiously documented (invented) sources for all its quotations, and photographic "evidence" of the events and people it describes. As if that were not enough, the novel takes place in an alternate US, where after the second World War the southern states seceded, forming a dictatorial theocracy which lasted for decades.

This is such a weird and distinctive project, one that touches on so many topics and tropes that I have always been drawn to, that it seemed inevitable that Biography of X would be one of my favorite reads of the year. But to my dismay—and despite the obvious effort Lacey has put into the novel, and the erudition she demonstrates throughout—the result is bland and uninvolving, and some of the choices it makes have left me scratching my head.

As C.M. explains in the biography's foreword, X, who spent her career pretending to be a myriad different people and creating art in each of their guises—a rough-and-tumble, genderqueer bartender in the East Village whose novel inspired Denis Johnson's Jesus's Son; a superstar music producer and songwriter who worked with David Bowie and rescued the career of early folk singer Connie Converse; the publisher of an avant-garde feminist press; two different performance artists who got in a public feud when one of them accused the other of kidnapping and filming her for an art project—never wanted to be explained in a biography. She did not view her personas as performances or lies, and did not feel that there was any need to explain the "real" woman behind them. C.M. is scathing towards the unofficial biography that purports to identify just this real version of the woman (and, along the way, argues that X's marriage to C.M. was a sham).

If this conjures associations of Pale Fire, and expectations that C.M.'s supposed journalistic detachment will gradually wear away to reveal a burning need to assert her primacy in X's life and work, what Biography of X actually delivers is depressingly dry. C.M. dutifully describes each of X's artistic projects, the relationships she forged with activists and Manhattan bon vivants, the reports on her in venues like Vanity Fair and The Village Voice. But none of it leaps off the page. You never find yourself wishing you could have attended one of X's exhibits (the way I repeatedly did while reading Siri Hustvedt's similar, but infinitely more exciting and successful, The Blazing World) or been on the ground when one of her famous art world feuds took off.

Worst of all, X herself simply isn't that interesting. In theory, she's Lydia Tár on steroids—brilliant, imperious, full of boundless energy, and not-so-secretly monstrous (both C.M. and all of X's previous partners eventually admit that she was violent towards them). But the actual woman never develops much life (the personas are perhaps a little more engaging, but they all feel—presumably deliberately—like stock types rather than real people). Again and again throughout the novel, we're told that figures both real and invented were won over and eventually obsessed with X, seeing her as a major contributor to their work and allowing her to insinuate herself into their lives and become essential to them. And at no point is this ever convincing.

In Lacey's own list of sources, she reveals that many of the quotations attributed to X were taken from real figures like Susan Sontag, Kathy Acker, and Emily Dickinson. But the character she stitches together from these real women lacks their vitality—you do not, for example, fall in mingled love and hate with X the way you almost instantly do with Alena Smith's version of Dickinson in the television series of the same name. To an extent, this might be deliberate—the closest thing the novel has to an emotional arc is C.M. moving past her adoration of X and towards skepticism, and eventually disdain. But since C.M. herself never develops much of a personality through this process, the novel's dryness is not alleviated by it.

And then of course, there's the alternate history, simultaneously the novel's most intriguing and most frustrating choice. As C.M. reveals—and as her unauthorized biographer missed—X was born in the southern territories. In the novel's longest and most interesting chapter, C.M. travels south to learn about X's past, as a teenage wife and mother who became involved with a dissident group and participated in a terrorist attack on a weapons factory, before escaping to the north. Along the way, she explains the split's origins—after Emma Goldman became FDR's chief of staff and began enacting socialist reforms (among them universal healthcare and a recognition of same-sex relationships), a conservative religious backlash erupted in the south, which seceded and founded a repressive theocratic society that is one part Gilead, one part GDR.

If you're thinking that there's something missing here, you'd be right. Though racism exists in the novel's world, white supremacy is not at the foundation of any part of its American society, not even the southern territories. The novel, in fact, is almost entirely silent on the matter of race—while discussing the secession, for example, C.M. does not once mention the Civil War, and the reader is left to wonder whether it occurred in this world's history (though slavery is mentioned at least once). In other words, Lacey has created a world where the driving ideology of American reactionaries isn't white supremacy, but Christian conservatism. Quite literally, in fact: in one of the notes revealing the real sources from which she took her quotations, Lacey notes that she substituted the term "theocratic fascism" for "the segregationist community".

Even notwithstanding that these two forces have never been particularly easy to disentangle, this is a baffling choice—all the more so when you consider that there are no significant non-white characters in the novel (one major exception is the leader of a civil rights organization who, naturally, found in X a fellow traveler and rhapsodizes to C.M. about the unique understanding she had of his organization's work). I kept waiting for Lacey to reveal her intention with it, but as the novel progressed she seemed to leave it, and the southern territories in general, in the rearview mirror. It ends up feeling less important than other worldbuilding choices, such as the fact that an École Polytechnique-style attack on a gathering of modernist artists—which left male stalwarts of 20th century art such as Marcel Duchamp and Jackson Pollock dead while sparing the women in the room—has resulted in the art world being dominated by women.

Eventually you have to wonder if the whole point of the novel is the name-dropping, the skill with which Lacey has woven together real sources and people into a semi-imaginary whole where Frank O'Hara lived to old age, and Bernie Sanders became president in the 80s. Perhaps if I were more immersed in the world of mid-20th century arts and letters, I would find this act of worldbuilding more delightful in its own right—certainly, many of the book's most effusive reviews treat its moments of recognition and estrangement as one of its key attractions, and many of them were written by people who are part of the same scene. In the absence of that grounding, my reaction to the novel remains one of detachment, maybe even boredom. At the end of Biography of X, it's hard to understand any of its choices of emphasis—none of them seem to have enough life in them, or enough to say, to be worth the effort.

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reidecorating · 3 years

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L'amore Vero È Così (True Love is Like This)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

A/N: Woke up with a killer headache after celebrating the end of 2020 and thought writing something loosely based off events that took place on NYE would be a good cure. Hope this year’s been treating you all well!

Word Count: 4.3k

Summary: Summer nights and Spencer Reid make it hard for anyone to keep their hands to themselves. Add David Rossi’s holiday mansion and wine to the mix, and watch a dangerously hot fuse ignite

Warnings: Language (as in cursing AND me just completely butchering Italian), unprotected sex, penetrative sex

Masterlist

Maybe it was the Sauternes. Like a spark igniting along the fuse of dynamite, the sweet sting of white grape travelled down her throat, every sip exploding in kaleidoscopic vision and unfiltered words. Even so, it wasn’t the alcohol she was drunk on. No, not drunk - she wasn’t drunk - she was absolutely intoxicated. Not by anything of substance, but by an overwhelming desire for the man she had arrived with.

Spencer Reid often felt out of place standing in any absurdly large entranceway, belonging to the old Italian with new money, recurrently settling for shifting from shoe to shoe, before taking a deep breath and pressing the doorbell with the hand unoccupied by a bottle he wouldn’t be drinking from. However, his sobriety was far from the cause of his imposter syndrome. Rather, it was the way he always arrived alone, while, what felt like, the rest of the team trickled in with their spouses or significant others. Whilst pairs would dance to vinyl sounds of Bowie, leaving little room for him and the odd number his presence formed in the abacus of the group, he would loiter in a corner, or, on occasion, entertain his godson with a pack of cards. More frequently, he would rattle off excuses about needing the restroom, only to spend his time exploring the corridors of a rather impressive house. A get together at David Rossi’s holiday home was uncommon, and the last time Spencer had wound up here, he found himself inspecting the tiny forgotten library the man housed, attempting to decipher the various foreign books residing on its mahogany shelves as he heard his friends stumbling their way through the Salsa downstairs. L'isola di Arturo, with sterling lettering on its ageing spine showing a familiar pen name, had quickly become his favourite. When he’d first translated the pages, he had chuckled at the parallels between himself and its disconsolate protagonist. However, after years of his ongoing solitude, and lonely arrivals to a castle full of people, he finally had someone on his arm.

“Wait, what does this mean? I can make out the ‘amore’ but not much else,” That someone now squinted at the words his index finger underlined as he read her the words of that very book, aloud. “Hm?” He was visibly distracted by the Patchouli blend of orange and jasmine emanating from her skin as she leaned against his shoulder to read the page herself. “L'amore vero è così,” she whispered, unsure of the correct pronunciation but attempting it anyway. “Non ha nessuno scopo e nessuna ragione, e non si sottomette a nessun potere fuorché alla grazia umana,” she finished in a whisper, affecting Spencer in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Through fluttering eyelashes, she looked up at him, awaiting his rendition, and suddenly the temperature felt as if it had risen. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been here almost as many times as him; she knew her way around Rossi’s holiday home, but Spencer had insisted on showing her his favourite room, claiming she hadn’t seen it yet. Diverting her attention from Emily’s anecdotes, “I kind of want you all to myself for a little bit,” he whispered in a kiss on her shoulder, proceeding to take her hand and pull her away from chatter over a jug of Cuban rum and homemade pizza - making sure to dissect, in explanation, nearly every painting adorning the maze of hallways on their short trek. He cleared his throat, prying his gaze away from the skin her little black dress revealed, unabashedly scanning her lips before using his own to form words. “True love is like this,” he subtly eyed her reaction to his words as he tried hard to not transliterate the European language. “It has no purpose and no reason, and it does not submit to any power except human grace.” Spencer’s voice was a newly inked quill, ebbing and flowing through the hot air of the dimly lit room. The dark winged butterflies that had been floating around her stomach all evening fluttered in a frenzy at his words, and the way the chartreuse of his eyes had been absorbed by black as they laid on her. “For such a dark story, it’s so beautiful,” she exhaled in a hushed tone, stare not leaving his as he slowly slid the book into the hollow slot where it had previously inhabited, too occupied by reading her demeanour to pay the book any more attention. “You think so? The author, Morante, Elsa Morante, was actually considered the greatest writer of Italy’s postwar generation, at one point.” Spencer began to rest his weight against the wall as they conversed. “I feel as if we always hear about Bassani or Parise, and all the unorthodox things Landolfi wrote in the fifties. It’s very refreshing to hear of a woman getting some well deserved recognition in such a male dominated niche,” she remarked. A dimple appeared on Spencer’s cheek as he grinned at the way she sounded a lot like him. “Agreed. In fact, Morante actually claimed she wished she’d been born a boy, so that she could have all of these heroic adventures. Once, when she was asked about the hero of that book,” he pointed towards the worn copy of L'isola di Arturo, “she commented: ‘Arturo, c’est moi!’,”

“Living vicariously through him? Interesting,” she tilted her head slightly, “I also think its remarkable how beauty can emerge from so much pain,” she mulled aloud. His eyebrows raised at her words and the flux in her tone of voice. Slowly, she stepped towards him, forearms resting on his shoulders, entangling behind him.

Earlier, she’d had the privilege of styling him as he stood in front of their shared mirror, muttering complaints of how he had 'nothing to wear’. Now, she repeated maledictions to herself regarding the clothing she had chosen, in her head, as she admired the way his black shirt was rolled up at the sleeves - displaying intricate nerves shadowing his fingers and arms - and simultaneously unbuttoned temptingly low on his chest, exposing the silver chain presenting a small initial, hers. The summer night had made sure a thin veil of sweat coated his collarbones, glistening with his movements under the lamp light. “It’s not a surprising process though - I mean, after the year you’ve had, just look at how pretty you are,”

“Did you just-” he gulped, chuckling, “use the copious amounts of semi-resolved trauma I harbour to romance me?”

“I may have,” she whispered into the skin below his ear, both hands now tangled in his hair as he remained pressed up against the wall, grateful that every wound, fight and flaw had led them here. And she never ceased to make her gratitude known. Tonight, though, ever since she’d caught sight of his hand gripping a cold glass, the strong concoction presumably belonging to Luke, she hadn’t been able to stop envisioning his body on top of hers. Unbeknownst to her, his thoughts had been very similar from the second she’d chosen to wear the satin fabric, claiming it matched his shirt, while leaving very little to the imagination. “Y/N,” he spoke, his body involuntarily leaning into hers. “We can’t- Not now.” His body language betrayed his words. “I don’t study behaviour for a living, unlike everyone else here, but Spencer, right now, yours tells me we can,” she brought down a hand to squeeze his wrist, which was resting against her lower back. He couldn’t breathe. Tongue in cheek, he shook his head at her, a smirk breaking way. “You, my pretty lady, are something else,” he caved, switching their position in a more urgent manoeuvre than either of them anticipated. Spencer’s hands grasped her jaw, his breath fanning over her before his lips collided with hers, messily. A hand cradled the back of her head, heeding any impact with the wooden blockade behind her, fingers and hair tangling together. Her hands travelled along his body, pinky tugging on his necklace in pursuit of closeness, while her lips roamed around his bobbing Adam’s apple, eliciting an exquisite string of moans. Spencer’s leg wedged itself between hers, slowly grazing his thigh against her, using a firm grip to guide her hips downwards, her soft sighs and tugs at his roots only encouraging him.

The euphoria was short lived. A rapping on the library door tore them apart, its hinges creaking and giving way to an astounded looking Penelope Garcia. “Naughty!” she factitiously gasped. “I didn’t think the good doctor and his fine missus had it in them, but I was very, very wrong,”

“We were just-“ Y/N began, only to be cut off by the tipsy agent. “Save the excuses, beautiful lady. I was simply quested to find you two, and let you know that the rest of us are off to take a dip in the spa. Bring your boy toy, and scrumptious self, and join us ASAP - oh! And no funny business! There are children here,” Penelope gestured her two fingers away from her spectacles and towards each of them as a silent threat of ‘I’m watching you’. Y/N and Spencer exchanged a look, both flushed in different shades of red, on their way to creating a colour wheel. As Penelope spun on her heels and rushed to shut the door behind her, “Thank you, Penelope!” Y/N squeaked, Spencer exclaiming a timid “And sorry!” The two of them broke out into a fit of laughter, still frazzled. “I think I’m getting a little too comfortable with your team,” she grimaced, earning a laugh from the doctor. Later, as Spencer led her towards a bathroom, her arms occupied by a stack of towels, his hand on the small of her back, he dreaded the amount of self control he would need to invoke when the two of them would undress to change.

What she had said wasn’t entirely untrue. She was indeed very comfortable with his team. If Spencer could have met himself, a year ago, anxious to introduce who he was sure was the love of his life to his dearest friends, he would flick himself in the head. She, not alarmingly, managed to get along with everyone, almost better than he did. Somehow managing to find common ground, even with Aaron Hotchner. He recalls, one night, months ago, listening to her and the usually stoic man debate about which broadway production was better: The Producers or The Phantom of the Opera. Spencer also recalls exactly how riled up he became as he watched her put the ex-theatric-gone-lawyer in his place after calling upon Spencer for some Tony Award statistics. Admittedly, he actively needed to combat the green eyed monster on his back whenever she would go jogging with Luke - but the way she kissed him before leaving, on her tiptoes in her running shoes, whispering ‘I love you’, and ‘I’m really only going for Roxy’, helped. She had become family, the invisible stamp of approval having been silently awarded when they all saw the looks the two of them shared, the three subtle squeezes in their woven hands, and the way Spencer now smiled with his teeth - the way they way they would move the moon and the earth for one another.

Packed into the watery sauna, words exchanged between the group travelled into the atmosphere, a waxing gibbous eavesdropping overhead. She watched as Spencer squirmed across from her at the nearness to so many sweaty bodies, shoulders, elbows, knees and toes, belonging to anybody and everybody, poking him. Her eyes trailed along the dips and swells at the base of his neck, decorated in its usual, dainty, shimmering pendant, the bones there protruding as he slouched forward. Spencer’s hair was matted, condensation ironing chestnut ringlets to his forehead, complimenting his heated crimson cheeks. The butterflies returned, her stomach flipping as he ran his hand through the mop of curls to ease his discomfort. More of him - that was what she wanted. She hadn’t noticed, but she had been biting her lip nearly hard enough to draw blood. Pulling her back from her thoughts, a heavy exhale travelled past her left ear, changing the course of the steam emerging from the water - a stream of air enough to deflate a person, she noticed. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.” The blonde rested her head against the barrier of the tub, seeing bright patterns on her eyelids as they shut over her eyes momentarily. Y/N reached over and grasped one of her shoulders in a clinical manner. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jennifer and the gruelling tension in her neck and jaw?” She interrogated, lightheartedly. “What can I say? Stress is my middle name,” she chuckled. “While we’re on the topic, though... Maybe you could give me one of those trigger-point massages,” she opened one eye, an iris burning sapphire, the blue only rival to that of the one from The Tell Tale Heart, finding Y/N’s face. Retreating her hand, having made her point, she let out a laugh at JJ’s words, “I’m afraid that’ll cost y-” Y/N’s eyes widened at the familiar dialect of the words, a charlatan on JJ’s tongue. “Wait a minute, can you repeat what you just said, but slowly?”

“Oh, I know you heard me perfectly clear,” JJ smirked at her, eyebrows raising as her eyes shifted between the flustered woman and Spencer.

They had a friendship of unfamiliar closeness, which JJ cherished. After nights of babysitting turning into wining with Merlot and dining on flaming dreaded cheese puffs, stashed away in an airtight container, upon JJ’s arrival home, the two had grown close. The agent was grateful for conversation veering away from work, and for someone seeing her from a different lens; one through which she wasn’t fizzled down to a petrie dish of a mother through a workaholic microscope. Y/N was curious to know how her famous mandatory-Spencer-de-stressing-trigger-point massages had come up in conversation between JJ and her, now guilty looking, boyfriend. She crossed her fingers in hopes that he’d spared the details of the events that usually took place following the neck rubs - another kind of de-stressing altogether. “Do you guys hear that? I think Will’s calling me- and I should go put Henry to bed… It’s quite late…” she exaggerated, wearing a redolent expression as she slunk away with a towel around her cold frame. “We’ll talk later, Jareau,” she looked up at JJ, after the shivering woman squeezed her shoulders in a bid goodnight, waving to the small crowd. Swiftly, Y/N’s gaze met Spencer’s, her figure not having left his vision once.

The yard and small pool was clearing out, save for Luke and Tara bickering in the corner, so, through the bubbling water, she waded in Spencer’s direction, noticing the way he was evidently mentally undressing her. As if by his telepathy, a thin strap of her bathing suit slipped from its place, causing the gears in Spencer’s head to stop turning as he swallowed thickly. “Hey handsome, long time no speak.” A soft smile graced his lips, adoration for her evident, in place of his muted response. Wordlessly, he slipped a finger beneath the strap, tentatively putting it back in place, refusing to break eye contact in some unspoken play for power. “What’re you up to?” She squinted, wondering exactly what his motives were. “Nothing much,” he pulled her closer by the waist, whispering in a gravelly voice only she could hear, “I’m just thinking about how you didn’t get the chance to finish what you started, earlier,”

“Are you implying that you want me to…” she floated onto his lap, hands draping around his neck to steady herself, “pick up where we left off?” The question left her mouth in a breathy whisper, straight into his ear. He turned to look at her, unblinking. “I’m implying, that I’ve had those pretty noises you make replaying in my head all night, and that I’d like to hear them again,”

“Remind me, doctor, which one of us said ‘we can’t’?,” she mocked his whine, rolling her eyes back. “I have a better suggestion, how about you remind me which one of us struggled to stand the last time we played this game?” The calmness of his voice was the antithesis of the fire she was feeling inside her. Satisfied with her speechlessness, his eyes drifted down her body as she pried herself off him, settling in the plastic indent of a hot tub seat to his side. The attention of the pair of lovers were drawn to Tara’s laughter as she stepped into a robe, calling it a night. “What’d we miss?” Spencer’s clueless innocence returned, as if the words he’d spoken before were now out of mind. Devilishly, Tara responded, “Oh, you know, just me completely destroying this man’s ego,”

“Doesn’t take much does it?” Y/N offered Tara her fist in solidarity. “No it does not,” Tara chuckled, bumping it with her own. “You guys do realise that I’m right here?” Luke scoffed, also drying himself off. “I think that adds to their point?” Spencer offered, pursing his lips, amused. “Well, I’m going to go and catch some sleep, and maybe even shed a few tears over what’s been said about me,” he playfully scowled at Tara walking away, throwing a middle finger at him through the air without looking back. “Trust me, they are very professional,” Spencer promised, turning towards his only remaining company in laughter. “I’m sure they are,” she joked returning a smile.

The two of them talked beneath an ink sky, stars like pinpricks in a blanket twinkling through their conversation, until she found herself on Spencer’s lap, once again, the ambience shifting to something far more carnal. Throughout the night, like a band of elastic stretching between two fingers, the tension between them had heightened. Now, they both tested the limits, anticipating its snap. His chlorine skin tasted electric on her tongue as she painted his neck and chest with a lilac rendition of the silver initial dangling there, letting his sighs catch in the shells of her ears. Allowing her tongue to explore his mouth, his hands tightened around her waist. “Mhm, no, Y/N,” he spoke, regaining his fleeting conscience. “This,” — kiss — “is a bad,” — kiss — “idea,”

“Spencer, look,” she glanced over at the house, and his eyes followed suite, craning his neck slightly. “What do you see?” She asked. “Aside from a house bigger than my entire apartment complex?” Her face was a deadpan. “All the lights are out, Spencer,” she gave him a look that said, come on, profiler, figure it out. Not a single connection formed in his head as he stared at the way the luminous blue of the night time water cast ripples on her skin - skin which was all over his. “All the lights are out… It’s late… and everyone’s asleep,” he reasoned, more to himself than in response to her insinuation. “We have no real chance of getting caught, plus…” her dark eyes were obscured by the eyelashes sheltering them as she tilted her head. “Would it be so bad if we did?” Two of her fingers danced along his chest, walking towards the damp hair at the nape of his neck, using the strands to pull him closer. “Everyone knowing exactly how good you make me feel?” She purred the last part in his ear, tugging at the cartilage with her teeth. Spencer partially whimpered. “Don’t hold back, gorgeous boy. You sound as good as you taste.” His eyes shut as his head hit the rim of the spa - only briefly losing himself once her mouth was on him again. “Someone’s talking like they’re in charge,” he tilted her chin up towards him, forcing her eyes onto his own. “I seem to be the one doing all the work here,” she teased. He kissed each of her collarbones, eyes still trained on hers. “You shouldn’t speak so soon.” With that, he undid the top of her swim suit, exposing her chest to the frigid night air, compelling a gasp. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about doing this a majority of the night.” The bass in his voice reached her core. “For someone who is so fastidious about cleanliness, you sure have a dirty, dirty mind, doct-” She never had the chance to finish the honorific, his lips moulding around a hardening nipple, allowing his fingers to toy with the other. Rolling his tongue around the bud, he smiled to himself as he heard her call out his name, over and over, as if her voice was coming through a scratched vinyl. “Where’s all the talk from before?”

“You’re evil,” she groaned, her hips bucking against his board short clad body.

Spencers lips travelled along the valley of her breasts, only to hike back up them at a tantalising pace, prehensile fingers covering the ground his mouth couldn’t. Her hands grasped so tight in his hair, he was sure the strands would fall out. A groan of his own left vibrations reverberating through her body, causing her heart to jump. “Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he gnarred, as his hands gripped her wrists, holding them behind her back. With his unoccupied hand, he dipped his fingers into what was left of her apparel. “Is this all for me?” He smirked at the ease with which his fingers slipped over her. “Don’t flatter yourself, we’re in water,”

“You’re so impolite - even when I’m spoiling you,” tutted Spencer. Retroceding his hand, determined to leave her on edge, and her skin a mirror image of his, he continued to pin her fragile hands back against the base of her spine. “S-Spencer, please,” her words struggled to make any sense, “please, I need more,” she panted out, moving purposefully along the growing outline in his shorts. The pleasure was overwhelming. Spencer fiddled with the material still covering her, pulling it aside to make way for himself in between her legs. His eyes softened, silently seeking permission, even as she impatiently pulled down his waistband. When she nodded and eased his ailing with a soft, lingering kiss, he slowly pushed himself into her, never failing to be acutely attentive to her comfort as if it was their first time together. “This was what you were after?” Teased Spencer, his hips speeding up. “So badly,” she uttered out a sigh. “Then take it like you want it.” She craved his adept touch, and she made that known. “S- Spencer, oh god,” she groaned, “you feel so fucking good.” His breathing became heavier, softs grunts and hisses filling her ears with every movement. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, whining in a destitute way at the full feeling. At a slower pace, one of Spencer’s hands guided her hips along himself, while the other traced infinity on her sensitive nerves. “Sweet girl- fuck, you feel like a dream,” he moaned as she tightened around him. Her toes curled, the warm water of the pool splashing her bare skin. Spencer occupied all of her senses, the same way she did his. “I’m so close,” she whimpered, before he used his nose to nudge her face upwards, her momentarily open eyes reflecting constellations. Spencer kissed her once more. Her hands long freed from his grip, she left traces of herself in the form of tiny red sickles on his freckled back as her nails released some frustration.

Dragging her fingers along his torso, she felt the muscles of his stomach tighten, hers doing the same. Shaky sighs wavered from her lips at the bliss Spencer was providing. “Keep your eyes open for me, angel,” she tried her hardest to focus on his lustfully blown pupils. “That’s it. Just look at what you do to me,” he gasped out, head falling backwards, eye contact broken - only for a second - before he gulped and looked back at her. “You’re breathtaking,” she whispered, hoarsely, stroking his sweaty cheekbone with her thumb. She could recognise the golden gates of heaven in his eyes as he came undone inside her, warmth spilling over her in every aspect. The knots in her stomach loosened shortly after his, curses spilling from both of them. She rode him through his release, fond of the way he left light kisses on her temple, whispering compliments and confessions of love. Once he was sure she’d caught her breath, and some air had returned to his own lungs, he kissed her, gently, in the summer sauna heat, beneath the stars.

A loud cough startled the two. Stood in the open French doors of the veranda, scotch in hand, and eyes screwed shut, was David Rossi. Their minds were in the same place, wondering why they hadn't listened to Penelope’s drunken advice. “When you two are done, please remember to turn the tub lights off - and put the filter on high.” She hid herself in Spencer’s chest, heartbeat in her ears, contemplating holding her breath for a really, really long time. Spencer was flushed red, his own nose buried in her neck so as to not face the older man. “Or better yet, put some money together to buy me an entirely new spa,” Rossi, laughed, opening one eye to catch sight of Spencer giving him a shameful thumbs up. Even as Rossi wandered away, their embarrassment remained a fresh burn. Spencer groaned as her tired hand fumbled with his disastrous hair, “I don’t even want to begin thinking about how much of that he heard,”

“Or saw,”

“Don’t!”

“I’m never going to be invited here ever again, am I?”

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13uswntimagines · 3 years

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12 Drinks and a Kiss for Christmas (Sam Mewis x Reader)

Request: uswnt x baby reader where their birthday is 3 days before Christmas and so the team tries to make it like extra special cause people usually just kind of ignore readers birthday.

But @literaryhedgehog and i went slightly off the rails and had way too much fun making a drunk version of the 12 days of Christmas.

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

“One shot of bourbon whiskey,” you sang, modifying the words as one of the most infuriating Christmas carols came over the radio. You didn’t hate Christmas, you just hated the fact that it swallowed the entire month of December like a black hole. Hell, it took up November too (minus the last Thursday reserved for Thanksgiving). The music was inescapable, and any event planned in the month risked being decorated with whatever leftover trees and red and green trinkets someone had laying around.

Any child born in December was lucky if their wrapping paper wasn’t also holiday-themed. You should know- you had the misfortune of being born on the 22nd.

“That sounds like a change I can get behind,” Sam said, sliding into the chair next to you. “Never really understood why someone would want a bunch of birds. I mean towards the end of the song the lover starts giving dancers and pipers, and like, I know that probably means they were hired for the day, but still. An alcohol-themed song seems more my style.”

You laughed, “Happy to help.”

You bumped her with your shoulder, smiling up at her. You were friends with most of the women on your new team, but Sam was one of your favorites. She got your sense of humor, a sort of dry and quiet sarcasm that was a bit subtle if someone didn’t know you. But despite how incredibly cuddly her tall frame was, she was also completely willing to spend an afternoon exchanging barbs under her breath as you watched the significantly less subtle flirting going on between Mal and Rose. You had bets on when the oblivious forward and midfielder would admit their feelings for each other.

“Wait,” you paused in your thoughts, frowning up at her. “I thought everyone was already gone. I took my time in the locker room because I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

“The first van already left, but I didn’t want you to have to ride with Carli and Becky by yourself,” Sam said bumping you back.

You smiled up at her, then leaned over to grab the shoulder strap of your bag, “Well I guess we shouldn’t make them wait any longer-”

“Oh no it's fine!” Sam said, quickly. “They needed to run to the store anyway to restock our Oreo supply, they promised to text when they got back.”

“But Dawn said no more Oreos until after the Friendlies are over,” you pouted.

“Well Dawn isn’t driving the van, is she? Thus why Carli and Becky waited to run to the store until after the first van left. So nothing to do while we wait except rewrite the words to the twelve days of Christmas, right? What should replace two turtle doves?”

“Body shots…?” You asked, squinting your eyes. At least that would fit the tune.

“I like it… Kind of annoying how well that fits actually. Are we going to make the entire song about shots now?”

You tapped your chin in through, quirking your lips. “Hm, not a bad idea, but I think it would get a little repetitive,”

“Fair point. Okay, so the next line is three French hens. Do we want to make it three French wines, or is that too easy?”

“I think that’s cheating just a touch,” You smiled, holding up fingers a centimeter apart.

“Ugh, fine,” Sam rolled her eyes, though that didn’t disguise for one second the grin on her face, “three mulled wines.”

“I think that’s acceptable,” you nodded. It fit like a charm. “four gin and tonic?”

“Then four martinis. Come on short stuff, calling birds, martinis, they have the same number of syllables!” Sam exclaimed, slapping your shoulder.

“Whatever. Five Gin fizzes,” You huffed, pouting playfully. You didn’t like to lose.

“Oh, yum. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds delicious. How long again until we’re allowed to drink?” Sam whined. You both knew that one of the costs of your career included swearing off alcohol at certain points of the year. Especially hard alcohols. Something about feeding your body good foods so it could give you even the slightest of edges.

“Too long,” You deadpanned.

“Sigh,” Sam said, pretending to be melodramatic.

“We gotta use grey goose in the next one. You know. It’s like a spin on the gooses. Guises? Whatever the correct pronunciation is,” you waved your hand dismissively. This would be much more entertaining if you were soused.

I’m

“GEESE, you heathen. You’re right though. Ummm. Six grey goose toddies?’

“A vodka toddie though?”You looked at her skeptically. “I’d rather share Emily’s Budweiser,”

“Fine, fine,” she pulled out her phone and started googling drink options, muttering to herself (for your amusement, presumably) about ‘perfectionists’ and ‘just because someone knows so much about vodka’. “Um. There's a drink called a sunset? Or we could just go basic bitch and say six grey goose cosmos?’

“Well sunsets are made with tequila so a cosmo is more appropriate,” You mumbled.

“The grey goose website says that you can make a sunset with their vodka. See, look at this, right there!”

“Poppycock. They just want you to spend money in their stuff instead of Don Julio,”

“But tasty has a recipe too, look,” Sam said, whining slightly. You weren’t the only one who didn’t like losing.

You moved your head, dodging the screen. If you didn’t see it, then it didn’t exist. If it worked with Jill Ellis then it would work for you.

“Just LOOK you obstinate bulldog of a human being!” Sam was giggling as she grabbed you to try and hold her phone in your line of vision

“You can’t make me,” In your haste to pull away, you leaned too far over the edge of the bench. Before you knew it you were tumbling off the bench, pulling Sam with you in your effort to not crash out on the locker room floor.

“Fuck, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” You groaned, looking up into the woman’s eyes. You never realized there was a thin golden ring around her pupil before it melted into blue or the smattering of light freckles that covered her cheeks. You weren’t sure if you were leaning into her, or if she was leaning into you. All you knew was that after a few seconds your lips were lightly touching hers.

An annoying buzz broke the two of you out of your daze, Sam’s phone lighting up in your peripheral vision. You reached out and grabbed it, since her arm was currently trapped under you.

Saucy Sonny- need an extra 5, you up for keeping her distracted with your flirting for that long?

“Fuck, you probably shouldn’t be reading that. What’s it say?” Sam asked, as she extracted her arm and tried to reach around to take her phone.

“You were flirting just to distract me?”

“No! Sonnets just- I was just supposed to talk to you to keep you in here until the party was se- and I spoiled the surprise. fuck.”

“So Sonnett didn’t dare you to kiss me?” You asked with a very small voice.

“No, but she has been teasing me about wanting to kiss you for the last two months. I didn’t mean to- I didn’t want to ruin our friendship if you didn’t have similar feelings.” Sam ruffled the hair at the back of her neck. “What a way to screw up your birthday. First the kiss then ruined the surprise party, and--”

“I think we should definitely ruin our friendship,” You interrupted, smirking, and nudging the woman’s chin with your nose. You reached around to intertwine your fingers. “And I promise to act surprised, as long as there are more kisses in it for me.”

#uswnt imagine #uswnt imagines #uswnt x reader #sam mewis imagine #sam mewis x reader #literalhedgehog

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gorogues · 3 years

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Spoilers for this week’s episode of Stargirl!

Man, this show's really been delving into psychological horror over the past few episodes. Eclipso's been going after people's worst fears and worst sources of guilt to mess them up, and he's not sparing anyone. The Shade doesn't appear much in this episode (he didn't at all in last week's), but he does play two key roles: he told the JSA about the dangers of Eclipso decades ago, and he snaps Barbara out of the demon's hold in the present. He's very interested in her because she reminds him of a family member, as mentioned a few weeks ago, presumably someone named Emily. After my last review @anonymouspersonanon mentioned something I'd missed: when Barbara saw his swirling shadows and the drop of blood, he was calling out to "Emily" to help him. His speech was faint, but somehow I didn't hear any of it until watching the episode again. Anyway, he mentions Emily again in this episode when he helps her break Eclipso's hold, telling her to go home because he needs Emily. All this even as he's non-corporeal and basically a human-shaped mist.

Plus, in the past he was the one to tell Starman about how primally evil Eclipso is, and that they must kill his host if they're to stop him. @comicgeekscomicgeek was correct with the prediction that the JSA killed Bruce Gordon in the past to stop Eclipso. The guilt of the act screwed them up, and is why they basically disbanded until the ISA re-formed and killed them. Fortunately Jay Garrick wanted no part of it and doesn't seem to have participated in the killing. Jay was also the nicest to Pat out of the JSA members he interacts with this episode, although in fairness he doesn't interact with all of them.

It does seem like Brainwave's appearance a couple of episodes back was Eclipso's work after all, since various ISA members have appeared to haunt people they have a history with. And 'Bruce Gordon' appeared to torment Pat for his guilt in participating in the killing even though Pat had been against it -- though he didn't actually help, he did drive the car on Starman's orders (Sylvester, you were old enough to drive yourself then and didn't need to drag Pat into it). Obviously Pat should have held firm with his no.

So it was a pretty good episode and it's nice that the Shade got to do something even if he's not physically there. I think I liked the two psychodrama episodes focusing on Yolanda, Beth, and Rick more, however. But it's good to see the old JSA in action and find out more about their conflict with Eclipso, even if many of the team members don't come off very pleasantly in the process. I'm glad to see that Jay is one of those who does.

#the Shade #Pat Dugan #the Flash #Starman #Eclipso #Wildcat #Hourman #spoilers: Stargirl #Stargirl TV series #reviews #screencaps

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postmodernmulticoloredcloak · 3 years

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And now I’ve watched episode 3 of Walker because of reasons. (You guys asked, that’s reasons.) #2

If you guys haven’t seen part 1, go see it immediately. Because of reasons. This time, reasons is Slutty Glitter Cowboy Stripper. No, it’s not a joke.

Yeah, I’m not sure what’s happening either.

I can’t believe they’re airing cowboy strippers in Supernatural’s air slot and Dean Winchester isn’t there. I think this is why they had to kill Dean, because otherwise he would have ripped through the CW’s show layout and appeared in Walker sponteneously, instantly adopting Walker’s entire family and friends as his own and single-handedly implementing the depolicement of the state of Texas, with Castiel rolling his eyes at him in the background while he murders ICE agents at the US-Mexican border.

*slides the CW a twenty euro bill* so I have an idea for season 2 of Walker

Anyway, there’s this lady Walker and Ramirez are doing a stakeout on, a woman called Torreto who is presumably part of some criminal organization since they’re doing a stakeout on her, and who’s bisexual given she was being entertained by a lady and a guy at a strip club. Which is like, fine, not problematic at all, alright.

So the stripper straddles her and is like ~wanna come with me in the back, and she’s like ~maybe another time, and he’s like ~torreto i saw cops outside you probably wanna come to the back with me, and she’s like ~mmm yeah that sounds like a good idea. We were rooting for you, slutty glitter cowboy stripper! We were all rooting for you! Or not.

Meanwhile, Walker has horrible car manners.

Also, he asks her how her parents were to her growing up, which is a question you normally ask to people you’re not close to when you want to do some small talk. For some reason she brings up a friend she had some ~crazy teen years~ with, called Garrison, which doesn’t make me think of angels in Supernatural, no, I am a normal person.

But then people start coming out of the strip club, but not Torreto. So they go in.

Torreto is not there, so Walker just stops the first person he sees and he’s literally like ~excuse me, do you know if there’s someone in the back. The visual is hilarious

“Excuse me, sir, have you seen my brother from another show, I suspect he might be here”

Give me a spinoff about this strip club.

Anyway, the guys answers, “No, why, you two interested?” to which they immediately answer “no!” at the same time, and share a look which makes me think we’re supposed to be like ~~ooh, talking in unison moment! or something...?

Meanwhile their truck gets stolen, and Walker yells that his bobblehead is in there. Cue disgruntled Jared face.

Oh man. We are at the title card. It’s less than 6 minutes. This will never end.

It was night, now it’s day, and Stella and August are walking around Austin. He’s mimicking David Attenborough, describing the teenagers around them as though he was doing a documentary about animals.

Two girls approach them, bringing up a party that’s taking place tomorrow. She says it’s not the best idea with her court date approaching. The girls are like, your dad can figure something out, he’s an elite ranger or something and also owes you for disappearing for a year. She’s like, he’s being kind of cool, I don’t want to ruin this, and the girls “call BS” because this is like “the best party of the year”.

Ruby, the girl August has been hanging out with, appears and August goes from “nah the party is not my thing” to “I’ll totally be there” in like 0.02 seconds.

I cannot overstate how much I am not interested in high schooler drama.

Meanwhile, at the Walker Seniors’ place, Walker’s parents are preparing the table for a family dinner. From their banter we can infer someone’s who ~is like family although he isn’t “blood”~ is coming for dinner and Grandpa Walker doesn’t like him at all and actually expects the guy to steal their china and bourbon. “It’s been years, could you please give him a chance?” Grandma Walker says, and he accepts, although she grabs the fancy bourbon from behind his back.

Meanwhile, at the police station, all the cops are having a briefing about Torreto, the woman at the strip club. She apparently steals weapons all over Texas and sells them over the border at triple the cost. Remember that Torreto escaped from Walker and Ramirez because she stole their truck while they were inside the strip club. Ramirez is worried she’ll already become the laughingstock of the precinct.

Uh. James plays security camera footage from outside the strip club. Walker and Ramirez’ truck was stolen by Torreto and the cowboy stripper himself.

Obviously the other cops laugh when Ramirez admits it was her truck.

James tells them to find Torreto, find the truck, and find out who the naked cowboy is.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Then Walker drives home, and as soon as he gets out of his car, you know how in the Supernatural pilot Dean gets into Sam’s apartment and wrestles him before revealing it’s him to ~test if his fighting skills are rusty and laughs when Sam realizes it’s him? Alright, now think intensely and guess how Walker’s like-a-brother best friend is introduced. Think intensely! It’s really difficult to guess!

Something something about violence and male intimacy except this is too ridiculous to, you know, write something serious about it.

“Oh, man!” the guy laughs, lying on the ground where Walker threw him. “The look on your face!”

“You son of a-”

“Oh, c’mon man, don’t talk bad of a mother I never knew.”

I’m facepalming soooo hard. This is the first thing we learn about him (well, after the fact that he definitely stole something from the Walkers’ house in the past), that he never knew his mother!

HOLY FUCKING SHIT

GUYS

I AM SO SORRY

I am faceblind I didn’t realize

THE GUY IS THE STRIPPER

I REPEAT

THE “DEAN BUT IN JARED PADALECKI’S MIND” CHARACTER IS THE SLUTTY GLITTER COWBOY STRIPPER

THIS IS NOT A DRILL

I SWEAR MY HANDS ARE COLD AND CLAMMY

I AM EXPERIENCING EMOTIONS NO WORDS EXIST IN THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE TO DESCRIBE

Oh my god guys. I am so sorry.

“You did your touchdown victory dance before you stole my partner’s truck!” Walker exclaims. “I should arrest you right here and right now!”

The guy acts like he has no idea what Walker is talking about, and says he’s in town to see his best pal.

Walker keeps accusing him, but then his mother appears, super thrilled to see him, and Walker lets is go.

They’re at dinner (NotDean brought wagyu steaks, which obviously means he does crime for a living) and Walker’s mother tells him to say grace, which he does in a semi-serious, semi-mocking way. Obviously NotDean does not believe in god, but he’s grateful for the people around him.

Stella calls him uncle, in case you missed that this is supposed to be a friend whom Walker loves likeabrother.

He talks about jobs he did here and there, and Walker and his brother tease him asking if he’s been to some prisons around the country. Stella doesn’t get the joke and NotDean explains it to her, adding, “now, from what I hear, I’m not the only outlaw in this family”. Grandpa Walker leaves the room.

NotDean asks Stella if she’s going to the bonfire (the party they were talking about earlier) and tells her that her mother started the thing when they were young. She didn’t know that. This is supposed to be a Meaningful moment.

Meanwhile the stolen truck is found... at Walker’s ranch. Gasp! What a shocking turn of events.

NotDean gives Stella advice on how to act in court to get on the judge’s good graces, “which means acting”. “Please don’t get legal advice from a criminal” walker’s brother Liam says. Is the gay brother also a NotDean of sorts, to be fair? Well, CriminalNotDean tells her to dress her best and cry. ActualbrotherNotDean tells her to use the correct legal arguments. Walker just stops them, quoting something Ramirez said earlier in the episode, “nobody benefits from the easy route”. Stella is like, what does that mean, which, mood, but Grandma Walker interrupts bringing in a plate of different hot chilis. Apparently they have a tradition of a competition. Which we don’t even see. Boo.

Ramirez finds the truck... right outside the Walkers’ house. Grandpa Walker, who’d gone outside, points a rifle to her and she explains what she’s doing there. They introduce themselves and she is like, sir why is the man who stole my truck inside your house? “Wife invited him to dinner.”

She’s like, I need to arrest him. But he’s like, I bet there’s not enough evidence to arrest him, or my son would have done it. Join me for steak and burbon in the bunkhouse! As one does. So they have wagyu and bourbon together, and she asks him what’s the guy’s story.

So NotDean and Walker grew up together, NotDean had a rough life, “my wife has a soft spot for strays, she can’t give up on him”. But Grandpa Walker doesn’t feel the same. He tells her that she cannot arrest him tonight, but it’s only a matter of time before the guy gives her enough rope. He adds that Walker has a blind spot for faces from the past, and needs someone to fix that.

Meanwhile dinner’s over and NotDean calls a uber. He and Walker arrange to meet the next day and hang out like old times. Eventually, Walker tells him that if he is involved in this case, he will have to take him down. “Theoretically, if you catch me.” They do a manly hug with manly pats, and the guy leaves. “Theoretically, go to hell,” Walker says after he’s left.

The next day, NotDean brings Walker to a storage in the middle of nowhere... full of cursed objects, no wait, wrong show. What’s inside the storage is the red Mustang. Walker is shocked that he hasn’t lost it in some bet - which apparently is how he got the car from Walker in the first place. Now NotDean says that, after everything Walker’s been through, he deserves a chance to win it back.

Glowy flashback of Walker and his wife in the car, right after the scene in the beginning of the episode. They bet it during poker night, decision of Emily, because Walker is “starting to get attached to her”. Emily teases him for calling the car a she, and Walker decides to call the car Stella.

They gave their daughter the name of a car they lost at poker.

Oh. She tells him she’s pregnant.

So, apparently, they had their first daughter when they were broke, to the point they had to try and get money at poker for a bigger place and baby things. That’s... kind of irresponsible.

Meamwhile, Ramirez goes to James to tell him about the thing, but James already figured NotDean was involved, because apparently stealing things and returning them is just something he does. “Why are you so calm about this?” she asks. He says because they cannot pin anything on him. Questioning him could scare the big crime lady. So he tells her to just keep an eye on him. “Walker, Torreto or Hoyt [NotDean]” she asks. “Yes” he answers.

Blah blah. I apologize, I’m being too detailed. I’m just bored by this. Ah, a butcher’s truck was stolen right after the strip club thing, guess where NotDean got the wagyu steaks.

Walker and NotDean go to the bar with the bartender who’s their friend, and NotDean flirts with her. They start playing poker, when Ramirez arrives, and has some banter with NotDean and spills some glitter on him that she found in the truck. He buys her a drink and she arrests him for trying to bribe a police officer. Walker is shocked.

At the precinct, he says they cannot prove he’s working with big crime lady. But she brings up he stole the wagyu steaks.

She calls him out for trying to be everyone’s friend even if they do something wrong, also with Stella.

She says she can hold NotDean for 24 hours, long enough to figure out the big crime lady’s plans. Common trope in cop shows. Arrest someone without proof, you have to release them after 24 hours, but the cop finds proof and bam, forgiven for arresting someone without proof.

I know you’re bored, I’m bored too.

Actually, nope, it goes differently and kind of worse. In the interrogation room, Ramirez offers NotDean a deal: he tells her where the big crime lady’s weapon deal is happening, and walks free. He points the location on a map and he compliments her. Walker is watching from the cameras and is shook.

Meanwhile the bonfire is happening, and Stella is there with her girl friends. So is August, breakdancing to impress girls. We don’t care.

Meanwhile, a lot of cops in serious cop gear surround the location NotDean pointed at. Nobody’s there, though.

What is there, is the red Mustang with the creepy bobblehead in it and a letter from NotDean that says he gives him the car back because it was always his wife’s.

Walker figures out where the deal is actually happening - the storage where the red Mustang was before.

Meanwhile, at the bonfire, August is drunk on booze he stole from Grandpa Walker and brought to the party. He asks Stella if she’s trying to drive their father away, breaking the law and all, he asks if she wants him to leave again. Then he throws up. She calls Walker but he obviously doesn’t answer. So she calls her uncle, who’s doing shopping with his partner or something. They’re buying cake? Doing cake testing for their wedding? Maybe.

Meanwhile, NotDean calls Grandma Walker to tell her he cannot go mushroom hunting with her tomorrow but needs to leave town, and he’s sorry to let her down again. She tells him that just because his family’s bad, doesn’t mean he is too. “You saved my boy, and I’ll never forget that” she says. Oooh, that’s so intriguing!, nobody says. They share a cute moment and then he hangs up, while the weapon deal goes down around him.

Uncle Liam and his partner pick up the kids, and Stella asks him if he’ll be in court with her tomorrow. He says he can’t, because it’s her father’s decision to make.

August turns up music and they all sing in the car. It’s funny how everyone’s got better chemistry with everyone else except with Walker. I know it’s, like, on purpose for plot reasons, but still, Walker’s interactions with everyone feel so stilted compared to anyone else. And it’s not the other characters are that compelling.

The police arrives at the location of the weapon deal, and NotDean gets arrested trying to steal the truck again. Ramirez gives a speech how that’s hard but it’s the right thing to do. Walker makes a comment about tough love, implying Stella needs to get that too.

The next day, they leave for Stella’s court thing on the red Mustang. It took Walker three episodes, but now they also have a cool classic car to show off! Yay! *eyeroll*

Meanwhile, Grandma Walker and Grandpa Walker have a conversation about their failing marriage or something.

Ramirez goes to the bar to apologize to the bartender for arresting NotDean. They have a drink together and if lesbians were watching this they’d start shipping them, but no lesbians are watching this. They’re wiser than me.

Stella got like a gazillion hours of community service and her license suspended. She’s upset, but since she has her license for one more day he teaches her how to drive the Mustang.

Wait. Americans don’t learn to drive normal cars when they get their license?? They only learn to drive cars with automatic gear?? What the hell??

They drive while August runs after the car to get over his hangover or something.

Would be a cute moment if the entire thing wasn’t so cheesy and weird.

Well. We know NotDean is a recurring role so we’ll see more of him. (Well, I’m not sure I will be there to watch, because this is boring af.)

This episode used all its interest coins in the strip club scene and then became dreadfully boring. I don’t even have some witty line to close this post.

This was a rollercoaster that went my brain go through a blender in the first six minutes or so and then killed the remaining braincells through boredom.

That’s it guys. What can I say. This is the CW’s Walker. Yee.

#marghe watches walker for some darned reason #cw's jared: legit texan

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secret-rendezvous1d · 3 years

Text

“don’t leave me”

hello, hi!

i definitely don’t think this is a one-off thing anymore and this blog may be on the way to merging into a harry styles + matthew gray gubler blog so i’d like to think that that is a new exciting venture people will . i’m really enjoying writing about a new scene, a new character and a new life to plan out and write about. the stories don’t essentially follow each other so they can be read anyhow and in any way but i’d like to think they all follow the same storyline/timeline so they link in that way.

like, reblog and give me some feedback. it’s greatly appreciated and it helps me work out what you want to see and what you are after.

thank you. enjoy.

“don’t leave me” spencer reid x female reader (reader insert imagine) word count; 2.1k.

* if you haven’t watched criminal minds then this does contain some spoilers to the show that you may want to dodge if you are thinking of starting the series up. *

summary; spencer struggles to come to terms with emily’s return and the betrayal of his friends.

“Spencer, look, we’ve got to talk about this.”

YN came to a stop with what she was doing when she saw her boyfriend and JJ starting a conversation in the station’s negotiation room, setting down the files she was sifting through so she could pay a little more attention to the conversation happening just a few feet away from the desk she was seated at, eyes still focused on the page with the bold name of a potential unsub printed at the top, accompanied by a picture of what they looked like. She tried to, at least, make herself seem busy without showing herself being nosey over a conversation that didn’t necessarily include her.

“What do you mean, talk about it?” Spencer questioned, looking at her in disbelief, “talk about what?”

YN hated how passive-aggressive he’d been, over the last two days, towards the two women who used to be considered a few of the only women close to him. He was never like that and, given what had happened, she understood his pain and his upset… she just hated how he wanted to push it, and them, away so he could carry on like an unexpected change hadn’t just sprung into his life.

“I get it, okay? You’re disappointed with the way we handled Emily,” JJ stated, hands on her hips as she stood around the opposite side of the table, watching intently at Spencer as he stood looking at the paper in his hands, eyes darting from the print to his scrawny handwriting on the board beside him, “I get that.”

The tension amongst the team was unbearable, to say the least.

As soon as Emily had entered the roundtable room a week prior to their case in Oklahoma, much to the surprise of everyone occupying the room who had stood waiting for the next plan of action to take down Ian Doyle and find his son, there was a sudden wave of uncertainty that seemed swallow the team whole and didn’t have plans on spitting them back out again anytime soon. No one could pick apart the emotions on one person’s face and state clearly how they were feeling. Confusion, shock, anger, happiness, joy, surprise… there were flecks of each emotion but never one clear facial expression that gave away how someone was truly feeling.

Now they were deep in Oklahoma, on a case and trying to find an unsub who had come to light in the recent murders of two young women prior to their touchdown, with Emily back in her regular place and trying her best to get back to normal as a BAU agent for the FBI. No longer under protection of the higher authority, no longer hiding behind an alias that took her identity away and stripped her of who she once was and she was finally able to go back to the Emily Prentiss whom she had been loved by many before life did a one-eighty flip. Almost as if nothing had changed, like the seven months she spent in witness protection hadn’t ever happened, like her death and her funeral and her burial were a fever dream that seemed to never leave the rest of them alone.

For most of the unit, having her back was something so wonderful and so great, to see her jumping back into a case with a mindset ready for justice and helping out with the mind she was graced with having, to have the same pair of eyes that were used to seeing case after case of young victims and unstable unsubs be considered a fresh pair of eyes now she was back. To work a case with someone you were comfortable with, that was what the most of them loved; the witty banter shared, the anger that bounced off from each sentence, the kind and caring charisma to get the best result of a case.

But for some, it was difficult to adjust to something they had only just overcome.The grief they felt towards the situation of losing a beloved member of the unit, someone so loving and kind, a huge part of their team, it was unbearable and tore them down soon after they presumed they laid her to rest. Going back, visiting her burial site, resting flowers and almost keeping her updated with how everyone had been. They refused to believe she was gone yet denied her when she was found out to be healthy and alive and ready to start back where she left off.

“Well, I have a lot going on, alright?”

A lie, to say the least, but she wasn’t to know that.

“You know what I think it is?”

That caught his attention. And YN’s.

The one question that many profilers, specifically Spencer, hated to be personally asked was that question. They didn’t need to know what others thought when they could have the same thought pattern as each other, they didn’t need someone else telling them what they think they should be thinking and Spencer didn’t need a pity chat from someone who wronged him to find out what he was thinking.

Deep down, YN knew what the problem was and she was handling the situation as best as she could when she was alone with him in their hotel room, but she didn’t think it was as clear cut as people assumed. So how had JJ worked it out? If she was correct in what she thought was wrong with him, that is. He was hurt and he was upset and he was confused; he showed his grief towards missing a friend and he showed how much they meant to him by showing so much emotion yet he just couldn’t come to terms with how none of that was needed anymore. How he didn’t need to build his walls any higher because there wasn’t going to be any more heartache to deal with..

“What?”

“You’re mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital and you weren’t able to detect our deception,” JJ suggested, a little more vigour in her voice as she spoke to him, frustration dripping from her words because she was desperate to get through to him. Absolutely desperate to find some way to resolve an issue that others had forgiven almost instantly, “you’re mad because you couldn’t catch us out on our lies.”

“You think this is about my profiling skills?” He scoffed and shook his head, looking back to the paper in his hands, ”Jennifer, listen, the only reason you were able to manage my perceptions was because I trusted you. I came to your house for ten weeks in a row, crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth,” he continued, disappointment laced through his words. And he so badly wanted to look up and catch the eyes of his girlfriend, the only one he felt truly supported him and his decision to act out, but he knew he needed to fight a battle of his own. Especially one that he caused but especially one that he was actively dragging out.

“I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t? Or you wouldn’t?”

It was the first time they made eye contact through the debacle. And, in that moment, JJ could see the pain behind his eyes. The deceit he felt. The grief that was nonsense because they were grieving over no one. The time wasted crying. The time wasted over nothing but false information and lies. She could see he looked vulnerable and naive and she felt guilty for even bringing her back to help on the mission they so direly needed her help with.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?” YN’s eyes shot up at the question he bit towards his colleague; he never considered that, she was sure of it. YN would have known if he did. That time of his life was something she wished he would let go of, something she wished he forgot about so he could carry on with his life, something she wished he never considered again, “I thought about it.”

YN couldn’t only feel her heart ache but she could feel the eyes of Hotch and Morgan resting upon her figure as she tried to occupy herself.

“You didn’t-”

“I did,” he hissed, placing the paper down on the desk below him and striding towards the doors, passed JJ as she pressed an apology upon him, hoping to get him to stay behind so she could hash it out until he fully understood their reasoning why they chose the plan that they did, “I did.”

“Spencer, I’m sorry-”

“It’s too late, alright?” He mumbled.

His legs took him out of the room and down from the floor they were situated on, ignoring the calls from Hotch as he stood with his arms folded in the corner of the room, everyone watching him as he left to go outside so he could catch a breath of fresh air and clear his mind of all the things rattling around inside his head. An alarming look from Morgan and a squeeze to her shoulder had YN up from her seat, case files left behind as she followed her boyfriend out of the station’s vicinity, catching him on a bench just a short walk away from the entrance of the building.

“If you’re coming here to tell me I need to focus on work rather than what’s happening then don’t, Morgan. I’m not-”

“What on earth gives you the impression I’m the big dude with muscles and a charming voice?” YN teased, his upper body twisting so he could catch the sweet stature of his smiling girlfriend, the slightest hint of a smile twitching his lips before he turned back to face forward. Hands clasped together and resting on his legs, thumbs tapping and rubbing at his skin in circles, feeling the presence of his girlfriend behind him, “mind telling me what that was all about?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He slipped to the other side of the bench so there was enough room for YN to sit down beside him, her hand reaching over to lace her fingers through his, squeezing his hand tightly as their conjoined palms rested upon his thigh, “I’m hurt and I’m angry, YN. I’m so angry. You saw how much I cried, how much I struggled, how much everyone had to adjust to life without Emily when she ‘died’. Yet they knew, they knew she was alive and they knew she was healthy and okay. They didn’t tell us and that’s- it’s sick,” he grappled, his voice full of passion; there was no way he was angry with them anymore and there was no way he would continue the trait up until someone said something to bring him back down to earth. He was glad she was home - he told her so many times in the last few days about just how great it was to have her home - but he never failed to drift back to the subject of how they dealt with the situation.

“They did it for her protection, Spence. They saved her and, essentially, saved us for truly having to say goodbye to her,” YN admitted, bringing their hands to her mouth so she could press a tacky kiss to the back of his hand, leaving a pink lipstick stain behind in her wake, “she’s safe now because of what they did. Doyle, he’s dead. Anyone who was after, they’re dead. She’s safer now than she was ever.”

“But they watched us grieve at a funeral. We buried something in that ground and were made to believe it was her,” Spencer sighed shakily, “they cried for her, too. They grieved. They said nothing was the same anymore. When they knew the truth all along. I cried with JJ, she helped me when you were working, she was denying it all but, in her head, she knew everything was a lie.”

“Emily left for a reason. To save everyone. She’s back now and you’ve got to remember how everything was before she left us,” YN’s hand gave his a gentle squeeze before she let go, bringing her hands to her lap and waiting for him to look up from the ground so she could see his eyes and so she could see his bright smile, “Spence, she’s not going anywhere.”

He nodded slowly and hesitantly lifted his head, his eyes a little raw around the rims and his lip a little chewed at, but the light in his face was still there. His body scooting closer to YN, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side for a little bit of romance before they were caught and checked on by another agent.

“You won’t leave me like that, will you?” He wondered, “don’t, okay? Don’t leave me.”

“If I’m going anywhere, you’re coming with me, mister,” YN grinned, leaning up to press a kiss to his pink lips, “we do it together or we don’t do it at all.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid imagines #spencer reid x yn imagines #spencer reid x reader insert imagines #spencer reid x reader insert fic #matthew gray gubler #matthew gray gubler imagines #matthew gray gubler x yn imagines #matthew gray gubler x reader insert imagines #matthew gray gubler x reader insert fic #criminal minds imagines

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mays-grant · 3 years

Text

favorite crime | Spencer Reid

Summary:

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of death, murder, prison, angst, insanity, drugs, lying, really bad writing

Loosely based off of ‘Favorite Crime’ by Olivia Rodrigo

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N: I didn’t proofread this in the slightest

You had royally fucked up.

You knew that from the moment the men in beige uniforms placed the cold metal around your hands wincing as you heard the small ‘click’ noise. The cuffs practically seethed themselves into your skin with how tight they were and the newly formed cuts—that you don’t remeber how you got— didn’t help the pain.

How did you even get here?

The last thing you truly remembered was agreeing to go with Spencer to get his mother’s medicine.

Spencer.

It was all his fault. You were sure that if you hadn’t come with him that you would be at home watching reruns of the office, perfectly content with your mild mannered life. But instead, you were wearing a hideous blue jumpsuit staring at the grimy wall of your cell.

Was this the price you had to pay to be his?

You knew that being with Spencer meant that you would have to deal with his job but that was all you had prepared yourself for. You hadn’t been prepared to get arrested for the murder of a woman you’d thought you’d never even heard of before the police mentioned her and the ‘memories’ of what you and Spencer did to her filled your head.

Four bloody hands. A knife. And a vulnerable woman doing what she had to do to be with someone.

It was confusing. Nadia Ramos had died and her heart stopped being so, why did it feel as if your heard had stopped beating? Was this what a broken heart felt like?

She had been buried and yet, in a way, so were you.

God, the things she did to be with Spencer.

Even if the memories of what happened were blurry and in consistent, in your mind, it still happened. When you say in front of the judge as they asked you why you had pleaded guilty, you could only utter a single sentence.

“'Cause I was goin' down, but I was doin' it with him.”

And the judge, as disgusted with you as they were, understood your words. You had presumably been Spencer’s willing accomplice. It was bittersweet to think about the damage that you’d both done. To think that you did all this simply so you could call him ‘mine’.

When Spencer’s team from the behavioral analysis unit interviewed you, they almost couldn’t believe the person you believed you had become.

A person who would murder for a man you had been dating for a mere 5 months— not to mention that they were almost one hundred percent sure that you and Spencer had not committed this crime. That the two of you were simply forced to participate in this heinous act or that you simply believed you did and that in reality Peter Lewis had committed this murder.

Everyone who had been defending Spencer knew that you had simply gone insane. But you hadn’t. You had simply fallen in love. There was nothing crazy about that.

Right?

Emily Prentiss had explained the situation to you when they found out Lindsay and Cat had been behind all of this, you had almost laughed in her face and told her that she was insane.

But, maybe she wasn’t.

Maybe you didn’t kill Nadia Ramos.

It made sense, I mean— You couldn’t remember practically anything from when you and Spencer— supposedly— killed her. And if the two of you were really on drugs— which you were— then that would explain why everything had been so hazy.

But, you still didn’t understand. In your mind, you had done this for Spencer and if you hadn’t done this at all then, why had your mind been plagued with an obsession with the doctor?

And then it hit you.

The BAU was right. You were insane. You had been insane long before you had been arrested in Mexico and long before you had began dating Spencer.

You had been insane the moment you joined the hitmen.

The moment you had begun working alongside Cat Adams and the others.

And then the memories came flooding back.

You recalled the fact that you, Cat, and Lindsay had planned this all together. As a team.

The plan was that you would infiltrate Spencer’s life and imitate the role of the perfect girlfriend. Giving Cat and Lindsay enough time to replicate Peter Lewis’ signature to throw off the BAU. They had planned for you to go to Mexico with Spencer— that was why you had agreed to go.

They would then dose you and Spencer with a hallucinogenic so it would be up to the two of you to paint the picture of the murder the pair do you thought you committed.

But what Lindsay and Cat didn’t account for was how much the drugs would affect you.

You had always been close to breaking down. Always standing in the tip of a fifty foot mounting waiting for an avalanche.

This was your avalanche.

Your mind had become completely enthralled with the idea of Spencer Reid and being in love as the effect fo the drugs kicked in. But then, your mind had rebooted itself to believe that was truly what you felt, what you had always felt.

It was your subconsciouses way of protecting yourself. To believe that you really killed that woman and that loving Spencer was an excuse to help him kill her when in reality you felt guilting for all the people you had taken out over the past years working with the Horsemen. That, if you had a reason for killing one person than you had a reason for killing them all. That, you were a decent person. That, nothing had ever truly been your fault.

When everyone found out who you really were and what you had done, they had made sure your sentence was at least 25 years.

You remembered the look on Spencer’s face as he interviewed you after saving his mother and taking down Peter Lewis, Cat, and Lindsay.

He had a look of disgust on his face, one that he didn’t even try to hide.

“You lied.” It wasn’t a question, it was more of a statement. An accusation that had been entirely correct.

You hummed out an ‘mhm’ as you stared into his gorgeous eyes. His hair that had grown significantly longer during his time incarcerated had almost completely covered his forehead.

“Why?”

He asked, a hint of sadness lacing his tone. You tilted your head to the side and leaned forward a bit, reminding yourself that you were still chained to the table.

“Was I your favorite crime?” You asked.

His eyes widened slightly at your abrupt question before he composed himself.

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s not a hard question. Was I or was I not your perfect crime? I hope I was.” You told him, smiling fondly. Spencer narrowed his eyes a bit.

“Cause, you were mine.”

And that was all you needed to say before the men beside you drove the needle into your arm, the liquid flowing through your veins making your eyes heavy only for them to close so they would never open again.

And it was true, you had always been the perfect crime.

#spencer reid #cat adams #mr scratch #spencer reid fic #angst #spencer reid angst #criminal minds #cm #emily prentiss #peter lewis #criminal minds x y/n

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missmitchieg · 3 years

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Can I just take a sec to acknowledge that Julie Molina is, like, a really good judge of character? I mean, look at the facts in the show's canon.

Flynn: Julie correctly concluded when she was a kid that Flynn was good. She met Flynn when they were around six and Flynn was a good, loyal friend to her always. Julie pushed everyone around her away when Rose passed except for Flynn, partly because Flynn is the Krazy Glue of best friends and party because she's genuinely nice and supportive even when Julie formed a ghost band when they promised they would be Double Trouble when they were six. She knows Flynn only discouraged her from being with Luke and pushed her toward Nick because Luke is a ghost and Nick is alive and there for Julie and likes her.

Nick: Julie had never even talked to Nick before, according to Flynn. She looked at him one day and decided that he was a good guy and formed a crush on him. She watched him date Carrie Wilson (who I am gonna get to in a second here) and still came to the correct conclusion that Nick was a sweetheart. He proved her correct when he smiled when he caught her staring at him, danced along to Bright, gave her a pep talk at the dance, went to the garage party and danced to Edge Of Great, didn't pester or get mad when she said no to being study partners and a date and still went to The Orpheum performance AND went to her house the next day with the intention to give her congratulatory flowers and presumably tell her once again how amazing she is.

Luke: Julie was initially alarmed by Luke, due to his ghostly-ness, but she warmed up to him (read: fell in love with him) quickly and concluded that he was good to keep around, too. She noted that he was very passionate about music and curious about her and her life (as her Soulmate) and very stubborn and headstrong, but still good. She called him selfish because his stubbornness and passion for music made him feel that haunting Bobby for taking Sunset Curve's music after their passing wasn't enough revenge and he needed more, making him miss the dance and it hurt her. It's after this that she finds out about Mitch and Emily and helps Luke apologize to them and gain some closure. Luke cleans up his act and resumes being exceedingly loyal to Julie and she realizes that her original thoughts about Luke, that he was good, were correct and fell more in love with him.

Reggie: Julie finds Reggie to be "a little questionable" due to how smart he actually is versus how he presents himself as an air headed dork who occasionally said incredibly smart, wise things they need to hear and guesses things correctly, is observant and perceptive (knew from the studio and Julie's room decor that there was glitter in her dreambox, just got a vibe from the HGC that it's a bad/creepy place, knew from one conversation that Caleb was bad news, knew Luke and Julie were crushing on each other) and asks smart questions that Alex and Luke didn't when Willie told them about the stamps ("So if we don't join his club, then the weird power outage thing continues until, there's no power left at all? What exactly happens when the power goes out? What exactly do you mean by 'we're done'?"). Not because he's a bad person. She just wants him to own his brains.

Carrie: Time for the Carrie Wilson talk from The Carrie Wilson Sympathizer. *every Carrie anti groans in annoyance* Look, Julie and Carrie used to be best friends when they were younger. This means that Julie's original impression of Carrie and judgement of her character was positive. Julie isn't the type to befriend a mean girl for years and suddenly ditch her. Carrie was definitely nice to Julie in the past and something happened to make her "turn" on Julie (even though she still refers to Julie as one of her oldest friends and made the excuse for Julie that she probably just forgot to invite her to the party completely on accident when they haven't been on necessarily good terms for a while, talks to her and Flynn in the hallways instead of ignoring them like they don't exist to her and invited them to come to the rally and then allowed them to come into her house and gave them water because they said they were thirsty and never badmouths her singing voice or her lyrics, she in fact, complimented Julie and her singing and her band and lyrics when she complained that they "upstaged her" at the rally) and wants to be proven that her first impression and judgement was correct and wants her friend back. WAIT 'TILL JULIE FINDS OUT CARRIE WATCHED THE VIDEO OF EDGE OF GREAT AFTER BEING THERE FOR THE PERFORMANCE AND VIDEO SHOOT AND WAS AT THE ORPHEUM TO WATCH HER AND APPLAUDED HER WITHOUT BEING PROMPTED LMAO GIRLFRIEND'S GONNA HAVE A HEART ATTACK NOW THAT REAL CARRIE'S BACK.

Julie is a great judge of character and I love that for her.

#julie and the phantoms #julie molina #Flynn #nick danforth evans #luke patterson #reggie molina #carrie wilson

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morceid · 3 years

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Snowy Sniffles

💡SPENCER REID X DEREK MORGAN💡

read on ao3

Summary: Derek gets the flu when he and Spencer are snowed in on a case in Colorado.

Word Count: 2k

Category: fluff, slight angst

Content Warnings: swearing, sickness, case details

A/N: enjoy my otp being cute and cuddly for my first day of 12 days of moreid :)

The snowy mountains of Colorado. A serial killer as cold as the air was out there, and It was the job of the BAU to catch him.

The team boarded their plane like normal, occasionally Derek coughed and cleared his throat. Not enough to realize what was happening, but enough to get a “You okay?” from JJ.

There weren’t many hiccups with local police, except for them withholding information about the victims. Derek and Spencer were sent to profile the dump site, JJ and Emily to interview victims' families, while Rossi and Hotch set up at the station.

The dump site was in a clearing next to a mountain frequently used for sledding. A visiting family from Texas was recommended the mountain by a friend and since they weren’t familiar with the area, the mom got lost and they came across the body. Thankfully the kids weren’t there to see it.

Spencer and Derek walked out of the black SUV and ducked under the police tape in their fleece jackets and large boots.

“The victim was Hannah Gentry. She was a fourteen year old girl who ran away from her abusive father. No sign of sexual assault, but there were signs of restrains on her thighs and around her stomach.” Spencer walked around the area the body had previously been found, searching for anything left behind by the unsub.

“Maybe he thought he was saving these girls. How old were each of the victims?” Derek said, pulling tissues from jacket pocket.

“Ages ranged from 13 to 19. All had someone abusive close to them. You sure you’re okay?”

Before Derek could reply he was coughing and gagging into the torn kleenex in his hand.

“I’ll be fine,” The stuffiness in his nose was apparent in his voice now. “Let’s go back to the station. I’m sure Rossi and Hotch are at the M.E. now.”

The two walked back to the car and headed towards the police station. On the way it started snowing and Spencer said something about growing up in Vegas without snow, and how in Virginia they never really saw the snow fall, they just woke up to it on the ground and in the streets.

Between the snowfall rapidly increasing, the windshield wipers not doing anything to help, and Derek driving in an unfamiliar area, he began having a coughing fit and swerved off the road.

They didn’t get hurt in the accident, just a large rush of adrenaline, but the car wasn’t in the best shape. The engine made a sound that contorted Spencer’s face.

“We should probably check that.”

Derek tried to push his door open but he had driven into a ditch and snow was piled up tp his window. He rolled it down and shoveled some of the snow with his gloved hands. He got the door all the way open with a little wrestling of the handle. The boot of the car was opened and steam was rising from it. Spencer had crawled across the center console and got out from Derek’s side.

“Do you think we could get an officer to pick us up?” Derek sniffled.

“I think the snow is coming down too hard now.” Spencer’s black coat was powdered with snow that he didn’t bother to shake off, knowing it would be back there in an instant.

“I’ll call Hotch.” Derek fished his phone out of his pocket.

“You fell in a ditch? Morgan, this is a very time sensitive case. This guy kills every three days and it’s been the second day since the last body was found. We need you guys here.” Spencer overheard Hotch’s near yells over the phone.

“Okay, dad, calm down there. I’ll call up Garcia to find us the closest hotel and we’ll crash there. Reid says snowing too much for an officer to come pick us up.” It was around 7:30 and the sun was starting to set.

“Alright, we can send someone to get you tomorrow.” Hotch hung up and Derek called Penelope.

“Hey-llo my chocolate thunder! Anything I could do for you?”

Derek coughed a couple of times.

“You okay, Derek?”

“Yeah, uh, me and Reid got stuck in the snow and we can’t get back to the hotel. Are there any near us that we can crash at?”

“You’re in luck, Derek Morgan, There is a motel only a seven minute walk away from you. Anything else?”

“Not right now, baby girl, take care of yourself.”

“So what are we gonna do?” Spencer had begun chewing on his fingernails and pacing in a circle around the car.

“Kid,” Derek took Spencer’s cold hands into his warm, gloved ones. “Stop your worrying. I can see all of those gears in your head going a million miles an hour. Garcia found a motel near us and we can walk there and stay the night until someone can pick us up. We’ll be okay.”

“I know I’m gonna be okay, it’s you I’m worried about, Morgan.” Spencer took his hands out of Derek’s and leaned into the car to grab his bag.

“What do you mean? I’m fine.” As if on cue, Derek started having a coughing fit.

“I’m talking about that, Derek. You’re showing signs of getting the flu. Your heart rate has sped up by 39% in the last couple of days. You constantly have a running nose and you won’t stop coughing. I am not getting sick, I cannot afford to get sick, especially on a case, so I hope this motel has two beds.” Spencer pushed away from Derek and began walking.

“Wait!” Derek ran to catch up. “Pretty boy, you’ve already been with me for almost 24 hours. I think you are already infected. Besides, you, my friend, are shivering. Now let me give you one of my coats.”

Spencer slowed his walking and let Derek drape his second jacket over his thin, purple one. Having a crush on your coworker was the worst.

When the pair reached the motel the sun had fully set and they had snow covering their shoulders and resting on their heads. They brushed it off before entering, where they were bombarded with the overwhelming scent of perfume as what could only be presumed as the owner tugged them in with both of her arms. She was short and wore a sparkly pink dress not unlike one Penelope would wear.

“What can I do for you kind fellows today? Did ya crash on the side of the road? Lots of people did tonight. Can I get you a room? Was it your engine? Faulty car?” The woman rambled.

“Um, we fell in a ditch a little bit back. We just need two rooms for the night,” Spencer looked down at her nametag, “Sasha. Thank you.”

“Well, boys, I am sorry to disappoint but we only have one more room for the night. You’re just gonna have to share.”

“Are there at least two beds?” Spencer whined.

“Sorry,” Sasha took Derek’s credit card and punched in the numbers on a computer that looked almost a decade old. “You good there? You look like you could throw up any second?”

“I’m fine, ma’am. Just give us the room key please.” Derek cleared his throat.

“Alrighty, there you go FBI guys.” Sasha handed them the room key labed 7B.

Given the overwhelming personality that brought them in, neither had a chance to look around and profile the front office. When they got to the room they realized just how miserable the stay would be.

The heater seemed to be turned off resulting in the room being colder than the outside. Complementary water bottles on the nightstand had frozen, expanded, and exploded. The pipes in the walls creaked and whined. Derek moved towards the bed, which when he pulled up the sheets, they were stiff and barely moved at his touch. Spencer moved past the bed and to the kitchen, where he found a coffee machine and cups in the cupboard.

“What are you doing?” Derek coughed.

“Making coffee. It’s something to keep me warm.” Spencer still had Derek’s jacket across his shoulders.

“Alright well, you might be right. I think I’m starting to get a fever. I’m gonna hop in the shower. Hopefully it’s just the reverse air conditioning that’s broken.”

Derek’s observations were proven correct as he unexpectedly walked into the spray of a nearly boiling shower. His muscles relaxed as he began thinking about the events of the day. His nose ran more than it had in the cold weather and it reminded him of a moment in the office that happened some while ago, back when Spencer first joined the BAU.

It was a slow day in the bullpen. With Spencer being nearly fresh from college, Derek wasn’t expecting him to take the best care of himself, no one was. Derek looked up, ready to throw Spencer a rolled up note about how bored he was. Instead he was greeted with an empty desk. After asking Hotch where the boy genius was and getting a surprised ‘I don’t know’ in response, he went in search of him. Spencer was found laying on the couch in an empty office. HIs skin was red and burning to the touch. Derek gave him a couple of shakes and he woke up, groaning. Spencer had gotten the flu and didn’t know how to deal with it at work. Not wanting to disappoint Hotch by skipping a day for something so insignificant as a virus, he settled in an office he correctly assumed was vacant. He insisted that he was okay but Derek refused to believe him. He dropped Spencer off at his apartment and immediately knew. He was in love with Spencer Reid. And he wanted to spend as much time with him as possible.

When Derek was in the shower for at least 15 minutes Spencer presumed that the shower was warm, so he called Sasha at the front desk from the phone in the room. She wouldn’t be able to get someone to come fix it for another day. He sat on the bed, spreading his arms and legs out in an attempt to warm the sheets. Letting his mind wander, he started asking himself questions. Why did he like Derek? He was just his coworker. Just someone in his life. An attractive person in his life, but just like anyone else in his life. Did Derek know how much he meant to him? Would he ever know? Would he be given the chance to let Derek know that he loved him and wanted to spend his life with the other knowing?

He was taken out of his day dream when Derek came out of the bathroom. Derek was shaking. He wore thick, flannel sweatpants and a grey hoodie, along with his socks, not wanting to leave a single part of his body too exposed.

“Uh, I know you’re super germaphobic and probably want nothing to do with my running nose and sore throat right now, but kid, all of my muscles are aching. Do you mind if I-”

“Not at all.” Spencer wrapped his arms around Derek’s middle as he sank onto the bed.

Derek let out a sigh of relief and settled in Spencer’s arms. It wasn’t long until his breathing evened out and he fell asleep in the lanky man’s arms.

“I think I love you, Derek Morgan.” Spencer whispered.

The next day Hotch called Derek to let him know that they caught the unsub. He was an amateur child groomer who left a hair in his latest victims mouth. An officer picked up the pair from the motel and they boarded the jet. Derek’s flu passed as soon as it came and he was better in the morning. A little cuddling with Spencer was just what the doctor ordered.

“Hey, Spencer.” Derek sat across from him after everyone on the jet had fallen asleep.

“Yes, Derek?” Spencer noted the use of his first name in his head.

“We need to talk about last night.”

“What about it?”

“I heard you, Spencer.”

“Wh-what are you talking about? Heard me say what?”

“Spencer,” Derek put his hand on the other’s knee, “I love you too.”

In a panic, Spencer leaned forward and pecked Derek on the lips.

“I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” He stammered.

“It’s okay. We can do that if you want.” Derek leaned back in for a real kiss from Spencer. He still tasted like the cheap hotel coffee.

“We can do anything as long as we’re together.”

TAGLIST: @greenaway-lewis @pretty-b0yy @w0rmpi3 @sunflowrly @fuckshitupm8-deactivated3728 @the-sassy-one @endetit @adhd-lesbian @nobody121113 @stalinthestripper

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bunsbunnybitch · 3 years

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𝕿𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐬; 𝕳𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 & 𝕭𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝕾𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫

Ｈａｎｎｉｂａｌｘｒｅａｄｅｒ

CHAPTER 1

RAIN hammered the ground like pelting bullets, sizzling under the night sky - a shade of melancholy grey - almost eternally. As you wondered about the horizon, the putrid stench of death was near; whatever it was, you couldn't help but to feel unease. Your gloved hands reach to tighten the leather jacket around your form, pulling it close to your shivering body. The droplets of water were cold like piercing snowflakes, it was immensely distracting. Leaning against the wall, you let your gaze wander across the empty street. Tall lampposts adorned the sidewalks, luminescent lights that glowed amidst the pelting mist brightened the mellow street by a not so much percent. You tugged at the hem of your beanie, an innuendo your partner would get.

'Admirable choice of scenery' you muttered, heaving yet another breath in.

The camera on the pole twisted away from your disgruntled form.

"Trust me, I've been through worse." A voice chuckled through the comm and you rolled your eyes, huffing with distaste.

"Rich coming from a person not doing fieldwork."

"Don't be silly, it's my turn to sit while you do the fieldwork." Alis retorted. "We are Assasins are we not?"

"You aren't. I am, you are just a frail little puppy that follows me along." You huffed, though the reason you never wanted her near was because of the danger that awaits.

'I'll just let that brat figure things out for herself'

Following the incident as to which Alis had found out about your profession, you had thought she would resent you, but in reality, she was smitten by it. You had thought she was completely oblivious to the term 'assassin', let alone stupid of the fact at what it actually is, but it was when she had tried to blackmail you because of it, you knew she wasn't normal. It was also the sudden realization that Alis was Beverly's adopted sister, had sent you into a massive downhole spiral. You were stuck between two roads and two walls. You eventually agreed, and she was - ironically - your mentee now.

"Remember the last time we were nearly massacred by Big Ben, and the only thing you cared about was missing the dinner date with that hot psychiatrist?"

You scrunched your nose.

"It's Alana Bloom." You corrected. "And it's not a date - just what friends do when they want to have dinner together."

"In a French restaurant with flowers perched on the table? With Red sultry wine that tastes exotic once you drink it?" She mused. "Sounds pretty romantic to me."

"Your sister, Bev, wouldn't think the same, and besides I took him down." You asserted conceitedly, though your tone uniformed. "You don't have a say in this - you are too young."

"I'm only nineteen."

"What did I say?" You warned and heard a huff - one that could only mean submission. "Also, did you tell Bev you're with Sam?"

You remembered her talking about a restaurant she wanted both of you to go to, but it was all a slur, and you rejected her offer - mainly because of the client today.

"No..." She said slowly, her guilt blatantly obvious. "I informed her that I'm going to learn martial arts with you."

Ah yes, our typical cover story. Which was also true, because Beverly had wanted Alis to learn the art of defense.

'I mean, this is still the same...right?'

"I'm only teaching you without pay, simply, because Bev is my friend - not because I wanted to, If you were wondering."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever." She scoffed. "Come to think of it, how can you balance your job being a gardener, a martial artist, and a bodyguard?"

You shrugged. "Life, I guess."

Realizing that your mask is twisted to the side, you adjusted it, but the sound of rustling behind you had made your body stiffen. Your hand instinctively went to the gun on your holster and laid it there, closing your eyes to tune into your surroundings.

"Location of target: Clover. How many yards?"

You heard a clang and suspected her foot smacked the table.

"Hold on a sec." She mumbled and proceeded to type profusely on the keyboard. "Wait...why are the cameras suddenly...."

The sound of tapping abruptly stopped.

"(Y/n)."She breathed out. "Zero yards-"

Opening your eyes, you flung around, with your feet raised high in the air. They scrambled back in time your foot smacked the pole, falling onto their backs. You raised your foot in an attempt to smack them with your heel, but they jumped and tackled you to the ground, causing your comm to slip out from your ear.

"(Y/n)" The woman, presumably Clover, grunted, getting on her toes. "I'm not here to fight."

You froze in your tracks. How did they know my name? You clenched your fists and raised them into a fighting stance.

As you lunged forward, her eyes widened and she took a step back.

"Don't even think ab-"

You threw a punch and she ducked, only to be met with your knee instead. She, once again, fell to the floor and groaned.

"For fucks sake-" She yelled, getting back to her foot. "Can you just-"

Another punch to the stomach had cut her off and she cowered in pain, spitting out the blood in her throat. Finally having the opportunity to do so you unlocked your holster, and took the gun out. The grip was slippery due to the rain, but you didn't mind. You wanted this to finish, and go home. Sighing, you pressed the gun against her temple. Her head slowly rose and with her free hand, she smacked the gun away within minutes. Still recovering from the shock, you had made no time intercepting her next move. She leaped forward and tackled you to the floor, pressing both your wrists against the side of your head.

"Can you just wait for one fucking minute and not go apeshit on me?!" She yelled, and you could only raise your eyebrow in amusement.

"Who are you?" You asked, voice slightly muffled from your mask. "And...why are you here?"

"I sent you here."

"Oh?"

You pushed her off and she yelped. Standing up, you slammed your foot against her leg, breaking the latter with a satisfying crack. She made no time to scream, as you shoved your palm against her mouth, dragging her across the rough surface to a nearby pole. You need answers, you are tired, annoyed, and after a full day of training from Alana that Jack had instructed her to do, it's no doubt you need them now. She heard a click and looked hazily over to her hand being cuffed against the pole.

" Who are you?"

"Look, I want you to be real - real calm if you want to know the answer." She slurred, looking at her limped leg. "And you're going to be really sorry bout the leg you broke."

You only raised a brow. The woman lazily flitted her eyes to you and twirled her hand around.

"Because..." She began, her tone of voice rising into a question, similar to when someone had decided to divulge something secretive, with a sly yet familiar smile you always recognized. " I...."

"am..."

"your roommate-"

Before she could finish, a loud shout had diverted both of your gazes to the side. It was a girl - a little one.

oh, shit, oh no she didn't.

That little fucker, I'm going to-

Alis ran towards you with a battle cry, and tackled you to the ground with a grunt. You assumed she thought the cuffed person was you, and therefore attacked you without clearly seeing the situation beforehand.

"Wrong-" You grunted, standing up with her thrown over your back.

She thrashed her arms wildly.

"-Target." You finished, pinning her to the ground.you?"

"You wouldn't respond!" Her voice cracked. "And-and I thought you were battling with someone who is a-"

"Librarian?" You nonchalantly butted in, and Alis raised her brows.

"What?"

"This is Erica Clamant." You - tone still monotonous - waved over to the already grinning agent. "She's an undercover agent, alias is Emilie Wavers, a librarian seeking answers from whatever her mission is."

Alis suddenly beamed. "You're the Erica Clamant, my mentor-"

"Brat? Can you not call me that? I'm not that old."

"-that has been talking about?" She finished anyway.

"I've heard so so much about your operations!" She continued, jumping up and down excitedly. "I know about Paris, Cuba, and so much more!"

Erica suddenly grew conceited, but upon seeing your distasteful attitude, she coughed and held out her hand.

"What's your name kid?"

"Analise Katz! I'm sure you've heard of Beverly, my sister?"

"Of course, she visits us every day." She replied.

"Enough introduction, I'm not hesitant to break another leg." You muttered, gaining the attention of the beaming brain cells. "So, Erica, why are you here?"

"He's back." She spoke. "He threatened - my alias - that if I'm not going to divulge your whereabouts...then he'll find you himself."

"Ah."

You cocked your head to the side and processed the information divulged, with a cross of your arms. Silently, you unlocked the cuff and stood her up, putting an arm around her waist, and hers on yours as leverage. She grew worried by your blank expression, as she knew you and him never quite had gotten along.

"....You have a remarkable skill." She said slowly, eyeing you from the side.

"The ability to shut down my emotions?"

She nodded, albeit sadly. "And pain."

Your ability had made you well-known in the organization, but your name was never divulged, nor your appearance. You were despised, envied, mocked, and you would always pass by assassins rattling on about you. Some of them were admirers and foes, to which you never bothered to care about.

Calypso you were, the name designated for you. You would kill people gracefully without mercy; wouldn't feel pain if shot. But to all myths, there is always an explanation for such things. The aftermath of shutting down your pain receptors drains your energy. It will make you fatigue, so fatigue that you'd need to lay in bed for two days or more to recover. And shutting down your emotions had made you feel mood swings that changes drastically. You'd be calm at this moment and in the next, you'll be cold. It was unpredictable.

"I want to help you," Erica stated, concerned for your well-being. "He'll do anything to get to you, there's no telling what he'll do to you if you won't cooperate."

"You don't have to." You said with a casual wave. "Everything you do doesn't matter."

Glancing to the right, you had realized how hard the rain was pouring, and looked over to Alis shivering near the pole.

"It's raining really hard now," You announced, flitting your eyes to Erica with a meaningful stare. "Let's go home, I'll deal with you later."

"Listen-" Erica began, but you glared at her.

"No you-" You jabbed her chest, and she took a step back from the force. "Listen to me."

"For sure, I know he's going to kill me," You admitted. ", but that doesn't matter. If you are going to constantly remind me of him, then the person that will be killed in the hands of him is you."

"You can't just say that!" Alis yelled, running to grab your arm.

You shrugged her away.

" My family was killed." You spoke, voice utterly dull, albeit inside you were shattered from the thought of them. "My husband murdered, daughter gutted...mother-in-law slaughtered. Do you think that I would care about the imminent death that awaits me?"

"We do," Alis stated, you ignored her comment and walked towards Erica with an austere look in your eyes.

"I am a murderer, who kills people for a living, I highly doubt that I can renew all the karma I've done."

She narrowed her eyes.

"I don't expect you to change, although I can assure you that there's time."

You scoffed incredulously.

"I'm not changing."

She sighed, shaking her head at your stubbornness. As she was about to continue her rant, a certain question caught her eye. In fact, why hasn't she ever thought of this question ever since you both had met?

"Fine, if you aren't going." You declared. "Then I am. Alise let's go."

"Why do you kill people?"

You hesitated and paused in your tracks.

"I..."

Realizing the deserted aims of your intentions, you lapsed into silence. You had only joined the organization when you were young, brought, and stolen from an orphanage. Killing had fed you and made you slept under a roof. Although the conditions were harsh, frequently witnessing the death of good comrades, you were thankful. Without it, you would be left to rot near a ditch. But really, all this time, why did you continue doing this after the death of your family? Over the far distance, a shadowed figure of a little girl hovered by the lamp post. You looked down at your hands, imagining them stained by the blood of your colleague.

"Control." You answered, and you can tell Erica was shocked.

She took a step back and Alis, the only person to understand your somber personality, is suddenly startled.

"Does controlling life and death seem appealing to you?"

Her brows furrowed, and realized something important.

"Not one bit," Erica replied and grabbed Alis by the shoulder. "I don't know why Alis - only nineteen - had agreed to go with you."

"I just wanted to-" She began in defense.

"No, kid you don't understand. This is risky business and I don't want you anywhere near it again." She lifted her gaze to you casually crossing your arms.

"And I don't know what's gotten into you. But my offer still stands"

She turned around and brought Alis along. And there she goes out of the rain, limping along with Alis, who looked back to you with sad eyes.

You hung your head and nodded, shoving your hands into your pocket. She returned the nod and shifted to look forward, continuing her journey with the woman. The figure by the lamp disappeared, and you looked up at the rain, feeling the piercing droplets caressing your face. The rain had reminded you of the time Hazel and you use to knit sweaters by the campfire, while Tom, your husband, baked pastries for his small shop you sometimes help with.

The sweet honeyed aroma of baked bread and croissants would fill your nose, making you drool already at the taste of it. Hazel would distract Tom, while you snuck some out from the oven and later you would share it with the little girl. He would eventually found out and he'll always laugh in amusement.

With trembling hands, you held up the piece of paper and examined the writing, smeared by the blood of your little child.

"Ah, ma douce enfant. Tu as ce que tu mérites. Tu m'as quitté et maintenant tu vas brûler :). Au fait, quel beau mari tu as!"

Inner rage immediately consumed over you and your shaking fist crumbled the paper, ripping it to almost shreds. You gave a cry of anguished and held three of the dearest people in your life close to your chest, dead at the pool of their own blood.

Upon the memory, you sighed and stayed in the spot. It was a peaceful minute, dwelling under the speckled stars...

....once ruined by a black fabric hovering over your head.

"I apologize, but considering my medical knowledge, I cannot allow you to remain under the rain when it is this cold." A voice spoke up, and you turned around surprised by his bold yet polite manner.

He sounded sarcastic, to say the least.

You were met with shark brooding eyes and a beige-colored suit. His blond peppered hair stood out from his bold physique, and his stance was precise and confident. There was something more to it though, but you couldn't put a finger on it.

"Oh." You snapped out of your daze.

His head tilted to the side.

"You seem a bit...somber. Is there anything wrong?"

"No..." You replied, mimicking his head tilt.

He smiled and nodded.

"Well, then, in that case." He extended the umbrella to you. "You can go home with this."

You stared at him blankly.

"Am I..?" You pointed to the umbrella with a raised brow. "Suppose to take it?"

He gave an amused chuckle. "What else would you do?" He asks.

"Oh, I don't know..." You trailed. "Impale you with it?"

"Wise choice." He hummed and you nodded.

"Enough talk, I will be expecting you to return this to me tomorrow." He grabbed your hand and wrapped it around the handle, and before you could protest, he took out a card from his pocket and handed it to you.

"My address is there, you must know that I am also a psychiatrist." He informed, and you unrolled your fist, staring at the card.

"Perhaps, I could help you with whatever crisis you are currently dealing with." He continues, taking off his jacket, and draping it across your shoulder. "And I expect you to be well, in order for our session to work."

"This is happening so fast." You spoke dumbly. "Why are you so inclined to help me?"

He paused in his tracks and beneath the soaked hair, his glassy eyes met yours with a tinge of somberness to it. His accentuated lips curved into a smile.

"Isn't helping people what psychiatrists do?"

You shrug nonchalantly, and inside he took a bit of offense from it.

"I don't know, all I do is teach people how to beat other people up."

He opened his mouth to comment on your choice of words, but decided against it, only nodding in reply.

"I shall be leaving now." He stated, and immediately the aura around him grew intimidating. "See you tomorrow, I suppose."

As he left, you were a bit annoyed by his sudden appearance.

"Strange man." You muttered. "You can't just appear out of nowhere and expect me not to be offended."

Shaking your head, you examined the umbrella and sighed.

"Guess I'll have to return this tomorrow, besides I need to go to the BAU early anyway." [ masterlist ] [ CH 2 ]

#hannibal x reader #will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x reader #will x reader #x reader

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stxrrywildflower · 4 years

Text

disbanded (1)

pairing - spencer reid x reader

summary - after emily’s death, the still grieving bau team disbands in hopes of the time off doing some emotional healing. however, for you and spencer, strauss recruits you for your own individual team almost immediately. months later, after new case details are discovered, you and spencer are forced to call in your old team for assistance

warnings - case details, angst

series masterlist

seven months.

seven months had gone by and the team had barely heard anything from you or spencer.

there were occasional texts, letters, and phone calls. the messages were always brief, never lasting more than a few sentences or minutes.

j.j. returned to the bau around three months in. she was changed, everyone noticed that. the blonde agent put on a facade, masking any signs of trauma or difference.

the only crack in her foundation was when she saw the practically empty desk. it came as a suprise to see desks normal covered in pictures and other items now almost cleared. the only reminder of your presence was both of your name plates remaining.

everyone felt a toll with what was going on. they were missing three out of eight team members. sure, they weren’t working active cases, but just having everyone around made a difference.

hotch was the leader. the alpha-male. he kept everyone in line while providing the support and care any member of his team needed at all times. though his leadership in the middle east was more then successful, they missed having the role model to look up to.

spencer was the kid. the boy genius. his intelligence was more than impressive, though he often used it as a shields. his facts, while sometimes unneeded, provided the final piece of a profile to catch the unsub. the team never knew they could miss his rambling more.

you were the glue. the one that kept the team together. though your presence was still fairly new in comparison to others, your witty remarks and overal care for everyone acted as a backbone. your relationship with spencer was almost model worthy, something everyone wanted to look up. you changed spencer in the best way possible.

they knew where hotch had gone. but for you and spencer, no one had any clue. when j.j hunted down and questioned anderson, the man had very obviously lied about not knowing before leaving to go back to work.

eventually they stopped asking.

four months later, hotch returned. his return back was less then minimal, being greeted with smiles, hugs, and even the stray comment about the beard. the reunion was short lived as hotch had requested them all to meet in the conference room.

curious and concerned gazes were thrown back and forth. no one voiced their confusion, choosing to obey the orders of their leader and take seats for the first time in seven months around the round table.

“we’ve been called in,” the unit chief started.

✦✧✦✧

across the country, you threw your head back in annoyance with the case. spencer leaned against the table, one arm crossed across his body while the other ran over his lip.

the recent case was becoming increasingly difficult. a series of robbery homicides involving a team of seven different members was terrorizing the city of los angeles.

you had successfully identified four members though the other three were a mystery. there were many facts pointing to the possibility of involvement in organized crime. one wrong move in your investigation and a lot more could go wrong.

three days and no solid leads.

usually you and spencer were wrapping up other cases by now. instead, you were sitting in one of the rooms at the los angeles police department reviewing the profile over and over. spencer, on the other hand, was going though every report you had on the unsubs, desperate to find something that could like them all together to give you a clue.

what didn’t help was the heat. the summer heat was hitting the city hard, you and spencer shedding your suit jackets as a result.

“have you checked prison records?” you asked, looking at the board in front of you.

“yes, absolutely no connections there.”

you huffed. you weren’t getting anywhere despite having a near perfect profile and organized board showing a whole crime family tree.

“we need to call in some extra help,” you finally admitted.

“y/n,” spencer started. “i don’t think we really need them. i mean we work perfectly fine on our own. we’re pretty much the new rossi and gideon.”

“look, i don’t really want to see them either. but if we don’t figure out something soon, more people are going to die. a fresh set of eyes could do us good,” you replied.

spencer fiddled with collar of his shirt, a nervous habit he had picked up a few months ago. it was a telltale of his growing concern or anxiety over a situation.

you sat down beside the genius, resting your hand on top of his. “hey, it’s one case. after this we’re back solving cases on our own. does that sound okay?”

“i’ll go make the call.”

✦✧✦✧

“why do they need us? we don’t even have a full team,” morgan was already protesting after the very minimal briefing.

“because y/n and reid requested our help,” hotch answewd.

j.j. most notability flinched at the mention of your names. “what do you mean they need out help? i haven’t really heard from them in months,” j.j. pipped in.

hotch sighed. “back when we split up, strauss inquired y/n and reid to continue doing our job, traveling and all. i was only aware of it because technically i’m still their boss. it’s a lot more intense then when we were traveling, hence their absence. but their success is incredibly high. i don’t have the exact number but it’s around sixty-three cases solved in seven months. of that, five or less have ended in having to shoot the unsub.”

rossi let our a low whistle at that. “have either of them been hurt at all?”

“a few minor injuries but none involving hospitalization

the unit chief looked around at his team, all displaying very conflicted emotions.

“we’ll leave here at five tomorrow morning. be prepared for a long case.”

the team arrived the following morning, heading up to the second floor of the police department at promptly nine am. everyone was slightly jet lagged, time zones the direct cause of that.

just seconds after they had arrived, who they presumed was the police chief headed over on their direction, already extending a hand to shake.

“i’m detective henderson. the other two agents on the case apologize for the absence and should be back soon. one of the family members requested to see him,” the police chief introduced. “but you can all set up in here.”

the team followed the chief through the office and into the usual conference room they were offered. no one failed to take note of the other room occupied, a familiar messanger bag resting on the table.

“and here we are. there’s information posted on the board but i’m sure the agents will explain it when they arrive. please feel free to come to me with any questions.”

hotch was the one to thank the chief. “alright let’s sit down and go over the files. we didn’t have a lot to go off of back at quantico but there’s a ton here.”

it couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes that they waiting, using that time to run through theories about the identified unsubs and ways to find the missing three.

the room seemed to stop, all eyes going towards the elevator.

the team stood up all at once, already suspecting who was about to walk in. their suspicions were proven to be correct as you and spencer stepped out, eyes looking straight ahead.

to put it simply, you two looked and acted different.

seemingly small things for outsiders but things that meant everything for the team had changed.

handshakes replaced hugs. nods replaced smiles. iced coffee replaced hot. even spencer’s revolver he used since the ldsk case was replaced with a glock 19.

since when did spencer drink red bull?

even your style of clothing altered. spencer’s dress pants and sweaters were swapped out for one-piece suits, tie and all. your blouse and dress pants changed into suits, having matching patterned tight pants and blazers, heels to top it off. your outfits both looked ten times more formal.

“agent hotchner,” you greeted, extending your hand.

it was obvious hotch, as well as the rest of the team, was taken back by your words and presence. the last time anyone close to hotch refer to him as ‘agent hotchner’ was when they first met him. he was always very clear about preferring the abbreviated version of his last name.

spencer was the exact same as you, his discomfort with shaking hands seemingly vanished. it pained morgan that he couldn’t reach out and hug the man he considered to be his little brother.

“i apologize for us not being here when you arrived, i know from experience that it’s a long flight. the board in your room has all the information we’ve collected. there’s a timeline, victim list, crime scene photos, and then a family tree. we also have transcripts which can be sent to your tablets. other than that, the case details are in the file folders and you’re good to go,” you explained.

“y/n,” hotch called, stopping both you and spencer from walking away.

“before you ask, i really think we need to focus on this case before discussing transfers. don’t you think so?”

☆ ☆ ☆

tags - @tinylumpiaa @rumplebutterbitch @itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto @the-quarantine-diaries @ah-blossom @dr-reid-ismyspiritanimal @aperrywilliams @kissessforharryyy @garcias-batcave @reidswords @etherealgubler @spenceneedsahug @jjandreidsgirl @zoseph @emilouu @mortallythoughtfulgurl @alexxcorona113 @swiftspaperings @gia-kerks @mggstyles

#criminal #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #aaron hotchner #derek morgan #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #david rossi #penelope garcia

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a-mended-pact · 3 years

Text

Chapter : Seven

This chapter is Reader and Spencer finally discussing what's going on. It's a little angst but a semi happy ending.

Taglist is open. 🥰

Part 6

This one is definitely one of my favorite chapters I've written so far.

Word count: 3,121

I am currently experiencing heavy writers block so I would love to know your thoughts or theories!

If you have questions for the series please message or send an ask.

Requests are open

I ended up walking out of the room and I could feel myself shaking. I was infuriated. I had been so upset with everything that happened between Spencer and Cat that I couldn’t see straight. Maybe I was being overly emotional but to be fair I still haven’t slept yet. Spencer had followed me out but neither of us made it far before I saw Ethan sitting in the break room talking to Jj. I glanced at Spencer then back at him. ‘He deserves to be in a cell, not in our break room. You and I both know that.’ He sighed and nodded knowing damn well now was not the time to fully argue with me. My hands were sore. I needed a release from the stress of the past couple of days. I would much rather the endorphins get released by Spencer and I tangled within the sheets.

It had been sometime since Spencer and I had been intimate due to work and me just not being in the mood because of the recent changes in my medication. We hadn’t openly discussed what had been going on with us to anyone on the team. At least I didn't. I wanted to keep things to myself. I had always suffered with dark thoughts and bad coping mechanisms. It wasn’t until Spencer pointed it out when we started living together. That it wasn't pointed out to me. He had spoken to me about it as gently as possible because he understood it was a sensitive topic that could either make me sob or be deeply upset with him and push him away.

It luckily ended in me trusting his judgement and he set me up with a psychologist. Within a month of therapy they decided I needed meds for my issues. Mood stabilizers, Antidepressants and anxiety medication. It took a lot of trial and error for us to find the right ones that worked for me. I was lucky enough to have a person in my life to love me through the changes I had to experience during that time. I unfortunately suffered from a hazy mind. If I get too focused on something I tend to forget to take all of the above. Spencer always kept a track of when I took them. He’d message me when I needed to when we weren’t together no matter what.

Of course he couldn’t when he was kidnapped. So here I was having a hard time processing everything I needed to. ‘You need to go home and sleep, eat and take your medication my love.’ As he spoke he cupped my face and rubbed his thumb over my cheek. I couldn’t help but notice the way Ethan looked at me with envy from the other room when I wasn’t staring into Spencer’s golden irises. A part of me felt like Spencer was just trying to get rid of me but I also knew he needed to come home and rest too. I can’t imagine he actually got any while he was kidnapped even if he was presumably only with Ethan.

I grabbed his hand and held it to my face as I leaned into it. I didn’t care that I had to stretch out my freshly made wounds. If anything the pain was a nice distraction from the whirlwind my mind had become from the ticking of the hours that had gone by. ‘Please come home with me. Ethan will be taken care of and it’s not like the Kitten can get out of her cell. Please.’ His eyes softened as he heard me speak and he went to shake his head no until Emily spoke up from behind us.

‘Both of you are going home. Neither of you have a choice in the matter. Everyone here has gotten rest but you two. The rest of the team and I can handle this by ourselves for a little while. Go home you two.’ She spoke loud enough to cause a scene and I couldn’t help but wince as everyone stared. ‘She’s right you haven’t eaten a proper meal Y/L/N in days’ Rossi commented from the peanut gallery. I pulled Spencer’s hand away from my face and squeezed it tightly. I hated being called out by anyone that wasn’t him. He has learned how to do it without making me feel guilty over the past couple of years. Right now all I felt was guilt. Guilty over the fact that on top of worrying about Spencer they were worried about me as well. I was such a screw up I swear. ‘ I agree I think I saw you resting your eyes maybe 10 minutes before you headed to the vending machine for an energy drink because the coffee wasn’t working for you anymore.’ Luke commented as he brought me my cardigan that I had draped over my chair at my desk. I sighed as I looked at him.

‘Guys we are going. I promise.’ Spencer spoke as he began to pull my hand lightly to lead me away from everyone. ‘Don’t forget to put him in a holding cell.’ I said as I pointed at Ethan as his eyes never seemed to leave Spencer and I. I locked on to his gaze and followed his line of sight. Correction: it wasn’t on both of us. It was only on Spencer.

I squeezed his hand harder than I probably should have. I didn't care. Ethan was truly creeping me out at that moment. Why was he staring at my husband like a child that had their favorite comfort item taken from them as a punishment. Perhaps in a way that's what I was doing. I knew the moment he and I left they would treat him like an unsub as they should. He'd get no special treatment because Spencer wouldn't be around. I was giddy at the thought and let out a small laugh as I walked out of the building with him in tow.

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

I felt a weight leave my chest when Y/n asked me to shower with her. I logically knew it was probably because she couldn't bring herself to actually wash her hair or even herself. I was just thrilled over the fact that once our front door was locked into place she didn't turn around and snap at me about what happened between Cat and I. I knew what I let happen bothered her greatly. We've spoken about it before many times. I knew this time though I had almost opened Pandora's box. Perhaps I had only placed the key into it instead.

Still pulling her into my arms as the hot water washed over us was enough to make me sob into her freshly washed hair. I never wanted her to doubt my love for her. Yet here I was showing attraction to two different people and that wasn't fair to her. Sure it hadn't been spoken about nor did she know about the relationship Ethan and I shared when we were much younger. She had a right to know. I knew that. I also knew now wasn't the time to mention it.

I felt her put her full weight into me as the water droplets rolled down her soft skin. She seemed so fragile. We seemed so fragile. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe I was making up scenarios that would never come. Her hand inched up tracing the wound on my chest underneath it's bandage. I tried not to wince but no matter how gently she caressed it with her fingertips it still stung like it did when it was given to me mere days ago.

'I can't believe he did this to you.' Her voice was barely a whisper as if she too were afraid it would shatter the solace we found behind a mere shower curtain. I caught her hand in mine and placed it over my heart. I leaned in and kissed her as gently as I could muster. She returned it in kind but I could tell she had more to say. So of course I let her.

'He hurt you Spence and all you've done is protect him. I want to understand but I can't seem to wrap my head around why you'd protect a man that did such awful things to you.' As she spoke I remembered why I let him get away with it. It was simple. I couldn't remember who had actually hurt me. If it were him or Lindsey. I never coherently saw her. I only saw him and I felt like that was deliberately done.

'Sweetheart, do you trust me and my judgment on the matter?' As I spoke I pulled away from her to turn the water off and grab a towel wrapping her up in one first before I grabbed my own to dry myself off too. I watched in awe as she dried off and her breast jiggled as she did so. I had to turn my gaze away. Now was certainly not the time to be trying to bed my wife. I would be lying though if I said I didn't want to distract myself from everything that had happened these past few days.

Her and I both needed rest. She needed to eat first to take her medicine. That was top priority not my raging lust for her. 'I do. I just. I don't know there's things I don't know that I need to know before I make my final judgement on the situation. All I know is that my husband has been sexually touched, kidnapped and tortured in a matter of days and there was nothing I could do to change the outcome besides not walking out of the bureau when Cat touched you through your slacks!'

I could hear the frustration in her voice as she pulled on her panties and one of my t-shirts from college. I watched her as she quickly left the bathroom to head into the kitchen. I quickly slid on my gray sweats and rushed after her. I didn't like the idea of her being alone when she was angry and not in a great state of mind.

'I'm sorry.' I pulled her into me as she began to make herself toast. I placed a kiss on the junction between her neck and shoulder. 'I should have stopped the whole thing sooner. I just kept trying because I was certain if I did she'd slip up but she never did.'

By now I knew how Y/N's mind worked. 'Spencer you didn't stop her because you didn't want to. Whether you understand your attraction to her or not. You've always wanted to sleep with her. You yourself told me so when we were just friends. Don't start lying to me now about things' She pulled away from me and took the toast and her glass of water to the couch.

I realized then that she had actually made me some toast as well. I turned around to grab my own glass of water and her medicine. I sat beside her and sighed. 'Eat first then take your medicine. If you are feeling up to it I'll tell you before we go to bed tonight. Everything you need to know and probably things you'd rather not hear but as my wife and my best friend you have the right to know everything.'

She nodded as she bit into her food. Tears were silently streaming down her face already. I knew right now that it wasn't because of me. Not fully anyway she was just overwhelmed.

We ate in silence. I handed her; her pills and she took them without complaint. If anything she seemed rather numb to everything around her.

'Maybe telling you should wait.' I said as I pulled her to me. 'Thank you for not fighting with me about taking your medicine.' I kissed her cheek. 'I'm proud of you and how well you've held yourself together while I was gone.' She wasn't codependent on me per say but praise was always something I gave her. Especially after mom started to pick fights with me about her medication. Y/n was a walk in the park for me compared to her. She always felt bad that I needed to take care of her when she wasn't in her right state of mind.

To be honest though I love taking care of her. She was perfectly capable of doing anything and everything on her own but she trusted me enough to shut her brain off for a bit and let me take the reins for a few hours or even days. Right at this moment was one of those times. It's not like I didn't have days and times like her where I shut my mind off as well because I did and she would baby me and look after me like I am her at this very moment.

'I'd rather you tell me right now. I don't have the urge to fight or to do much of anything.' I nodded as I pulled her up with me and led her to the bed laying down with her and holding her from behind.

'First and foremost. I am in love with you with every fiber of my being. I don't ever want you to doubt that but I'll understand after I tell you everything if you do but I need you to always remember I will choose you without hesitation, without question.' She nodded after I was done. My fingers traced up and down her hand as I held her as close as possible.

'I'll always be your best friend first. Then your wife. That was something I told you on our wedding day and I plan to stick by that choice. I only ask that you stay remaining honest with me. I can't stand not knowing what's going on in your mind. As long as we stay honest with one another I know that we can make it through anything.' She pulled my hand up to her lips and kissed it and I couldn't help but sigh in relief. She was more than I deserved and I don't think anyone would ever understand how much I didn't deserve her.

'I'm not sure if it was Ethan that hurt me. I know he was the one to kidnap me but other than that I don't believe it was him. He would never hurt someon-' I stopped myself as I was searching for the right words. I could tell she was waiting with baited breath. 'Ethan would never hurt me like that would most likely be the proper word to say.'

She nodded 'You're holding back love. Just say what needs to be said. I can take it.'

I bit my lip and exhaled. 'Ethan wouldn't hurt me like that because he has been in love with me since college. We um.. he was- i-' I was struggling trying to form words. The past Ethan and I had together was a good one but he was also my first heartbreak.

'He was your first love huh? It's okay Spence we all have a past. Some of us just don't stay close to those from it.' As she spoke she rolled over to face me with a soft smile on her lips. 'Keep going. It's okay.' I know all of her wanted to cup my face but she restrained herself and just made due fiddling with my wedding band on my finger. Which is something she always did when we were having a deep conversation. I knew as long as she was playing with mine and not her own that we were okay.

`We were friends for a long time before him and I became intimate with one another. We always sorta stepped around the subject but one day after class he asked me out on a movie date. One thing led to another and I was in his room and we- we slept together.' She nodded again telling me to continue as her eyes stayed on her moving fingers.

I made a face. It's not the fact that I didn't want to tell her it was just the fact that I didn't know how.

'We dated all of college and then we separated when I joined the academy. I made it and he didn't. We grew apart. One thing led to another and I caught him in a very intimate position with someone. He claimed that the other person involved was the one that started it. He didn't have time to react before I walked out.'

I didn't dare look at her. I knew it was dumb of me to still be so hurt by what happened between him and I but I was. I trusted him deeply even to this day but I just couldn't let go of the way it looked like that wasn't their first kiss. No matter how many times he proved to me that it was.

Her hand moved to cup my face as she kissed away the small tears that I was shedding.

'I'm sorry he broke your heart Spencer. You didn't deserve that.'

'After I left we never fully spoke again. I never gave him the time of day. Not fully. We'd talk as friends and we'd talk for cases such as where Jj met Will but other than that I just shut anything to do with him out.'

I looked at her finally, my vision blurry with unshed tears and she looked at me and smiled softly at me. 'The truth is I was in love with him. After him I fell in love with Maeve. Then I met you and it's like everything started making sense again. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't drawn to you originally because in some aspects you reminded me of him. I think that was one of the reasons I first realized I was attracted to you.'

She pulled me in suddenly and kissed me sweetly on the lips. 'I love you Spencer. You and the things that make you, you now. We need to talk about Catherine but I'm getting very very sleepy and all I want from you right now is for you to let me drown in you and pretend for a small amount of time that these past few days haven't happened.'

I pulled her into me and held her as she buried her face into my hair. 'I love you Mrs Reid more than you will ever be able to comprehend.'

With that we both fell asleep for the first time in 4 days.

Taglist:

@sassymoon @rainsong01 @onlyhereforthefanfics @itsdars

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer x reader #spencer x you #unsteady keys #spencer x y/n #spencer x reader insert

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