#anyway because of the fbi appearance

[jaggedwolf]

pll rewatch 1x09-1x10

tornado warnings and glamping, we've arrived at the end of Season 1A!

two kinds of people the night before the SATS: (1) Spencer, Hanna, and Aria quasi-studying and bantering at Spencer's place (2) Emily, very distraught and muddy, runs into her bedroom, apparently only owning one pair of sneakers

"Emily, very distraught" is the subheading of 1x09

Spencer does not want to be thought of as scary, which is very funny of her

also very funny is Hanna trying to push Aria/Noel by asking Aria if she doesn't want "someone you can scratch n sniff"

A underlines GREAT EXPECTATIONS in the text they send to Emily, just to make sure Emily understands it's a book reference

When Emily lies to Wilden that she was with the girls studying the previous night, Aria is the one to back Emily up while Hanna and Spencer look confused

did A solely send Spencer the text SEEMS LIKE YOU'RE ABOUT TO LOSE EMILY? is A also responsible for the way Spencer is about Emily?? though we'll also get a non-A example of that later this season....

Mentions of Rosewood specifically being in Delaware County, which tracks

oh god why is Aria singing I had no memory of this, at least we immediately go into an Emison flashback

Ali really does flirt/toy with Emily via quoting Great Expectations lmao - Ali's finished the book by this point, Emily hasn't

Every Ezria scene remains terrible, and I laughed at Aria dramatically saying "you told me at homecoming you got a haircut for me!"

flashback!Emily is such a pushover and holds herself smaller too, you understand why the other liars are so shocked whenever she gets snappy with them

Alison was as a awful in the locker room flashback as I remember. Poor poor Emily, not even getting the meager dignity of running away from her humiliation

Emily's letter to Alison that Wilden grabs wasn't a love letter, but a letter expressing how angry she was with the way Alison treated her. Can't underestimate Emily's anger, even back then.

Forgot Veronica's lumpectomy reveal was in this episode

Spencer is so shaken by that, naturally, but also by the fact that her mom never told anyone in the family. such is life in The Last Dynasty of Rosewood

Veronica approves of Alex btw

Pan to Lucas's muddy shoes, DUN DUN DUN

look this town is too fancy for any teen to not own multiple pairs of shoes. okay, maybe one teen, but we haven't met him yet.

Spencer getting groomed by creepy field hockey coach Ian is the flashback she's seemed the most bullyable in, with Ali taunting her about it (was Ali's reaction jealousy, given what we learn later?)

I know that field hockey team was cursed freshman year, we'll come back to that later

every other episode Spencer turns to a member of her family and goes "do you still love me/can you tell me the truth?" and they are always like UGH FINE I GUESS IF I HAVE TO

this episode it's Melissa's turn, as Spencer tries to set up Melissa/Ian again to make up for her sins that aren't really her sins

the FBI...are here....

i have no memory of this, i guess Veronica successfully scared Wilden away

the FBI also believe in talking to minors and showing them creepy videos without their guardians present

god how much money do Mona's parents make, looking at this glamping party

you can tell I'm an adult on this rewatch because I'm also saying Ashley, I know you want as little to change for Hanna as possible, but maybe the two of you should downsize from this giant-ass house to an apartment, given the financial situation?

Hanna is really trying to be a good kid ;_; she's still selling off her stuff, she refuses going shopping with Mona and even tries to beg off skipping school because Ashley disapproves

the other three have their parental complexes (oh boy @ emily almost coming out to her dad while her mom stares at the photos A sent of Emily and Maya kissing) but none of them are as of yet concerned about being a financial burden

and then Ashley robs an old lady. Ashley, you're gonna have to launder that cash!

Aria has an honest conversation with Ella about Aria's reaction to the Alison wearing Toby's sweater news - they do strike me as a mother-daughter pair that would be very open with each other, if it hadn't been for BYRON MONTGOMERY and EZRA FITZ

Speaking of Toby, my boy's PR continues to be the worst. He's officially wanted for Alison's murder, creepily rises from the backseat of Emily's BEAUTIFUL TOYOTA, and then scurries off into the woods before getting arrested at The Church (is it Sean's dad's church?)

Did one of the girls call the cops on him? Unclear

Emily and Maya cuddling on the bed but I'm worried that they were wearing shoes while doing so. SMH what kind of Asian household is this.

Forget Emily running in with muddy shoes, Pam Fields has so much to clean as it is, no one's running into her house with any shoes, I reject canon on this.

Spencer is so, so happy to be hunting down clues to A, she would love an escape room. It's enrichment for her.

Sparia vibes beginning to rise these episodes, with Aria going "A little" to Spencer whiningly asking if she's scary and also going "You're a freak and I love you" about Spencer remembering the exact number of steps to where they found the Alison bracelet

My favourite A message of these episodes was: YOU'RE AS IN THE DARK AS JENNA. LOOKING FOR ME IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES.

no one can be normal about the blind girl. who is incredibly not-normal about her step-brother. that's the rosewood ouroboros for ya.

Spencer repeatedly mutters "looking for me in all the wrong places" while making a smore and the unnamed girl next to gives her the best wtf look.

Sorry Spencer, all other kids definitely think you are scary. Probably your teachers too.

Aria's dedication to wearing her hat even under the CAMP MONA hoodie: respect it.

Aria kissing Ezra again: do not respect it

Hanna had to see that too, Hanna did not ask to see all her friends kissing! She's minding her own business when this happens

And then she gets hit by a fucking car for her trouble, literally rolling across the top of it

Hope the Marins health insurance isn't shit.

[gallusrostromegalus]

Move To A Darker Place

This is a story of Man Vs. Machine.

---

Last March, my father attempted to file his Taxes.

My beloved father is a Boomer. Unlike most Boomers, my father is rather handy with technology because he was one of the people that had a not-insignificant hand in Developing a hell of a lot of it. He was studying Computer Science at Cal Poly before the computer science degree existed. I have many fond childhood memories of skipping through the aisles of various electronic and computer part warehouses while Dad described something that either terrified the staff or made them worship him as a God.  He taught himself how to use his smartphone.  Internationally.

So when he saw the option to file digitally with the IRS through the “ID.me” program, he leapt at the chance to celebrate the Federal Government finally entering the Digital Age.

It was all going swimmingly for about six hours, until he was ready to file and the system told him that it needed to verify his identity. 

“Very Well.” said my father, a man unafraid of talking to himself and getting something out of the conversation. “It wouldn’t do for me to get someone else’s return.”

The System told him that it needed him to take a “Digital Image ID”.

a.k.a: A Selfie.

“A-ha!” Dad beams. Dad is very good at taking selfies. He immediately pulled out his phone, snapped one, and tried to upload it.

Please log into your Id.me Account and use the provided app to submit your Digital Image ID. The System clarified.

“Oh. You should have said so.”  Dad pouted, but used his phone to log onto the ID.me account, do the six security verification steps and double-checked that the filing looked the same as it did on the desktop, gave the IRS like nine permissions on his phone, and held up the camera to take his Federal Privacy Invasion Selfie.

Please align your face to the indicated grid. Said The System, pulling up a futuristic green-web-of-polygons approximation.

“Ooh, very Star Trek. Gene Roddenberry would HATE this!” Dad said cheerfully, aligning his face to the grid.  My father is a bit… cavalier, when it comes to matters of personal information and federal government, because he’s been on FBI watchlists since the late 60’s when he was protesting The Vietnam War and Ronald Regan before he’d broken containment. Alas.

Anyway, there is very little information the federal government does not have on him already, but he’s as good at stalking the FBI as they are at stalking him, and had worked out a solution:  He has something approaching a friendship with the local Federal Agent (Some guy named “Larry”. Allegedly), and got Larry hooked on Alternative Histories and Dad’s collection of carefully-researched “there is very likely buried treasure here” stories, and Larry is loath to bother his favorite Historical Fanfiction author too much.

But I digress.

After thinking for a minute, The System came back with an Error Message. Please remove glasses or other facial obstructions.

And here is where the real trouble began.

See, my father wears glasses that do substantially warp the appearance of his face, because he is so nearsighted that he is legally blind without them. His natural focal point is about 4 inches in front of his nose.  While Dad can still take a selfie because he (approximately) knows where his phone is if it’s in his hand, he cannot see the alignment grid.

He should ask someone to take it for him! I hear the audience say. Yes, that would be the sane and reasonable thing to do, but Dad was attempting to do taxes at his residence in Fort Collins, while his immediate family was respectively in Denver, Texas and Canada.  He tried calling our neighbors, who turned out to be in Uganda.

He looked down at the dog, Arwen, and her little criminal paws that can open doorknobs, but not operate cell phones.

She looked back at him, and farted.

“Well, I’ll give it a try, but if it gives me too much trouble, I’ll call Larry, and Larry can call the IRS about it.” Dad told her. 

She continued to watch him. Arwen is an Australian Kelpie (a type of cattle-herding dog), going on 14 years old, deaf as a post and suffering from canine dementia now, but she still retains her natural instinct to Micromanage. She was also trained as a therapy dog, and even if she can’t hear my dad, still recognizes the body language of a man setting himself up for catastrophe.

So, squinting in the late afternoon light next to the back door, Dad attempted to line his face up with a grid he could only sort-of see, and took A Federal Selfie.

The System thought about it for a few moments.

Image Capture Failed: Insufficient Contrast. The System replied. Please move to a darker place.

“...Huh.” Dad frowned. “Alright.”

He moved to the middle of his office, away from the back door, lit only by the house lighting and indirect sunlight, and tried again.

Image Capture Failed. Please move to a darker place.

“What?” Dad asked the universe in general.

“Whuff.” Arwen warned him against sunk costs.

Dad ignored her and went into the bathroom, the natural habitat of the selfie. Surely, only being lit by a light fixture that hadn’t been changed since Dad was attempting to warn everyone about Regan would be suitably insufficient lighting for The System.  It took some negotiating, because that bathroom is “Standing Room Only” not “Standing And Holding Your Arms Out In Front Of You Room”.  He ended up taking the selfie in the shower stall.

As The System mulled over the latest attempt, Arwen shuffled over and kicked open the door to watch.

Image Capture Failed. Please Move to a Darker Place.

“Do you mean Spiritually?” Dad demanded.

“Whuff.” Arwen cautioned him again.

Determined to succeed, or at least get a different error message that may give him more information, Dad entered The Downstairs Guest Room.  It is the darkest room in the house, as it is in the basement, and only has one legally-mandated-fire-escape window, which has blinds.  Dad drew those blinds, turned off the lights and tried AGAIN.

Image Capture Failed. Please Move To A Darker Place.

“DO YOU WANT ME TO PHOTOGRAPH MYSELF INSIDE OF A CAVE??” Dad howled. 

“WHUFF!” Arwen reprimanded him from under the pull-out bed in the room. It’s where she attempts to herd everyone when it’s thundering outside, so the space is called her ‘Safety Cave’.

Dad frowned at the large blurry shape that was The Safety Cave.

“Why not?” he asked, the prelude to many a Terrible Plan.  With no small amount of spiteful and manic glee, Dad got down onto the floor, and army-crawled under the bed with Arwen to try One Last Time. Now in near-total darkness, he rolled on his side to be able to stretch his arms out, Arwen slobber-panting in his ear, and waited for the vague green blob of the Facial grid to appear.

This time, when he tapped the button, the flash cctivated.

“GOD DAMN IT!” Dad shouted, dropping the phone and rubbing his eyes and cursing to alleviate the pain of accidentally flash-banging himself. Arwen shuffled away from him under the bed, huffing sarcastically at him.

Image Capture Failed. Please move to a darker place.

“MOTHERFU- hang on.” Dad squinted.  The System sounded strange. Distant and slightly muffled.

Dad squinted really hard, and saw the movement of Arwen crawling out from under the bed along the phone’s last known trajectory.

“ARWEN!” Dad shouted, awkwardly reverse-army crawling out from under the bed, using it to get to his feet and searching for his glasses, which had fallen out of his pocket under the bed, so by the time he was sighted again, Arwen had had ample time to remove The Offending Device.

He found her out in the middle of the back yard, the satisfied look of a Job Well Done on her face. She did not have the phone. 

“Arwen.” Dad glared. It’s a very good glare. Dad was a teacher for many years and used it to keep his class in order with sheer telepathically induced embarrassment, and his father once glared a peach tree into fecundity.  

Arwen regarded him with the casual interest a hurricane might regard a sailboat tumbling out of its wake. She is a force of nature unto herself and not about to be intimidated by a half-blind house ape.  She also has cataracts and might not be able to make out the glare.

“I GIVE UP!” Dad shouted, throwing his hands in the air and returning to the office to write to the IRS that their selfie software sucks ass. Pleased that she had gotten her desired result, Arwen followed him in.

To Dad’s immense surprise, the computer cheerfully informed him that his Federally Secure Selfie had been accepted, and that they had received and were now processing his return!

“What the FUCK?” Dad glared. “Oh well. If I’ve screwed it up, Larry can call me.”

---

I bring this up because recently, Dad received an interesting piece of mail.

It was a letter from the IRS, addressed to him, a nerve-wracking thing to recessive at the best of times.  Instead of a complaint about Dad’s Selfie Skills, it was a letter congratulating him on using the new ID.me System.  It thanked him for his help and expressed hopes he would use it again next year, and included the selfie that The System had finally decided to accept.

“You know, my dad used to complain about automation.” Dad sighed, staring at the image. “Incidentals my boy!  My secretary saves the state of California millions of dollars a year catching small errors before they become massive ones! He’d say. Fought the human resources board about her pay every year.  I used to think he was overestimating how bad machines were and underestimating human error, but you know? He was right.”

He handed me the image.

My father was, technically, in the image.  A significant amount of the bottom right corner is taken up by the top of his forehead and silver hair.  Most of the image, the part with the facial-recognition markers on it, was composed of Arwen’s Alarmed and Disgusted Doggy face.

“Oh no!” I cackled. “Crap, does this mean you have to call the IRS and tell them you’re not a dog?”

“Probably.” Dad sighed. “I know who I’m gonna bother first though.” he said, taking out his phone (Dad did find his phone a few hours after Arwen absconded with it when mom called and the early spinach started ringing). 

“Hey Larry!” Dad announced to the local federal agent. “You’re never gonna believe this. My dog filed my taxes!”

Larry considered this for a moment. “Is this the dog that stole my sandwich? Out of my locked  car?” he asked suspiciously.

“The very same.” Dad grinned.

“Hm. Clever Girl.” Federal Agent Larry sighed. “I figured it was only a matter of time before she got into tax fraud.”

---

I'm a disabled artist making my living writing these stories. If you enjoy my stories, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi or Pre-ordering my Family Lore Book on Patreon. Thank you!

[mariasont]

Training Day - A.H

a/n: you all wanted more bimbo!assistant!reader and i'm a woman of the people so here we are

on a real note i love her and she is my queen

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you don't understand why hotch is giving you training lessons, but apparently he thinks you need it

warnings: talking about men following her in public YUCK, hotch trying to train reader, reader not knowing what's going on, cuties being cute

wc: 0.8k

"I still don't really know why we're doing this."

You were grumbling more than was characteristic for you, with every part of your body, your arms, your legs, and even your ass, suffering from a dull ache--sadly, not the result of any enjoyable pastime. After being knocked over more times than you cared to count, Hotch extended his hand toward you. You gladly took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

Your fingers deftly pulled at your pink tracksuit top over the sliver of abdomen that that had been revealed in your less-than-graceful take down. Hotch had pointed out the impracticality of your outfit when you showed up, but you stood firm on the principle that if early training sessions were expected of you, then your attire would be non-negotiable.

"Because I want to be confident in your abilities to defend yourself." His arms folded over his chest as his gaze bore into you, challenging you to contradict him.

"I'm just here to look pretty and answer your phones, crime-fighting isn't in my job description. That's your thing, Mr."

You shuffled back to your original position anyway, hands coming up to shield your face as you mentally sorted through the steps, or at least tried to, struggling to recall the correct foot placement.

"Shoulder width apart."

It's like he could read your mind. You were not entirely convinced that he couldn't.

"Crime-fighting doesn't have to be your thing," Hotch stated, narrowing the gap between you, his hands firmly correcting your stance. You sometimes found an excuse to stand just so, hoping he would step in to manhandle you into place. "But being part of the BAU, even peripherally, means you're not immune to risks. I need to know you can handle yourself... for my piece of mind."

"Sir, is this like, your super-secret way of showing you care?"

Your lips twisted into a half-smile as his hands clasped your waist a little tighter than necessary: a warning that said you were playing with fire. His fingers then moved to direct yours, positioning them closer to your face, his knuckles lightly grazing across your cheek in the process.

"Eyes on me, stay focused."

"My eyes are always on you, sir," you say, your head canting to one side. 

He released a controlled breath, giving you a level look that signaling you were pushing it. Nevertheless, you flashed him a beaming smile and initiated the move he had been drilling into you. The tip of your elbow made contact with the soft of his stomach.

He issued a muted groan as he intercepted your arm, preventing it from digging further, and in a fluid motion he spun you around, pinning your backside to his front.

"That was perfect, right?" you squealed, your fist shooting up in victory.

The sudden jump caused his hands to shift from your arm, finding a new perch on your hips to steady your... enthusiastic bounce.

You whirled in his grasp, the proximity sending a faint hum through his chest. Clearing his throat, he managed. "Yes, uh, that was it."

Clutching his shirt, the fabric crumpled beneath your purple-tipped fingers, you giggled. "Just imagine someone trying to follow me to my car now. They wouldn't know what hit 'em!"

"Is that a common occurrence?" The lines of his face gathered into that customary look of concern, that characteristic frown of his making an appearance.

He gently disentangled your hands from his shirt, not letting go, but rather laying his atop of yours.

"Well, sometimes, but I usually just call Morgan, put him on speaker, and he starts talking about the FBI stuff," you explained, giving a light shrug that nudged the zipper of your jacket down just a smidge. "They take off after that."

He clenched his eyes shut, pausing momentarily before reopening it. One hand let go of yours to adjust the zipper back to its proper position.

"That makes my stomach hurt." And it did. "Don't hesitate to call me when that happens. I'll come get you."

Your smile stretched ear to ear, potent enough to make him feel lightheaded. "You know, with all these trainings, who needs to call for help?"

"How about we compromise, and you still call me, regardless?"

You pout your lips, shiny with clear gloss rather than your usual pink. "That sounds less like a compromise and more like a you thing, ya know?"

Hotch's laughter rumbled from his chest, a warm, breathy sound, as he let go of your hands, which he realized he had been holding far longer than appropriate, and guided you to the door.

"You don't appreciate the added precautions I'm willing to take for your safety?"

Dragging your sneaker on the floor, you plucked your bag from the wall as Hotch closed the door behind you. "Gee, when you say it like that..."

When you walked down the hall you seemed to be perfectly in step.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253 @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @sarcasm-and-stiles

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[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Hide & Seek.

Post prison Reid x Reporter!reader

Read part two here!

Summary: The night with your boyfriend is going perfectly, and you couldn't be happier, until he receives an unexpected call telling him that information about an important case has been leaked to the press, and many doubts about you appear.

Words: 2,5k.

TW: mentions of crime. established relationship. angst without a happy ending. mistrust and lack of communication. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Again I apologize in advance for this, but I love exploring Spencer's character and his changes. It's so funny to know that the one from the first seasons would never do this but I love him anyway.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Your smile couldn't have been bigger at that moment.

After several weeks of work and no time to see your boyfriend or send him more than two text messages, you finally find yourself humming cheesy love songs next to him and hugging him whenever you want. You had only been in his apartment for a few hours after the universe and all the stars had aligned so that neither of you had to work that night and you could have your long-awaited quality time together. It was certainly much needed for both of you and could be a bit of a celebration for finally getting a raise.

The sweet smell of the candles you both had placed on the table mixed with the ingredients on the countertop, creating a much more homey atmosphere. After much thought, the two of you had decided to make some homemade cookies with different fruits to eat yourselves and give some to your friends. You had always loved baking, especially when it came to desserts, and being able to do it with Spencer was even better. Although you knew he was only doing it to make you happy because he was pretty clumsy in the kitchen.

“I think you have some flour here, sweetheart.” You could feel him running his finger over your face, laughing as he smudged you, then stepping back a little to look proudly at his handiwork. “You look so cute.”

“Really? You want to play, Dr. Reid?”

You raised an eyebrow and gave him a menacing look, and made a quick move to smear some flour on him and get on the same terms. But you barely managed to mess him up a bit when he gently grabbed your wrists and planted a kiss on your lips, pushing any thoughts of revenge from your mind.

“You cheated, it's not fair.” You murmured against his lips as you both pulled away from the kiss.

“I didn't do anything.” He replied in an innocent tone, kissing you briefly before pulling away to feed the cat. “I think this kid has been eating cookie dough because he doesn't want to eat his food.”

“He's an unruly kitten, just like his daddy.” You said as you watched Spencer pet him and laugh at your bad joke.

The two of you had officially been together for almost a year, but you had known each other for much longer. A coffee shop tucked away in the middle of town was the best place for an FBI agent and you, a news reporter, to meet and start talking. From the beginning, you knew there was something different about Spencer, and it was much more than the fact that he was the only man in the country who didn't know you because he didn't watch television and therefore the news you had anchored for years. He didn't care that your face was what people saw every day and that put you in the spotlight, he liked you for who you were and how you thought about the world.

“I think they'll be ready in a few minutes.” You reported after putting a tray of cookies in the oven.

You were about to ask your boyfriend where he kept the dishes, but when you turned around, you noticed he was still playing with the cat and you couldn't help but smile at how relaxed he seemed. It had been a good idea to convince him to adopt the animal that always followed you home and peeked out of the fire escape. Nothing made you happier than seeing him happy, so you followed your instincts and noticed that the kitchen was still organized as usual. You may not have lived with Spencer yet, but you spent more time in his apartment than yours and had already memorized how a couple of things worked, though you were afraid to tell him because you knew he had trouble opening up too much and taking such big steps in a relationship so quickly.

All your attention was on picking out the prettiest plates and pots for the cookies when his phone rang over the counter. Your hands were still dirty with flour and dough, so you didn't hand it to him and could only read that it was Penelope before you saw him answer.

“Yes, I'm with her now. We're making cookies, and yes, I'll bring you some. Yes, she says hello to you too.” You listened as Spencer repeated into the phone with an encouraging tone.

You barely listened to his conversation because you were nervous it was about work and that he would have to leave so soon.

“You're out of milk, I'm going to the supermarket downstairs.” You informed him quietly after checking the fridge, not wanting to interrupt his conversation. “I won't be long.” You finished, giving him a chaste kiss on the lips before leaving.

He couldn't help but smile like a fool at the kiss and stopped listening to his friend's voice on the other end of the phone for several seconds.

“The full profile was leaked to the press, along with details about the crime scenes.” Garcia's voice brought her feet back to the ground.

“What? How?” He asked blankly, needing to sit down to process the information. “We were very careful.”

Spencer thought the case was already closed, he had filled out the profile himself, they had everything they needed to make the arrest, and Emily had insisted on giving him the night off for it.

“We don't know, but it was on the evening news.”

Wait, the evening news? They were the ones you presented every day. It was strange that you hadn't mentioned it, since you'd just come home from work a few hours earlier, happy about your raise.

“Which channel was the first? Who gave the scoop?” His voice trembled slightly, as if he was a little afraid of the answer because his mind was telling him something he didn't like.

There was a long silence for a few seconds and his anxiety increased.

“You need to calm down and not jump to conclusions.” Penelope tried to be the voice of reason at the time and sugarcoated things a bit. But he insisted that he wanted to know. “She said so...she broke the news a few hours ago and I think that was the first network to do it.”

His whole world seemed to crumble before his eyes again and everything was a blur amidst the feeling of betrayal and bitterness that gripped his body. Every thread in his mind began to connect in just a few seconds, and for the first time in a long time, he hated having that ability.

“Reid, listen, I don't think it was her. Emily said we'd fix it, but you should know before you watch the news.” She tried to defuse the situation, but his words only made them feel more betrayed. “I forgot to tell you before because I didn't want to ruin anything, you looked so happy.”

Since meeting you, Spencer had watched at least a minute of the evening news every day just to see you, and everyone knew it. Only today he hadn't because he'd been busy trying to finish the damn profile so he could get off early and spend some time with you.

“We don't want you to jump to conclusions, we all know her and I don't think she would do this. Maybe it's a mix-up or...”

“Don't do that, don't try to make me feel better when she's the only one I tell about the cases.”

And about absolutely everything. He always talked to you about his dreams, his deepest fears, his hopes for the future, his worst moments, and even things he never thought to say out loud, even to his therapist. All his life he had felt silenced until you showed up to listen to even the most complex thought and his mental discussion of possible names for the cat you both shared and treated like a son.

Since his release from prison, his view of the world and himself had changed. He no longer felt worthy of love or anything good until you came along and insisted on entering his heart and saving him from the emptiness he faced every time he woke up in that dark, lonely apartment that you came to fill with light and the smell of cookies.

It weighed heavily on his heart that the bad thoughts that always haunted him made sense.

“I'll be there soon.” He finished, not paying attention to the thousand and one possible explanations and theories Penelope had given him so as not to blame you for everything.

He ended the call and walked quickly to the bedroom to find your computer for answers. You had been staying with him for several days and always used it for work, so it was on the nightstand. He was about to turn it on when the sound of the front door startled him and let him know you were back.

“Spencer? Where are you? Do you want to play hide and seek?” Your voice echoed through the apartment, coming closer and closer to the room.

There was no movement or sound from him, just silence, until you entered the room and saw him sitting on the bed with your computer in his hands. You couldn't help but be a little startled by his expression.

“Are you okay, love? You scared me.” You spoke as you approached him and took his hand lovingly. “Do you need to use my computer? It's out of battery, but the charger is in my bag.”

The strange thing was that Spencer didn't return your affectionate squeeze, he didn't even kiss your hand like he always did. He just froze in place and looked at you as if he was waiting for you to confess to a crime.

“Is something wrong?” You sat down in front of him and grabbed his chin to force him to look at you.

He looked at you for a few seconds and clenched his jaw, pulling away from your touch as if it burned him. “You tell me.”

Confusion washed over you and you bit your lip, trying to think of something that could have changed everything so suddenly. For a second you thought that maybe something had happened at Spencer's work and he had to go now, but his expression and his teary eyes said much more than that. Something serious had happened, you even thought it might be his mother and your heart shrank.

“I know what you did.”

You frowned at his words, trying to find some trace of a joke in all this. “What have I done?”

Once again, the room was filled with silence and his piercing gaze. You made a feeble attempt to approach him to give him some comfort as he looked like he was about to cry, but he rejected you and moved further away from you. He got up from the bed, put the computer down and looked at you as if he expected you to be the one to give the explanation.

“I don't understand this, baby. I really don't know.” You got out of bed and tried to get closer to him.

At your action, he backed away from you.

“Don't call me 'baby'. Don't pretend you don't know what you've done.”

The problem was, you didn't know what you'd done to give him that attitude. It had only been a few minutes since you left and everything was fine, so it didn't make sense that he was suddenly angry.

“I should have seen it coming before, how could I not, why would someone like you notice me? You obviously wanted this, you wanted to use me to get that raise and have all the fresh information.” Finally he seemed to react and started to blurt out everything that was on his mind without any filter. “I was an idiot to think you loved me.”

The confusion in your bright eyes only made things worse for him. His defense mechanism told him that you were an actress, that you must have known him well enough to manipulate him for so long and not even flinch. It made all the sense in the world that the whole perfect relationship you had was a sham, because he never understood how you, who had the fame and beauty to be with any man in the world, could have chosen him, a former addict who had spent months in jail and had more trauma than happy memories, to be your partner.

You took a step toward him, trying to process what he had just said. “I do, you know I love you.”

“Come on, you don't have to pretend anymore, I already know that you leaked the information I gave you about the profile.” He said after pacing the room a few times, trying to control his anger. “And maybe how many times you did the same.”

“Wait, you think I'm some kind of spy or something...you're joking, right?” You tried to make sense of his words, wanting to believe again that it was a joke. It had to be, or the pain you felt in your heart at his rejection would definitely kill you.

The silence that followed his words was enough to know that he was serious.

“You're the only person outside the team I talk to about cases all the time. And you magically get a raise when there's a big leak.” His every word was like a knife in your heart, digging deeper and deeper. “You even broke the news a few hours ago, you're unbelievable.”

That was too much, and it was the move that pierced your heart with the knife.

“Do you really think the only way I can get a raise is to betray you? That I've been pretending for almost a year that I love you for my own benefit? Do you really think I can stoop so low and that my job is worth so little?” You asked him almost pleadingly, as if begging him to tell you no, but in vain. “Tell me it's not so, please. Tell me you don't distrust me.”

Silence. Lots of silence.

“Please...”

He said nothing again and that was answer enough for you. You loved Spencer Reid like you'd never loved anyone before, but you weren't going to let this go. You weren't going to keep begging him to believe you when you told the truth and never gave him reason to doubt.

“Fine. I hope you don't have to come back to me when you realize you made a mistake and ended up with the best you had.”

The pained look you gave him and the tears streaming down your cheeks stayed in his mind as you left your apartment keys on the table and walked away, closing the door behind you at the same time as the oven beeped.

His smile could not have been more nonexistent at that moment.

[icarryitin]

Episode 18: Help Me?

spencer reid/gn!reader

i love being in this guy’s brain there is just something so Character about him🧡 and happy birthday to you anon!!🥳

series masterlist

word count: 4.5k // warnings: injury description (dislocated shoulder), mentions of injections and pills for pain relief, poor and inaccurate medical knowledge, non-sexual undressing, would you believe me if i told you the sexual tension in the second half of this was accidental? for those reasons this is 18+

summary: You get injured on a case, and Spencer gets to play nurse. It’s a special kind of torture for both of you.

“Try it, see what happens.”

You appear out of the shadows ahead of them, the gun in your hands aimed carefully at the Unsub’s back, like a goddamn guardian angel.

The guy isn’t going to give up without a fight, even with three federal agents to contend with, that much is obvious. His grip on his weapon is far shakier than any of yours, fingers twitching ever closer to the trigger. You’ve made the split second decision to launch yourself at him before he has the chance to fire off a shot.

Which means Spencer has a front row seat to the sickening thud of your side against the ground when you tackle the Unsub. He’s grateful that he and Hotch aren’t staring down the barrel of a gun anymore, but less grateful that it’s come at the price of the grimace clear on your face. You’ll be bruised for sure, going down as hard as you do.

“Are you okay?” Hotch asks you as he hauls the Unsub up by his cuffed wrists. You take a moment to check yourself over, mentally inventory every joint and nerve, before you nod. Spencer holds a hand out towards you, which is taken without hesitation and you start pulling yourself up off the ground.

The crack of your shoulder as it pops out of the socket is so loud that the vibration of it tingles through your interlaced fingers and all the way up to his own.

A sharp yelp, followed by a weak whimper that makes his stomach flip, and he drops your hand like it’s scalding hot. You pull it into your chest with your good arm, palm cradling your elbow to give yourself a little support. Maybe you’d hit the ground a little harder than you meant to. It’s definitely dislocated. He can’t help but feel like it’s his fault.

Maybe that’s why he’s manoeuvring around you, where you sit pouting in a dusty heap. It’s what he tells himself anyway, as he slips large hands underneath your FBI vest – fingers pressed snugly against your ribs, separated by only a thin shirt, and he carefully helps you to your feet. The action has his face dangerously close to yours, so close that he’s terrified you’ll be able to hear how shallow his breaths are. But you seem to be far too focused on your own breathing to really register his proximity. Hotch is ahead already, Unsub in tow, but you’re the only thing Spencer is worried about right now. Someone else can collect the abandoned firearm from the ground, he has more important things to do. Like getting you into the care of a professional instead of his clumsy hands.

“Can you walk?”

A rhetorical question if he’s ever asked one. It’s your arm he’s pulled out of the socket, not a leg. You nod anyway, gently, but you don’t pull away from him. Instead your voice is soft, unsure.

“Help me?”

Of course he does, as if he’d be able to do anything else.

Does he really need to keep a hold on you, help you across the warehouse floor and out to an ambulance? Probably not. Does he do it anyway? Absolutely. You don’t seem to mind the closeness, judging by the way you lean into the solidity of him as the two of you shuffle towards the open door. He relishes in it, just a little. Because for all the camaraderie and familiarity that has built your friendship over the past few years, touches like this are so rare. Rare and usually instigated by you, when a case has hit him a little too close to home. It’s precious. To have you in his arms the way he’s wanted, wished for, literally dreamed about. There’s an irony in his earlier misplaced attempt to help you up, somewhere. Why can he only have you this close when one of you is hurting?

Raised eyebrows from the rest of the team be damned, he’ll carry you to the ambulance if he has to. He doesn’t but he’d try if you asked.

Spencer has seen all manner of terrible things. He’s seen them happen to strangers, friends, he’s been the one under the spotlight more than once. But he finds himself wholly unprepared to watch you wince as you hop up onto the back of the ambulance, legs dangling over the edge, arm still cradled protectively close to your chest. You flinch almost violently when the paramedic approaches you with outstretched hands which, in turn, only makes you hiss in pain. Your apology is small, quiet, sheepish. Everything he knows you not to be, which only makes him feel that much worse about being the reason you’re in this position in the first place. He’s not, the little logical voice in his brain tells him it was the fall you took, but he’s the one who offered to help you up. Can’t take that back.

“Do you have to?” You’re arguing with the paramedic when his brain checks back in to the conversation.

A sling has been placed by the open medical bag beside you, but it’s the object next to it that has your eyes wider than dinner plates. A needle, carefully sealed in its little package, ready and waiting to give you the pain relief that all three of you know you’re in desperate need of. There’s no way your shoulder can be reset here without it.

“You look at dead bodies all day, and you’re telling me you’re afraid of this?” The paramedic means well, he knows she does, but the grating sound of the sterile packaging being ripped open only serves to shrink you away from it even further.

“Phobias are rarely rational. In fact, the dictionary definition refers to one as being an extreme or irrational fear of, or aversion to, something. Phobias relating to medical procedures are pretty common actually.”

The barely hidden eye roll he gets from the paramedic would suggest he’s not helping the situation, but it’s the look that you give him. The one he gets across coroner slabs and conference tables and crime scenes, that tells him he is.

“I wouldn’t be offended if you didn’t want to, considering this is kind of my fault,” Spencer holds his hand up between you, wiggling his fingers in front of a sad little smile, “But squeeze away.”

“I don’t know, I might break it.” You’re going for a light-hearted joke, but your gritted teeth pay you no favours.

“Then we’ll call it even.”

You take his hand, and he wonders if he’ll need to ask the paramedic to break out the defibrillator next – judging by the way his heart stutters in his chest.

And, to your credit, you only almost break it. The first squeeze is tight, muscles in your forearm trembling as the needle plunges deep into your shoulder. It won’t be enough to completely numb you, the paramedic confirms, but it’ll go a fair way towards dulling the pain. You should really go to a hospital, a bodge job in the back of an ambulance isn’t exactly Bureau protocol, but he knows that isn’t happening. God forbid you ever get shot, he’s sure that getting you treated properly for something like that would be more traumatic for you than any injury.

The second squeeze isn’t something he’s prepared for. You hang onto his hand as though your life depends on it once the paramedic has decided the painkillers have kicked in enough, though her fingers on your shoulder still have you tensing. She tells you to relax, uselessly. Instead, you turn your head away, bury it into Spencer’s shoulder, and dig your nails into the back of his hand. His knuckles crack under the pressure, synchronised popping absolutely miniscule compared to the thunderous pop your shoulder gives when the paramedic manipulates it back into place. Tears seep through his shirt as they dampen his shoulder, the tension in your jaw gives away the sob you’re biting back. You swallow it before you pull your face from the security of his warmth – brave face, as always – and dutifully allow the paramedic to tug the Kevlar vest over your head to make way for the sling she’s prepared.

You’re too on edge to really pay attention to the instructions she’s giving you, too preoccupied on slowing your heart rate to hear about the over the counter pain meds you should take, how long you need to keep the sling on. So, Spencer listens. He remembers, as he always does. He nods and tells her he’ll make sure you do everything by the book, because he knows you won’t be on your way to the doctor’s office in a hurry if your recovery doesn’t go to plan.

JJ popping up in your field of vision seems to lighten your mood, the stiffness falls away and you choke out a laugh alongside a sarcastic comment about heroics being above your paygrade. It’s fake, the laughter. Your spine is still rigid, smile a little too tight to be true. But nobody else seems to notice. They’re just glad you’re alright. Something about your rapid mood change scratches an itch in his brain, the smallest part of it that’s just a little smug. Because you don’t let on about your fear to the others. Just him.

Spencer piles into the back of the second SUV after you, behind Rossi and Emily, and takes it upon himself to make sure you’re strapped in. Admittedly, you could manage it yourself, but he doesn’t want you to. There are eyes on the back of his head when he leans over to carefully pull the seatbelt across you, when he makes sure to steer clear of your sling, but they’re easy to ignore when you’re watching him the way you are. Your quiet affirming hum follows the click of the seat belt plug when you meet his questioning gaze, calming the pounding in his chest and he doesn’t pull back right away. Involuntarily, his eyes drop to your lips for the barest of moments.

He could kiss you.

Right here, right now. In the back of the SUV, with your arm in a sling, and your colleagues watching on. He could do it. But he doesn’t.

He knows what he wants your first kiss to be like – a little pocket of his brain is dedicated to it, plays scenario after scenario in the moments before he settles down to sleep every night. Silly little bedtime stories.

Except they’re not silly, because somewhere along the way he stumbled out of his harmless little crush and into something much more serious. He knows what it is, he won’t put a name to it. Instead, he daydreams. It’s not always the same, the location varies - sometimes you’re at work, in the bullpen or the conference room, or obscured from the rest of the team by the metallic bulk of an SUV. Sometimes you’re in his apartment, in the kitchen, by the window in the living room, in the doorway of his bedroom. Sometimes it’s just a street corner, at night, at midday, dawn, dusk. But you, you’re always the same. You always look at him with a smile that could light the entire city, and he just tells you.

Spills his guts out all over the floor, every part of him left raw and vulnerable, as he tells you he loves you - has always loved you. Maybe even before he met you. He tells you how his heart stopped in his chest that first morning you walked into the BAU office, how he nearly spilled his coffee down his shirt, how his glasses steamed up with the heat from his cheeks. How Derek, JJ, Garcia, the entire team has been teasing him for literal years. How sometimes he thinks he catches you looking at him, but that’d be just too good to be true wouldn’t it?

And then your smile grows, and you take a step further into his space until there’s scarcely any room between you. That’s when you tell him you do look at him, you look at him all the time. Because you love him, just as hopelessly and desperately and effortlessly as he loves you. That’s when he kisses you. When he grasps your face in his hands and takes a deep breath of you before crashing into you with a bruising force. You take it, of course you do, just as eagerly as he pours himself into it. The kiss of a lifetime. That’s how he’d do it.

But he can’t do any of that, not now.

So, he pulls back, plugs his own seatbelt in, and lets himself wallow in the post-case stillness that settles in the car. Punctuated by Penelope’s voice through the speaker on your phone though it may be. She’s relieved, a little mad that you’d put yourself in harm’s way, but ultimately glad you’re safe. He smiles to himself at that, he can’t help but agree.

Quantico’s parking garage is dark this time of night, of course it would be, but the chill of the concrete seeps into his bones. You shiver beside him as he helps you slide out of the SUV. Goodbyes are short, sweet, exhausted. Each member of the team wandering towards their own vehicles, leaving you and Spencer standing alone under the fluorescent lights.

“Let’s get you home, superhero.” He grins at you as his hand settles gently on the small of your back, guiding you towards the street exit.

It’s not far to the train station, the streets are still busy even at this time of night. Tourists and businessmen and politicians all alike. But you don’t get jostled in the slightest, he makes sure of it - carefully weaving through the throngs to get you safely to your platform. It’s only as he steps onto the train with you that you realise his own home is in the complete opposite direction. It’s borderline unfair how fuzzy he feels at your concern for his own journey.

“I said I was getting you home, not getting you to the station.” He can’t help the fond smile that settles on his features as you look up at him from your seat. He’s chosen to stand, partially in front of you, as a sort of makeshift barrier between your injured arm and any potential commuters who might stumble into you. He holds his hand out to you expectantly and it takes you another moment to fish your keys out of your bag. They’re placed softly in his palm, your fingers barely brushing his. The touch is so gentle compared to the way you almost squeezed that same hand to death only a couple of hours earlier. He just about manages to suppress the shudder that threatens to buckle his knees, and he counts his lucky stars that your building is only a block away from the train’s destination.

The thought only occurs to Spencer when he’s halfway over the threshold of your apartment, too preoccupied with getting you back safely to realise he’s actually never been in your home before. Organised chaos is the term he’d use. The open plan kitchen and living area is tidy but cluttered, books of every genre piled on shelves with no real strategy, a haphazard stack of second hand vinyls that are mostly Tom Waits sit atop an old record player, a small collection of cacti in mismatched terracotta pots are lined up on your little kitchen windowsill. The cupboards are a deep green, which should really be at odds with the peach tinged wash on the walls, but the combination is just soft enough to work. It’s very you.

“I can take care of myself, you don’t have to stay.”

Your name leaves his lips in the same tone it usually does before he can stop it, the same heavy sigh that wraps around the letters more often than not. God, you know exactly how to push his buttons, even when you don’t mean to. You’re missing the point entirely – he wants to take care of you. It’s so rare that you let him.

“Nice try,” He says as he sets your work bag down on one of the chairs at the round kitchen table, “Get changed, I’ll fix up some dinner.”

“You will?” The teasing grin on your face is either because you don’t think he can cook, or because you can’t. He’s leaning towards the former.

“Hey, I’m a man of many talents.”

You stand there for another long few seconds, just watching him. It’s not dissimilar to the look you gave him at the ambulance, in the SUV, on the train home. Like there’s something you’re desperate to say to him; only, you’re not sure how to say it. So you turn on your heel and close the bedroom door behind you.

Spencer physically has to shake off the weight of your gaze before he can move again, even after you’re gone. His own bag finds its place beside yours, jacket folded and draped neatly over the back of the metal chair. It’s the kind of dining set he’d expect to see outside a Parisian cafe, as opposed to being tucked in the corner of a DC apartment. Chipped white metalwork and all, probably originally a garden set, but it fits the eclectic thrift store vibe you’ve curated throughout the space. He finds himself drifting towards your overstuffed bookshelf, to the beat up record player and the pile of albums - the protective sleeve of each one shabbier than the last. He’d been right at first glance, the collection is mostly second-hand Tom Waits albums - with a little Queen, The Magnetic Fields, and Fleetwood Mac in the mix. The album on top is the most dog-eared, and he doesn’t have to employ a single one of his profiling skills to know this one is the most loved, most played, and he’s sure you’ll appreciate the comfort of some background noise. So he’s concentrating on sliding the record out of the sleeve, carefully placing it onto the turntable, and setting the needle down.

The bluesy first bars of Tom Waits’ Heartattack and Vine fill the room at the same time you open the bedroom door, looking more than a little sorry for yourself. And, to his credit, Spencer does a pretty good job of not laughing at the picture of you in the open doorway.

You’ve got yourself tangled up, all wrinkled shirtsleeves and oozing embarrassment - one sleeve dangles empty by your side where the other is still firmly encased by the sling, your sole free arm pokes out of the bottom of your sweater. Your eyebrows are drawn as you look everywhere but at him.

“Can you…?” You trail off. A breath pushes its way out of your lungs, half-sigh and half-helpless laugh.

“Come on.” He erases the distance between you in two strides, hands turning you at the waist before he can even really think about what he’s doing. You shuffle into the room ahead of him, soft rug shielding your socked feet from the cold of the wooden floor. He’s pleased to find the same decorative tastes extend through to your bedroom.

Another bookshelf, also stuffed to the brim with enough material to start your own bookstore. A little wooden desk by the window paired with a chair that doesn’t match, the wall to the right of it is plastered in multicoloured post it notes - a few of them catch his eye, reminders and ideas and shopping lists. Your bedspread is the same dark green as your kitchen cabinets, although it’s mostly obscured by a mess of patchwork blankets and jewel toned decorative pillows. Your sunshine plush has pride of place balanced against the left-hand bedpost on top of the headboard. Even without an eidetic memory, he’d remember the look on your face when he won it for you. Undercover at a travelling carnival in Oregon, the job at hand was to lure out an Unsub whose tastes fit you to a T, but he’d been uncharacteristically powerless to resist at least trying to get something for you. Your cover was a couple, anyway. He’d only been in character. Not only do you still have it, but it has pride of place, and something about it has his pride rearing its head.

You’re fussing with your pyjamas, a threadbare hoodie and garishly patterned sweatpants, when he turns his attention back to you. The reality of the situation seems to hit you both in the same moment.

Spencer is going to have to undress you.

It’s not how he imagined it would be - and that is definitely not something he needs to think about right now. He could keep his eyes closed? Although not being able to see where he should put his hands is arguably more dangerous than it would be to pay attention. He has to clear his throat before he can find his voice.

“I’m going to have to take this off,” He gestures to the sling, hoping he sounds less noticeably wrecked to you than he does to himself, “But we’ll go slow, okay?”

It’s cruel, is what it is, to watch you nod your agreement, to witness your unshakeable trust that he won’t hurt you so closely. Ultimately, it’s not overly different to the way he checks over your protective vest. There’s a strategy, a system to it just the same as the task that lies ahead, and he’ll follow it step by scientific step.

The sling is first, straps carefully undone and the support sliding off your arm - you both support it, your elbow in his palm where yours settles under your wrist. The one free hand you have between you, Spencer’s, works your shirt up over your uninjured shoulder and tugs it over your head. His eyes never drift beyond what you’ve asked of him, though it isn’t for lack of temptation. He slides the remaining sleeve off of your injured arm with a touch so light that neither of you wouldn’t know it was there if not for the skim of his fingers over your bare skin. Your hoodie replaces your work shirt just as carefully, in reverse. Injured arm first, head, uninjured arm. His tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth absentmindedly as he concentrates on looping the sling over the thick cotton, securing your arm tight to your chest again. Job done, and without too much embarrassment. He’d call that a success.

“Would you mind-” You struggle for a moment, “The clasp is fiddly.”

Spencer doesn’t know what you mean at first, and then it clicks - and it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. You need him to undo your trousers. He can do that, he can do it. He might feel like he’s about to spontaneously combust over the request, but he can do it.

There’s not a whole lot he wouldn’t do for you, to tell the truth.

It takes him longer than it should to slip the hook out of its clasp, usually nimble fingers fumbling under the weight of both of your gazes. But he doesn’t stop there. Because his usually brilliant mind is buzzing with static and his hands are moving of their own accord and the teeth of the zip on your trousers as he pulls it down is loud.

Spencer pulls back like he’s been shocked, while your eyes remain firmly glued to his hands. Hands that now wring themselves with anxiety as he quietly asks if you can manage the rest. You don’t respond verbally - it takes another long second, but you start shimmying the trousers off of your hips with your free hand. The slightest glimpse of bare thigh has him spinning on his heel and marching towards the kitchen in search of food.

He’s not thinking about the soft material of your sweatpants being pulled carefully over your legs in the other room, as he roots around in your kitchen cupboards. He’s not. A can of chopped tomatoes, a handful of half-empty spice jars, just about enough dry spaghetti for two. It’ll do. A pot of water is set on the stove to boil, the noise is enough of a distraction when the bedroom door opens again behind him. You shuffle about for a few minutes, digging around your shelves and Tom Waits’ gravelly tone cuts off abruptly to be replaced by the softer voice of Stevie Nicks instead. The volume ticks down a couple of notches before you join Spencer in the kitchen as he warms the tomatoes and spices alongside the boiling noodles, moving around him with the same ease you do in the office. You pull out two bowls that don’t match - one is shallower and wider and glazed a sunshine yellow, there’s a chip in the lip of it. The other one is smaller, deeper, glazed navy blue instead and with a cheeky face etched into the pottery. Its nose protrudes slightly, rounded out on one side. He can’t help his smile when he dishes out two equal portions and the red sauce drips down onto the bowl’s nose. He swipes at the mess with his thumb before handing you the bowl.

“Thank you.” You search out his gaze this time, urging him to look you in the eye. For cooking, or what he’s sure is your favourite bowl, or staying. He’s not sure. He wants to tell you that you don’t have to thank him, he’d drop anything and everything at any moment if you needed him to. But something in your eyes has stolen his voice, a flicker of something he’s far too terrified to acknowledge. So he only smiles, takes the yellow dish in his hands, and follows you to the comfort of your vintage floral couch.

It’s not a table dinner kind of evening, you seem to have decided. Although the precarious balance of the bowl on your knees suggests otherwise, as you try to eat one handed. Spencer leans forward to pull the cushion from behind his back, his own dinner temporarily abandoned on the floor in front of him, and he picks up your bowl to slide the cushion across your lap in lieu of a tray. Your laugh is quiet, you don’t look at him, but whatever tension had built in the bedroom dissipates with the sound.

Even so, he shoots off a text to Penelope while you’re preoccupied with your spaghetti, asks if she can lend you a helping hand for the next few days if you need one. You shouldn’t need the sling for more than a week anyway. She responds with a smiley face and a kiss almost immediately. It’s not the first time in his life he’s thanked whatever mystical force is responsible for Penelope Garcia.

Spencer will corral you to the doctor’s office for a checkup in a few days, he’ll make sure you do your stretches, he’ll set alarms for your painkillers. And, ultimately, he’ll come back if you ask him to. He’ll help you in and out of your pyjamas if that’s what you want, of course he will.

Regardless of the way it sets his insides aflame. He’ll do it for you.

yes i know reader inserts are blank slates yes this apartment is basically just my own flat no i don’t care thank u🧡🧡

[bideanwinchestertruther]

They were so bad at their jobs in the first seasons.

Like, they knew how to hunt, they both were really good at finding what was killing people and killing it, but they were horrible at being people.

The Sam and Dean I remember: Fake FBI, fake National Security, Fake reporters, almost no issues Season 1 and 2 Sam and Dean: Constantly getting doors slammed into their faces, had to climb over fences and break into the place they needed anyways because no one ever believed them. Go somewhere as National Security, the real National Security appears immediately after.

They were a disaster

[noparadiseinthis]

English is not my first language. Bear with me, Grammarly helps, but it doesn't work miracles

Series: Come away, O human child! Part 2:

She dreamed of paradise

Spencer Reid/fem!Reader

Read part 1 here.

Warnings: explicit domestic violence and abusive relationships. Descriptions of physical violence. Reader is married and has a child.

Summary: Spencer sees a mark on you. He decides that if no one is going to do anything about it, then he will. If only he can convince you to accept help.

Steve was strangely calm on the way home. He had asked the sheriff for permission to take you and Willy away during his lunch break with the excuse that he was worried about the disappearance of women that had been happening in town, just like an ideal husband, but you knew the real reason, he wanted to keep an eye on you.

"Well?" he asked, taking his eyes off the road for a second to look at you.

You knew it was best to let him speak first, so you waited for Steve to start, no matter how tense you were.

"The FBI guy, what did he want?"

"Nothing much, he was just playing with Will, he knew magic tricks."

You didn't mention the terror you felt when you saw that your son wasn't by your side, he could never relate to that, he could never understand the deep emptiness that existed inside you when Will wasn't around. He was all the light you needed.

"And you let some stranger talk to our son? I can't leave you two alone anyway."

Sometimes you didn't quite understand Steve's intentions, even though you knew there was a reason behind everything.

"He's FBI, isn't he?"

It was a risky move, rebutting what he was saying. Luckily for you, it seemed to be a good day, because he did nothing but raise an eyebrow and snort.

"I don't want you two anywhere near that guy."

You just nodded, distracted as you wondered what was so special about Dr. Reid that Steve reacted like that, your curiosity piqued. Was he trying to push you away from one more person before any bonding had even begun? Surely he couldn't have been afraid that you would turn him in since you had already understood a long time ago that no one would help you or even give you a second glance. If I could go back in time, I would have run as soon as Steve showed interest in joining the police. A bunch of conniving vibrators, they were.

"We'll never see him again," you reassured him.

"Well," your husband muttered, "you know why I do it. I have to protect my family."

With a silly, fake smile on your face, you agreed as you stroked his arm, looking through the rearview mirror at Will sleeping in the back seat. You could do this for another 13 years, right? Just hang in there.

•••

Spencer gathered his things from the table, putting them in his bag as he prepared to go to the hotel, hoping to get a good night's sleep and work with more focus and renewed vigor the next day. He spent the rest of the day reliving his interaction with you down to the smallest detail, remembering and recalling her tone of voice, her posture, and her submission when her husband appeared. If was right, his name was Steve.

The policeman in question left the police station for an hour and returned soon after, casting long glances at Spencer, none like yours, who followed him to his hotel room, until he laid his head on the pillow and far beyond that, invading his dreams.

•••

5 days in the same city was a lot on the Spencer scale. Enough to make the UNSUB profile, but not enough to capture him. He lived in the shadows, preying on the most vulnerable people in that small, broken society that was your little town: the women. More specifically, the housewives. Spencer spent these days wondering if you had any job.

"What the hell?" He heard Morgan's voice exclaim with surprise, raising her head to look at the source. That's when spotted William, wandering around outside the glass-walled room they were in. The boy walked between the tables as if he belonged there, but stood out from his surroundings. "Who is he?"

"Cop Steve's son." Spencer murmured, attracting the attention of his colleagues.

"Do you know him? How?" JJ asked.

Spencer shrugged. "Kids like magic. He came here a few days ago, must have run away from his mom again. I thought Morgan had seen him before."

"Well, I didn't see. There's something strange about that boy's father-" Turning away as he spoke, Derek was interrupted by the sound of the door opening and a child's voice shouting happily.

"Dr. Reid!"

As if it were second nature, Spencer rose from his seat to kneel in front of the child and greeted him back with a smile.

"Hey, Willy," he held up his open palm, which made the boy laugh and high-fived him, "What are you doing here, kid?"

"Mom came to bring Dad's lunch again, but I wanted to see you."

Spencer sighed with an understanding smile, looking around at his classmates who stared rather shocked at their very natural interaction.

"And does your mom know you're with me?"

The look he shifted to the floor said everything the doctor needed to know.

"You can't just disappear, young man. Do you know where she is?"

Will nodded. "In the big room with Daddy."

Spencer looked at Hotch, who understood immediately and sighed tiredly before nodding and nodding towards the door, permitting him to leave.

"Let's find her then, shall we?"

William walked out hand in hand with the man, leaving Spencer shocked that a policeman's son was so ill-educated, regardless of his age. Children could be sociable. They should be. That didn't exclude all the evil that lurked outside the house - or inside - the boy seemed the pure image of naivety. Worrying. He couldn't tell you why he cared so much.

"So, Willy, why did you split up with Mom? You heard what she said, she gets worried when you disappear like that."

"Because they were starting over."

"Starting what?" Reid asked, frowning and looking down to see the child's face, who didn't answer. "Starting what, William?" he asked again.

•••

"How did you manage to lose sight of him? For God's sake, this is a police station!" Steve exclaimed furiously, although he growled quietly. He didn't believe in announcing his problems to the world.

"I let go of his hand for a second and he disappeared!" You retorted, your eyes watering as you thought about what he could have gotten himself into this time. "It's not my fault," you continued, hugging your body as if trying to convince yourself.

Your husband snorted, scorn appearing on his face as he approached, and suddenly any courage you had was thrown out of the window. You looked around, at the walls that gave you so little privacy. We're in public, you thought, like a mantra. He didn't do anything in public. He didn't do anything in public. He grabbed your arm. Moreover, his nails dug in, forcing and tearing at your skin as his instinct acted and tried to pull your arm back, but he held back. As he always did. Apart from the pain, all you could think about was what a bad idea it was to wear short sleeves that day.

"What good are you anyway, if you can't even look after my son properly?"

Your eyes were injected with rage and you swallowed, watching the face of the man you once thought would make you the happiest woman in the world. The man who promised you the world while hugging you in a college dormitory bathroom and holding a pregnancy test with a small smile on his face. Eyes crinkled with joy as he stroked your still flat belly and whispered such sweet things. A time when you thought you could face anything as long as you had him by your side. You no longer saw any of that in the man in front of you. He ripped any last shred of hope from your cold, dead hands and then made you dig your own emotional grave, as deep as his nails could go into your skin. You barely felt the pain anymore. You didn't even feel anything, until you heard the familiar voice of the light of your life, pulling you out of that dark pit as it always did.

Quickly, Steve retracted his arm, taking a deep breath and swallowing as he turned to where he had heard his son's voice, his nostrils flaring as he saw who was with him.

•••

Spencer never got a verbal answer to his question from William, but he didn't need one. The scene in front of him said it all, and from the way the boy squeezed his hand tighter, he could tell that Will knew there was something wrong between his parents. Fortunately, the boy was too short to have the same field of vision as Reid. Luckily, he hadn't seen the terrified look on his mother's face, let alone his father's aggressive grip.

Will shouting "Mommy" and letting go of your hand to run to you provided him with a new horizon. It brought back memories. That of trying to be a mediator within a broken family, even in childhood.

•••

Steve never spent much time around William anyway, so when he left quickly, you didn't mind, you were relieved. Noticing that Dr. Reid wasn't going to move away, you sighed, hiding the nail mark against your own body as you watched him enter the room you were in.

"Hey, honey, want to play a little?" you asked, taking your cell phone out of your pocket and handing it to your son, who quickly agreed and went to the corner of the 'big room', as he called it, oblivious to the rest of the world.

"I never knew your name."

You snorted, wondering how that was the first thing he chose to say, but in the end, he did say your name.

"You don't have to hide it, I've already seen it." Spencer continued, making sure to speak quietly so that the child wouldn't hear them and to keep the anger out of his voice.

You swallowed, wondering what you had done to deserve two humiliations in a row on the same day, trying to force yourself to remain calm and expressionless, assessing how much of a risk the mysterious doctor could be to you or your child.

"I'm sorry about William again today, it'll never happen again."

Spencer couldn't stop himself from analyzing you, and what he saw brought him the most mixed emotions. You were profiling him too. You are a profiler for survival, someone who needs to know how to act in every situation so as not to get hurt. It made your head spin, your throat dry and your hands twitch. "It's called empathy. Use it to be a better person," Derek once told him.

"You know this is a crime; I can arrest him right now if you want; this room has cameras, and you're... you're hurt."

To his surprise, you laughed in his face. A bitter laugh. The kind he wished you'd never hear again.

"Are you an idiot, Dr. Reid?" you asked, without any humor. "Is that how you sleep best at night? Look around you, see where we are. In a police station full of men. Do you think you're the first to see something like that in me?"

Suddenly, it was as if a dam broke and you felt the uncontrollable urge to channel all your anger at Dr. Spencer Reid, pointing at the wound on his arm, the little blood already dried. This made the agent sigh. He had never really been able to understand how someone could hurt a person they had sworn to love so deeply.

"Well, the FBI wasn't here before."

You just sighed, pressing your lips together to stop a torrent of tears. He would never know that fear like you did. Even if Steve was still arrested, what would you do next? How would you be able to raise your son in a place like this, where your husband was the model citizen of the city and you were the bitch who put him in prison?

"You just don't understand. Please go away, Dr. Reid."

Go away, and don't you dare even try to give me false hope because I killed them all for my own good a long time ago, you thought.

Spencer couldn't accept that it would end like this. There had to be something, there had to be a way. Not for the first time in his life, he thought that people should come with a manual. It was time to do your job, even if you felt terrible about using your weakness against yourself.

"And is it worth it? Raising a child in such an environment?"

"I've managed to keep Will away for five years. So as long as he's safe, yes, it's worth it," you replied, your back to him.

Spencer sighed, squeezing his thigh as he cursed himself for influencing you like that. All for the greater good.

"Except that he already knows. Kids are a lot more observant than people think."

You turned like lightning.

"What are you talking about?"

You couldn't. You couldn't lose the only certainty you had in life. That Will was your sea of positivity, away from everything that was really going on at home, growing up happily, without any resentment. You swore that when he was born. It was the only promise it would kill you to break.

Spencer hated being the cause of the look of terror on his face this time, but like all the other times in his life when it was necessary, he took courage and started telling.

Taglist (if you want in or out, just let me know):

@yokaimoon @fanfic-viewer

A/n: I was wonderfully surprised by how well received the first part was. I hope you enjoy the second as much. Thank you for your support

[upon-a-starry-night]

Number neighbors Pt.28

Natasha Romanoff x Fem! Reader

Natasha Masterlist Series Masterlist

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary:  When you catch sight of the newest trend going around you know you’re all but bound to at least try it, it was harmless anyway. What could possibly stem from something so little?

----

You wouldn’t describe yourself as someone who was regularly paranoid, but recently you've been more than a little on edge. You’d given the man at the market the benefit of the doubt, chalking his appearance up to going to the marketplace when the weather was the most reasonable- like you’d been doing, but that doesn’t explain the Suvs.

You don’t know how long they’ve been following you for, you’d been so stuck in your own world that you’d barely been paying attention to your surroundings but after Saturday you’ve been more cautious of your surroundings and that’s when you noticed the black Suv.

You don’t know if it’s the same one every time, they’ve always kept a far enough distance and you haven't been able to catch a license plate but they appear every so often when you go out. The windows are tinted far too dark to be legal so you can’t see inside but you occasionally find them parked outside of buildings you frequent and it’s starting to worry you.

You don’t want to worry your friends or your mom who would buy a ticket out there first thing though, so you keep to yourself and try to keep a distance from the cars and the marketplace (it’s a devastating loss to not have Gladys’ pastries on hand)

On top of that, everyone has been on edge because of the disappearance of most of the Avengers. As far as you know, Stark, Clint, Banner, and that Spider kid are the only ones still in New York which has civilians asking questions about where the others are and why they left. 

The anxiety from the lack of heroes has everyone grilling the government for answers, especially considering the fact that the crime rate has gone up just from petty criminals getting too cocky. Due to the constant heat The government has been under, they stated that they’ll issue a public service announcement in a week to explain the situation and you can practically feel the country buzzing with anticipation.

The situation makes you think of Nat and you wonder if her “not FBI job” has something to do with this and is the reason why she’s disappeared. You hope she knows wherever she is that you would’ve understood if she’d just explained the situation to you- but maybe she couldn’t. Maybe she was under some kind of NDA that could put her in danger.

Despite avoiding the marketplace you still get the feeling that you’re being watched and it makes you uneasy. You feel like you’re hallucinating with how often you see shadows moving somewhere nearby. You’re never able to catch a glimpse of anyone who might resemble the market man but the fear is enough to have you staying a few nights at your friend's house.

The Suv’s don’t appear for a while after the move and it allows you a small moment of reprieve. You push the lingering feeling of constant observance to the back of your mind despite your brain telling you to be on guard.

The stress of the situation is so tremendous you don’t even realize you’ve been forgetting to leave voicemails for Nat until your mom calls asking why you haven’t called her in a while. You don’t bring up the stalkers to avoid giving her a heart attack but you do tell her about the amount of stress you’ve been under and the toll it’s been taking on you. 

It feels so good to talk about it that you don’t even realize you’re crying until your mother's concerned voice is comforting you through the speaker. God, it was like the universe couldn’t give you a break lately. You hope whatever they’re putting you through all of this for is worth it. 

“Come home for a while, Y/n. it sounds like you need a break, I’ll take care of you.” The dismissal of her offer is on the tip of your tongue but the more you mull it over the more you think it might be a good idea. With the city on edge, the growing crime rate, and your new potential stalkers, getting away from the city is probably the best thing you could do right now.

Much to your mother's surprise, you agree and her excitement at having you come home has you smiling on your end of the receiver. The two of you spend the next hour looking for an affordable last minute and you find a plane that leaves in two days that the two of you agree on. It’s probably not nearly enough appropriate notice for time off but your boss agrees anyway and within the hour you’ve got plans to spend a week at your mother's out of town.

It’s the first vacation you’ve taken in a while and even if it was just going home you find yourself more excited than you’d been in at least a month. You hadn’t been this excited since-

Nat. You hadn’t been this excited since you were supposed to meet Nat. 

It probably didn’t matter to her that you were going out of town, it wasn’t like she was getting your voicemails anyway but- what if she showed up while you were gone? You shake your head, the possibility of that was slim to none and if she did come back while you were gone she’d just have to wait like she’d made you wait.

Still, she deserved to know about the kid on the skateboard you watched run into a pole earlier today, at least. You listen for the tale-tell sound of the beep after the long too-familiar ringing and you find yourself subconsciously smiling as you tell her random snippets from your week.

The breakfast your friend treated you to, the new show you started, the fair that got canceled due to raccoons breaking in to eat all the cotton candy. You avoid talking about the stalkers like you’d done with everyone else but you frown when the news channel starts covering another attempted bank robbery. 

Despite your own safety being in jeopardy you can’t help but worry for her wherever she may be, causing you to voice the thought, the humor in your tone replaced with a solemn resolve

“wherever you are… I hope you’re safe.” You shake your head, attempting to clear your mind from the restless thoughts in your mind “Anyway, sorry I know that was a lot- all that to say I miss you and I love you. Bye!”

You don’t even realize what you’ve said until 10 seconds later and you frantically press whichever number was supposed to delete the message. 

Shit.

It was such a force of habit to end your phone calls with an I love you. You can’t believe you almost confessed to Nat over the phone. Moreover, you’re freaked out by how much the words didn’t feel like a lie. If you were honest you’d been avoiding putting a label on your emotions because you were scared of how serious they were getting but apparently your brain had already decided for you. 

Love.

You loved Nat.

You Love Nat.

Fuck.

Your mind reels with the newfound discovery and you’re grateful you deleted the message before it would be stuck in her voicemail for her to one day hear. Your head's a mess as you set your phone down on the counter and go to pack up your stuff, you had a trip to get ready for and a relationship to overanalyze to try and pinpoint when you and Nat had gone from total strangers to you being in love with her.

 It all made sense now, the heartache, the worrying, the underlying tension between the two of you

It was just your luck that you’d discover you love her when you can’t even tell her. You’re so in your head with your emotions and figuring out what to pack that you don’t even register the sound of your phone’s female electronic voice as it declares

“Voicemail sent”

Pt.29

A/n: Classic mistake, Y/n, I’m sure everyone’s done that! Don’t worry it’s not like she can hear your voicemails or anything…or uhhh ~ Starry

---Taglist--

@marvelwomen-simp @cd-4848 @wandanatlov3r @rebeltombraider @ctrlamira @fxckmiup @aliherreraaa @natsxwife @la-douler-ne-finite-jamais @romanoffsgal @moistblobfish @natashaswife4125 @elenimoris @how-to-disappearrr @screechcat @toouncreativeforausername @ordelixx @autorasexy @blacklightsposts @vmpnano @jono723 @sylencr @saraaahsstuff @autorasexy @gay4hotmilfs @tofu9162 @dyslexic-dreamer @graniairish @colettehope @kosmichs1 @nmhlver @natblidaclexa @skittlebum @dorabledewdroop @nothanksbye07 @mrsrushman @midastouch013 @thalia-is-not-ok @tessalah @annab3113 @officialnighttime

[honeygrahambitch]

Summary: Will finds it difficult to put a label on what he and Hannibal have so he blames it on the amount of work at the FBI. Hannibal finds a questionable way to help him. A few lies might be involved.

Chapter 1

"You smell like cinnamon." Beverly commented as she brushed against Will in the lab.

"Hannibal has been baking a lot lately. Including this morning."

"And yet you didn't bring us anything. Rude." Brian commented.

"Hannibal suggested that I should. But I ate all the chai cookies by myself. And I have no regrets."

"Rude indeed." Jimmy repeated. "Anyway what even is the deal with you two?"

Beverly, Brian and Will all turned to Jimmy simultaneously. Will arched an eyebrow in response.

"I learnt a new word from my niece last weekend." Jimmy went on. "Are you in a situationship?"

"What even is that?" Will asked and frowned.

"Don't listen to him, Will." Beverly said and rolled her eyes. "He is baking for you. It's a relationship."

"I hope you are discussing the case." Jack said as he had just entered. He looked at their preoccupied faces and realized it was obviously something else. "What is it?"

"What is a situationship?" Will asked again.

Jack shook his head and sighed loudly. He would sit this one out.

"Like, when you can't call it a relationship."

"Just because I have never pronounced that word in the same room with Hannibal, it doesn't mean I don't consider our thing a relationship."

"You haven't what?" Beverly suddenly turned to him. "That man is cooking for you daily. He is getting you shirts that are more expensive than Jimmy's car. He is probably waiting for validation from your side. He would never push you."

"Ouch." Jimmy said regarding his poor car.

"I don't know about that." Will hummed.

"If I may intervene." Jack finally said something. "Beverly is right. That's what Hannibal is waiting for."

"Since when are you giving relationship advice?"

"Since I'm the only one in this room who has been married for 20 years."

"It's bit difficult to have a relationship when you expect me to be here 24/24."

Will knew that in fact, as much as he hated to admit that to himself, they were right. Hannibal was waiting for him to confirm it. And he was an asshole for always avoiding that certain talk. With the amount of bodies that have appeared lately, he could hardly find the time and space to think about it.

[sammyluvr]

makes you wonder — sam winchester

cw : gn!awkward!reader, fluff, uses y/n, some of the lore/history is totally made up, swearing, workplace bullying/verbal harassment (i’m so sorry if your name is mark, he’s the asshole character), likely contains a few mistakes, mentions of canon typical violence and monsters, 5.2K words. requested !

summary : you’re the local expert on ancient weaponry, and fake fbi agent sam needs your help finding a certain dagger for a case. pronunciation guide (using scottish gaelic) : each-uishge — yahk-oosh-ga (hk is pronounced in the back of the throat like loch). biodag — bidag (the g is almost a k sound) [ disclaimer, i found these pronunciations off of the internet! i’m not scottish nor do i speak scottish gaelic, so if anyone can correct anything i got wrong, i’d be super grateful for it! ]

certainly including the fact that it’s exactly what you want to be doing, working as a curator at your city’s history museum is near total perfection for you. not without much hard work and research, you were able to get a job that focuses on your specialty. historic weaponry. plus, your extra knowledge and fascination with mythologies and folklore gave you the perfect edge (pun intended) during interviews.

as a plus, you’re also able to spend minimal time interacting with people, even less so with those who don’t share the common interest of at least museum curation. of course, even that can’t magic away your awkwardness, and you still dread team meetings, but none of your coworkers save the resident asshole care at all when you stumble over your words or speak in clunky sentences. you’re smart, kind, and good at your job, so everyone except mark lessinger is more than happy to have you around. mark, the aforementioned resident asshole, is only around still because he’s the single person for miles who cares about the bland history of the town that is “strongly encouraged” by the local government to be kept in the museum. you’re sure he doesn’t do anything other than watch tv shows at his desk, lounge in the museum café. and make snide comments about anybody he can, because that exhibit hasn’t been updated in years and likely never will be unless something spectacular happens.

when you hear the click of the office door opening, you glance up from the work on your desk on instinct. it’s no surprise to see the devil himself (a mean and entirely pathetic thirty-four year old white man) walk through the door. mark was probably off slacking in the café like he does whenever he can get away with it, which is often considering he has nothing helpful to offer anyway. 

it’s the man who follows him that snags at your gaze and keeps your eyes lingering on the doorway for a second longer than usual. in the split second that you take his appearance in, you’re surprised by how much you want to keep looking at him, rather than the diagram of a seventeenth century revolver you’re hoping to include in the exhibit you’re planning for next fall. the gun is fascinating to you, moreso than just about anyone who could walk in that door. but something about this man is beautiful, so much so that you don’t want to look away. then both mark’s and his eyes fall on you, and you snap your chin back down to refocus on your work. this, of course, doesn’t work, because you can still feel them looking at you.

“that’s them right there. you know, weapons are the only thing that they’re useful for,” mark begins to ramble, and now you know without a doubt that they’re headed towards you, “which, unfortunately, isn’t very helpful at all most of the time. but maybe they can do you some good, agent.”

that word is what catches your attention; you don’t even blink at the condescending tone to his voice or the fact that he doesn’t make any sort of attempt to hide his criticisms from you or this agent. you don’t even look up until the two men are right at your desk, so you miss the judgemental look that the stranger gives to mark’s unsavory comments about you. the idiot obviously misses the look too, because he’s smiling down at you all smug and patronizing when you give him your attention.

“this is agent giles from the fbi. the federal bureau of investigation,” he begins, cocking his head in a way that makes him look like he’s got a knot in his neck, rather than intelligent and important as you figure he intends. you just nod as the agent flashes his badge, resisting the urge to examine the tall man like one of your exhibit pieces. “well, he’s looking for a certain type of knife–” mark says slowly, like you don’t understand what he’s implying. you, on the other hand, couldn’t care less about him as you look the agent up and down, trying to look casual. you’re usually far more into ancient weaponry than men, but he is straight up gorgeous, you conclude. 

“–so, you should help him look for it. it’s very important, so don’t make us look like fools by saying something weird.” you grimace internally, but don’t show much of a reaction because all you can really think about is how much of an idiot he is. and how agent giles is too pretty to be an employee of the federal government. that part is far more important than mark’s rudeness, as you’re fully aware that he has nothing of value to offer, while you absolutely do.

“i’m sure y/n will be very helpful,” says agent giles firmly, and for a moment it surprises you that he knows your name before you realize mark must have given it earlier, “thanks for the sandwich recommendation mr.” he clears his throat because he’s clearly forgotten mark’s last name, “linser.” you stifle a laugh at both the insult of this agent remembering your name, but not mark’s, and the image of mark recommending an fbi agent his favorite sandwich from the museum café.

“lessinger,” he corrects with a stupid, haughty smile that suggests he has no idea that the agent thinks he’s a dumbass and couldn’t care less about him. he doesn’t even get the memo that he’s supposed to leave until agent giles clears his throat again and gives him a pointed look. “well, if y/n can’t get you what you need, i’m sure i can figure it out, so just let me know if you need anything else,” he lands a final insult before scurrying away to his own desk.

“it’s very bad,” you say with a matter of fact tone and shake of your head, once he’s finally out of ear shot. 

the agent raises his eyebrows in question, like he’s not one hundred percent sure what you’re referring to. “him?” he scoffs, “yeah, he’s a total asshole.” agent gile’s tone is much lighter and pleasant when he’s talking just to you, though he certainly means what he’s just said.

“oh, well, no. i mean, yes, he is a complete asshole, but i meant to say that– um, well, the sandwich. it’s very bad,” you repeat the sentiment in earnest after realizing you started speaking almost completely out of context. now you feel the need to explain, “he always gets the same sandwich, and it’s not a good one. if you’re hungry you should get the superfood salad. very healthy, and really good– or, i mean, if you wanted a sandwich, the blt is quite good, especially if you add avocado,” you trail off and realize you’re completely off topic, “but, uh– that’s not what you’re here for, obviously. i’m sorry, i don’t mean to waste your time, agent. uh, how can i help you?”

“no, no, that’s okay,” he says, his pretty hazel eyes full of sincerity, “i am in fact hungry, but i’d never take his recommendation, so i’m glad to have yours. i love salad,” he smiles.

“oh, thanks,” you relax, before wondering if that’s a normal response. but, instead of trying to correct yourself like you normally might, you stay silent to avoid going off topic again and preventing him from getting to the point.

“i’m looking for a certain type of dagger,” he begins, and you realize it’s taking quite a bit of effort to keep looking up at him from your seated position. he’s so tall. “i saw your museum has a weapons collection and was wondering–,” without thinking, you stand to alleviate the pressure on your neck. he pauses in his speech, but is quick to realize you’re simply just standing and that he’s free to keep talking, “–if you’d be able to help me find out if you have any. i hear you’re the weapons expert?”

“yep, that’s me!” you say, unable to completely tamp down your excitement about the topic. only then do you realize that your timing to stand up was slightly odd, but you forge on for the sake of daggers. your favorite subset of weapons. “um, what sort of dagger are you looking for?”

“a scottish dirk?” he answers like he’s asking a question, as if he’s not sure how odd it is to ask that. it is sort of odd, only because you can’t understand exactly what the fbi’s interest is in scottish daggers, but you couldn’t care less. 

your eyes light up and you grin, “we have plenty. actually, it’s quite a collection for a small museum like ours. uhh, let me show you! we have one on display, but personally, i think the ones in storage are the ones you’ll want to see,” you brush past him and head out into the hallway towards storage. 

he follows behind as you continue talking, “i mean, of course the one on display is incredible, it’s just that the best one doesn’t quite fit into the right time frame for this particular exhibit,” you explain, though you think a moment after that he surely couldn’t care less about those details. then, your curiosity gets the best of you, “so, am i allowed to ask why the fbi is looking for scottish dirks? i just didn’t think they’d be something the u.s. government would be concerned about for any reason. oh, well– not that it can’t be! you can certainly investigate anything you want, obviously,” you stop yourself there before you can say anything else borderline embarrassing.

“well, it may be connected to some odd deaths we’re investigating here. we’re just following every possibility.” his answer is completely cryptic and absolutely no help in calming your curiosities. you can’t think of any possible way that sixteenth century scottish daggers could be connected to unexplained deaths.

“you mean the… body in the lake?” you question aloud when the news article you read last week pops into your mind. the word “body” is used lightly; they only found the woman’s liver floating on the surface. you swipe your key card to open the door to storage and lead him inside, then you register that he said “deaths,” plural. “there was more than one?”

“yeah, over the course of the past … few years. the one from last week is just the most recent, second to the one we found this morning.” you’re not sure why he hesitates over the word “few,” but you figure he’s got all sorts of reasons to act secretive. 

“o-oh,” you stammer out, as everything suddenly turns so morbid, “i didn’t know that,” you reply as you stop without thinking at the right storage container. from the desk behind you, you grab a pair of gloves and ask him to put them on as well before you carefully extract the three long knives from their shelf. “so, what? you think someone’s using a scottish dirk to cut people up and throw their livers in the lake? odd considering the dirk is a thrusting blade. wouldn’t be very effective for such a task. well, uh, not that i’d really know. well, i do because i– but not like that! obviously, i’ve never used a scottish dirk to– nevermind.” you let out a little breath that’s half laugh half sigh and force yourself to focus on unwrapping the blades in front of you, each around at least a foot long.

you completely miss the endeared look that the agent gives you. sam only came in to see if the museum had the dagger and figure out how to steal it after hours to complete this case, but you’ve completely occupied his attention. he wants to hear you talk, loves the way you got excited when he asked about the dirk, thinks it’s sweet the way words tumble out of your mouth and your eyebrows change when you realize it was an awkward way to say things. and as a plus, your knowledge of the blade and its history could very likely be helpful.

“we’re not sure exactly how the dirk fits in, but that’s helpful to know,” he says kindly, peering down at the daggers. they’re beautiful and well-crafted, one with a particularly intricately carved handle. “that douche back there,” he begins, and you laugh a little at his unprofessional language, “he said you were interested in “fairy tales” related to weapons. i assume he meant folklore and mythologies? is there anything you can tell me about the folklore behind these?”

you almost cringe, thinking agent giles must find you silly until he proves just the opposite.

“yes, definitely! mark—the douchebag—loves to make fun of me for it, but it’s an important part of the job,” you explain, “it’s just, you might have to interrupt me, i get kind of excited about this kind of thing and, uh, i might start rambling,” you warn with a sheepish smile.

“any information helps,” he reassures. with that, you can’t help yourself, silently apologizing for the pure shitload of nerdy information he’s about to have dumped on him.

“well, if you insist. don’t say i didn’t warn you, but i’ll do my best to stick to the highlights,” you glance at him fleetingly and send him a smile you hope isn’t too awkward. you can’t help but notice he sends back a similar expression. so worried about your own behavior, you hadn’t realized that he’s also sort of awkward. it’s sweet and it makes you feel a bit more relaxed as you turn your attention back to the topic at hand. 

“the dirk, biodag in scottish gaelic, is a particularly important part of traditional scottish highlander culture. it was very common for warrior cultures to swear their most important oaths on their swords, but for the highlanders, it was done with their dirk. these oaths were binding with what was called the force of a gaes, which involved severe supernatural consequences were the oath to be broken. the iron of the dirk was considered to be holy, which stems from the folk superstitions that iron can protect against mythological creatures. these two,” you point to the simpler of the three knives, “are 17th century dirks, crafted with soligen steel, as there was a sort of magic ascribed to the forging of germanic steel that became popular in later centuries. 

“but, this one is a very early version of the dirk from the early 16th century, and made frompure iron,” you smile as you move on to talk about the third dirk, the one sam had noticed to be particularly ornate, “and therefore more aligned with traditional scottish folklore, as iron is considered to be stronger than any sort of alloy, like steel, against supernatural forces. this one’s definitely my favorite, just don’t tell the others,” you finish off with satisfaction, and even an affection that sam secretly finds adorable.

“it is a beautiful blade,” he agrees, in a way that makes you think he genuinely appreciates its value. “now, is there any sort of supernatural creature that the dirk specifically is used to kill?” sam knows the answer he’s looking for, but he’s always eager to confirm any sort of lore that he’s not intimately familiar with, so he asks despite the weirdness of it all.

this question is certainly very odd to you, and you can’t understand why he’d need to know, but you answer anyway. “well, it can depend on who you ask or what records you look at. in many cases, any old thing made of iron, or silver, depending, would do, especially because most folklore dates back to before the development of the highland dirk. but, there are definitely accounts of supernatural creatures being killed or warded off using a dirk, especially one used for a blood oath that was never broken. some believe the strength of an oath fulfilled made the weapon stronger and able to kill creatures otherwise thought unkillable.”

he takes in all of this information with such a serious and straight face that you really begin to question how this could all be about unsolved murders. he seems to think the folklore is going to help him solve real life mysteries, or maybe he’s just secretly interested in this sort of thing and using the opportunity to learn about it.

“and do you know anything in particular about a creature called the each-uisge?”

“each-uisge?” you repeat, unable to stop yourself from laughing a little in surprise. now you’re perfectly sure this federal government investigator is just a secret nerd with an interest in niche folklore. even his pronunciation is decent, though he neglected the back-of-the-throat sound of the “ch.” 

“well– i mean, yes, there are accounts of each-uisge being warded away by both silver bullets and an iron dirk,” you indulge, “i know less about the each-uisge themselves than dirks, but i’ve never read any account of one being killed. though, i do suppose an oath-strengthened dirk might be just the thing to do it.”

he nods intently. “listen, i’m sure this is a long shot,” agent giles begins, gesturing haphazardly with his gloved hands, and you wonder what sort of strange thing he could ask this time, “but is there a way of knowing if this one,” he points to the pure iron dirk, “might have been used to fullfill an oath?”

at that you can’t help but snort out a laugh. “what, are you trying to hunt down a each-uisge?” you tease. “you know that they’re only located in scotland, right? … i mean, if they were real, obviously.” by the end, your tone is no longer playful as your mind returns to the news of missing, presumed dead people, with nothing left but their livers found in the nearby lake. then you think about the history of the town, once heavy with scottish imigrants when it was founded in the early eighteenth century. and finally, all in just a second or two, you fully recall the story of the each-uisge, a vicious, shape-shifting horse that drowns its victims at the bottom of the nearest lake and eats their whole body except the liver, which floats to the surface. a chill runs up your spine before you tamp down the ridiculous suspicions that fill your mind.

“right, obviously,” agent giles laughs too, but it’s sort of stiff, like he wasn’t really joking when he asked. you’re certainly not laughing anymore. “as for the dirk?”

you raise your eyebrows, “hm?” is all you can manage as your mind goes sort of blank. there’s absolutely no way that what you’re thinking about could actually be true, so you brush it off and try to listen to the agent—if that’s really who he is.

“can you tell?” he asks again.

“uh– tell what? oh– oh! if it was used to swear an oath?” you prompt. he nods. “well, i mean, ha. not really, not for sure. we have tested, and there are traces of blood on the blade,” you gesture towards it vaguely, “but, um, that could be from anywhere, not just an oath, you know? lots of fighting…and stuff, uh, those days,” your voice trails off as you laugh and nod a little awkwardly, starting to feel more and more confused about this agent giles, no matter how pretty his soft-looking brown hair is. you tell yourself he’s just curious, but he just looks oh so serious, despite the fact that he’s trying to seem casual and normal about this unconventional conversation.

“hm,” is the only little sound he makes in response, like he’s almost disappointed and considering something weighty you don’t know about because of your unsure answer.

and because you hate to see that little frown on his face, you keep talking, “but, it’s more than likely that this blade was owned by a high ranking clansman, possibly even the chief, as indicated by the ornate nature of the handle and overall high quality. oaths were, in retrospect, decently common to make, even more so for high ranking clansmen.

“which means it is very likely that at least one, maybe many oaths have been sworn using this blade. of course, there’s no telling whether each oath was fulfilled, but considering the cultural importance of loyalty and honor and the roles of oaths in such, it wouldn’t be far fetched to consider this dirk as the kind strong enough to kill a each-uisge. if, you know, you wanted to know a random, cool, and totally niche fun fact about one of my favorite weapons in this museum’s storage room,” in the last sentence, you speak in a clunky, awkward sort of way as you run out of interesting tidbits to info-dump and your mind instead wanders back to the undeniably peculiar circumstances surrounding this conversation. the laugh you let out at the end is quiet, and far more nervous than humored.

the smile he gives you then is sympathetic, like he knows this is all weird and maybe a little alarming if you’re willing to question your non-belief in the supernatural. you’re no longer sure at all that he’s an fbi agent, but strangely enough, you don’t find yourself feeling distrustful of him. your gut tells you that he’s good, and you decide to trust it.

“all of this was a big help,” he says, the sincerity in his voice almost tangible, “thank you.” that makes you feel good, because it seems to you like he’s just trying to help people. with what, you’re not sure, and then you sort of wish that he’d made some sort of joke about how this last part of the conversation wasn’t actually helpful, just interesting. interesting and completely irrelevant to the livers on the lake. 

you swallow hard, “of course. glad i could be of help to you, agent.”

“sam,” he corrects. “just sam is alright.”

“oh. right. just sam,” you nod and wonder if the feeling in your chest could be your heart fluttering. your eyes flicker from his face to his broad shoulders, to his pretty, big hands and the way his right middle finger taps against the side of his thigh. then, worried you’re staring, your gaze flits down to your own hands, resting on the table, then to the daggers you know so well. yet, you look at them different this time. you’ve certainly wondered about the oaths that may have been sworn by their blades and their connections to traditional superstitions. but now you look at them and wonder if it’s real. if one of these blades had been used to ward off a real-life myth in the past, or been magically strengthened by blood and kept promises. sam—you think sam fits him so much better than agent giles—has shifted your perspective of the things you’ve been studying and learning about and loving for years and years of your life.

it’s true that you’ve always been one to daydream, to wonder; that’s where your fascination with folklore and fairy tales comes from. always, you’ve looked for rumored mythological weapons in the real world and marveled at the less historic possibilities of the things you study. and you think that if it were anyone else, or if he talked to or looked at you in a different way, you wouldn’t be questioning your reality like this, but you are. maybe you’re predisposed to believing, or just too curious for your own good, but you know at that moment that you won’t be able to let this go.

sam clears his throat to break the awkward silence, and he thinks he can see the gears in your head turning, the way they have been since he asked about the each-uisge. he hopes desperatly you won’t ask him if he thinks this is all real, all because he doesn’t think he could lie to you anymore. there’s something about your authenticity, your intelligence and innate curiosity, and the goodness that you so clearly carry with you that simultaneously makes him want to tell you everything and protect you from the truth. the latter option is always his go-to, rightfully so, but he can’t explain to himself the way that he purely just wants to share with you, bring you closer to him through a shared understanding of the world. sam thinks he must be crazy, because he just met you and thinks it would be entirely possible to fall right in love with you if he got the chance to get to know you.

then he realizes that he’s the one staring. “right, well… i should get going. you know. i’ve got another lead i need to follow up on,” he forces the words out like he doesn’t want to go, and it’s true. he doesn’t, but if he spends more time with you, he’ll have to keep lying, and he doesn’t want to do that. more importantly, he doesn’t want to expose you to anything more that could put you in danger.

“right. right, of course,” you nod, and you’re practically breaking his heart because you fail to hide the disappointment on your face for a split second. he hadn’t realized he was looking at you that carefully to catch the look, but he doesn’t regret it. he’s discovered that he likes looking at you enough to not care much about that sort of thing. “would you like me to show you out, or do you remember the way?”

“i’m alright,” sam answers on instinct before his heart breaks doubly because your eyes look sad again for a moment, “but let me walk you back to your office. or, no, let me buy you that superfood salad for taking up your time,” he amends quickly.

“i already ate lunch, but– shit,” you interrupt yourself, cursing when you realize he was flirting. then you get flustered, “no, i mean– uh, well– okay! er, no, that’s okay, i mean,” because there’s no taking back the fact that you already said you ate lunch already. you take a breath to steady yourself, “but you can definitely walk me back to my office, let me just put these away, it’ll be quick–,” your hands rush to wrap up the daggers before you remember their fragility, “oh– sorry! thank you for the offer, though! that would’ve been completely unnecessary, i’m just glad i could help. not that i wouldn’t– uh,” you gulp anxiously, “not that i wouldn’t eat lunch with you, of course– well, if that’s what you were implying which maybe it wasn’t, which, in that case–”

sam who cuts you off, “it’s alright,” he reassures before you can keep rambling, “that is what i’m implying, but…” he quiets for a split second, only because he’s a littly shy, “it’s okay. maybe, yknow, when the case is over, we can go for lunch, if that’s alright with you?”

you inhale sharply, nodding silently before remembering you should answer aloud too. when you do, your voice is a little breathless, “yeah, yeah, that sounds good.” then, you’re fighting back a grin.

“great,” he doesn’t hide his own smile as he dips his hand into a jacket pocket and hands you his card. “call me tomorrow, we can set up a time.” you accept the card with a shy smile, and one beat, two beats of silence pass before the both of you realize you’re staring at the other.

in sync, you snap out of it, gazes jerking elsewhere and hands flying anywhere to get busy. you turn to the blades on the table and he focuses on fixing up the black jacket of his suit. you try to ignore him as you put the artifacts away, expecting for him to have said goodbye and left by the time you turn back to him. when you look at him in confusion, the corner of his mouth quirks up when he realizes you’ve forgotten that you said he could walk you back to your office.

he vaguely motions towards the door, “shall we? i’ll walk you to your office, then i’m good to find my way out.”

“oh! right, of course!” you nod, “yeah.” with your lips pursed in an awkward smile, you turn to the door and walk towards the exit without looking to see if he follows. but you don’t have to, because a half-second later, he’s right by your side, which you can attribute his long strides to. you like the way he lingers close to you, closer than he did when you first walked in together, even if it makes you feel flustered so that your hands mess with the hem of your shirt.

you stop at the office door, turning to him and expecting your goodbye to happen surrounded by the empty, white walls of the hallway.

but, he points to the door with his chin. “i’ll walk you in,” he explains, “show that asshole, mark, that you’re friendly with an fbi agent.”

“oh,” you sigh out through a smile, “you don’t have to do that, yknow. i know he’s an idiot.”

he laughs at that. “yeah, he absolutely is,” he agrees readily, “but, i still wanna. i think of it as part of my job to scare off assholes.” especially from pretty people like you, he wants to say. he’s just too shy for that, thinks it would be too soon to say it.

“well then, be my guest,” you smile as you open the door and let him follow close behind you.

“thank you for all of your help,” sam says, repeating what he said before, louder than he has to so that mark, a few desks away from yours, can hear it all, “you really helped move our investigation along. i think we’ll be able to wrap it up soon, thanks to you.” you’re sure that he’s over-exaggerating, but you certainly aren’t going to stop him from proving a point to mark.

“it was the least i could do,” you play along, trying to hide your grin from your coworkers, because you can feel all their eyes on you. when you sit, sam looks down at you with nothing short of affection, just for a moment before your eyes settle back on his pretty face.

“have a nice rest of your day,” he smiles before turning away. then he reaches the door, not too far away, he turns back around and speaks for everyone to hear, “don’t forget to call me, yeah?” before disappearing and leaving you a flustered, grinning mess. you can’t help but steal a look at mark and feel satisfaction run through your veins at his utterly shocked expression. 

he looks to have gone through the five stages of grief in a matter of seconds, and it’s frankly hilarious. he can’t seem to possibly consider the fact that you absolutely just pulled a (not?) fbi agent, not to mention one who’s that tall and just plain attractive. you can’t wait to catch whatever comical expression he wears when he sees you greeted by sam in the museum foyer during your lunch break for a date (because surely he’ll be sitting in the café watching people walk in and out as he’s chewing on his nasty sandwich).

part two : now you know

[brenayla]

fin - AO3

The end is anticlimactic. As soon as the clock strikes 4:50pm, Doggett leaves politely with a one-armed hug and well wishes for the little one.

And then it’s just them. Scully and Mulder in their secretive underground den.

Scully sits at his desk and he perches in front of her.

Of all things, Mulder says: “You remember that time we got food poisoning from Wendy’s?”

God, does she ever. She complains, “Mulder, do we have to go there?”

They were barely two years in, somewhere in rural Missouri. It might have been the only time Mulder stopped driving before 7PM and to her absolute horror, the first motel he found to pull into was fumigating or doing construction or something. Whatever. They shared a bathroom for 24 hours and mutually concluded that they would never discuss it again.

“Not if I have any say in it,” Mulder says, “I haven’t been there since.”

“Seriously, Mulder," she warns with a good glare. "I'd rather hear about the praying mantis man. My gag reflex isn't what it used to be.”

“Doesn’t seem any different to me.”

“Mulder,” she scolds him around a barely contained laugh, as if the walls have ears.

Mulder dodges and shifts topics expertly. “I got you something,” he says, free hand scouring around in his pocket.

He produces a stress ball painted to look like a little baseball. “Happy anniversary, Scully.”

They have never celebrated an anniversary and even if they were to take up the practice, it would be somewhere in the crisp dew days of spring, not today.

“Our other anniversary,” Mulder explains, “I’m a little late.”

“Ah,” Scully says, taking the gift and turning it in her hand. He is several months late, actually.

Their first time was not what she expected but it was what she needed. In her more creative moments, she’d imagined that when the dam broke, he would tear buttons from her blouse and pull her panties aside, no frills maneuvering her into position. And that is Mulder, but it is not first time Mulder. First time Mulder wanted to kiss her forehead and take her in. Before, he asked, can I and after, he fell asleep grasping her thumb like a newborn.

It seems like you two have an intense relationship, Scully's therapist once told her, accurately. Leg shaking, concussed sprinting after them intense; pre-sunrise giggling on his couch intense.

“Thank you,” she tells him, slipping it into her bag on the floor.

“It’s my contribution to your labor pain management plan.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“We can add it the hospital bag checklist.”

“Sure, Mulder.”

Mulder waits under the hum of the AC. “You’re welcome.”

A smoke detector is still hanging by a wire from when she took it apart to discover a bug. Sharpened yellow pencils that appeared in the ceiling – again – without explanation. The chunky patterned blanket from his couch, slouched over the back of the computer chair, brought in when she was sick and cold.

Nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted.

“Mulder, there have been periods where I spent more time here than at home,” she confesses.

“Me too. Probably too many times, actually.”

“I met you down here.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“And I– …we –” Her voice cracks, an all too common occurrence recently. We fell in love down here.

Or maybe not – maybe it was the rental cars or the autopsy bays – but she can’t quite remember because the where and when was never all that important. Now that she’s leaving this place behind, it feels like it happened here.

“I know.”

Mulder could say: This place isn’t going anywhere, Scully or you can always come back to visit, but it would be a sore consolation and they both know it. This is the wheezing death rattle of Special Agents Mulder And Scully. It’s such a Mulder thought, she would never dare voice it. It wriggles into her temporal lobe anyways.

She is leaving behind the birthplace of them, the first space they ever shared. Early Them live down here, with their shoulder pads and patterns and loose-fitting suits, stealing shy glances at each other over his whirring slideshows. And Middle Them survived the fire, too; floppy haired and caught in crackling tension and sopping with grief and fear and love that they don’t yet know what to do about. Even flirty, curious Right Before them are down here, testing out new boundaries; lighter, dreamier, sweet and sticky them.

Fudge the dates a little and their baby could have been conceived down here, and in the moment, that's the story she tells herself. It's a nice one. Maybe the fetus is a little bigger than typical, or maybe she misremembered the dates of her last menstrual cycle. Maybe she’s carrying a child made from dusty file cabinets, tacked up printouts, scrawled handwriting, crumpled up sticky notes left beside the trash can filled with takeout containers, and them; all the Thems.

Scully amends her last comment. “Well, I’m not sure that it happened down here. But I realized it down here.”

Mulder takes her hand. “Tell me?”

“It’s nothing crazy.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m good with nothing crazy these days.”

She smiles; damn, he’s got her. “Okay, well…it was a weekend. You had this dark blue jacket on. It was more casual than you’d typically wear.”

“I think I know the one. I can find it, if you ever need a reminder.”

She gives him a look and continues, unperturbed. “You were sitting here at your desk and I was over there working at the computer. You were eating Reese’s Pieces. Very loudly, I might add.”

“When are we gonna get to the flattering part?”

“Never, if you’re going to interrupt.” Scully gets her bearings again. “You were humming something, I’m not sure what but it was a short tune, over and over. And I looked over to tell you to quiet down so I could focus. You were leaning over your report – or whatever it was you were writing. You had a little cut here above your eyebrow. And I just…I just knew.”

He stares, disbelieving but still holding her hand. “That was it, Scully?” He asks. “I was being annoying and you looked over to tell me to knock it off, and that’s how you had this grand realization?”

She shrugs. “I think maybe it was the mundaneness of it.”

“You’re gonna have to elaborate on that one, Scully.”

“Well,” she tries, “how many times have we had very similar conversations? How many times have I probably been working at the computer and looked over to tell you something? Hundreds, maybe.”

“Maybe more.”

“Right. So, it was all of those…everyday things that made up our relationship, our partnership in the first place. It only makes sense that it would be one of those everyday things that...triggered something.”

Mulder takes that in.

“Huh,” he says, gently splaying out her fingers as he processes. “Did you ever tell me to knock off the noise?”

When she puts herself back in the moment, nothing breaches her memory but the all-consuming red sun dawn of the revelation that she knew she was not going to be able to ignore like she had with all the prior little stair step realizations.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I said anything to you.”

“You might have saved us a lot of time if you had.”

“No, I don’t think so, Mulder. I don’t– maybe it’s all the hormones, but I don’t think we were ready then.”

Mulder takes a moment to digest that idea. He doesn’t necessarily agree, she can tell and it occurs to her to push it. But when he lapses into quietly dragging a fingertip across the lines in her palm, she decides against it.

A gush of self-consciousness rolls over her and she see it hit him like an aftershock. “Well,” she covers, “what about you?”

He presses his thumb against one of her nails, scanning his print into the keratin of her nailbed.

“When you came to my room in Bellefleur,” he says.

“You– …the first time?”

He smiles, covering. “Yeah.”

“No,” she insists, “Mulder.”

“Yes, Scully.”

In the moment of silence, Mulder fiddles with her fingers, their heads bowed over their joined hands. Then he kisses the middle of her palm like a stigmata and releases her, gauging her mood.

When he gets a reading, he stands and offers her a hand up. “You ready to go, Agent Scully?”

She takes it, shaking hands with this little death.

“I think I am, Agent Mulder.”

[wandering-winchesters]

Haunted

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Word Count: 5,200 (Sorry, not sorry) Summary: The reader gets ghost sickness. Trigger Warnings: mentions of anxiety, death, typical supernatural violence and suspense. Requested: No, just an idea I had. A/N: Requests are open! I recently watched the episode where Dean has Ghost Sickness and it made me crack up. Please let me know what you think about this one!

Masterlist

The hunt was going well, as well as it could. We had just arrived in Minnesota, a small Northern town. It had caught Sam’s attention, because of the amount of people that had been dropping dead from a mysterious illness, that presented as a heart attack. They weren’t sure what it was, but we came to check it out anyways. Sam had gone to the library, Dean had hit up a local diner to ask questions and I made my way to the hospital. Upon arriving, I flashed my FBI badge and was allowed back into the small morgue. The body didn’t appear out of the normal realm of possibility for a dead body. Slightly defeated, I left.

I pulled out my phone and sent Sam and Dean a quick text, letting them know I was heading back to the motel. Dean offered to come pick me up, but I declined. It was a five minute walk on the quiet small town streets, the fresh air would do me good. I took a deep breath, surveying the scene around me. A few other people walked the street, but it was mostly empty. The sun setting on the horizon a reminder of the time of day, most people already home and inside for the night. A feeling of unease crept up my spine, the hair on the back of my neck standing at attention. I glanced around, checking my immediate surroundings for any sign of danger, but nothing. Yet, even with this visual reassurance, the feeling didn’t subside. I tried to shake it off, picking up the pace slightly, intent on getting back to the motel room.

I make it back within a couple of minutes, kicking off my high-heeled boots and shrugging my suit jacket, the FBI get up my least favorite. I hear Dean chuckle from the small table in the corner of the room, his eyes trained on my every movement. “Have something to say, Winchester?” I quip, I set the jacket down on the back of the chair across from Dean, “Nope, it’s just always amusing to watch you kick off those heels you hate so much.” He says, a smile plastered across his face, his hands full between a beer and the sandwich that he is in the middle of consuming. I roll my eyes at him and rest my foot on the seat of the chair, hiking up my pant leg so I can access the gun that I had holstered there. I remove the holster from my ankle and walk over to set it on the nightstand next to my bed. Dean and I had shared this room and Sam had one, right across the hallway from us. Although, during the day we all hung out in here when we weren’t out investigating.

“I’d like to see you spend ten minutes in heels, Dean, let alone a full day.” I huff at him, stealing one of his chips that had fallen out of the bag that he had set down haphazardly on the table. He raised his hands in surrender, offering me another chip to make up for his joke about the high heels. “Did you find anything out at the diner?” I ask him as I unbutton the white shirt that I had on underneath the jacket, revealing the white tank top that I had on as a base layer. The bashfulness of changing in front of either of the Winchesters, long gone. Traveling with them for years tends to have that effect, Dean has seen me naked on multiple occasions. They have both stitched me up after bad hunts, but Dean was the only one to help me shower and change. Dean mumbles something, his mouth half full, a sentence that I simply cannot understand because of the amount of food he was chewing. I shoot him a look, he holds up one finger and finishes chewing before he speaks again.

“Nope, nothing. All everyone could say was that they were surprised to hear of the deaths of those three people. All of them were healthy, definitely not people that were likely to have a heart attack.” I hum in response, lost in thought as I rack my brain for any semblance of a similar case. I walk to my duffle bag and search for the pair of leggings that I always keep in there, only to not find them. Cursing, I realize I had left them hung over the chair in my bedroom back at the bunker. “Dean, can I borrow a pair of your sweats? I forgot my comfy pants.” I ask him, glancing over at him. He nods, gesturing for me to help myself. I unbutton my black dress pants and kick them to the side. I walk over to Deans bed, a mess of sheets and blankets, his clothes strewn across the bed as well. I grab the pair of sweats that I am looking for and pull them on. I snag one of his sweatshirts as well, embracing the comfort as it envelops me. The scent of whiskey, leather and gun cleaner overwhelms my nostrils, Dean. “Sam should be here any minute, he just texted me.” Dean calls out, as I walk into the bathroom, I thank him for letting me know and jump through the shower quickly.

After my shower, I make my way back out to the main room and sit down across from Dean at the table that he is still occupying. The feeling of unease, still unwavering. No matter how hard I try to push it down. “What about you, did you find anything at the morgue?” He asks, pushing a takeout container across the table towards me, one that I didn’t realize he had gotten for me. I give him a smile and open the container revealing my favorite comfort food. His small gesture of kindness, enough to almost make me cry. I don’t but the thought was there.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, no sulfur or strange markings on the body. It all seemed normal.” I shrug, taking a bite of the food he had brought for me. I allow my mind to wander, going back over all of the things that we had discussed, the lore I had read and the things that I had seen today. The unease within me turning to pure anxiety. So much so, that when the door to the motel opens abruptly, I jump to my feet and reach for the gun that had been holstered at my ankle earlier in the day. Only that I had already taken it off and put it by my bed. My eyes land on Sam and I relax, sheepishly offering a small apology to both of the Winchesters who were looking at me questioningly. “I told you he was coming, Y/N. You okay?” Dean asks, his eyes narrowed and carefully studying my face. The jumpiness they had just witnessed very uncharacteristic for me. I was normally incredibly level headed, fear something that I had harnessed into a strength instead of a weakness.

I take a deep breathe, bringing my heart rate back down to the rate it normally was. “Yeah, all good. Sorry again, must just be jumpy today.” I say, sitting back down and returning to the food in front of me. Hunger, was no longer a pressing need. My stomach was churning, anxiety bubbling and that damn feeling of unease creeping back in louder than ever.

Sam didn’t hang out long, exhaustion a mutual feeling between all of us. I had moved to my bed, giving Sam my seat at the table with Dean. A wave of sleep was cresting over me at this very moment, threatening to crash down at any moment. I said goodnight to Sam as he turned to leave, giving him a sleepy wave as I burrowed further under my blankets. Dean closed the door behind his brother, locking it and tucking a chair under the handle for an added measure of protection. Something that I appreciated about him, it wasn’t a precaution he would take unless I was there in the room with him. “G’night Dean, Sweet dreams.” I whisper, rolling to my side and letting the wave of sleep finally crash over all of me, enveloping me in the darkness.

I am startled awake, a gasp leaving my throat as I sit straight up in bed. The dark room around me looming, shapes drifting that were most likely my eyes playing tricks on me. A small Yelp leaves my lips as the light in the room clicks on, revealing all of the shapes that had been worrying me, to be standard furniture. I look to my left and see Dean, his hand still resting on the lamp that he had turned on. His eyes focused on me, concern etched through his sleep dampened features. “You okay?” He asks, a yawn forcing its way past his lips. I rest my hand on my chest, my heart thumping against my ribs. I look over at him, my eyes wide with panic and my heart in my throat. “I-I don’t know.” I stutter, glancing around the room once again, nothing appearing to be out of place. Yet, whatever had awoken me was enough to cause me to startle nearly out of my skin. I swing my legs over the side of the motel bed, padding quietly into the small bathroom. I grip the edge of the sink with both hands, leaning over it and staring at my reflection in the mirror.

The bags under my eyes are growing darker by the minute, pure exhaustion settled firmly across my body. It is only then that I notice the spider crawling across the counter headed straight towards my hand, before I can even blink a splitting scream leaves my throat. I jump away from the sink, pressing my back to the bathroom wall and covering my face, The fear that had travelled through my body in the split second, enough to bring tears to my eyes. I hear a clatter from the room, Dean not wasting anytime to shoulder open the bathroom door. His gun drawn, eyes wide searching the room for any threat. When he can’t identify one, he lowers his gun. His attention fully focused on me and the way I was cowering against the wall. He raises an eyebrow at me, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “What is wrong, Y/N?” He asks, and I raise one hand, shakily pointing towards the counter.

“S-spider, De, right there.” His eyes follow my finger and land where I was pointing, his gaze growing even more concerned as his focus lands on the spider, no larger than the eraser on a pencil. He silently scoops it into a paper cup, walking it over to the window in the bathroom and allowing it to scurry outside. There is a knock at the door to the motel room, which again draws a startled yelp from me. “It’s Sam, I heard a scream. What’s going on?” Sam’s muffled voice calls from the other side of the door, Dean hurriedly crosses the distance from the bathroom to the door and lets Sam into the cramped room. “She saw a spider.” Dean says, his tone hushed, concern obvious from the way he formed his words. I walk out of the bathroom, both of their eyes locked on my every move. “Since when are you afraid of spiders?” Sam asks, curiosity laced in his tone.

“Spiders are terrifying Sam! What are you talking about?” Taking offense at his tone, the demeaning way that he questioned why I would react like that to the arachnid. Dean lets out a low, ‘uh-huh’ and gives Sam another look. “Y/N, how do you feel about snakes?” Dean asks, crossing his arms and glancing towards me thoughtfully. “Terrifying.” I whisper, a shudder making its way through my body. “Motorcycles?” Sam asks, naming off things that I used to enjoy doing or being around. “Death traps on wheels!” They spend the next ten minutes questioning me on things like this, until I snap. “What’s the point of all of this? It’s just making me scared!” I whine, crossing my arms across my chest and resisting the urge to cover my ears in the most childlike manner. Sam and Dean exchange glances once again. “Y/N, did you happen to touch the body when you were in the morgue? Or get any bodily fluids on you?” Dean asks, his eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, concern still evident. “Uh,” I hesitate thinking back over todays events, trying to recall just what had happened at the morgue.”Yeah, I touched his face to get a closer look at something, why?”

“Dammit,” Dean mutters, panic now growing ever more present on his features. He pulls out the EMF reader from his bag, turning it on and watching it go crazy the closer to me he placed it. “Ghost sickness.” Sam chimes in, the expression on his face mirroring the one on Deans. I look frantically between the two of them, waiting for them to explain what they mean. “What the hell is ghost sickness?” I ask, my own fear level rising quickly within me. Dean explains the whole thing for me, in detail. Recounting the time that he had ghost sickness in the past, the grip that fear had on him entirely. The steps they had to take to get rid of the spirit and the timeline on the whole thing. Sam had already sequestered my laptop, his fingers flying over the keys before pausing as his eyes scanned the webpage for any piece of information that could help. I did my best to remain calm, but failed miserably. My heart pounding, eyes watering and body shaking.

Petrified of the thought of death that is fast approaching. Dean can see this, its obvious as I have no sense about me to try and appear okay. “Hey,” He whispers, tucking a finger under my chin and raising my head so he can look into my eyes. “Its going to be okay, we’ve got you, I promise.” I bite my lip, my chin quivering as a tear begins to fall from my eyes. Dean notices immediately, his thumb wiping away every tear as it fell. He pulls me to my feet, embracing me in a tight hug. It doesn’t make the fear go away, but it does ease the anxiety the slightest bit.

—

The next several hours are a blur, a constant search for who the spirit was, where their body might be and how we can get rid of all remnants before my clock runs out. There is a constant stream of occurrences that Sam and Dean take turns handling, little things that normally wouldn’t have been a big deal, but in this moment are absolutely terrifying to me. A moth, the sound of a door slamming. When I looked out the window and saw a thunderstorm approaching, I was convinced that I was going to be struck by lightening from inside the motel. All of which the boys handled with grace. Except for the moth, Dean tried his hardest but couldn’t help his small laugh that escaped when he saw me cowering in the corner terrified that the moth was going to hurt me.

He apologized, when he saw the absolute hurt and betrayal sweep across my face, pulling me in for another hug. Sam is mostly quiet, his eyes glued to the screen on the laptop, I can tell by his concentration that he is slowly growing closer to a possible answer. “Ive got it!” Sam exclaims, causing me to nearly fall out of the nest that I had constructed of blankets and pillows on Deans motel bed. I steady myself and look at him, waiting for his explanation as to what he had found. “Curtis Marshall, he was murdered back in 1973, found shot to death in his kitchen. There was never much of an investigation and it was swept under the rug and labeled a suicide. But from what I can see, everything was definitely pointing towards a homicide.” He says, his face growing lighter as he reads, relief flooding over him. A solution, to a heavy question. “It says here, that he was buried in a cemetery in town. So, simple salt and burn and we should be good to go.” Sam stands, shutting his laptop and grabbing his jacket that he had slung across the back of the chair he had been occupying. “Ill stay here with Y/N, if you want to take care of the salt and burn.” Dean offers, Sam looks at him and they appear to have a silent conversation that ends in agreement.

“I don’t need babysitting, we can all go.” I mutter, a bit of spite coming out in my words. “So you can get scared by a bee and find a way to accidentally get yourself killed?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at me skeptically. “I don’t think so.” I resign myself to contempt and slouch back in Deans bed. I watch silently as Sam grabs a few things that he will need, catching the keys to the impala when Dean tosses them to him. He bids us a quick farewell and heads out into the early morning darkness, the sun just starting to approach the horizon. Once the door shuts behind him, Dean focuses his attention on me. I stare back at him, unsure what to talk about or what to do while we wait. My main focus on remaining calm, the thought of dying from a heart attack a thought that drives me to the edge of pure panic and terror.

My chest growing tighter the longer that I focused on it, I couldn’t hear anything around me. The only sound flowing through my ears was the sound of my own blood whooshing, my heart beating roughly against my ribs, bile rising in my throat as I continue to fall deeper into the images being created by my mind. “Y/N?” Dean asks, the look on his face telling me that he had asked me a question and I hadn’t responded to it as it had fallen on deaf ears. “Huh? Sorry I am distracted.” I apologize, focusing in on him as he crosses the room to get closer to me. He sits down on the side of the bed, his hand coming to rest on my knee. “In all our years of friendship, did you ever think that this would be the way you died? Ghost sickness?” His words shock me to my core, completely unexpected coming from the man I thought cared about me deeply. I shrink away from him, pulling myself as far to the other side of the bed as I can without falling to the floor.

“What do you mean, Dean? Sam is on his way to salt and burn the body now, I’m not going to d-“My breath catches in my throat as I focus on his eyes. It wasn’t Dean looking back at me, It was a Demon. I watch in fear as they flash from his usual green to black, a nasty grin spreading across his face. I hurriedly throw the covers off of my lap, struggling to untangle my legs from the lengths of fabric. Just as my feet touch the grungy carpeted motel floor, he lunges for me, managing to lock his hand around my ankle. He yanks me hard, causing me to stumble and fall flat onto the hard floor. All the air is knocked out of my lungs, but I still struggle. Doing my best to crawl away from him, even though his grasp on my body is tight. I let out a scream, his body now shrouding my own as he straddles me. His hands finding their way to my wrists as he pins my legs to the floor with his hips. My heart is pounding so hard, it feels like it is going to burst.

The oxygen necessary to survive coming as gasps, unable to subside the burn within my lungs as I struggle for breath. He lets out a laugh, cold and bitter, enough to chill me to my core. It was Dean’s laugh, but twisted in ways that I never wanted to hear again in my life. “Look at you, so pitiful. So fearful. It’s a glorious sight, I can’t wait to watch you die.” He croons, his face coming down to hover close to my own. I spit at him, bringing my knee up to hit him straight in the groin, giving me the slightest chance to slip away from him. I take it and throw his weight off of me, just enough to scramble to the door of the motel. It’s locked, the chair wedged under the handle and in my panic I can’t get the chair loose. This momentary lapse in ability, gives him just enough time to close the distance between us again.

His body slamming my own into the length of the door, a desperate scream leaves my lips as I struggle to get him off of me. His hands move towards my face, I expect them to close around my throat and I lash out. My eyes are scrunched closed as I scratch, hit and use every muscle in my body to fight back. Instead of wrapping around my throat, his hands come to rest on my shoulders and they shake me, desperately. “Y/N!” He yells, his voice different, desperate but not evil. I hesitantly open my eyes and Dean’s green eyes are searching my face, desperate and horrified. “It’s me, it’s Dean, you’re okay.” I throw his hands off of me, scrambling to get as far away from him as possible. He holds his hands up in mock surrender, allowing me the space that I was crying out for.

“Don’t touch me!” I yell, hugging my arms to my chest, surrounding myself in the smallest amount of comfort I can find. “You’re not Dean, y-youre a demon!” I cry out, searching the room desperately for the demon killing knife that I know Dean keeps close by at all times. Dean takes a cautious step towards me, his hands still up in an attempt to calm me. I keep him at a distance and cross the room in a way that makes it look like we are walking in a big circle. He reaches for a small bottle that he keeps on his nightstand at all times, he holds it up so I can recognize it for what it is, holy water. He unscrews the lid and takes a sip of it, the relaxed expression communicating what he was trying to tell me. Not a demon. Just Dean. I relax slightly, dropping my arms back to my side, relief flooding through me. “but, you were just trying to kill me!” I say, my voice shuddering and fear sweeping over me once again. “It was a hallucination, Y/N. We were sitting on my bed talking and then you were just off, running for the door. I pinned you so you couldn’t leave on your own and it took me awhile to get through to you.” I listen to his words, but they seem impossible. How could that have been a hallucination? I could feel him, smell him, hear the way he laughed at my impending doom, I could see the way his eyes changed from green to pitch black. It just didn’t seem possible. I’m going crazy. My body is a mass of nerves, my muscles shaky and aching for relief. I rest my back against the wall and slide down to the floor, my hands holding my head as my world caves in around me. I am going to die. This was it, hallucinations are the second to last progression of the ghost sickness. My heart is in my throat, regret flooding over me. “Dean, listen to me.” I say, raising my head to look at him. He had crossed the room to sit across from me, his legs crossed in front of him. He looks at me, his gaze holding my own as he gives me a small nod to let me know that he was listening. “I know I am about to die, this is how you told me it ends for people who get ghost sickness. The hallucinations-“ I shudder, my voice faltering for a moment. Dean goes to interrupt me but I stop him, “No, I need to say this. Please.” I plead, tears beginning to fall from my red rimmed eyes once again, my cheeks raw from how much I had been crying. He nods, allowing me to continue my thought. I bite my lip and lower my eyes to the floor, unable to say this directly to his face. “If this is my last day, I have to tell you. I love you. I have always loved you. Every day that you have been in my life on earth, and every day that you were in hell. I have loved you. I have longed for you and I can’t lose you again without telling you.” It’s at this moment, when the last word leaves my lips that a sense of relief floods over me. Fear lifting like darkness in the morning when the sun rises again. I inhale deeply, oxygen filling every space within my lungs for the first time in what feels like forever. I can’t explain it, the sudden lack of terror. But I am going to enjoy every second of it while it lasts.

What I don’t see, is the way that Deans face flashes several emotions in a matter of seconds. Fear, at the thought of my death. Shock, at the revelation of the feelings that I have had for him for so long. Relief, at the fact that he shares the same feelings. Last of all, adoration. Absolute awe, that I love him in the same way that he loves me. He closes the distance between us, sitting with his back to the same wall and wrapping an arm around my waist. 
“First off,” He whispers, his lips brushing against the side of my face, sending shivers down my spine. “You’re not going to die. I promise you that. Sam is going to burn the body before anything happens to you. Second, I would fight though any hell to get you back, I don’t care what I had to do.” He pauses again, his hand finding solace on my hip, his thumb rubbing circles into my skin that is peaking out over the top of his sweatpants that I had stolen to wear. “Third, I love you with all of my being, Y/N. You were the thought that got me through those years in hell, nothing else.” I let out a breath that I didn’t realize I had been holding, utter relief and bliss rushing over me. I sob, every fear and emotion coming out in a rush. He presses a kiss to my forehead, his breath tickling my skin as he encourages me to match his breathing. We are both startled by the loud ring coming from his phone. He is quick to pull it from his pocket, both of us glancing at Sam’s name displayed across the screen. He hurriedly accepts the call and puts it on speaker phone, allowing both of us to hear what he has to say. 
“Sam? Tell me you’ve burned the psycho ghost.” He says, his tone pleading and slightly desperate. “Yep, salted and burned about three minutes ago.” Sam responds and the sense of relief I had felt around that same time, makes complete sense. It wasn’t my confession, it was the relief of the spirit no longer plaguing me. Dean and I both sigh in relief, Dean thanks Sam and tells him to hurry back as he is ready to ditch this “hellish town, in the middle of nowhere.” As Dean ends the call, I let my head fall back onto his arm, staring up at the ceiling. “So,” He starts, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. “Still mean what you said?” He questions, his tone cautious and slightly anxiety ridden. “Yeah. I do. Do you?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, so I turn my head to look at him. He takes this as an opportunity to cup the side of my face and pull me towards him. I let out a sharp exhale through my nose, anticipation building within me. My eyes flutter shut as he closes the distance between us, his lips brushing ever so slightly against my own. He pulls back momentarily, whispering words that I had longed to hear for years. “I love you, all of you.” I close the distance between us once again and press my lips fully against his, desperate and searching. Conveying every fear, hope and want through our shared intimacy.

A short twenty minutes later a knock at the door separates us, Sam had arrived and was waiting outside the entrance to the motel room. The lock and chair keeping him out until Dean moved them out of the way. Sam is quick to enter the room, not noticing the flush to my cheeks and the shit eating grin plastered on Dean’s face. “Everything okay here?” Sam asks, relief washing over him when he sees the two of us in one peace. “Yeah, it got hairy for a moment, but after you burned the bones all was well.” I sigh, giving Sam a tight hug in thanks. A slightly awkward silence fills the room, Sam glancing between the two of us a question forming on his lips, but before he can ask it Dean breaks the silence with a clear of his throat and a question of his own.

“So, spiders Y/N?” He says, a laugh forming in his throat. I roll my eyes and chuck a pillow at him that he catches with ease. 

“Shut up, it’s not my fault that I was being haunted by a stupid spirit.” I mumble and I can feel the blush spreading quickly across my face. He smiles at me, his hand coming up to cup my cheek once again. An action that is very quickly noticed by Sam, his eyes moving back and forth between Dean and myself. “I knew it, you finally admitted that you had feelings for each other, took you long enough.” 

As embarrassing as it was to have our revelations displayed like that in front of Sam, he was right. Dean and I had been tiptoeing around each other for years. Both of us desiring more with the other, but neither of us taking that first step. That was until, I thought I was at deaths door. In that moment, that haunted moment, where I thought I was going to die and lose Dean forever, I took a chance and I will forever be thankful for that moment of bravery in the midst of fear. 

Taglist, message me or comment to be added: @jc-winchester @roseblue373

[the-queen-and-the-king]

Target heart

Summary: Aaron has to train the future snipers of the Bureau. Emily is around to liaise with the BAU if needed, and she enjoys the show. She enjoys the show a lot.

Characters: Aaron Hotchner x Emily Prentiss (JJ makes an appearance too)

Contents: smut, shower sex, breeding kink (a bit), dirty talk, dirty thoughts (a lot) NSFW/MINORS DNI

PS : English is not my mother language so they are necessarily mistakes. Sorry about that.

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Read on AO3 / lire sur AO3

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                Emily stood back, observing the scene from a distance. A hundred yards away, a small group of new FBI recruits surrounded a man she knew all too well. Her man. Aaron Hotchner. The director of the BAU, who on this day had swapped his profiler's jacket for that of training sergeant for the Bureau's future snipers. From what she understood, those to whom this role was usually assigned were either ill or in operation somewhere. She, she was there to liaise with the unit just in case. At least, that's what the giant had asked.

                That said, she didn't mind being here at all. Admittedly, she had to stand, barely in the shadow of the building from which they had all emerged, but the view was very pleasing to her. Aaron had changed his outfit for the occasion, putting away his eternal slim-fitting suit and donning more operational clothes: rangers, khaki denim and a midnight-blue short-sleeved polo. He added a cap and sunglasses to avoid glare. Spring was radiant and temperatures higher than usual. Unless she was the one with vapors? It had to be said that these pants molded perfectly to the buttocks of her lover, who currently had his back to her.

                They'd been sleeping together for just over a year, and her desire for him was still there. He was so handsome. How could she resist his brown hair, that straight nose, his broad shoulders, the lines of his pelvic girdle... She was getting lost. He didn't know it – because it was something he didn't pay attention to – but there were people interested in him. Since his divorce, flies had been flying around the honey pot on a regular basis. They were all taken aback by the titan's notable indifference. They didn't stand a chance anyway, since he was already taken. By her. Emily Prentiss.

                Their relationship was against the rules and Strauss couldn't find out about the two of them – she'd have a golden argument for firing him – so the profiler had to play it smart to keep all the foragers at bay. Which wasn’t an easy task. She regularly discovered new rivals and had to devise yet another strategy to make them understand that it was in their best interests to move on. Like the blond girl shamelessly checking out her teacher's bare arms. Aaron wore shirts three-quarters of the time, and seeing his forearms and biceps out in the open, covered in a thin layer of perspiration from the ambient heat, was admittedly a little titillating. Even more so if she remembered the last time she'd clung to them while he...

“Emily.”

“Hum,” she said, her gaze fixed on the colossus a few steps away.

“You’re drooling.”

“What?” she gasped at once. “No!”

She ran her fingers over her chin, found nothing and sighed, rolling her eyes. She glared at JJ, who had just showed up beside her.

“Sounds like someone's enjoying the view,” ironized the liaison officer with a smile up to her ears.

“Shut up,” she spat, vexed at having been caught in full contemplation.

The team was the only one at Quantico who knew about the two of them, and so far they'd all held their tongues. Even Derek, who disapproved of their relationship – essentially because he didn't like Hotch – and Penelope, who was nonetheless a specialist in the unwelcome revelation of secrets. It had to believe that the friendship they had for them was enough to keep them in line. However, as soon as they were with each other, the scabrous innuendos were flying. This had amused Emily at first, but now sometimes she was as annoyed as her companion. It was partly for this reason that they had wanted to keep their story secret for as long as possible.

“What were you doing there?” she realized suddenly.

JJ was supposed to call her if a file or call required the director's intervention; there was never any question of her moving up there.

“It's time to eat,” explained the wiry blonde, still smiling. “We wanted to know if you were coming.”

“The class is not done yet.”

Up to now, he'd only talked to them about how to handle the rifle outside the shooting phase. His lesson was therefore far from over.

“Okay. So, Aaron stays. You?”

“I… I stay here. He… he might need me.”

Her gaze drifted to her lover, who had knelt down to begin the rest of his presentation. The denim hugged his thighs and emphasized the roundness of his crotch. Sparks fizzled in her lower abdomen as she remembered what lay beneath those layers of fabric. She didn't see her neighbor's snide expression when she answered:

“True, he might need you. See you later.”

Maybe she replied something, maybe not. She didn’t know. All her attention had slipped to the director, who was innocently continuing his explanations. From where she was, she couldn't hear anything, but she could see everything. The tense muscles of his arms, the veins protruding beneath his lightly tanned skin, his broad fingers wrapped around the handle, his shoulders rolling under his polo shirt as he lay on the floor, his buttocks forming a perfect relief that she wanted to grip fiercely. Okay. Maybe she was drooling a little.

                She forced herself to look around to think of something else, but the firing range wasn't the most exciting part of the training center. She gasped as the shot burst through the air. It was he who had just pulled the trigger. There was no way of knowing from this distance whether he'd hit the bull's-eye, but she wouldn't have been surprised if he had. That's why he'd been hired for this mission. He fired two more shots, and then stood up, unfurling his six-foot frame with ease. Pointing the gun's barrel skyward to speak to the students, he wedged the butt on his hip. A seemingly insignificant gesture that propelled Emily three days earlier. That night, it was her thighs that were pressed against his hips, and his cannon had a much more offensive stance.

                Emily inwardly slapped herself. With all the hanky-panky they were doing, how was she still starving? Especially since his partner was far from being a one minute man. Just the day before, before breakfast, he'd taken her to seventh heaven with his mouth and tongue alone. The neighbors must not have appreciated being woken up at six in the morning by her cries of ecstasy, but she didn't care. Her man was a sex god and it didn’t matter if the whole building knew it. No. The problem was rather that this lesson was dragging on and on, and she was furiously tempted to climb on him. Which didn't get any better when he supervised the trainees' practical exercises. He presented her with his back, legs slightly apart, arms crossed over his torso. She was sure she'd see all his back muscles showing under his top. Did he still have the scratches she'd given him on Saturday?

                How long was this going to last? she grumbled without loosening her teeth. She was hot, her vagina was a furnace and her panties were probably sticky as hell, but the only one who could come to her aid was standing a hundred yards too far away and paying no attention to her. So when, an hour later, he returned to her quietly, his gentle smile disappeared when he saw her scowl.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah”, she grunted, on pins and needles.

“What did you talk about with JJ?”

“Nothing,” she snapped, barely perturbed by the fact that he had noted her brief passage. “Are you done?”

“Yes…”

He was about to add something, but swallowed his words when she grabbed his polo shirt.

“Good. Come with me.”

The students had already left and he had taken his time putting the equipment away.

“Wait, I've got to take a shower,” he snarled as she dragged him toward the gym.

“Oh, but you're going to take a shower,” she reacted, turning around. “But not alone.”

First he frowned, then a mischievous smile stretched his lips.

“Interesting.”

And so they headed straight for the bathroom, restraining themselves from pausing along the way to make out and kiss. There were cameras all over the complex and who knew how many guards Strauss had on her payroll. Aaron held her back just as she was about to push open the door to the showers. She questioned him in silence, and he nodded towards a perpendicular corridor she hadn't been paying attention to. And for good reason: this part of the building was reserved for big shots and she couldn't get in. But he did, and used his badge to let her in. The premises were desert. That was exactly what they needed.

                They chose the third block they passed and, with the latch barely closed, he pressed her against the wall to catch her mouth with his. Bengal fires ignited throughout her body. She took his face in her hands and prolonged his kiss. A touch of salt had been added to his usual taste by the sweat, and she relished it. She put her arms around his neck; he wrapped his arms around her loins and pressed her against him. He was hard. She was wet. They had to take the next step. Then, in total disorder and without their usual control, they undressed, throwing their clothes haphazardly across the tiled space. Then he pushed her towards the shower tray and turned on the water.

                The icy rain that fell on them at first, then warm didn't dampen their spirits. They caressed each other's shapes as if they'd been waiting months for this moment. They kissed every accessible strategic area while standing, grazing the rest, electrifying their partner. For her, that wasn’t enough. She could finally touch that chin, that neck, those shoulders, that bust, that ass, but she wanted more. She wanted his spear, hard against her belly, to disappear between her thighs. She wanted him to sweep her chimney like he'd never done before.

“How do you want me to take you?” inquired Aaron, right in the hollow of her ear.

“Doesn’t matter, just take me.”

“Okay,” he said with a smile. “Turn around.”

She obeyed and bowed to make his task easier. His right hand delicately took hold of her hip while the other guided his penis to the right spot. He sank into her to the hilt and a groan of satisfaction escaped Emily's lungs. He was finally there. His left palm landed on the top of her thigh and he began to move back and forth. She couldn't see him, but guessed he was enjoying the view and the sensations she offered.

                He soon brought her some himself, and her whimpering turned to ecstatic exclamation. She encouraged him to pick up the pace, to put more vigor into it, and then to keep up the rhythm. The brazier he'd started without even realizing it earlier flared up, growing stronger with each intrusion. Soon she couldn't contain her cries of pleasure. Aaron tried to put his hand over her mouth to tell her to keep her voice down – they might be in another sanitary block, but the one his students were in was next to theirs and there was no saying they couldn't hear her – but he didn't have the reach to do it.  

                She understood the message, however, and suppressed her vocalizations. Which wasn't easy with the surge of electricity coursing through her veins. It sparkled in her intimacy every time his pelvis collided with her posterior. It crackled under her skin as soon as he withdrew. It bombarded her brain when he returned to the charge. All her thoughts had vanished, leaving only “yes”, “again” and “it's good”. She moaned, sighed, exhaled, and breathed out in unison with his thrusts. She arched her back, tensing herself, clinging to what she could along the soaked wall to help him and further improve her feeling at the same time.

                She could hear his rattles, his grunts, his rumbling that always threatened to filter through his lips when he was this close to coming. He gripped her waist more tightly as he concentrated on not giving in. When she only asked for it. She wanted him to place himself one last time against her den and, with a noisy exhalation that was as much relief as pleasure, pour himself into her. But she knew he preferred her to surrender first; his only expression of male pride. So, as orgasm loomed on the horizon, a curious arm-wrestling match began between them.

“Come. Come. Aaron, come,” she repeated over the tempo of his comings and goings.

“You… first,” he breathed, jaws clenching.

“Come. Come. Cum. Cum.”

“N… No… no.”

“Cum. Come into me! Fill me!”

He did so on the spot. A warm wave washed over her and, in the next second, a tsunami swept through her torso and limbs, making her tremble from head to toe. She almost collapsed, but he caught her, wrapping his arms around her quivering chest. With one hand, he held her head not far from his pectorals, against which she snuggled once he had disengaged. She had turned around as soon as she could and pressed herself against him, soothed by the gentle warmth that perpetually emanated from him and by the beating of his heart, which was gradually slowing down. They kissed tenderly, savoring the calm after the storm, letting the water bead on their burning dermis.

“Aaron?”

A vibration in his ribcage was his response.

“When will be your next lesson?”

He burst out laughing – a behavior he reserved only for her and Jack – then shook his head, smiling. He looked at her with that glint of sincere love in his eyes and placed his lips against hers.

“Tomorrow.”

___

Thanks to the members of the Hotchniss discord server to encourage me to write all my silly ideas ( @sirpotys , @criminalmindsbauagent , @purplejellosg1 ; @suallenparker ; @hotchnissonly and many other more (sorry if I can't find your Tumblr blog. ^^; ). Love you all! <3

[pluckyredhead]

You have been posting intriguing things about Big Bad Wolf, and I always love a rec, especially when I'm having a rough year for books! If you care to, I'd love to hear what draws you to the books.

Ahhhh I'm obsessed with them!

Okay so Big Bad Wolf by Charlie Adhara is a series of five M/M paranormal romance procedurals, all about the same couple, Cooper and Park, and the first book is The Wolf at the Door.

Basically, Cooper Dayton is an FBI agent who right before the series begins is nearly killed by a werewolf, and that's how he learns that werewolves are real. So he gets transferred to the super secret werewolf division of the FBI (the BIA), and in the first book he's assigned to catch what appears to be a werewolf serial killer with a werewolf agent named Oliver Park. Full "oh no he's hot!!!" reaction goes here. Cooper is very very very bad at relying on anyone else or needing help but he and Park eventually figure out how to work together and also hook up a bunch of times before they eventually catch the serial killer. The rest of the series follows the development of their relationship as they solve various other werewolf-related murders.

I read the entire series in less than two weeks and it only took that long because once I got to the last book I drew it out because I didn't want it to be over that fast. And then I reread them all immediately.

Anyway! You wanted to know why I like them:

THE ROMANCE. I am not usually an established relationship gal but watching these two grow as individuals and as a couple is so rewarding. They both have significant issues (the first couple of books make it seem like Cooper's a mess and Park is perfect, but that's just because Park is very good at masking - he is actually even more of a mess than Cooper), but they grow so much as the series goes along. The conversations they have about their issues and their relationship in Book 4 are 100% not conversations they could have had in Book 2. It helps that they are both in their mid- to late-30s and like, they know who they are, and they are working very very hard to be better for each other. I'M SO PROUD OF THEM.

This is still on the romance part, but: also they genuinely LIKE each other. Like in Book 4 they have to go undercover at a couples' counseling retreat (for werewolves, obviously) and I'm like "How does anyone here think you guys are having relationship issues. You are BEST FRIENDS. Disgusting."

I specified that they are also procedurals because they are genuinely good mysteries! Sometimes when books combine genres it's sort of half romance and half mystery and not enough of either to be satisfying. These are ALL romance but they are also ALL mystery and Cooper is a very good detective. (Park is a pretty good detective but mostly he's great at biting people.)

They are extremely funny. Again, they like each other so much and this most often manifests in literally constant A+ banter. You know how I feel about banter!

The sex scenes are...chef's kiss. It's like Adhara was running down a list of my favorite tropes.

Anyway I HIGHLY recommend them and if you read them please come sit by me so we can talk about them thank you!!!

[iheartchv]

could i ask for a matchup? also i hope your having a nice day/night/afternoon!! also, please excuse any bad grammar, english is not my first language.

im Cuban Puerto Rican, i speak both my mother tongue and English. kinda trying to get myself to learn German though. im a bit of an ambivert, i mostly enjoy spending time with those i know well.

im 5’2, i have a huge scar in my left leg due to an accident i had when i was younger. i have brown, nearly black eyes and i use glasses. i have a mole near my collarbone and another one just above. my hair is brown and medium sized with some side-tails.

currently studying with a forensic sciences major, a bit of a nerd.. i enjoy drawing, reading Sci-Fi and spending time with my pet snakes. (their ball pythons, they are super adorable…) i absolutely love heavy metal bands like Rammstein, korn, Slipknot, i listen to Type O Negative, Slaughter to Prevail from time to time aswell alongside jazz. i dress in a bit of a grunge way, it varies since i enjoy fashion a lot.

i enjoy watching true crimes series (Forensic Files being an all time favorite), watching Caso Cerrado, and documentaries regarding military history. i love the rainy weather and from time to time going to the beach. truly calming, really.

anyways, i really hope you are having a pleasant time, again. also i absolutely love your writing style!!

🤔I'll match you with...

Simon "Ghost" Riley 💀

I think Ghost would be your match

For this scenario, lets just say that Ghost was to keep an eye on you for a mission

You had shown potential that anyone working for the law would want you to work with them

You have an internship working for the police in your area, getting some practice for the field

You weren't bad, quite good actually

And because you were so good, you would also become a threat to any criminal facing charges for murder, etc.

One of such being Makarov and the Konni group

TF 141 got word that Makarov killed their spy that was sending feedback and intel

You were unfortunately the one looking over the said body of 141's spy; the FBI and CIA wanted to know exactly who done it

As Ghost continued to have constant vigil over you in the shadows, he didn't like the idea of seeing you make your way home alone

He finally decided to start blending in with people, and sometimes walking your way

It's just for the mission, he'd tell himself

🖤

At first, seeing his appearance was a little scary, intimidating

But you didn't sense no ill will coming from him, at least not toward you

You initiated conversations with him, and little by little he was talking more than just a word or a sentence

Over time he got to know you pretty well, as much as you allowed

He noticed how open you were to him, letting him know that you trusted him

You were just full of surprises;

One thing after another he learned so much about you besides what was in your personal records

He started to see you as you, not just another nameless target to protect

🖤

Even after the mission is complete, he comes back to see you...

Maybe stay for a while...

I can totally see you and Ghost going to the beach during times when there's no one around

Just you two

And rainy days?

He'd be all for it

A hot cup of tea and being with you is one of those perfect moments he feels at peace

[kkl1nch0r]

title: chase of lies PART 2 (blade x FBI gn!reader)

notes: ermmm i had trouble writing this because I'm not an FBI agent nor a super intelligent detective/investigor 😍😍 anyways I tried my best lol!!!!!!!!! this part is more shorter because.... I'm working on two fics on the same time (this fic was the most impulsive shit I've written LMFAOOO)

this is where it gets freaky. OBSESSED BLADE LOVERS WHERE YALL ATTTTTTTTUUHHH

2 months.

The undercover mission is pure madness— you’ve found traces of the Stellaron Hunters around the area, breaking every law you had devoted your life to enforce.

Hard as it was, you found yourself walking around the streets with a bounce in your step. The chase had led you out into the outskirts of a city upstate. The Xianzhou seemed so far away, but being approved on File X was like a high.

“It’s going to be a solo mission, I’m afraid,” Jing Yuan had said before your depart. “We’re low on staff. If you need a search or some pointers, you can always give us a call.”

The director had paused, his expression that of concern. “And… be careful. I know it's like listening to a broken record player, but there’s no predicting what any of the Stellaron Hunters could do.”

Well, that was unsettling.

“Especially Blade,” Jing Yuan had mentioned. “You’ve dedicated most of your life to chasing that man down, but please… don’t let him take your life completely. Make sure you come back to us. Got it?”

A solo mission wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle. Just a piece of cake!

That was okay… fine, it got a little lonely sometimes, sitting in hotels, sipping bitter coffee, furiously typing at your laptop, scouring the last crumbs of evidence from news articles and research papers, but this was File X. The file you had fought for to go through with.

You couldn’t afford to back down now. Besides, your laptop had brought up another news article about the Stellaron Hunters, and seeing the publishing date it had been pretty decent.

It’s late, but you’re still awake, looking at the files the investigation unit had sent you.

A blurry picture popped up on the page, and you zoomed in, eyes narrowing. Hmm… this was the wrong article, surely. This man didn’t look like Blade at all.

Your phone buzzed. Somebody was calling.

Reaching over, you received the call, holding it up to your ear as you scrolled, finding another thread of posts. Fu Xuan sent you another file as the notification pops up on your screen. Sighing into the phone, you click on it.

Dan Heng’s voice crackles over the phone. You wince. “Hey, everything alright over there?”

“ —N! Y/n!” Dan Heng calls over the line. You frown. Something’s wrong.

“What’s the matter, Dan Heng? Talk to me.”

“You— have to stop— File X!” Dan Heng’s voice crackles again as you scroll over your laptop, a line of unsettling pictures flashing over the screen. The location of these pictures was somewhere close to this area. Your eyes glaze over the address, eyes narrowing.

Dan Heng’s line silences for a second before cracking up again. “Y/n, be careful. There’s—” his voice cuts off again.

“Who’s fighting over the line here?” you ask, looking at images of dismembered corpses that appear on the screen. Then you pause. “Dan Heng? Are you there?”

Dan Heng yells in frustration over the line. “Just— careful!”

“Okay, will do,” you reply. “Why?”

“It’s because… the Stellaron Hunters…” Dan Heng’s line cuts off into incoherent gibberish. After a moment he gains control over the call. “Right next to— have to— change your identity! That’s all Jing Yuan said to do.”

“Send me the details, Dan Heng. Call you later.”

“Be careful,” is his last word over the call and it ends. You toss your phone back on the bed, groaning as you run a hand over your face. It hasn’t been the first time the Investigation unit called, but something was amiss. Dan Heng had never sounded that desperate before.

You straighten, mind flashing the pictures into your head. “Wait a minute…”

The image you had stopped scrolling on… you’d seen it somewhere. A red flower.

Wait, no. The red flower.

The Spider Lily. You had practically ingrained that flower into your head since your early investigation days. The trace of the Stellaron Hunters.

Blade.

Something else is eating at you, though. Like an obsessed madman, you scroll back up to the details Fu Xuan had sent.

The location. The address.

Silence hangs in the air. The address where these pictures were taken… was right below the hotel you were staying at.

You slap a palm over your head. “You’re joking.”

Did you blow your cover yet? You didn’t know. Did they find you? You didn’t know. Was it a coincidence?

The lack of certainty in this situation was making you anxious. Dan Heng’s frustration over the phone about being more careful was growing eerie.

The spider lily—

“Okay, calm down,” you tell yourself. “Think things through.”

You begin to stand, pacing around the hotel room, the floorboards creaking below you. “The murder case— okay, honestly, this is definitely the Stellaron Hunters at work— is just right below the hotel I was staying at. When was this investigated, anyway?” you ask yourself.

Walking back to the laptop, you read the details. “The pictures were taken hours after the crime… and happened about a week ago. Six days ago, it seems.”

You worked it out in your head, pacing again, feeling like a rookie investigator years ago. “About a week ago, I was approaching the outskirts of this city then. I needed a place to stay, and the hotel was the only one in sight. I ended up booking it early… hold on.”

The only hotel in the area meant there was a lot of work to get a room, of course. The thing was…

You froze in your tracks. “I had booked a room here… seven days before I came.”

Pacing again, you think harder. “That means… the Stellaron Hunters murdered someone the day after I booked this damn hotel?”

Were you perhaps… being tracked down?

By the Stellaron Hunters, no less?

There was no way a crime would happen right in your area a day after you had booked the hotel unless somebody had tipped your whereabouts off. It was as if you had given your position away to the Stellaron Hunters. But how?

“This can’t be possible.”

Movement catches your eye out the window, and your attention diverts outside— it’s too dark to see anything, but there’s something outside.

No. Someone outside. Watching.

—

Y/n is here.

Y/n.

Y/n.

The man lets his face twist into a cruel smile, tracing a rough finger over a photo of a deserted hotel. Out of all the hotels that could have been chosen from, they chose this?

Whatever. Blade’s eyes narrow. That’s not any of his business. Kafka was right— the Xianzhou Investigation unit was becoming more of a nuisance than a source of information— although when did the investigation unit have information, anyway?

Blade treads purposefully down the streets, his gaze directed towards the hotel. One light’s on, and no doubt it’s Y/n.

Twisted excitement and anxiety churn in his stomach as he watches your silhouette walk through the room, pacing and talking. How cute. Still trying to figure things out, weren’t they?

The crime was done. Blade had zero doubt Y/n would connect the dots in a second. This was light work for the agent. Even the idea of being caught, and being interrogated by the agent sent a nervous streak through his spine.

But he was excited.

Being chased thrilled the criminal. He wanted his every face to be plastered on every wanted poster and every news article. Y/n would be forced to ingrain his face into their head. They’d have no choice.

As if Blade ever gave them a choice.

“Quit moping and move,” Silver Wolf’s voice rings in his earbud. Blade scowls, tapping on the device before spending another moment looking up at the window.

Y/n pauses, catching Blade’s movement out the window, and Blade’s eyes widen, a wicked smile curling his lips. Finally.

The agent presses their body against the window, but Blade is gone by then. It’s no use trying to find somebody at this time of day.

Y/n wanted to hunt him down? So be it.

There's nothing like a good chase, anyway.