#away or simply as a reward for not saying something to the fbi back when they were rescued Gretchen gives Shelby Toni’s information which i

[puthyflapps]

I have an intimate truth to share: I think Sunday would be a very cute name for a shoni baby who lives on a farm with her two moms. Sunday Shalifoe??? They could call her Sunny!! C’mon it writes itself!! And if she looked just like Shelby?? The material is there!! 😭😭😭

[deathsbestgirl]

txf mytharc: pilot

preface: what you can expect from this series of mine.

i’m likely going to talk about each mytharc episode in full (at least nearly). the point of this isn’t to focus on mulder and scully, but there will still be a lot about them. we mostly see the mytharc through their eyes, and their partnership & experiences are a major part of that (and i think at this point, it’s clear i never shut up about them!). so for those that don’t really care about the mytharc, you might still find things to enjoy. at the end of each post, i’ll do a little summary of episode connections. i’m doing this as i rewatch so i will not have watched the future episodes yet – so please forgive any mistakes in details! i’m also pairing this with reading myth x: one fan’s interpretation of the the x files mytharc, and i’ll include some pieces that helped me unravel certain things, or that i’m simply keeping in mind as i rewatch! but mostly, this is just me enjoying the show. it’s what i think about when i watch. if it’s not your cup of tea, i completely understand. i do welcome discussion, but i make no promises to engage. i’m just sharing my little thoughts on this show that i really, really love.

something i get caught up in every time i watch the pilot is what csm & the syndicate were thinking (specifically in regards to assigning scully to the x files with mulder — i will probably talk about this over & over).

in the pilot we don’t even know about the syndicate. we meet section chief blevins, and other men with no names. including csm, who doesn’t even speak. he stands there looking stressed and smoking, observing scully and listening intently to the whole exchange. at the beginning, it’s hard to imagine how deep this goes, how widespread the government conspiracy is and it’s what makes it so fun for me to go back. we have so much more information later on, and we can take it back when we rewatch. there are so many connections to be made and although a lot of it doesn’t line up perfectly, i think it’s way more in line than people say. for me, there are several reasons that fit in with the world of the x files. first, there are so many unreliable narrators, people dealing in lies and coverups, only letting mulder & scully and whomever see what they want them to see. they purposely feed certain beliefs, and stifle them at other times. csm’s goals are muddled: he wants mulder on his side, he’s trying to save the human race/shape it into his own creation. he pretends to be a chess master, but as he says in sixth extinction/amor fati: he is one man.

the pilot starts with a cold open, a young woman running through the woods in her pajamas. we see a male figure and a bright white light. next thing, the young woman is lying dead on the forest floor as a team documents the scene and tries to identify her. detective miles identifies here as karen swanson and walks away, as the other investigator shouts “it’s happening again, isn’t it?”

next we follow special agent dana scully into the hoover building and to blevins office. he peppers her with questions about her fbi experience, if she’s heard of fox mulder and the x files. she’s young and open and maybe a little too honest. every time i try to write about the pilot something i always end up writing: scully understood what these men wanted her to. i don’t think it’s what csm wanted, but it might be what the syndicate wanted. scully was expected to debunk the x files, and if she did, they would probably reward her with whatever promotion or job she wanted within the fbi (or better, recruit her to the syndicate?). but as will consistently happen, they underestimated her. i’m not sure any of these men could have predicted what her & mulder would come to mean to each other. i don't think they could grasp her honesty or goodness, her ethics & morals, her complex beliefs & sense of justice. they live in a world where everyone is selfish & cruel, where they do what is “necessary” or what they're ordered to, where people will always choose themselves above others, but that is not scully. and it isn’t mulder.

(aside that maybe isn’t necessarily relevant but the thought always pops into my mind: it’s very interesting to me that they have this meeting with her and just send her down to mulder’s office. there’s no meeting with mulder, scully and their superiors together. all of it strikes me as a punishment for mulder, and a test for scully. i really think there’s something of interest to them in scully’s background. scientist, medical doctor, navy captain’s daughter, semi practicing/lapsed catholic. in theory, she could have been a perfect fit for the syndicate. but i really think most of them lack an understanding of people, of humanity. they deal in the worst of humanity – and mulder & scully are the best of humanity.)

initially when i started this (my little notebook) i was going to focus on just csm. but lately, the mytharc has gripped me. i don’t typically rewatch those episodes, unless i’m watching the entire series or a season in full. or a specific arc (like the cancer arc of course). but i’ve been slowly watching the mytharc episodes and they all connect, intricately, weaving a complicated web of truths & untruths & half truths. it’s so detailed and convoluted and maybe confusing. and so i wanted to go piece by piece. as i’ve said before, i don’t think everything lines up perfectly, and it isn’t supposed to. this is a global conspiracy, we learn things as mulder & scully do. they are largely on the outside of it, trying to break in to expose the truth & hopefully dismantle it. they are continuously misled, misdirected, stonewalled. there are many different projects with experimental science developing different defenses/giruses/andmtidotes, with different goals. evidence destroyed or stolen, tampered with. they are manipulated and used and discarded and returned and nearly killed as the syndicate sees fit at the current time. but so many things connect back to the pilot. the writers may not have had a show bible, but they most certainly looked back to pick up different threads and carry them through.

after scully’s meeting, we follow her down into mulder’s basement office. scully knocks on the door, opens it when he responds and takes in the whole atmosphere. he jumps right into it, letting scully know he’s aware of what her assignment is, that he looked into her background, and starting in on the case. in mulder’s way, he starts testing scully too, and i think she passes every single one. even if she’s saying things he doesn’t really want to hear. at the least, she takes him seriously (enough) to give rebuttals and show she cares. i’m not sure mulder has ever distrusted a single soul, but at least scully earns it.

the few things we learn about the case, what makes it an x file: the marks on the girl’s back, the compound in the surrounding tissue, no clear cause of death. and the fact that there’s a string of these killings in bellefleur, oregon with similarities to other cases in shamrock, texas and sturgis, south dakota.

mulder poses two questions, the first:

maybe what you can explain to me is why it’s bureau policy to label these cases “unexplained phenomenon” and ignore them.

scully has no answer, but i do think this starts her mind rolling. right here she’s put on the path of radicalization, in her scully way. the second:

when convention and science offer us no answer, might we not finally turn to the fantastic as a plausibility?

and i think this moment sets up their roles. scully responds with “the girl obviously died of something. if it was natural causes, it’s plausible that there was something missed in the post-mortem. if she was murdered, it’s plausible there was a sloppy investigation. what i find fantastic is any notion that there are answers beyond the realm of science. the answers are there. you just have to know where to look.” mulder, the believer, turning to the fantastic. scully, the skeptic, turning to science. this is my favorite thing about them, it builds the way they communicate and is a huge part of building trust between them. it’s also a major part in how they get to know each other. it’s always been one of my favorite things about them. it’s built on listening, not just pushing their beliefs or agenda. they always incorporate what the other says – as in, scully tends to shape the science & investigation around his theories. it gives her a place to start and build from. and scully’s science refines mulder’s theories and gets them closer to the truth.

it very quickly becomes one of the ways they depend on each other, setting up expectations they don’t yet understand the implications of and will take them years to rewrite (still built on the trust blooming from this first scene).

as soon as they’re in oregon, even still on the plane, the weirdness starts. unexpected turbulence, radio interference, inhuman like corpse unburied, the metal implant in the nasal cavity. mulder isn’t surprised by the turbulence or radio static, he marks the spot with an x. scully is just confused and baffled by his behavior (i love it). during the autopsy, they’re a little combative. my favorite moment is when mulder tells her:

i’m not crazy, scully. i have the same doubts you do.

this is an important moment for scully. he cares what she thinks, and she does take him seriously. i think it’s easy to think that she doesn’t, she does dismiss his ideas initially. but she’s still following him, peppering him with questions. they talk it through every time, and that’s special. it only gets stronger.

when mulder lifts peggy o’dell’s shirt to find the marks on her back, scully is so angry (she’s afraid) and she storms out of the building – mulder immediately follows her. she doesn’t believe these are alien abductions, she doesn’t know yet what the marks are, what the experience is. she has questions and she wants answers, she wants the truth. scully doesn’t believe his theory of alien abductions, and he asks her “do you have a better explanation?” and this is the first time he directly asks what she thinks. to me, this is the scene that really determines their dynamic. what mulder takes from this conversation is scully really does want the truth, she cares. and that’s important. and scully asks: “what were they doing in the forest?” cut to mulder and scully in the forest, scully pocketing dirt, detective miles coming upon them. (he listened to her, and the next step in their investigation becomes trying to answer that question!)

in the car, she shows mulder the dirt. he asks if it’s a campfire (it does look a lot like ash). but scully tells him it was all over the ground. right after, the car loses power and they lose nine minutes. scully doesn’t witness the time change but mulder is ecstatic.

this all leads to the motel room scene. scully has marks on her back and she can’t see them and the marks on peggy o’dell scared her. you could see it in her face, even through her anger & annoyance with mulder. the fact that she goes running to mulder, clearly afraid and vulnerable…it showed something else to mulder. this moment lets him see beyond ‘scully’s a spy” and her disbelief/skepticism. mulder cares about people, and he cares about scully despite himself. so when she turns into his chest, he puts his arm on her shoulder. shocked at her vulnerability, the way she seeks comfort from him. mulder lets her stay in his room, gives her a blanket to curl up on his bed as he sits below her and tells her about samantha.

usually this scene is discussed because of the intimacy between mulder & scully, but we learn a lot about the mytharc here too. samantha “disappeared from her bed one night” and there was no evidence, no contact, and no one would talk about it. he went to oxford, got recruited by the bureau. (while they’re having this conversation, someone is lurking outside the motel room.) he finds the x files and he was allowed to indulge because of his success and connections. mulder tells scully:

i’m telling you this, scully, because you need to know, because of what you’ve seen. in my research, i’ve worked very closely with a man named dr. heitz werber and he’s taken me through deep regression hypnosis. i’ve been able to go into my own repressed memories to the night my sister disappeared. i can recall a bright light outside and a presence in the room. i was paralyzed, unable to respond to my sister’s calls for help…listen to me, scully, this thing exists…the government knows about it, and i gotta know what they’re protecting. nothing else matters to me, and this is as close as i’ve ever gotten to it.

he covers sam’s abduction, how he found the x files, why he’s allowed to work on them, and the first inkling (for the audience) of a government conspiracy.

this is when mulder gets the call about peggy o’dell. (scully’s jump at the phone ringing is striking. she was so focused on mulder and what he was telling her, everything else faded away.) they go to the scene and mulder is shocked to hear peggy was running – “on foot?” just really cracks me up. as he’s focused on talking to the man driving, scully is taking a look at peggy’s body and makes note of the time on her watch, which is stopped. but just then, mulder learns ray soames’ corpse is missing. when they get back to the motel, it’s on fire with scully’s laptop, pictures and evidence inside.

theresa nemman approaches them in the chaos, they take her to a diner to hear what she has to say. she talks about finding herself in the woods, not knowing how she got there. she tells them she has the marks on her back too. she’s afraid she’s going to die too. her nose starts to bleed, like peggy’s did earlier, and as scully jumps up to grab napkins for her, theresa’s father, dr. nemman shows up with detective miles to take her home. this is when they realize det. miles’ is billy’s father.

mulder & scully have a brief conversation, brimming with their frustrations of losing their files & evidence, being denied access to a girl who needs help and wanted to talk, realizing how much these men are concealing. scully’s putting together dr. nemman’s & det. miles’ involvement. “they know” vs “they know something” – leading to mulder’s ultimate question (at this moment lol) of what’s in the other graves. when they go to check, the graves have already been dug up. the only other bodies already taken. at the graves, mulder puts together that billy miles is responsible. scully starts to follow his thoughts. he talks about time being stopped, he pauses “you think i’m crazy” and scully…she’s silent for a moment before telling him about peggy o’dell’s watch. another huge moment to me. she doesn’t believe it’s alien abduction, but she starts to understand the way mulder’s mind works, the connections he makes and the subsequent leaps. she doesn't keep this information from him despite it feeding a theory she doesn't agree with.

they head over to see billy miles. mulder talks to the nurse and scully starts to examine billy, finding his feet dirty, covered in the same dirt she found in the forest. a boy, who has been in a coma for years, completely bedridden and seemingly unaware of what’s happening around him. and scully is ready to run with this. he was out in the woods!!! and another important moment, mulder grounds her. reminds her of what she needs to do, her reports, procedure. and i think this is the moment that cements their roles – but shows they can also switch as need arises. mulder didn't understand how much he needed the science & evidence until he had someone ready to find it. so they go back out to the woods to get another sample of the dirt. that’s when they hear theresa scream and they go running. det. miles hits scully over the head and goes running after mulder, holding him at gunpoint as theresa continues to scream. and i love this moment too, because mulder appeals to this man’s better nature, urging him not to let billy kill another person. mulder stops him from shooting his son too. we see the marks on billy’s back, as a white light starts to overtake the scene with leaves blowing like a cyclone around billy & theresa. when the light finally fades, billy is conscious again, theresa is safe and the marks are gone from billy’s back. instantaneously.

the ending scenes are billy under hypnotic regression with dr. werber. mulder in the room with them. scully, blevins, the other man from scully’s meeting, and csm observing. billy talks about the aliens, the tests, the implant. the tests didn’t work, and the aliens were destroying the evidence. killing the abductees…mulder and scully make eye contact through the glass. cut to scully reporting to blevins. she can’t substantiate anything, they have no evidence, how do you prosecute?? this is what blevins & company care about. but scully held onto one piece of evidence: the implant, made of a metal that could not be identified, the implant billy miles claimed was controlling him. she leaves it with blevins, and when she exits, she watches csm enter blevins’ office. she has no idea who this man is, but he has been present at crucial moments and she took notice. she doesn’t understand yet but she won’t forget him.

in the end, mulder calls scully late at night to tell her the case file on billy miles has disappeared. csm is walking into the pentagon storage facility, filing away the metal implant with others just like it.

the pilot really lays a lot of groundwork. the implants, the marks/scars. the abduction experience, time loss, electronic interference, hypnotic regression. deformed corpses. government connections. disappearing evidence, constant interference. samantha’s abduction.

episode connections (before i watch future episodes):

conduit: small detail, but the ash-like dirt reminds me of the sand & glass at lake okobogee.

duane barry: he has an implant in his nasal cavity, much like the one they find. later on, in the anasazi trilogy, we learn scully has a chip in her neck which later connects her to other female abductees and carries through to cassandra in patient x/the red and the black.

cancer arc: billy miles indicates the exact place scully gets cancer.

reduxes: blevins is exposed as the mole. for the first part of the first season, scully reports to him until the x files is reassigned to skinner’s jurisdiction. his involvement isn’t fully explored, but he doesn’t completely disappear.

deadalive: ray soames’ transformation – possibly a failed attempt of what happens to billy miles & others, and nearly happens to mulder. also similar to the bodies mulder finds in anasazi.

csm: he’s there for scully’s meeting with blevins, he is there at the end for billy miles’ hypnotic regression. he is the most prominent figure in the conspiracy, as far as what we see, with a direct hand in scully’s & mulder’s experiences.

samantha’s abduction: there are two different versions of her abduction. truthfully, i think they just changed the story to work better for them. BUT (as i’ve mentioned before) i think it fits well into the mytharc later on – within the framework of the show, i think it’s possible samantha was abducted twice. conduit, paper hearts, demons, and another episode.

myth x:

one thing i really do like about this book is that it breaks down all the players. each group of aliens are given a clear name (which appear in the show but was never completely clear to me until this time around). michelle bush purports that the aliens abducting the oregon teens are walk-ins, representing the divine. they’re supposedly good but don’t know how to go about their goals. in some ways, this rings true. it’s the walk-ins that “save” samantha from more suffering. it’s like the walk-ins cassandra spender believes are trying to help them. bush describes their goal as “reintegration of both halves of the whole (alien and human) using natural means; this results in a single sentience allowing a return to physical and spiritual harmony.” which on paper, doesn’t sound bad. but their methods are as harmful as any of the others (alien and human alike).

[hercleverboy]

the year of goodbyes

spencer reid x gn!reader

masterlist

summary ↠ over the course of a year, Spencer says goodbye to three people— and hello to one.

category ↠ angst/fluff

warnings/includes ↠ takes place in s11, talk of Alzheimer’s,  

word count ↠ 1.8k

massive shoutout to my beloved @ellesgreenaway for beta reading and encouraging me to finish this piece— india you are my actual saving grace

“If you’re brave enough to say goodbye, life will reward you with a new hello.” — Paulo Coelho

People leaving wasn’t exactly a new concept for Spencer.

He knew it all too well, the familiar look that was cast over peoples features, how their eyes got glassy and lips twitched as they prepared to tell him that they were yet another person who would leave him behind— like so many had before.

But their choice of words was always different. He noticed a sort of pattern, when it came to people walking out of his life. They tended to dance around the words, never exactly saying ‘I’m leaving you.’

First, it was his father. He’d watched him pack a suitcase full of things, spit angry words at his mother and then turn to him, his son— placing his hand on his shoulder, mumbling a few cowardly words and that was that. Spencer no longer had a father.

(‘I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to look after you anymore.’)

Second was Gideon, who never actually said goodbye in person (and Spencer couldn’t decide whether that was better or worse.) Instead, he left, wrote words down on a page and then addressed it to him.

(‘Spencer, I knew you would be the one to come down here.’)

And again, with Alex. Not a goodbye, not in the formal sense, but Spencer’s heart ached with how he knew what this was— he recognised the look on her face and knew that once again, he would lose someone he loved.

(‘You know, Ethan would’ve been a lot like you.’)

Everyone in Spencer’s life started to feel temporary. There one minute, gone the next. He wished that meant that he cared any less for them, or that it hurt any less when they left.

Of course, that was never the case.

His mother’s mental state had been deteriorating rapidly, and nothing— not anything that Spencer’s big genius brain could think of — was helping her.

When he visited her, he saw the vacant look in her eyes. He recognised the look of confusion on her face when he’d enter the room, ignoring how his heart squeezed painfully upon realising that his own mother no longer remembered him.

It would take her a few minutes, but eventually the confusion would disappear and she would give him a smile, greeting him with open arms and warm words.

It was a different kind of leaving, but she was leaving him all the same. She wasn’t physically going anywhere, but, mentally?

He saw how she was deteriorating, he argued with countless doctors and medical professionals, exhausting every book and resource he could find— just hoping he could come up with something.

But, no.

He found it a little ironic. He was the boy wonder, the resident genius of the Bureau’s elite behavioural analysis unit, a smartass who had endless amounts of knowledge.

He always had the answer, always had the solution.

Ironic��� because the man who was supposed to know it all, had no clue how to protect his mother from a disease that would inevitably take her from him.

It wasn’t something he would ever come to terms with, it was never something he would accept. He knew how it was going to go, the doctors told him as much.

The day would come that he would walk into his mother’s room, and those vacant eyes would never gain clarification. Her confusion wouldn’t pass, and she would no longer recognise him.

Spencer dreaded that day.

He feared it, even. 

Because the day he lost his mother would be the day he lost himself. 

*

When Catherine Adams’ file came across Spencer’s desk, he thrusted all of his agony over his mother into the case. It was why he decided that he would be the one to take her down in the restaurant, why he insisted that she wouldn’t perceive him as a threat. 

Oddly enough, Spencer found himself intrigued by her. Perhaps, he simply enjoyed being intellectually challenged in such a way.  Or perhaps, somewhere deep down in the darkest parts of himself, he liked the attention, got off on being able to outsmart her. 

He was smug when he managed to trick her into getting into the back of the police van, under the guise that he’d found her father. (After all, she was ‘just another girl with daddy issues’.) 

It was only when Cat gave him a grin, one that contrasted with the tears that slipped down her cheeks, that Spencer felt uneasy. 

He crouched down in front of her, whispered a small, “Goodbye, Cat,” before getting up and leaving the van, feeling a weight on his chest that made it difficult for him to breathe. 

Again, it was a different type of goodbye. One he was of course relieved about, because with it brought the promised safety of Penelope, now that Cat was behind bars. Although, alongside the relief, there was a sour aftertaste. 

It was what led him to take a moment, sitting down on the swings in the park, hands trembling slightly as they grabbed the chains, swinging gently in a slow rhythm that he hoped would calm him down. 

The last words Cat had said to him played over and over in his head. 

“In twenty years, you won’t remember my name. But I’ll remember yours.” 

At first, Spencer assumed she was referring to how after a while, Cat would simply blend into the sea of seemingly never-ending unsubs who all tried, and failed, to outsmart the team.

It was only later that Spencer realised she was instead insinuating that he would succumb to the same disease as his mother— forgetting not only those that he loved, but the ones he hated too.

*

Spencer’s best friend was going to be a father. 

The team were gathered in the waiting room, eagerly awaiting news, when Morgan came out with a smile on his face. “It’s a boy!” 

Pure, unbridled joy burst throughout the room, with Spencer lurching forward to wrap his arms around him, laughing and giving his congratulations. He swallowed the lump that began to form in his throat and pushed away the thoughts that swirled around his mind. Deep down, he knew what would inevitably happen, but that moment wasn’t the right time to think about it. 

It was late in the evening when Derek Morgan stopped by Spencer’s desk. Before he even looked up from his paperwork, he knew where this conversation was going to go. When he did look up, it all but confirmed it— he saw the sad smile on Morgan’s lips, and watched how his eyes glossed over.

He said nothing though. Instead, he smiled and chuckled as Morgan gushed over his newborn son. His smile got even bigger when Morgan handed over the birth announcement— Hank Spencer Morgan.

Although he knew what was coming, he knew what decision Morgan was going to make, he expected nothing less from his best friend. A man who had grown immensely in the years he’d known him, going from a real ladies man to someone who would give up his job in order to be there for his family.

Morgan placed his hand on Spencer’s shoulder, a sigh leaving his lips. “Kid, listen. Here’s the thing..”

“I know.” Spencer whimpered quietly, smiling sadly. “It’s okay. I know. And I understand.”

He watched Derek Morgan walk away, sniffling as he willed the tears to keep at bay. He watched his best friend, his brother, walk away. And it hurt, God it hurt. But he was so proud of the man that Morgan had become that he pushed aside the hurt, reminding himself of what he knew to be true.

Everyone left eventually. 

Spencer feared that one day, he would look around and find that he was truly and utterly alone.

*

It was a normal Tuesday morning, and Spencer was making his way through the FBI Headquarters, up to the BAU floor. He stepped into the elevator, his coffee mug in one hand, and his other resting over his satchel. Just before the door closed, he heard someone call out. 

“Hold the doors!” 

Spencer reached a hand out, pushing the doors back open. 

You scuttled into the elevator, looking over to the male next to you with a smile. “Thank you for holding the doors. I’m already running a little late for my first day.” You explained, reaching to press the button for the fifth floor, watching as the elevator doors closed again. 

“The fifth floor? The Sex Crimes Unit?” Spencer asked curiously. 

You nodded. 

“It’s your first day?” 

“Yeah, I moved here for the job a couple of weeks back. It was an incredible opportunity, I couldn’t pass it up.” You expressed, and Spencer gave you a tight lipped smile in return. “I’m presuming you work here as well?” 

He nodded. “I’m in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, a floor up from you.” 

“Well, that’s good to hear. At least I have one friend in the building, if it turns out my new team hate me.” You joked, glad when Spencer let out a little laugh. 

“I’m sure that won’t be the case. You seem very likeable.” 

You grinned up at him. “Thank you.”

The elevator dinged, the doors opening. You looked over at your new friend, flashing him a nervous smile. “Well, wish me luck.”

“Good luck.” He smiled back, raising his hand in a small wave as you left the elevator. 

After a long day of paperwork (and thinking of the pretty person he’d met in the elevator), Spencer gathered together his things before getting into the elevator. It stopped on the floor below, and when the doors opened, he smiled at the sight of you. 

You looked up from where you’d been looking down at your phone, mirroring his grin. “Hey! It’s you.” 

“Yes—yes, It is, me.” Spencer replied, cringing awkwardly at his nonsensical response. 

You only laughed quietly at it, entering the elevator. 

“How was your first day?” He asked, only to be polite. 

You seemed surprised that he’d asked, but answered nonetheless. “It was good! Turns out my team don’t hate me. Or at least, I don’t think they do?” Your voice raised in question, making Spencer laugh a little. 

“See? What did I tell you?” He grinned, and you rolled your eyes playfully. 

You leaned over, nudging his shoulder with yours. “I’m Y/N, by the way.” 

“Spencer.” 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Spencer. For the second time today.” 

Spencer smiled shyly, hands delving into his pockets as the elevator dinged. The two of you stepped out, looking at one another with timid expressions. 

“My car, it’s that way.” You pointed to the other end of the car park. 

“I take the subway.” Spencer responded, wishing he could find a way to make you stay a little longer.

“Well, have a good evening, Spencer.” You beamed. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Yes!” He responded a little eagerly, sighing inwardly before clearing his throat. “I mean yeah, sure that- that’s cool.” 

You giggled quietly, waving goodbye before turning toward your car. 

Spencer blushed the whole way to the subway station, biting back the smile on his lips at the thought of you. 

People leaving wasn’t exactly a new concept for Spencer. 

But you? 

He had the feeling that you were going to be a very permanent part of his life, and he didn’t mind that in the slightest. 

*

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[wiypt-writes]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 3 Co-Written with @southerngracela​

Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, but when you’re being held hostage by Hugh Ransom Drysdale there’s really not a lot to be thankful for, is there?

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 2 to our submission for @Jtargaryen18 ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and by writing it does NOT mean I agree with or condone the acts contained within. This fiction is classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar reader and any other OCs that may or may not be mentioned. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Murder, He Wrote Masterlist // Main Masterlist.

Part 2

You could feel the chill of the outside seeping into your space, your bones, through the vented window following your shower. The way it crept in made you realize just how far along through fall you were, maybe it was even approaching the onset of the holiday weather. Either way, a storm seemed to be outside. At least it felt like it. Once dried, you found yourself wrapping up tighter in the thick cardigan you’d chosen before you dried your hair, and allowed yourself a quick squirt of perfume before settled into the reading chair in the corner of your room, your journal on your lap.

The little, leather bound book had been in your handbag which had been given back to you earlier that morning as the latest reward for behaving and as you ran your hand over the deep brown cover, you couldn’t help the air of excitement you felt at having been given your treasured little note book, despite the dreary sky you could see from the porthole above your chair.

It had actually surprised you that Drysdale had kept it and not disposed of it the same way he had your phone and your car. But for whatever reason, he’d held onto it, and for that you were grateful. Grateful that you had something of your own from before this imprisonment to anchor too. You’d expected him to want some kind of favour in return but he hadn’t demanded any sort of sexual gratification, simply informed you he would be out most of the morning and would be back mid to late afternoon. As soon as he had gone you had eagerly tipped the contents of your bag onto the bed, almost crying at the sight of your half empty bottle of Coco-Mademoiselle, the Mac Lip-gloss, NYX Eyebrow pencil, Mont Blanc fountain pen, a full tube of mints and your treasured journal. With teary eyes you’d put everything away in its new place, apart from the book and pen before padding into the bathroom for a shower, deliberately sorting yourself out for the day. All you could think of was taking the time so you could savour the moment when you could hopefully make some sense of the jumble in your head by spilling it onto a page.

You opened the cover and flicked to your last entry, the morning of Halloween. A rambling rant about Mick-The-Prick filled the page and you paused, tears in your eyes, as you’d give anything to be stood in his office thinking about ingenious ways to kill him and get away with it. Ironic, really considering that was exactly what your captor had done; committed murder and gotten away with it.

You went to jot the date down in the corner of the page and realised that actually, you didn’t have a clue what it was. Down here, night bled into day, day bled into night…and soon it all bled into weeks. However, given the fact your cycle had been and gone a week ago you figured that it was maybe four weeks since Halloween. Of course, you could ask Hugh, but the less you had to ask him the better as far as you were concerned. You hate the fact that he had this hold on you, that you had to ask for and ‘earn’ things by being ‘good’. And whilst it made you sick to your stomach, you’d fast learnt it was easier to comply than rebel. The night he had left you tangled in your sweater had hurt. It had taken you a good twenty minutes to muster the strength to work your way out and drag yourself into a bath, your body shaking with the trauma, sobs wracking your frame. Your body ached for days, your mind in a post-traumatic cloud of despair. And whilst it hadn’t broken you per-say, it had certainly made you realise exactly what the bastard was capable of, and you had no intention of finding out just how much further he was willing to go.

So, in summary, it had taken Ransom Drysdale two days to break you into compliance.

You’d become passive, so to speak. You gave into his whims, let him use you as he saw fit, did as he told… for the most part anyway. There had been a few other incidents post the sweater one where you’d forgotten yourself and protested, fought a little and he’d gone hard on you, but nothing like that second night. Your passive behaviour was mistaken by him for compliance, and as such you had earned a number of rewards. The bistro table where you took your meals, a book or two which just so happened to be by his grandfather, a gesture you weren't sure was him purging or pressing an agenda onto you. And more recently and most preciously, your bag. But, the strange thing was, that whilst he wanted you to give into him physically, he seemed to enjoy the fact that you were in no way, shape or form compliant to him in others. You openly sassed him, bit back, called him out and he actively encouraged it. He’d started spending a little more time with you in the mornings and afternoons, not just visiting you to toy with you or fuck, but to engage in these little tete-a-tete’s, and the sickest, most perverted thing about it was that you were almost glad. The loneliness was crippling, and you craved company. Even if it was his.  

All things considered, you’d rather ask him for as little as possible so instead, you flicked to the front of the book and crossed off the days on the small calendar inside the cover. Deciding that the date it led you to was as accurate as it was going to get, you turned back, jotted it down in the top right of your page and stared at the blank lines, looking to sort your thoughts for your next entry.

The saying used to go, what's in a name, however as I sit here thinking back on the last few weeks I wonder now what's in a day. My days consist of imprisonment. Held by a captor I have met once before. He's smart, almost too smart. Displaying forms of abuse and aggressive behaviors any FBI analyst would love to dive deep into. But that's not my job, no, my job is to please and satisfy him. Answer to his whims of gratification at any call of the day. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But if I behave, he lets few things get by. I miss home, my bed, my life. I miss Mick, which is saying a lot all things considered. I don't know still what he wants from me, other than the obvious sexual gratification with little to no room for anything else. I'm a toy, a means to an itch. I don't know how long exactly I've been here, I can only guess it's been about a month. Nor do I know how long I'll have to stay. The answers are blurred like my vision, marred by tears and the low light inside. I haven't seen outside since the day he took me. I haven't been anywhere outside this room. I can see from the small porthole window above this stupidly soft leather chair the season has changed. It feels like deep fall, and as a storm comes outside, what little sky I see is bleak and dark, clouds covering the bluest of skies, angry and ready to open up, raining down water to wash away the sins of the day. I wish I could do the same. 

Before you realized, time had obviously passed, for the sound of the door bolts unlocking had you guessing it was late afternoon or early evening. A glance up at the porthole behind you confirmed as much. The sky was dark and rain had been beating on the window for a little while. 

In came Drysdale, hair a bit wet, a strand slightly out of place, wool pants and maroon sweater. He carried a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looked irked, like he'd wasted time on something, a look you were now able to decipher after weeks of seeing it. 

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, setting the plate down on the bistro table with its two accompanying chairs, waiting for you to join him. 

Instead of biting back, you simply whispered, "it’s Thanksgiving?" You checked the inside cover of your journal and see the date again. You were a day off and it now dawned on you. It was the fourth Thursday of the month and indeed, Thanksgiving. You glanced back up at Ransom and a deep sadness washed over you. Closing your journal and setting it on the table by your chair, you stood, moving towards him and the plate of food. You took a seat and looked down at the plate, full of the holiday dish basics; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, diced not candied yams and roasted green beans. It was gourmet and nothing near what he'd been serving you or managing to try. "Thank you," you said softly, rolling your fork through the potatoes. You take a bite but it's about as bland and tasteless as your despair. 

"I brought it back from the country club, I met my father there," he looked under your gaze again, as if willing your eyes to his. "Do you not like it?" 

Finally, your gaze met those cold cerulean orbs, setting your fork down and you took a drink of water, "No, it's fine." Then you picked up your fork again and took another bite, this time of the turkey and gravy. You didn't have it in you for an argument or it's physical ramifications. 

"Are you not hungry?" Ransom pressed. 

"I guess not as much as I thought," you repled further poking at your food, your voice cracking a little as you try to keep your composure. The sting of the holiday has you broken, far more than you'd expected. Normally, today you'd be helping your mother in the kitchen, settling the final touches on the side dishes and listening to your father tell your uncle about some a-typical dad joke he'd heard. Your sister would be giddy over the wine while her boyfriend of the month received death glares from said uncle and your father. 

Ransom outwardly sighed and you wait for what you were trying to avoid. "Are you alright?" 

The question threw you off guard completely and you struggled to hide the shock from your expression. He never cared about your feelings before. Maybe he thought you were coming down with something. You braced yourself to answer honestly. There was no point in lying, he'd see through it. 

"I'm fine, I'm not sick if that's what you're thinking," you answered, a deep restraint on your tone to keep yourself in check. "I hadn't realized what day it was. I didn't know it was Thanksgiving." You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked hard. "My mom, my sister and I, we used to all help make dinner as a family. My dad and uncle would talk a bunch of shit around the fireplace while shooting death glares at my sister's flavor of the month."

He looked at you like he was confused. You scoff, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He squint his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. His body language completely changed as he leaned forward on his forearms, popping one shoulder up higher than the other. 

"Nothing," you backed down immediately. 

"Tell me," he pressed. 

God, he was relentless. You pushed your plate forward and leaned on your own elbows. You looked at him with a raised brow, "am I going to be in trouble if you don't like what I have to say?" 

"Depends," he popped a shoulder smugly. 

You matched his expression and his demeanour falters just a fraction. You saw it, but you didn't hold back. "Then I'd rather keep it to myself. That's what you want isnt it? Me to comply, be obedient? Frankly, I'm not in the mood." 

He failed to hide his smirk and you noticed that too, "Sweetheart." It wasn't laced with teasing, rather his pet name for you on his tongue held a cautious venom. 

"You hate your family. You know nothing about love and what it takes to give love. Hell, I don't doubt that for a minute you've ever felt loved. It's all an act. Self-preservation even. I don't know you or your family outside of the hours of research I did and the mere forty five minutes I listened to you drone on about your 'predicament'. But, the cold hearted truth of it is, you don't know how to love." You watched him run his tongue along his teeth as he continued to glare at you, but you weren't finished. "And that's what family is, it's what they do. They love, they are the embodiment of love at its deepest root. Maybe, just maybe somewhere along your life, your parents loved you, but judging by the Thrombey-Drysdale standards, none of you know what love is outside your selfish tithings and flashy cars. It got lost along the way, more than likely long before you ever were born."

"Wow," he raised his brows and clicked his tongue against his teeth, "That's good, that's really good."

You're fear receptors suddenly spiked as recognizable flash of anger in his eyes flashed through his irises. But there was something else there that you couldn't put your finger on it. Your breathing quickly up-ticked as you felt your palms begin to sweat.

He inhaled a deep, almost centering breath, "that perfume in your bag, I like it."

As if he'd grown a second head, you blinked hard refocusing on him. Had you heard him right? You'd just broken a rule, laid out an unspeakable truth for him and now in a blink he's, God forbid, complimenting your scent? Who the fuck was this guy? Was he on meds? Because he should be or he should at least probably share. It might make life here more bearable. "What?" 

"The perfume from your bag, you're wearing it. It smells good," he lamented. 

Alright, now the 'of sound mind' argument might be worth something because he sure as shit wasn't now. You swallowed and picked up your fork, taking a bite of the cold food just to buy yourself some time as you tried to process the scene before you. You had no remark to make. Confusing jumbled any thought of a coherent word you could utter. 

"Maybe if I'm out, I can pick you up a new bottle. I noticed you were near empty," Ransom offered. 

This was starting to make your stomach turn. If he'd gone through your bag, because why wouldn't he at this point, smelled your perfume, had he read your journal? You made a mental note to go back through and see if there was anything he'd read that he had used against you thus far or could use to corner you in the future. You looked around the room, waiting to see if you were being Punk'd. Just who the fuck is this guy? Without your expression giving too much of your confusion away, you nod at him in reply. "Thank you, I'd like that."

"Hmph," he paused, a dramatic effect he seemed to know that your heart rate up in anxiety. "Well, then why are you looking at me like I have two heads, Y/N?" 

Tread lightly, you thought to yourself. He didn't call you by your first name often, in fact, the last time he had, you were very much smarting back and it resulted in a forceful situation that left you raw and sore for a few days. It was always 'Sweetheart'. 

He baited you, you knew it, but you couldn't back out now. So you sighed, "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but, I don't even know who you are right now. Do you? One minute you're giving me food and being gentle, the next you're allowing my opinion, and now you're ready to flip this table. That's as close as two heads as it gets." 

"Careful, Sweetheart," he now glared at you. There it was, you were in for it. The approach of choice, you weren't sure of, but he was done. You'd learned the different tones in his voice by now, the cues he gave. You were definitely in trouble. You dropped your eyes to your plate. The food stone cold and no longer even appealing in its slightest measure, a wave of nausea washing over you. You further pushed your plate away, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

His broad frame rose from the chair, "you weren't to begin with," his left hand reaching for the plate and holds it in his hand, "Third drawer down in the armoire. Pick something, I'll be back."

You watched him leave, the familiar click of the door shutting and snap of the lock sounded around the small apartment and you exhaled loudly, your head dropping into your hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d requested that you ‘dress for the occasion’ so to speak. With a deep breath you stood up and crossed the room, opening the drawer of requirements, seeking out a negligee for him to no doubt remove. Your fingers roamed over the fabrics and selection. La Perla, Agent Provocateur, Carine Gilson, Coco de Mer and Fleur of England were just a handful of the expensive, high-end brands that filled the space. Your fingers smoothed over a black macrame and tule underwired long line bra and the matching thong that was folded neatly under it. Plucking it from the drawer, you headed for the bathroom. You slipped out of your casual tee, duster cardigan and leggings, the bra and panties you'd had on. You sighed as you took a good look at yourself in your naked form. 

While you hadn't lost a ton of weight over the last month, you could tell you'd grown thinner. You weren't gaunt but your lack of a daily Dunkin' Donuts macchiato had seemed to thin you out. Your captor made sure you were fed, but you didn't always eat. The plump of your cheeks had receded and your little pooch brought on by happy carbs was sucked into your frame. There were a few bruises still seen, near green, an indication of their final healing stage. The pock mark from a hickey he'd given you still a bit scaby as he'd broken the skin just barely. This was your life now and it made what few bites of Thanksgiving dinner in your stomach nearly lurch forward back up your throat.

You swallowed it down, pulling the long line bra straps up your arms and clasping it behind your back. Your legs slipped into the thong panties and you pulled the material up your freshly smooth legs. Your shaky fingers plucked at the hair tie that fastened the end of your brain closed, nails raking through your hair to loosen your tendrils. He always wanted your hair loose. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you were ready. 

***** Ransom tossed the un-eaten food into the garbage and dumped the plate into the sink to be dealt with later. Turning so that his lower back was leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter he ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw, his mind ticking over the events of the day so far. A pain-in-the-ass Thanksgiving meal with his father had been made bearable by the fact he knew he was coming back to her, and because he hadn’t wanted to be a complete monster he’d made the effort of bringing her a nice dinner back too. But she’d hardly touched any of it.

And what disturbed him most about it, was the fact that instead of wanting to punish her for being an ungrateful bitch, he instead felt a deep rooted sense of concern. She’d lost weight, her face was pale, her hip bones more pronounced, and frankly the last thing he wanted was her passing out on him. Whilst he wanted her compliant, necrophilia really wasn’t his bag.

He had thought by giving her back the bag she’d had on her the night he took her he might have seen a lift in her spirits so to speak, a little gratitude, but instead she’d been meek and reserved until he’d coaxed that familiar sass out of her. And even then she’d been reticent.

It should have pleased him that she was learning her place and becoming more subservient. But if he was being honest with himself, he almost missed her fighting and arguing back. It had been exciting in a way, and he had thought it would have taken longer than it had to break her so to speak. Maybe he had overestimated exactly what a fighter she was, maybe she wasn’t the right muse for his writing after all. Because, let’s face it, writing a tale about a woman who was captured and broken into submission within two days, merely becoming a puppet for her captor’s whims was hardly going to win him any accolades was it? He needed more, needed something that he could spin a good story from. He knew now that when he went back down to her he had to try a different tact so to speak, he needed to coax her mind into reacting not merely her body.

Because if he couldn’t do that, there was no point in keeping her.

He allowed her half an hour or so before he headed back down the stairs and found her sat on the bed, dressed in one of the sets he’d purchased, her hair loose round her face and shoulders the way he liked. She jumped to her feet and he had to actively supress the groan that was rolling in his throat as his eyes scanned her up and down, and he didn’t miss the slight bruises that dotted her skin in various places where he’d marked her as his own. She’d long since stopped trying to cover herself up. Instead she stood stock still, her eyes focussed on the floor.

With long strides he walked into the room and stopped in front of her, tipping her chin up with his finger so she was looking at him, her eyes wide with trepidation and he gave a smirk as he reached up, brushing her hair off the side of her face and neck, dropping his head as he did so.

“You smell so good, Sweetheart.” He inhaled against her pulse point, lips pressing into her there. He felt the gasp of her breath, the way her skin pricked with chill bumps. He smirked to himself, he’s found her spot. And he filed that away, committing it to memory. 

“I like this…” he practically purred as he toyed with the straps to the bra, a long, thick middle finger outlining the strap against her skin, lips following pursuit.

“You should, you chose it.”

He chuckled, ignoring the snark behind her words. “Like I chose you, huh?”

Like I chose you.

His words echoed around your head, reminding you exactly why you were in this fucking situation. Because he had decided you would be. He wanted you, and just like with everything else in his life that Hugh Ransom Drysdale wanted, he simply took. But what worried you the most about all this was whether or not you would be discarded the same way he no doubt discarded the other possessions he lost interest in.

You took a deep, steadying breath as his hands moved from the straps of your bra, long fingers moving to caress the back of your neck, but there was no grabbing, no force. He was being positively gentle.

And it scared the crap out of you.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked, his breath hot and wet in your ear as you trembled under the further graze of his fingers against the macramé of your set. 

“You know I am," you swallowed nervously. You weren't new to this, this wasn't your first time, but the way he was being soft, a stark character change to his a-typical stance with you was what had you crawling in fear in the inside. Was it a game? Was it some sort of ploy? Was this his idea of foreplay now before he turned it up and went hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to make you cry?

A flat palm ran down your abdomen, already taught in fear. But not before a thumb grazed along the underside of your breast. Agonizingly slow, his hand, still splayed over you, dips into your matching macrame panties, dipping into your wet folds, thumb lightly pressing against your clit. 

“You’re so wet, considering you’re scared.”

You didn't answer, just swallowed hard, the lump stuck in your throat as it fought against a little whimper. 

His mouth once more latched onto your neck, the kisses gentle as opposed to the bruising ones you had become accustomed to. The fingers in your folds matched his slow nature, teasing you in such a way that when you closed your eyes and focussed your mind elsewhere, you could almost believe you were somewhere with a man you’d given permission to touch you in such away. But when his lips moved to your jawline and you took a deep breath, the heady scent of his cologne hit your senses and your eyes flew open as you were reminded just whose lips and hands were violating you in such away.

You swallowed as Ransom pulled away, his hand gently grasping your chin once more as he issued a simple instruction.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that had once more risen up your throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs bent, hands resting on his knees as he watched you the way a lion watched its prey. You undid the clasp on your bra, your eyes remaining locked on his as you slid the straps down your shoulders and dropped the garment to the floor. Your captor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down your body as you moved to shed the bottom half, wondering what on earth had been the point of wearing it in the first place. But even as you asked yourself that, you already knew the answer. It was a bout power, another way for him to remind you just who you belonged to now. How he could strip you bare in more way than one without even lifting a finger.

But lift a finger he did, curling it in mid-air as he beckoned you towards him. You took careful steps over the floor until you were stood in between his legs. His large hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs, before he pulled you towards him, his nose brushing the skin of your abdomen as he took  a deep breath, fingers curling round your thighs.

And then, in a flash he stood, taking you with him, and before you could so much as utter a squeak or noise of surprise he had you naked, laying across the bed, the sheets cold against your skin, a contrast to the heat emanating from the body against yours. The look in his lust blown eyes was overwhelming. You didn't know what you were in for but as his body, still clothed in the frayed maroon sweater and wool slacks sunk into the mattress between your legs, you felt a chill course through your veins, your skin, again, pricking in bumps all over. His hands, with their thick fingers, trailed long lines up and down your thighs, Ransom's full lips kissing at your sensitive inner skin, a nip or two here and there as he went from your knee, upward. 

He could smell your arousal, see it glistening as it dripped from your core. "Someone's ready," he quipped. He watched you swallow hard, a literal lump in your throat bobbing the skin. Your eyes never left him. "No cumming until I tell you. Do you understand?" When you didn't answer immediately, he swiped his tongue over your wet lips, tasting the honey your body gave him, your back arching away from sheets. "Do you understand?" 

And there it was, your punishment finally arriving from your little moment before over dinner. As you still had your wits about you, you uttered a single word response, in the hope that the more submissive you were, the more accepting you were of your chastisement, the less hard on you he was going to be.

"Yes." 

His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, the lavish holiday meal he'd partaken in not filling enough. His thumb pressed against your engorged nub, causing you to writhe but a firm arm over your abdomen kept you in place. The same thick fingers that traced lines up your thighs, two were now buried deep inside you, his tongue working away any juices that seeped out. As he gave you a third, stretching you more, you felt your walls start to tighten, that burning coil in your belly flare and your hands gripped the sheets tighter. 

Ransom could clearly feel you flutter against his fingers as he stopped his assault and looked up at you.

"What did I say?" 

Your chest heaved, your stomach taught and you fought to obey. When you managed to calm yourself, he began again, almost from square one, slowly, tantalizingly slow. 

The action was torture and you were desperately willing yourself to remain grounded as again your body fought to ride over the edge building inside you. When his mouth was over you completely, tongue deep, thumb pressing again into your clit, you felt the urge to cum. But he pulled away, slowly, his thumb stopping the pressure, his tongue slowly dragging out of you. 

"I said no. This is your punishment for your smart mouth over dinner."

"Please, I need to, I'll... I'll make it worth your while, please just let me." Your voice sounded alien as you spoke, the words leaving your mouth in the desperate hope he’d take pity on you but to no avail. Your attempts at bartering served only to frustrate him, anger him even and he Ransom backed away, roughly pulling you to the edge of the bed before stripping out of his sweater and undershirt, the undeniable outline of his hard cock along his thigh strained against his wool slacks. 

Harsh in his grip, he repositioned himself between your legs, your thighs across his shoulders, ass dangling above the floor as a heavy arm kept you still. His flat tongue, hot and full of your sex was eating away at you while his final throws of resolve ate away at him.

“I’m done playing fucking games.” he growled against your aching cunt “I should have gagged you, stuffed my cock deep into the back of your throat, something, anything to shut you up.”

You barely had time to register his words before once more you were flat out against the mattress, trying to regain your breath and calm yourself down when he backed away, tore open his flies and smirked down at you.

"Oh no, Sweetheart, we're not done yet."  He kneeled beside you, his chest heaving, hair completely out of place, anger and wait, was that pain, flickering in his eyes as he stuffed you with a hard thrust of his length. "Now you’re gonna cum on this dick."

He thrusted hard and within a few slams of his hips against yours, he allowed you the release you were begging for, "that's right, Princess, cum on my cock." 

You wept at the feeling finally freeing you, cries of pleasure spilling from your lips as you squeezed around him. Your chest heaving against his, skin to skin. The fabric of his wool pants hot and itchy against your inner thighs. He was still thrusting but now it had slowed to a roll, slow and calculated. Your muddled mind was buzzing and rapidly trying to sort out if he'd cum inside you or if he wasn't finished. His features were softer, but still filled with purpose and his lips latched onto a naked breast causing your body to react, tingles and flames licking at your core again. His eyes looked up at yours as he caged you in, still buried deep inside you, hips rolling. 

"I said we weren't done," he rasped. His thrusts and rolls, the two very different tactics mixing now, made the swell of his cock inside you abhorrently pleasurable. Try as you might, it was impossible to feel otherwise. 

And Ransom was finding it equally as hard to hold on. His weight was evenly distributed over her, his cock swelling inside her heat. It took all he had not to blow his load the first time he made her cum, hearing the sinful sounds of her orgasm that felt like a volcanic eruption around his hard shaft. But now he could feel her again, tiny little pulses around his already overtly sensitive dick. He was sure his precum was leaking out, wanting to paint the way for the rest of him to follow. He rolled and thrust as his lips nipped at her neck. She moaned loudly, her body exuding lust. He could feel her shake beneath him and to his delight and surprise her eyes were no longer screwed shut and turned away. Instead they were locked on his. The moment those deep hued orbs met his, he felt a hitch in his breath and tightness in his chest that travelled through his belly and into his cock, causing the thick member to throb inside her. Tiny, soft hands gripped at his biceps, her touch a fiery scald against his skin, almost as if it were frost bite. Her touch equally shocking as her stare and he gave a roll of his hips to hide what he felt. A deep, satiated roll of his hips that sent her over the edge. 

"Hugh!" She came around him, harder than her first, crying out his given name. It snapped him from his moment of revelation, driving him insanely frustrated at the word leaving her lips. He slammed into her as she rode out her orgasm, chasing his own. 

You felt the dismissal of his body as he violently pulled free from your walls, spewing his hot seed over your abdomen, drops claiming your tits too. He nearly collapsed, his dick in hand, the other holding himself up against the mattress between your legs. 

He left you there, dirty, degraded and shut the door with a barked instruction for you to clean yourself up. You no longer cried in front of him, either before, during or after. There was no point. He didn’t care about how you felt, but the thing he DID seem to care about was the fact that you still refused to call him Ransom. 

It was the one thing you held on to, the only thing that gave you an inch of control in this entire fucked up situation. You hadn’t missed the look on his face when you’d cried out 'Hugh' in the throes of your last orgasm. Before that moment there had been a softness in his eyes, one that had unnerved you no end, along with something that had looked suspiciously like hope. But when his given name had tumbled involuntarily from your mouth and not the one he preferred that softness had turned to contempt and you didn't miss the undercurrent of disappointment either.

And seeing that, knowing that it pissed him off and dare you say it, upset him so much was your single, albeit feeble, act of rebellion that served as a desperate boost to your ever waning inner strength. *****

Ransom laid in his large, plush bed, hands behind his head as the silk sheets pooled at his waist as morning was in full swing outside. His thoughts strayed to his girl in the basement and he took a deep breath, shifting slightly as he remembered the way her fingers had felt as they’d curled around his biceps, her touch firey but cold. That had been the first time she’d touched him when she wasn’t trying to push him away, it had been involuntary, he knew that, a reaction to the way she’d been feeling, the way he had made her feel. 

A twitch resounded deep in his belly....the way he made her feel.

He realised now that he’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The force had been necessary to make her comply at first, but last night she hadn’t just complied she’d participated, just what he had wanted all along. And all after he’d shown her a little leeway, brought her dinner, entertained her talk. He understood now that he needed to play a different card from his hand. She responded better to conversation, talking. Ransom hated fucking talking, he was more cerebral, calculating. Conversation means connecting, and connecting was something he wasn’t particularly interested in normally. He needed to lead, to be in charge, but it was clearly what she knew and thrived on, so he had to swallow his apprehension down to play the long game, to get what he wanted. 

Now he understood that, it was going to be so fucking easy. All he had to do was to seemingly show her compassion, a little give so he could take so to speak. He rolled his head, cracking his neck as he remembered what she said about cooking with her mom so he decided that after her stellar performance last night, today she’d earned a bigger reward than a book or some journal. He was going to show her what she could have if she just gave in and admitted what he knew she truly wanted. A large house, a garden, a pool, a hot tub, silk sheets, a large bed, and a man to fuck her every way to heaven and back. He could give her everything that any woman could possibly desire, and then some.

With a twitch of a smirk across his lips, Ransom pulled his naked frame out of bed and slipped into joggers, a soft waffle knit thermal long sleeve pulled over his tousled hair. He felt like company for breakfast and he knew exactly to invite up. 

His bare feet padded with purpose over the plush carpet of his room, down the stairs and onto the first floor, over the hard wood and marble tile of the halls and entry, down the plush carpeted spiral staircase down to the basement.

He reached the door and gently turned the locks, quietly pushing the door open as he turned the knob. It opened quietly and his eyes fell upon the empty bed. He frowned slightly, wondering where she was. Then his eyes found her, sitting curled up with her eyes cast upward, that little tease of a porthole window in her focus. She'd turned her chair around so she could see it more clearly, the throw blanket he'd tossed at her the week before was wrapped around her body. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't early nor was it afternoon. Not that it mattered, neither had anywhere else to be.

"Good morning," he said lowly. He watched as her eyes slowly moved away from the only bit of outside world she'd seen for weeks now.

"Morning," she replied quietly, her eyes locking onto his. "I err, I was just..." she trailed off. "Actually, I don't know what I was doing to be honest."

He stalked up to the chair, kneeling in front her. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her cheek bone. "You were such a good girl last night. Took me so well, teased me with that little number you had on. I've thought about you all morning."

Ransom watched her throat bob as she swallowed before licking her lips and biting the inside corner of her lip. Such an innocent gesture that had him half hard straight away.

"I want to give you something. But you have to be good, or it goes away," he started. "Can you be good, Sweetheart?"

She nodded, slightly. "Okay," he smirked. "Now, fix the chair and come up to make us breakfast."

Ransom stood back, allowing you some space to accommodate his request. You slipped the throw blanket from your shoulders and left it in the chair as you rearranged the piece back to its normal state. You met him at the doorway. You didn't miss the way his eyes moved over you, the way they lit up in a way at as he looked at the silken material covering your body. The dark teal silk and lace cami set was just one of a handful of options he'd provided for you. All the same, different colors, all in your size. 

You hesitated for a second, not sure if this was another one of his little games but he simply met your eyes with his own and nodded up the stairs. With tentative, shaky steps you climbed them, sensing him close behind you as for the first time in weeks you left your prison.  You felt anxious, highly on edge and nervous. What was awaiting you? There was the sickening feeling in your stomach of excitement too, you hadn’t seen the outside since Halloween. You paused at the top of the stairs in the hall. The kitchen was directly across from you, the entry to your right. The door to the basement clicked shut and you felt Ransom’s firm chest behind your back as his form invaded your space. He dragged a finger down your arm causing the strap of your top to fall away, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Straight ahead, Sweetheart."

“Okay,” you whispered before you slowly made your way through to the large, airy kitchen. You stood looking around, taking in the fancy appliances before you turned back to Ransom. "Did you have something in mind?”

"Well..." Ransom leaned in the doorway, watching you as you stood in the middle of the tiled floor "Yesterday wasn't the first time you said you enjoyed to cook so I thought you might like to." His eyes flicked once more down your frame and back up again before he nodded his head towards the rear of the room. “Anything you need is in the pantry and fridge.”

“And I can make anything I want?” You blinked, not quite able to believe what he was allowing you to do. It was fucked up that you were even considering this as a reward but, you’d take it. Boy would you take it, anything to grasp some sense of normality in this day-by-day hell you were living.

“Sure.” Ransom popped a shoulder again and you took a deep breath before you turned and headed to the sink to wash your hands before sorting out your menu and you froze. The outside landscape had stopped you cold. From what you could see of the back garden the property was secluded, not over looked. A lawn extended a fair distance back from the rear of the house, a neat decking area stood to the right which sported a hot tub and a little further down there looked to be a pool of some kind which was covered over for the season. Trees hung over the bottom of the garden lining the high wooden fence, what few leaves they still sported were shades of crimson, gold and brown and the river traced it’s banks as it curved around the side and back of the house, the sun shining off the surface, giving it the impression it was made of sapphires. It was breathtakingly beautiful and you felt your heart shatter, your eyes well and you couldn't help but hold back the urge to weep as your chest contracted painfully. You were so close to the outside, separated only by a pane of glass, yet it had never felt further away.

His voice broke you from your despair and you swallowed back the sob that choked your throat as you flicked your attention to the left, Ransom's reflection drawing closer towards you as he crossed the terracotta tiled floor.

"Everything alright?"

You cleared your throat and gave a quick shake of your head, "Fine."

Again you felt him in your space. His presence consuming. “You sure?”

Sure? No you weren’t sure. Because none of this was fine, in fact it was as far from fine as it could possibly get. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to spin round and hammer your fists into any part of his body you could hit but you knew that it wouldn't get you anywhere, bar back in the basement likely shackled naked to the bed so you instead turned slowly to find yourself caged in by his broad frame so close to yours. You cast your eyes downward, uncomfortable at his searching stare, "Yeah, I’m sure.”

Your tongue flicked nervously over your lips as you continued to avoid his gaze before you cleared your throat “How do you like your eggs? Or would you prefer an omelette? Pancakes even?" The urge to move away from him pulled you away from your idea of a menu. Brunch basics were flooding your brain and you rattled off a few nervously. He may have said you could make whatever you wanted, but right now, you had no clue. Seeing a different space, the outside world and breathing new air had rattled you.

“You choose.” Ransom spoke softly, his hand reaching up to brush your hair off your face before he tipped your chin up so your eyes met his. He looked at you, and you swallowed as for the first time there was something unreadable on his face. His eyes were looking at you in a way they’d never looked at you before, with a softness you’d never have anticipated he could possess.

"Waffles." You suddenly blurted out, desperate to escape his gaze "I err, do you have a waffle iron?”

“No.” He deadpanned.

"Oh," you swallowed "Erm, then in that case French toast...maybe? Is that ok?"

“Sounds delicious.” He said, his hand dropping from your face, “Sure it’ll taste almost as good as you.”

“Great. How about with fresh Chantilly cream and berries if you have them?” You asked, completely ignoring his blatant back handed compliment and you started familiarizing yourself with the space as you glanced around.

“Like I said, whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He shrugged, and with that he stepped back to allow you to move away.

Ransom watched her move around the luxurious kitchen, looking through the pantry and cabinet near the stove taking out cinnamon and vanilla, plucking items like bread, butter, eggs, berries and cream from the fridge. Searching drawers for utensils and measuring cups and spoons. Finding a pan and bowl from a bottom cabinet. Measuring sugar from the glass jar on the counter. He hoped the ingredients were still fresh, he wasn't exactly sure how long they'd been stored. She moved like she belonged there, he thought to himself. So sexy looking in her nightwear, bare feet on the tile, her ass and breasts moving underneath the silk as she stretched and worked. 

"Coffee?" He offered, as he moved from one side to the other. He made sure his exquisite espresso machine was ready as it sat in all its glory on its own portion of the counter like a batista station inside Starbucks. 

He didn't miss the way she watched him move around her, preparing the coffee and grabbing the orange juice from the fridge. He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he opened the cupboard where he kept the glasses and mugs. He peered down at her, giving a twitch to the corner of his mouth. A smirk indeed. He noted the way her eyes followed him as he poured the juice, like he was going to poison her or something. 

"It's just juice, Sweetheart," he said nonchalantly and put the juice back in the fridge. He set the breakfast table for them and took a seat in his place, a now hot cup of coffee in his hand, hers sitting on the counter next to her. 

It wasn’t long before she had finished and brought the plates to the table, sitting down timidly in the seat to his right as he gestured to it, stopping her dead as she was about to make her way around to the opposite side.

It was quiet, the only sounds heard for a while were the click and scrape of forks and knives cutting away at the plates of food. Ransom wouldn't admit it out loud, but this was the best French toast he'd ever had in his life. Something about it, the way it was not soggy, but perfectly moist, the edges just crispy. The way the cream made for no syrup and the sweet berries added the final element. He watched her pick at the food for a moment or two as he glanced over at her and saw a small bit of Chantilly in the corner of her mouth.

A long arm reached across the table and automatically she flinched a little, as if she was going to pull away but one firm stare stopped her in her tracks. His thick thumb padded away the white, sweet cream and he brought the same thumb to his lips, sucking the cream away. He lifted his brows in a teasing manner and twitched up his lips, "Delicious. Like I said, almost as good as you, Sweetheart."

"Thanks, I think," she paused. 

"Trust me, I know."

The comment seemingly threw her off her meal and it didn't get past Ransom. She had started picking at it, moving it around the plate like she had done with her dinner the night before. He, on the other hand, was near finished. 

"Are you still not hungry?" He inquired. 

She shook her head, "I just made my portion too big. I overestimated my appetite, I guess."

"Huh," he placated her reply. He knew she was lying but he let it slide, realizing that seeing a new space, the window to the outside was overwhelming. So, he thought he'd sweeten the deal. "I thought maybe you'd like to see the house," he offered, watching as her big eyes locked onto his and she took a deep breath.

"That sounds nice, thank you."

"Good, after breakfast then." He nodded affirmingly, as if it were drying ink in his mind. He picked up his coffee and finished it off, his plate already clear. 

She stood from the table, collecting his plate with her own and headed for the sink. He turned in his chair, stalking her, watching her every move. The way she pitched over the sink, bending her frame over the dishwasher to load it as she cleaned up the kitchen. 

With each bend and snap of her hips, he felt his mouth water more. Her little silk cami riding up as she moved, her breasts falling in and out of a fuller view. When she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, he was on her. He moved behind her, his hands grabbed her hips as she spun around completely startled giving a gasp and a quick yelp. 

"Easy, Sweetheart," he chuckled as she looked at him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry... you, err...you startled me." She whispered as he moved his hands so they gripped at the side of the kitchen counter on either side of her, caging her in with his body.

"Some women would like that," he quipped, arching an eyebrow a little and watched as she swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward. Moving one hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder and around her neck, he tipped her head back up so those large, Bambi eyes locked onto his.

His hand adjusted, gripping her chin softly as he moved closer still, dipping his head he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. He felt her go rigid, her chest spiking as she drew in a sharp breath, her body shaking slightly in his hold. "Stop fighting it..." he whispered against her mouth before he kissed her again. This time, his tongue traced the line of her upper lip, the feel of it soft and soothing.

You felt his tongue line your lip and you couldn't hold the whimper of fear that passed through you. He’d never kissed you before, not on the mouth anyway. You felt him deepen his kiss, his big hand cupping your face, pulling you into it more. Your mind went elsewhere, imagining anyone but him kissing you like this. You couldn't deny it, this intimate moment, completely lost on both of you for different reasons, felt good and he was good at it. He was damn good at it in fact, and that alone made you want to vomit your breakfast into his throat. At that, you jerked back, panting a little, feeling your lips swollen from the way he'd sucked your bottom one between his, pulling at it just the right way. You hated the feeling between your legs that it had evoked, your body betraying you just like it always did.

In an attempt to stave off the conflicting emotions spiking within you, you focussed on his face, the face you hated and to your surprise he looked dazed. The usual stoic expression that clouded his features had been replaced with something akin to surprise but no sooner had you noticed it, it was gone.

"Clean up and I'll meet you in the study." He told you, his voice a deep almost pained whisper. 

"But I don't..." you started but were quickly cut off. 

"You're a smart girl, figure it out," he smirked and slipped away. 

You were tempted to follow, just so you'd see where he was going but you knew not to defy a command. The feeling of unease seemed to disappear as you slumped your shoulders and instead defeat filled your frame. A trembling hand came to your lips as jittery fingertips touched your swollen skin. Your bottom lip quivered like a ripple in a river and you quickly covered your mouth, turning on a dime as your French toast littered the sink. If the water hadn't been running already, Ransom would no doubt have heard you retching. You rinsed your mouth out to attempt at hiding that vomit taste from your tongue and quickly finished your task of cleaning up the kitchen, salty tears dripping from your chin, mixing with the soapy water. 

When you could stall no longer, you sighed and headed out into the large hallway, taking a quick look around. It was light, airy, the grand staircase swept in and curved round to the next floor and your eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door just beyond it. You hesitated, and then with a dejected sigh realised there was no point even trying to escape. Even if it was unlocked, which you doubted, the threat to your family was just too much for you to risk. Instead, you decided to head down the corridor to your right and found yourself in a large open plan living room of sorts. It was decorated in clean whites and crisp greys with a huge feature stone open fireplace and sported a bar at the back. A brown leather sofa and two matching arm chairs were strategically placed around an expensive looking coffee table but you didn’t bother to look at the rest, this wasn’t the room you needed so you turned back on yourself, walked back into the hall and took the turning to your left.

This time you found yourself walking into what you could only assume was his study-come-den of sorts. It was huge, and once again sported a sofa pushed up against the wall, looking out over the spectacular view of not only the garden but the river too. But that wasn’t what caught your attention, nor was it the walnut desk and laptop that sat upon it. It was the floor to ceiling bookshelf behind it. Your mouth dropped open as you made your way towards it but then you stopped, biting your lip. Were you supposed to be looking at them? But, he had said to meet you in here. And left you to find your own way.  Surely, if he didn’t want you looking around he wouldn’t have left you to it.

Throwing caution to the wind you strode forward, your pace hurried this time and your eyes quickly scanned across some of the books. You couldn’t help but feel shocked. Whilst there was a huge collection of his Grandfather’s books, and a number of other crime novels of types, it was the colourful spines to your right that made your chest heave in delight. The entire Harry Potter collection. With a shaky hand you reached for The Philosopher’s Stone, noting the British version of the title, and opened the front page giving another gasp as you read the publishing details.

This was a first edition.  And from the date you also knew it would be one that contained the misprint errors. And as such, would be worth a small fortune.

“See something you like?” that familiar voice hit your ears and you gave a little shriek, jumping around, clutching the book to your chest to avoid dropping it.

“I’m sorry.” You hastily began to apologise “I was just…erm…”

“It’s ok.” He assured you, crossing towards you. Once more he encroached into your personal space and you felt the blades of your shoulders press into the shelf behind you. “Harry Potter fan?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “Didn’t think they’d be your type of thing.

“They’re not really.” He shrugged “I’m a collector. Everything on the shelves, well they’re all first or limited editions, so worth a lot.”

“Figures.” You mumbled, turning round and slotting the book back into the space it had come from. As you did you felt him push up behind you, his hands on your hips, the unmistakable feel of his hard on dug into the lower part of your back and you fought to stop yourself shuddering. He was after pay-back for allowing you to leave your prison.

“Did you like the house?” he asked, brushing your hair off your neck.

“Yes.” You answered politely, your voice catching a little as he placed a kiss to the crook of your shoulder.

“You know, it could all be yours sweetheart if you just stopped fighting what you know you want” His kisses continued up your neck as his words whirled around your brain and you were back to where you had been in the kitchen. It felt good. And that disgusted you.

“Did you enjoy making breakfast?” he whispered, his lips by your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, your voice barely there.

“Show me how much.” His teeth nipped at your lobe, his hips grinding forward and you swallowed and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted but as you turned to face him you had an idea. One which would save you being fucked no doubt over the desk or on the hard looking couch.

With a lick of your lips you looked at him and sank slowly to your knees, taking his sweats with you. His hard cock sprang free, slapping his lower abs and you reached out, grasping it in your hand.

“Fuck, yeah baby…” Ransom hissed as you moved your head forwards and took him in your mouth.

You pulled out all the moves, you took him as deep as you could, gagging a little as he wasn’t a small man. You kept your hand firmly on the base of his cock, you hollowed your lips, you swirled your tongue around his shaft and he let out a little groan his hand fisting in your hair as his hips bucked forwards.

“Jesus, I knew your mouth was smart but…” he panted, looking down at you. You raised your eyes to look at his as he bit his lip, his entire face contorted in pleasure…

Pleasure that was ruined by the sound of the doorbell.

 “What the fuck…” Ransom growled out, un-fisting his hand from her hair. “Who the fuck is that?”

He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, wide eyed. She was a mess, swollen lips, wet chin and dressed in nothing but her skimpy tank and shorts. With a frustrated growl, Ransom pulled his dick out of her mouth and grabbed his phone from the table to check the doorbell camera. His face blanched as he saw who it was.

“I don’t fucking believe it…” he mumbled, as she looked up at him.

“Who is it?” She asked, wiping her face, “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors, Hugh.”

Ransom might have been pre-occupied with the familiar face staring at him from his phone, but he still picked up on that 'Hugh' and he glared down at her. “No shit, and because we have a visitor, I'm gonna let that one slide. Get up.” She rose to her feet, blinking a little as he pulled off the thermal he was wearing and tossed it to her. “Put that on. No one gets to see you in silk but me.”

She blinked as she caught it, confusion spreading across her face. “Don’t you just want me to go-“

In a flash, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger and she winced, “If I wanted you downstairs I’d have said. So put the damn shirt on, and when he starts asking questions just remember what I said I could do to your family and friends.”

In complete complacency, he watched her slip his thermal over her head, her fingers barely peeking through the sleeves to fix her dishevelled hair. The material hit her mid-thigh and his eyes brows gave a flicker of approval before he walked to the entry and opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Pleasure to see you too, Mr. Drysdale..." that infuriating Southern drawl hit Ransom's ears with all the finesse of a cheese-grater. Benoit Blanc, without so much as a gesture of request, pushed past Ransom as he strode inside, stopping in the tiled entry, looking around.

"Do you have a warrant?" The man of the house snipped in his usual spiteful tone.

Blanc still didn’t reply, and Ransom rolled his eyes following him as he wandered down the hallway, stopping at the open door to the study. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."

Ransom stood behind Blanc, an infuriatingly warning glare sent his girl's way. He noted the way she was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed, hair tousled. She looked like a sex kitten, and maybe that was the idea. He warned her to sell it after all…

"Excuse me?” Y/N looked up at the two men in the doorway. 

Blanc stepped inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the same couch where she sat. "I've been looking for you, young lady. A lot of people are looking for you, you know Miss Y/L/N.”

“I errr…” she swallowed a little as she slowly got to her feet, her hands pulling the hem of the thermal down before she folded her arms across her chest, not in a defiant manner, but almost as if she was hugging herself “Did someone send you or…”

“No, nothing like that. You see, I heard you'd gone missing, and I knew you had a work connection to Mr. Drysdale, that, shall we say didn't go quite as planned. So when things started adding up, I thought to ask the man himself."

“Well, congratulations, this is one mystery you actually solved correctly, Sherlock. As you can see she’s here and she’s fine, and we were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind….” Ransom folded his arms, his eyes moving from hers to Blanc, who was irritatingly completely ignoring him, his gaze focussed intently on the woman who stood in front of him.

Ransom could see him take her in fully, now seeing the situation he may have just walked in on. She looked dishevelled and was missing crucial parts of her clothing, but she had no tears in her eyes, no markings looking to be of abuse or out of the ordinary. None that were visible anyway. Blanc’s gaze then dragged over to Ransom who was bare foot in joggers and still half aroused, which he did nothing to hide as he folded his arms over his naked chest.

Ransom held Blanc’s gaze, his chin jutting out defiantly, the detective only looking away when the lady of the hour spoke, her voice quiet, as she gave a small nod. "He’s right, I’m fine."

"Then why not tell your family where you are?”

“I err…” Y/N’s right hand gripped he cuff of the sweater sleeve tightly, “I just, well, I…”

Ransom could see that she was losing it and he knew he had to intervene. He walked over to her and placed an arm around her, kissing the top of her head lightly, "It's alright, Sweetheart. I know how he can be frustrating. We're doing nothing wrong."

With that he turned his gaze to the man in front of him, not even trying to hide the sneer of contempt that was crossing his face “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you Blanc.”

“Well, maybe Miss Y/L/N has some crayons hidden up her sleeve so to speak.” Blanc smiled innocently and Ransom felt the anger floor his system.

“You’re starting to really piss me off.” he snarled, “You barge into my home, without so much of an explanation…” his rant was stopped dead as Y/N placed her hand on his chest, palm splaying over his bare skin. Ransom swallowed at the touch of her fingers against his skin, firey hot just as they had been last night when they curled around his arms.

"Hey," she spoke and he looked down to see her giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but one that should be enough to convince the dumbass detective who was watching them. "It's okay." She then turned to Blanc as he held his hand up, palm open, speaking to Ransom.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating Mr. Drysdale, I'm merely enquiring after Miss Y/L/N’s wellbeing."

"I'm not here under duress if that's what you're thinking.” She spoke, clearing her throat. “Hu… Ra, we have had to keep our relationship private,” she stumbled on the right identity, settling for 'we'. Clearing her throat again and settling her nerves, she continued, "Mr. Blanc, as you well know, I'm reporter and his background has been less than stellar as of late. It no doubt would not look good for either of us if it had come to light. My reputation as a journalist would have been in tatters.”

“Well, lies and deception certainly go hand in hand when it comes to Mr. Drysdale...”

Ransom rolled his eyes dramatically “Change the record, Blanc. The static is a little loud.”

Blanc completely ignored him, his attention still on her. “So you caused all this worry, because of some…” he waved his hand in front of him, gesturing between the pair of them. 

Ransom’s arm curled round her even tighter, his fingers pressing into her hip and he felt her stiffen a little before she relaxed into his side and gave a small nod.

"Like I said, it wouldn’t have gone down well with my family, or my career.”

“Ahh, yes, your job, which you quit.” Blanc looked at her. “Yes, I spoke to your boss.” He answered her unasked question. “Why would you be so worried for your reputation as a journalist, if you’re not actually a journalist anymore?”

At that she took a deep breath “I quit the paper because my boss is an asshole. His antics on Halloween were a step too far. But that doesn’t mean I have no intentions of working ever again. I'm currently taking a long overdue sabbatical.”

Blanc studied her again, almost as if he was weighing something up and she once more began to fidget and Ransom decided he’d had enough.

"Okay, I’m done being polite,” Ransom moved his arm from around his girl and stepped towards Blanc, placing himself directly between the detective and the woman. “You've interrupted out little post brunch love affair and I’m horny, so…do you need help finding the door, or can your super sleuth skills figure the way back out of it on their own?”

“Miss Y/L/N?” Blanc spoke, his eyes locked onto Ransom’s. Ransom felt the nerve in his jaw twitch, the fact that Blanc wasn’t scared of him irritated him no end.

There was a pause and then her voice came clearly from behind him as she spoke, “If you'd be so kind as to not tell my family where I am, I'd appreciate it. I prefer this time without their unwanted opinion.”  Her voice was steady, measured almost. “You can tell them that you've found me, alive and well."

Blanc knew he wasn't welcome, he had proof of life and no reason to suspect foul play. He stood, his long wool coat falling into place around him. "Well, then I guess my work is done." He brushed passed Ransom and gave a quick quip, "I'm warning you...." 

"What was that?" His girl wondered. She'd heard him. 

"Have a nice day," Blanc nodded curtly “I’ll see myself out.”  

You watched the back of the detective as he left the large living room, Ransom following him to the doorway where he stood, arms folded, watching. The sound of Blanc’s feet on the tiles of the hallway grew fainter and fainter until eventually they stopped completely.  The latch of the door sounded and you fell to the closest thing you could sit on. Your while body shook with a chill that crept into your bones but not from the cold. No, you were sick to your stomach in fear and worry. The bile of deceit rose to your throat and had you not already spewed up your breakfast it would have most likely decorated the carpet of the study.  Instead, you swallowed down the sour bile as Drysdale approached you and you glanced up at him, blinking whilst he studied you for a second, his face passive. As you held his gaze, something akin to amusement flashed in his cold blue eyes and a twisted smirk spread across his face.

“Your acting skills certainly improved there along the way, at the end you were almost award worthy.” He drawled, his hands falling to his hips. “Even Meryl Streep would be jealous.”

"Fuck you," your voice quivered.

He arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on his features “Already played that game Sweetheart, and carry on back-chatting me and you’ll be back in the basement.”

"Wh... What?"

"You pulled through in the end there. It was a rough start, but you convinced Colonel Sanders that you were here on your own."

“Colonel Sanders?” You blinked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blanc. CSI KFC.” He replied. You were none the wiser as to what he was going on about and it must have shown on your face as he simply rolled his eyes. "Never mind...the point is, sweetheart, I'm in a good mood. And seeing as you behaved...”

"What?" Your voice was quiet, meek.

"If you shut that pretty little mouth for longer than a second, I'll explain." His tone was measured but you didn’t miss the underlying threat.

“Sorry.” Your eyes fell to the floor, your left hand worrying at your right.

“Eyes on me.” He barked and your head whipped up automatically and he smirked at you as you took a deep breath. “As I was saying, seeing as you were such a good girl, I thought I’d reward you, let you stay up here with me for the day.”

The notion shocked you. Your mouth went dry and you couldn't make sense of it. But then, the more you thought about it, the more his audacity irked you. He’d imprisoned you, used you, abused you…and now he was implying that staying in his company was a fucking reward.

“Wow, thanks…” you blurted before you could stop yourself, sarcasm lacing your tone. As soon as the words had slipped from your mouth you felt panic flood your system as he stepped towards you and reached out, his right hand curling around your throat.

"Don’t push me sweetheart.” His voice was low as his fingers squeezed the column of your neck, a reminder of how easily he could simply end it all whenever he chose. 

And just like that the softness that he had displayed with you earlier that morning was gone, and the shutters were back up. You swallowed hard, feeling the strain of your throat against his touch, his eyes now dark and full of that familiar angry lust and desire that chilled you from head to toe. Blanc had riled him, gotten underneath his skin, that was easy to see while your mouthy comments fuelled that ire. And as such, he needed an escape, an outlet.

And he was going to get it from you.

“Now on your knees and finish what you started."

**** Part 4

[criminalmindzjunkie]

The Reward of Suffering

next chapter

Summary: A retelling of the events of season 12 episode 13. 

Gif credit to the wonderful and talented @imagining-in-the-margins​

A/N: After several months of contemplation, I have finally decided to post part one of my first ever fic on Tumblr! This fic will follow the event of Spencer’s prison arc, so needless to say there will be SPOILERS. This first part is super long, but I felt that it needed to be in order to set up the plot. I hope you all enjoy reading! If you would like to be tagged on future updates, let me know!

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Fem! Reader

Warnings: no smut (yet), mentions of past frug use, cursing, typical CM case talk

Word count: 12.1k

           “Reid is in jail.”

           I felt the color immediately drain from my face and an intense feeling of dread began to wash through my body. I sat up in my chair, back ramrod straight. I briefly looked towards the faces of my teammates, Luke and JJ to my left and Penelope to my right. Their faces were all contorted, displaying varying degrees of shock and confusion. It was hard for any of us to process what we were hearing. The idea of Spencer Reid, the same Spencer who wore a mask to the office on Halloween and put on elaborate magic shows for everyone’s children, doing anything that would warrant being put behind bars was preposterous.

           Surely, this is all just a big misunderstanding.

           “Jail?” Penelope squeaked out. My eyes flitted to her, taking note of the way her eyebrows were drawn together in disbelief. She was thinking the same thing I’m sure we all were; that there was no way Spencer Reid had engaged in any illegal activity. Spencer was a well-educated, highly regarded FBI agent, for Christ sake. He knew the laws of the land better than any of us.

           “In Mexico.”

My attention focused solely on Emily. In the few weeks since I had come to know her, I had begun to look at her not only as a sort of fearless leader, but also as a kind of fiercely loyal friend that I was incredibly lucky to have. Emily somehow managed to find the perfect balance between being accommodating and stern. She was the kind of boss you could have a drink and cut up with after a long day, but she also carried herself in a way that demanded the utmost respect in the workplace. Emily Prentiss’s bravery was unmatched, and I admired her for that.

It shook me to my core when her eyes met mine and I saw the pure, unbridled fear in them. If Emily was scared, then this must be leagues worse than we could have ever imagined.

“What the hell is he doing down there?” JJ asked, crossing her arms and shuffling from one foot to the other.

“I don’t know. I didn’t talk to him. The call came in to Cruz from their lead investigator.”

Luke was the next to chime in. “What’s he being held for?”

“Drug possession,” Rossi said, before taking on, “with intent to distribute.”

For the second time that day, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. Images of Spencer sitting across from me in a dimly lit coffee shop, tripping over his words as he confided in me, spilling his deepest and darkest secrets in a voice barely above a whisper. His voice had grown stronger as he neared the end of his story and he had dug deep in his satchel, producing a small golden coin. We both had tears in our eyes as we looked at the writing engraved into the coin; unity, service recovery. Spencer Reid was ten years sober, and the pride on his face was as clear as day.

There was no way he would throw all of that away.

“What type of drugs?”

“Cocaine and heroin,” Rossi said, his voice shaky.

Rossi and Spencer had always had a good relationship. Spencer had admired his work long before he met him, having read and reread every book he had ever published. It had delighted Spencer that he and Rossi had managed to develop rapport so quickly. Rossi was the only one talented enough at the game of chess to even think of giving Spencer a run for his money, though many of us had tried. In one of many hushed conversations shared on the jet, he had once told me that he had begun to think of Rossi as somewhat of a father figure; he didn’t quite fill the role in the same way Gideon had, but Spencer was thankful just the same. One look at Rossi’s troubled expression was enough to tell me that the feelings were definitely mutual.

“Oh my God. This can’t be happening.” JJ was positively crestfallen, clutching a hand against her own chest in an attempt to ground herself. Her other hand came up to her face as she absentmindedly pushed her hair away.

“We need Lewis and Walker here, ASAP,” Emily directed her order and Penelope, who was quick to comply.

Everyone sprang into action, but I found myself unable to move, weighed down by the deeply unsettling circumstance. It felt as if I was no longer in my own body, like I was watching everything unfold from an outsider’s perspective. Maybe I am, I thought. Maybe this is all just some horrible nightmare. Any second now, my alarm will go off and this will all be over.

I waited and waited for my alarm to sound, but that never happened. Instead, Emily crouched down in front of me, grasping my arm firmly in her right hand.

“I know how devastated you must be. Trust me, I do,” she sympathized, her deep brown eyes boring into my own. “But Reid’s going to need you now more than ever. You’re his best friend and you know him better than anyone. Did he ever mention to you that he was going to Mexico?”

I shook my head numbly, my motions feeling alien and stilted.

“Never. He told me the same thing he told you; that he was going to Houston for a few days to meet with his mother’s doctor,” I whispered. I feared that if I raised my voice any higher, tears would begin to fall. Maintaining my composure was becoming harder with every passing second, and I wasn’t exactly privy to breaking down in front of my boss. “I guess I don’t know him as well as I thought.”

Emily sighed, letting go of my arm before straightening up.

“Apparently, none of us did. But I know damn well that this has to be a mistake. We’ll get him out of this.”

           The apprehension in her voice told me that even she wasn’t sure we could pull this one off.

--

           “This has got to be Scratch,” Tara stated, her voice wafting through the speakers of Luke’s laptop. Emily, Rossi, Luke and I were currently in the jet, on our way to the jail where Spencer was being held. All of us were huddled close together around the computer, listening on with eager ears. “He was laying low, and now we know why.”

           “Crossing the border as a fugitive is a huge risk,” Luke pointed out.

           “The reward is even greater. He’s been punishing the team, and now his target is Reid.” Emily’s voice was full of frustration and contempt.

           “Peter Lewis dropped off the map after attacking Tara’s family,” Stephen chimed in. Not even his deep baritone voice could do anything to calm my frazzled nerves. “Maybe he’s been hiding in Mexico this whole time.”

           “We also have to consider that it isn’t related to him,” I murmured. Several pairs of eyes locked on me, shocked. I had been uncharacteristically quiet since this whole ordeal began, limiting my responses to one word replies and hums of acknowledgement. On a normal day, I’d be throwing in my two cents any time I saw fit. Today, I was struggling just to keep breathing.

           “Who else would it be?” Rossi asked.

           “Drug cartels. Could’ve threatened Reid and used him as a mule.” Saying his name was painful, because it reminded me that we weren’t just talking about a victim with whom we had no personal ties; we were talking about our colleague and beloved friend.

           “Agreed,” Rossi nodded. “This could simply be a case of bad luck. Reid was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

           “Spencer’s mom is okay.” JJ’s announcement was like music to my ears. I let out an audible sigh of relief. “The home nurse he hired said all is stable.”

           “How long did he tell the nurse he’d be gone?”

           “Three days.”

           “That sounds reasonable. After the Palm Springs case, Reid said he had to get back to Houston to talk to his mom’s doctor,” Emily interjected. I nodded along in agreement. He’d told me the same thing when I talked to him the night before last.

The fatigue in his voice had alerted me to the fact that things hadn’t been going so well with his mother. Her condition had been rapidly deteriorating in the recent months, prompting Spencer to make the tough decision to remove her from the assisted living facility she was at and into his own apartment. His main argument had been that no one could possibly take better care of his mother that him; that he was familiar with her condition and how best to respond when she had an episode. When I had asked him how he was handling it all, he was quick to reassure me that it was not anything he couldn’t handle.

Spencer’s loyalty ran deep; so deep that I knew he would do anything in his power to take care of Diana, but I’d never imagined that it would land him in fucking jail.

“Well, Houston is only a five-hour drive from the border,” Tara mused. “The question is, why did he go down there?”

“And why does he have narcotics?” Rossi was the first to speak on what was at the forefront of everyone’s mind.

“Yeah, exactly. He wouldn’t… He wouldn’t do that. Those drugs were planted on him,” Penelope insisted.

“Absolutely, but there’s something bigger in play. That’s why he crossed the border and kept it a secret. There’s something he didn’t want to share with any of you.”

I cringed at Stephen’s choice of wording. Spencer and I were as close as two people could be, and there was nothing I withheld from him. He knew everything about me, every dark and embarrassing thought that had ever crossed my mind; yet, he accepted me just the same. I had always assumed that it went both ways, that he was just as honest and forthcoming with me as I was with him. It hurt to know that there were things he kept from me, secrets that he felt he couldn’t trust me with.

But most of all, it absolutely gutted me to think that he was dealing with something so horrible that it landed him in jail, and he that he had to do it all alone.

“Okay, so what would make him risk everything?” Emily pondered aloud.

“His mom.” My answer was instantaneous.

A ping sounded from the other end of the video call, and we all leaning in, our interest piqued.

“Cruz just sent me the arresting report,” Penelope announced, clicking away at her computer before continuing. “It says here that Reid was involved in a high-speed chase.”

“What?” I choked out, my voice coming out several pitches higher than usual. “Spencer hardly ever drives.” I could feel my stomach begin to churn, bile threatening to force its way up my esophagus. This isn’t right, I wanted to scream. Our Spencer would never get himself involved in something that would put himself or others at risk.

“None of this sounds like him,” Penelope whispered, her thoughts mimicking my own. “It says he was wearing jeans and a baseball cap and that he was really confused. According to the arresting officer, he was really high on something.”

Unity, service, respect; ten years sober. All down the fucking drain.

I shot up from my seat, bolting down the walkway and into the bathroom. I immediately fell to my knees, barely managing to push my hair out of the way before retching into the toilet bowl. I continued like this for several minutes, only pausing momentarily when I felt large, soothing hands running up and down my back. Soft murmurings of reassurance alerted me to the fact that it was Luke who was sitting with me. I let out a strained ‘thank you’ before another wave of nausea hit me, rendering me speechless. Luke held my hair back, never once leaving my side.

When I had thrown up the entirety of my breakfast and all I could do was dry heave, I slumped back against the wall, relishing in how cool it felt against my flushed skin. A stretch of silence passed before he decided to break it.

“That was an extreme reaction,” Luke pointed out, still sitting in the floor with his legs crisscrossed. I noticed how closely he was watching me, his eyes focused on reading my expressions. He was profiling me, that much was obvious. It was an unspoken rule between us all that we would never profile one another, but any fight I had left in me had long since dissipated.

“He worked so hard to get clean, Luke. I wasn’t around when it happened, but he told me about it. He was so proud of himself,” I whispered. My throat was now raw and my voice came out more than a little bit hoarse.

Luke’s eyebrows came together, confusion clear on his face.

“Get clean? What are you talking about?”

I let out a shuddery breath. It felt wrong to divulge information on Spencer’s personal life; like I was betraying his trust. Given the circumstance, I supposed he wouldn’t mind, but it still felt treacherous and left a bad taste in my mouth. Sorry, Spence.

“Ten years ago, Reid was kidnapped by an unsub with DID. He kept him in a remote cabin for several days, alternating between beating him senseless and shooting him full of so much hydromorphone that he couldn’t remember his own name. At one point, he even,” I trailed off, hot tears spilling out of my eyes and running down my cheeks. Luke took my hand in his in an act of reassurance, his way of telling me not to rush. Luke hadn’t been with us for long, and our interactions thus far hadn’t gone much farther than conversations about work. Seeing the way he was offering himself up to me as a confidant and shoulder to cry on made me feel guilty for ever having written him off.

Thank God for Luke Alvez.

After a long pause, I managed to continue. “Spencer ended up having a seizure and he died for several minutes. The unsub’s more benevolent personality, Tobias, was able to resuscitate him. Eventually Spencer was able to take him down, but the trauma mixed with the exposure to such a highly addictive drug led to him developing a dependence on it.”

Luke swore and ran a hand through his hair.

“I never would’ve guessed it. The kid carries himself so well.”

A small, fond smile tugged at the corner of my lips.

“He’s amazing, really. He detoxed all by himself and started going to NA meetings. This past October marked ten years. We celebrated by going to one of those really fancy museums he likes and he insisted on taking the guided tour so that he could see how many errors the guide would make,” I let out a light laugh at the memory. “Every time they’d get something wrong, he’d lean down whisper the correct information so that only I could hear it. I don’t think I’d ever seen him that happy,” I reminisced, allowing myself to forget about the current situation for the tiniest of moments. I wondered if I’d ever get to experience a day like that with Spencer ever again.

“You two are close, I take it?”

I nodded. Luke had fit in with the group so seamlessly that I had forgotten that he had only been with us for a short time. He didn’t really know the dynamics of everything yet.

“He’s my best friend.”

Luke hummed, and I could feel his eyes looking at me inquisitively.

“And that boyfriend of yours, he doesn’t mind?” Okay, maybe Luke was a little bit more perceptive than he let on.

Gavin and I had begun dating at the end of my first year with the BAU. He and I had meet in the most cliché of ways; bumping into each other in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Gavin was more than a little bit handsome, but what had reeled me in had been the way he taken one look at the box of cereal in my cart and immediately scrunched his nose up in disgust.

“Plain Cheerios? Are you some sort of masochist, or something?” he had asked, a playful lilt to his voice. Normally, if a strange man had approached me in public, I would’ve been quick to express my disinterest. If my job had taught me anything, it was that a woman being approached by a strange man was a recipe for trouble. But something about him seemed wholly unthreatening, and I couldn’t help but laugh at his forwardness, raising an eyebrow at him.

“As if your choice is any better. Lucky Charms? What are you, six?”

“Don’t even go there. Lucky Charms are magically delicious, thank you very much,” he sniffed, feigning superiority. “And if we’re touching on the subject of age, the only person I know that eats plain Cheerios is my eighty-six-year-old grandmother. You look a bit young to be worrying about heart health, and I refuse to believe that you actually enjoy the taste, so what gives?”

“First of all, I find it concerning that you are so familiar with cereal slogans,” I breezed, leaning against my shopping cart. “Second, I am curious; do you make it a habit to harass people about their cereal preferences?”

“Only if they’re cute.”

And that had been that. Several dates later he had asked me to be his girlfriend over a dinner he had attempted to make himself. I said yes and he kissed me, nearly knocking over his plate of burnt chicken parmesan in the process.

“We, uh, have an understanding. He knows that Spencer and I are just good friends.”

Gavin and I did have an understanding, but it wasn’t a very solid one. In fact, I was sure that he damn near despised Spencer’s very existence. He had done a good job at hiding it for a while, but after coming home one night from an impromptu movie night with Spencer, he had revealed to me that he had a jealous streak a mile long. I reassured him that there was absolutely nothing that he needed to worry about, but I could tell he didn’t believe a word of it. Gavin had out flat demanded that I cut all ties with Spencer, and I had laughed in his face.

“I’m not the kind of girl that likes to be told what to do. Either you learn to live with him being a part of my life, or you can find someone else to boss around, because I can tell you right now, that won’t fly with me.”

My threat had proven to be effective, and he had apologized, and that had been the end of that. He still wasn’t fond of the idea that Spencer and I were such close friends, but he hadn’t tried to proposition me with any more ridiculous ultimatums.

“That’s good to hear,” Luke hummed, squeezing my hand before rising to his feet. I could tell that he didn’t necessarily buy into what I was saying, but I was thankful that he didn’t press it any further. “What do you say we go back out there. We’ve got to be getting close by now.”

I nodded and he helped me to my feet. I bent down to the faucet, swishing some water in my mouth before spitting it out.

When Luke and I returned to our seats, I was immediately aware of the way Rossi and Emily were eyeing me; like I was a delicate thing that needed to be handled with kid gloves.

I absolutely hated it.

“Sorry about that. It won’t happen again,” I said, before turning my attention back to the video call and saying, “so, what did we miss?”

--

The police station was surprisingly small. The hallways were narrow and the light bulbs above me gave off an almost green tint, casting an eerie glow on the place. The sounds of disgruntled detainees calling out drifted through the hallways, sounding akin to the moaning of a ghost. My eyes darted around constantly as we walked, the uneasy feeling in my stomach growing with every step we took towards the heart of the precinct.

“Thank you for calling us.” Emily’s words were directed at the police officer, Chief Castenada, who was leading us down the hall. He was a short man with graying hair and a seemingly permanent frown etched into his face. It didn’t take a genius to deduce that he wasn’t happy that four federal agents were in his jail.

“A U.S. fed in our custody isn’t something we see every day,” the man said, his tone entirely unfriendly. I grimaced.

“Have you gotten any of his tox screen panels back yet?” I prodded, quickening the pace of my strides until I was walking alongside him. He looked down at me like I was a pesky gnat that he wanted to bat away.

“No.”

Color me unsurprised.

“You’ll need to expedite that. We have cause to believe that Doctor Reid was drugged.”

“He was definitely high and driving like a bat out of Hell. Not to mention he had $20,000 worth of heroin in his possession,” he sneered, ceasing to walk and staring down at me with distaste. “Both of which put my officers at risk. You’re in our jurisdiction. Don’t forget that. The rules are different here.”

I opened my mouth, ready to fire back with some smart-assery of my own, but a hand at my elbow stopped me. I turned and saw that it was Luke, who nodded his head to the left of us. I looked in the direction he was referring to, and I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces.

Just up ahead was a holding cell with several poorly constructed benches in the center of it. On the very first row of seats sat Spencer, who had seemingly retreated in to himself. He was hunched over, his arms wrapped pitifully around himself, much like you’d imagine a child might do to keep warm. Spencer’s clothes were tattered and dirty and a bandage adorned his right hand. His usually beautiful chestnut curls were flying around his head in a mess of tangles and dirt. Despite the fact that Spencer towered over most of us, I couldn’t help but notice how incredibly small he looked.

Even as awful as he looked in his current state, a direct contradiction of the way he usually presented himself, I’d never been happier to lay my eyes on someone in my life.

My feet carried me forward before my brain had time to catch up. I closed the distance between me and the cell, pausing and taking a good, long look at him before allowing myself to speak. He hadn’t noticed me standing there yet. His gaze was instead trained on something at the other end of the room, his eyes red rimmed and glassy and his face completely slack.

“Spence?” I called out, the nickname falling from my lips like a prayer. In a way I suppose it was; a prayer that he was alright, that the horrible things Penelope had told us about were nothing but a horrible lie. At first, I was worried that he hadn’t heard me or that he was too out of his mind to even register the sound of my voice. Just when I opened my mouth to speak again, he turned his head in way that I would have described as comically slow if the situation hadn’t been so serious. The spacey look in his eyes told me that my prayers wouldn’t be answered.

Spencer’s eyes locked with mine, but his face remained completely blank, devoid of all expression. I stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, until it hit me like a ton of bricks; he had no clue who I was.

I wanted to be mad. I wanted to scream at him, to ask him how could he forget me, of all people. My anger was irrational and unfair, but I couldn’t help it. While I understood that it was no fault of his own, that the drugs coursing through his veins were to blame, it didn’t make it hurt any less.

I swallowed down the emotions that threatened to spill out, pushing them down into the depths of my being. I couldn’t let my emotional attachment hinder my judgment. I needed to be as vigilant as ever, no, more vigilant. The fate of my favorite person in the whole world depended on it.

“It’s me, Y/N,” I explained, keeping my voice as steady as I could manage. “It’s good to see you, Spencer. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

He watched me for a moment before standing and making his way to where I was leaning against the bars.

“Y/N,” Spencer murmured when he reached me, as if testing my name out to see how it rolled off of his tongue. His stare was still vacant, but having him in front of me after worrying about his wellbeing for the last five hours was more than enough for now. I’d take him however I could have him. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course, we came,” I murmured, my eyes raking over every inch of his body for any signs of distress. Other than the bandage on his hand, he seemed to be in one piece.

Rossi was quick to join me, coming to a stop at my left.

“We’re going to get you out of here, kid,” he reassured, his tone more serious than I’d ever heard it.

           “We need to work out some details with the locals, okay?” Emily said, waiting for a response but getting none.

           “Who was your contact down here?” Luke asked.

           Spencer was quicker to respond this time.

           “Rosa,” he mumbled as he grabbed his shirt sleeve and pulled it up. On his inner arm, the name Rosa Medina was written in what was undoubtably his own handwriting. Spencer was notorious around the office for having the worst handwriting. I like to blame it on the fact that he was a doctor, which always elicited a laugh from him. “I think she’s a doctor.”

           Luke pulled his phone out from his pocket, snapping a picture of the name.

           “Where did you meet her?”

           Spencer shook his head and a frown pulled down at the corner of his lips.

           “I… I don’t remember.”

           “If you saw her, would you remember her?”

           Spencer nodded in affirmation.

           “You’re missing time, aren’t you?” I asked, causing him to look at me once more. His brows furrowed together and he was nodding again, slightly surer of himself this time.

           “It’s peeking out. It’s coming in flashes.”

           “And you’ve been drugged?”

           I didn’t know it was possible for his face to fall any more, but the look of shame that manifested itself when he registered my words was absolutely heartbreaking.

           “Yeah, but I didn’t take it myself,” he insisted, a spark of life burning bright in the depths of his eyes. Somewhere in there, under the haze of narcotics, was the same Spencer that had fought tooth and nail for his sobriety all those years ago. My heart broke for him.

           “Of course, you didn’t, Spence. We know that,” I said, almost reaching out to touch him before thinking better of it. “We’re thinking it might be Scratch.”

           Just like before, when I had first spoken to him, absolutely no sign of recognition showed itself on his face.

           “Scratch,” he muttered detachedly, much the same as before.

           Luke’s phone rang then and he excused himself for a moment before stepping away. I looked to Rossi and Emily, who seemed to also be at a loss for words. The silence that filled the room was excruciating, and I once again started to feel like the walls were closing in on me. I wanted nothing more than to scream, to cry out in frustration. The whole situation was unfair in a way that I didn’t think was possible. I was a big believer in karma; put good in and get good out, or something like that. But now, standing outside of a holding cell that looked more like a dungeon than anything, I was ready to throw away that belief entirely.

Of all the people that I know, Spencer was the least deserving of something like this.

           Just when I began to consider ducking outside for a breath of fresh air, Luke returned.

           “Hey, the team sent this. Is this the doctor you met?” he asked, pointing to a picture of a woman he had pulled up on his phone. The woman was of Mexican descent, with short, choppy gray hair. She appeared to be middle aged, from what I could guess.

           Spencer stared at the picture before nodding.

           “Her alias is Rosa Medina and her real name is Nadi Ramos. Garcia tracked her to a motel just outside of town. Does that sound familiar?”

           Spencer’s brows furrowed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

           “No.”

           “Okay, we’ll need to take Castenada and his officers with us,” Emily announced, before turning and heading towards the door.

           “Do you want company here?” Rossi asked.

           Spencer seemed to take a moment to process before answering with an almost imperceptible nod. He turned his head and focused his gaze on me.

           “Can… Can you stay?”

           Rossi turned to face me too, raising an eyebrow as if to say ‘are you okay with this?’ I gave him what I hoped was a convincing smile. Honestly, I wasn’t entirely sure that I could handle this; the this that I am referring to being a nearly catatonic Spencer Reid. I was used to the Spencer who regaled me with interesting tidbits of information whenever there was a lull in conversation. The Spencer that stood before me now was a shell of his former self, and that terrified me.

           “I’ll be fine here. Let me know if you guys find anything,” I told Rossi. He nodded once to me before enveloping me in a tight hug.

           “Resta forte mia piccolo colomba,” Rossi murmured in my ear. I hadn’t a clue what the phrase meant, but the words draped over me like a warm blanket. Suddenly the weight of the current situation didn’t seem so heavy, and I felt immensely thankful that a man like David Rossi was in my life.

           Rossi pressed his lips to the top of my head before releasing me. He gave one last, despairing look to Spencer before hurrying off after Luke and Emily. It could’ve been the light playing tricks on me, or maybe the exhaustion, but when Rossi turned away from us, I swear I saw tears welling in his eyes.

           And then there were two.

           I took glance at my watch for the first time all day, cringing when I saw the time to be 8:17PM. Quantico was an hour ahead, meaning Gavin was probably losing his shit wondering where I was. I sighed, fishing my phone out of my back pocket and turning it on.

           “Spence, I’m going to make a phone call really quick,” I murmured. He offered no reply, just as I had come to expect. He was watching me, standing stock still in the same place he had been the entire time. I moved to stand in the doorway, hopefully far enough away that he couldn’t hear me anymore.

           As soon as my phone booted up, a plethora of notifications came through. Seventeen missed calls and twenty-four unread text messages, to be exact. I decided to forgo reading the messages, instead pressing the return call button and tapping my foot anxiously against the floor. Gavin didn’t keep me waiting long, picking up on the very first ring.

           “About time you answer your goddamn phone,” he hissed out. “Do you know how worried I’ve been? I even called your office phone and no one would answer that, either. What the fuck is going on? Where are you?”

           “I’m… In Mexico.”

           A long pause followed and I held my breath, waiting for the onslaught to begin.

           “You left the country without even bothering to tell me?” Gavin asked, his voice raising in volume. I could picture him now; probably sitting on our sofa, fists balled together and jaw clenched. “Would you like to enlighten me as to why you’re in Mexico?”

           I closed my eyes, frustration bubbling deep inside me. Today was arguably the shittiest day of my entire life, and I certainly didn’t need Gavin harping on about how I hadn’t been in touch. Honestly, informing him of my whereabouts had been the furthest thing from my mind.

           “It’s Spencer,” I began, trying to think of the proper way to word it all. “He got into some… trouble. We think he’s being framed by Scratch.”

           “Isn’t that the guy that just went after Tara’s family?”

           “Yeah, it is. He’s been laying low for the past few months, and I guess he was just building up to all of this. It’s really bad, Gav,” I whispered the last bit, hoping that Spencer couldn’t hear me. If he did, he made no move that indicated it. “He’s high out of his mind and can’t remember anything.”

           “How long will you guys be there?” Gavin asked, completely ignoring the fact that I mentioned Spencer at all. I bit down on my bottom lip to keep from saying something I might regret. I understand that he doesn’t like the guy, but he could show some common decency and at least pretend.

           “I’m not entirely sure. Rossi, Emily, and Luke just headed out to go check on a lead. I don’t know how long that’ll take.”

           “Wait, so, where are you?”

           “I’m at the jail with Spencer, why?” I inquired, running my hand through my hair and absentmindedly combing out the knots that had formed. I was sure that I looked a right mess, but I couldn’t be too bothered to care.

           “Let me get this straight. They left you alone with a guy who is wasted on God knows what, not knowing how he’ll react to it?” A bitter laugh flowed through the phone speaker. “Sounds like you don’t exactly work with the smartest bunch. What if he tries to attack you or something?”

           I let his words hang in the air for a moment, unable to formulate a reply that wasn’t something like you’re being an absolute fucking dick bag right now. No, I was a grown woman and I was going to communicate like one, despite the fact that his ignorant reply was making me shake with rage.

           “The first thing I’m going to address is the fact that this is not some guy. We’re talking about my best friend and teammate, and his name is Spencer. Use it,” I said through gritted teeth. “The second thing is that he’s not some wild animal. He’s not going to try to come through the bars and pounce on me. What he’s going through right now is traumatic, and he doesn’t need to be left alone right now. Show some compassion.”

           “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry,” Gavin muttered. It was the most unapologetic apology I’d ever heard in my life, prompting me to roll my eyes. I don’t understand how I can love someone and want to throttle them simultaneously. “I’m just worried about you, is all. How are you holding up?”

           “I’m as good as can be expected,” I sighed, bringing my free hand up to rub at my eyes. “I’m just tired of watching this guy terrorize all of my friends. First, he takes Hotch from us, then he nearly kills Tara’s brother, and now this. I’m beginning to think we’ll never catch a break.”

           “I know you’re tired, baby. Just try to hang on a little bit longer. As much as I question some of their decisions, your team is good at what they do. You guys will catch him. I have faith in you.”

           There it is. That’s the Gavin that I fell in love with.

           “Thank you,” I murmured. “It’s been a long day and I needed to hear that.” I cast a glance back at Spencer, who was now staring down at his bandaged hand, an indiscernible expression on his face. He looked so lost, standing all alone in the grimy holding cell. The lights cast shadows on his face, making his already angular face look gaunt. The Spencer I knew was the human embodiment of light; filling up every room he was in with his delightfully idiosyncratic presence. The Spencer in the cell was so shrouded in darkness that the room seemed to be swallowing him whole, taking his brilliance and crushing it into smithereens.

“Gav, I think I need to get back in there.”

           “Yeah, alright. Just keep me in the loop this time, please. I don’t like not knowing where my girlfriend is.”

           “I’ll make sure to check in whenever I can,” I promised, before tacking on a, “love you.”

           “Love you, too.”

           I pocketed my phone with hands that shook, no longer from rage but from apprehension. I liked to think that I was good at my job. I had done well at the academy; not well enough to have graduated at the top of my class, but I did manage to be in the top ten. After lucking into the job of a lifetime, I had fully committed myself to learning to be the best profiler I could possibly be. Two years of piecing together the innerworkings of criminal minds had taught me more than I ever could have imagined about the human psyche. I had talked many a deranged psychopath down from the ledge, and I had saved more than a few lives along the way. Unfortunately, not all cases can end favorably. Those are the ones that taught me the most.

           For all that I learned, nothing could’ve prepared me to deal with the shell of a man that stood before me.

           I was standing in front of him now, fiddling nervously with my hands. When Spencer had originally told me about his battle with addiction, I had taken it upon myself to do some research of my own. I wanted to be able to identify the signs, God forbid he ever relapse. While conducting my research, I had read somewhere that the best way to support someone during a come down is by remaining positive and creating a calm, safe environment.

           I was currently the antithesis of calm, but for Spencer’s sake, I was going to do my best.

           I took a step forward and offered him a small smile.

           “I’ve never seen you in jeans and boots before,” I said. I was proud of myself when the words came out sounding relatively casual. “It’s a good look on you, but I have to admit I prefer the academic look. I suppose it’s the sapiosexual in me.”

           He gave no response, but the tinniest tug at the corner of his mouth told me that he found my comment amusing.

           I let my eyes drag over him again and I fixated on the bandage on his right hand, frowning.

           “Do you remember what happened to your hand?”

           Spencer raised his hand up, absentmindedly flipping it over and inspecting it.

           “I don’t know,” he murmured. Spencer’s usually high pitched voice came out gravely, no doubt a byproduct of dehydration related to the drugs. My eyes skimmed across the holding cell and I frowned when I saw no water fountain in sight.

           “M’ gonna go get you some water, okay?” I turned away and pivoted on my heel, taking one step before a hand wrapped around my upper arm. I spun around so fast I nearly caught whiplash.

           Spencer’s eyes were wide and full of panic, conveying more emotion than he’d had since we’d arrived. His eyebrows were drawn together as well, contorting his face into a pitiful expression.

           “Don’t go,” he rasped, his hand still firmly grasping my arm. “Please.”

           The hopelessness in his voice was like a dagger through my heart. I nodded fervently and placed my hand over his, prompting him to loosen his grip. He did, and I took his hand in both of mine. I rubbed my thumbs over his skin, haphazardly tracing patterns in an attempt to calm him.

           “Yeah, okay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” I soothed, bringing his hand up to my mouth and placing a chaste kiss to the skin. “I’ve got you, Spence. It’s all going to be okay.”

           The look of panic slowly washed away the longer we stood there. He held onto my hands like I was a lifeline, the only thing tethering him to the ground. While I longed for nothing more than to really embrace him, to pull all of him into my arms and hold on for dear life, the bars that separated us inhibited me from doing so. So instead I just relished in the feel of his hand intertwined with my own.

           It would have to be enough for now.

--

           Nadi Ramos was dead.

           I didn’t have to ask Emily to know that the situation had gone from bad to absolutely fucking terrible. We knew Scratch was a horrendous individual; that much had been proved by his preferred modus operandi. We also knew that he had become fixated on taking down each of us one by one. He’d tried twice with Hotch, even going as far as to target his son, resulting in the two of them joining WITSEC for their own safety. The next blow had come when he had set his sights on Tara, or, more specifically, her brother. We’d gotten lucky with that one, having located and freed her brother just in the nick of time. After the incident with Tara’s brother, we all expected the next attack to come in quick succession. When several months passed with no sign of Scratch, we all became terribly on edge. No one was saying it, but we all were waiting to see which one of us would be next, crossing our fingers and hoping it wouldn’t be us.

           I knew that none of us were exempt from Scratch’s wrath, but for some reason, I’d never imagined him targeting Spencer.

           And target him he fucking did.

           “We know you didn’t do this,” Emily spoke for the group, knowing good and well that we were all on the same page.

           “How did it happen?” Spencer’s back was to us. His shoulders were slumped and his face downturned.

           “She was stabbed multiple times. It looked personal,” Luke answered, his voice low and careful. It was obvious to us all that he was being extra careful with his wording, making sure to broach the subject carefully. We all knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Spencer was innocent; but that didn’t mean that Spencer did.

           Chief Castenada trudged into the holding cell, the portrait of all things cranky and unpleasant. His presence acted as a proverbial storm cloud on an already shitty day.

           “We got the results of your blood work. There’s cocaine and heroin in your system.”

           “What else?” Emily asked, causing Castenada to give her a confused look.

           “He was in possession of cocaine and heroin when he was arrested. I found what I needed.”

           I felt myself bristle and before I knew it, my mouth was open and I was spouting out pure venom.

           “Thanks so much for doing the bare minimum, but we’re going to need a full tox screen panel. We’re looking for scopolamine.”

           Emily’s eyes cut over to me and if I hadn’t been fighting on Spencer’s behalf, I would’ve withered under the weight of the shut the fuck up look she gave me. Instead, I continued on, silently praying I’d still have a job after today.

           “It’ll take longer, but we need it,” I explained in what I hoped was a slightly more accommodating tone. Castenada gave a curt nod in reply before exiting the room, grumbling something in Spanish that had Luke and Emily shooting daggers at his retreating figure.

           “Do I want to know?”

           Luke shook his head, shooting a small smile in my direction.

           “Let’s just say he’s not your biggest fan, and we’ll leave it at that,” he offered, before straightening out his expression and turning back to Spencer. “You were given a speed ball. The opiates block the dopamine in your brain. That’s why things go from clear to hazy. The combination of the drugs causes a dissociative state and explains the memory loss. Are you coming down now?”

           “I think so,” Spencer said. His cadence wasn’t as slow as it had been earlier, which was a relief.

           “Do you think you could do a cognitive interview?” Emily’s voice was hopeful, and if Spencer was one thing, it was a people pleaser. It was obvious that he was overwhelmed; I had taken note of the fact that he was displaying one of his nervous ticks. Spencer was touching the pad of his thumb on the tips of his other fingers in rapid succession. Despite his obvious discomfort, he nodded his head in agreeance.

           “I’ll try.”

           Rossi took the lull in conversation as an opportunity to hold up the plastic bag in his hand. I narrowed my eyes at it inquisitively. There were five vials of a murky, dark brown liquid in the bag.

           “There were five of these in your bag at the motel. Do you recognize them?”

           Spencer’s eyes zeroed in on the bag and its contents, his brows furrowing. It wasn’t long until a look of partial recognition flashed across his face. It was so faint that if he hadn’t been in a room of profilers, it would’ve gone unnoticed.

           “What is it?” I asked from my place at his side. He’d been somewhat clingy since the incident that had transpired while everyone was at the motel, gravitating towards me as soon as we all had been granted entrance to the holding cell. I knew that he needed familiarity right now; he was in a very vulnerable state and he needed something that made him feel safe and secure.

           Butterflies erupted in my stomach when I had realized what he was doing, that I was that thing that made him feel safe and secure.

Spencer opened his mouth once before closing it, as if trying to put his thoughts into words was difficult. He did this a few more times before settling on,

“Whatever’s in those vials, I was giving it to my mom,” he said, his eyes darting around the room as he spoke. “That’s the only thing I’m sure of.”

           “I’ll have them run it through the lab,” Rossi said, before leaving and heading towards the direction in which Castenada had retreated.

           Emily and Luke were quick to hop into a rushed conversation, leaving only Spencer and I still in the cell. I looked up at him, at the way his forehead creased as he bit his lip in quiet contemplation.

           “Are you sure you’re ready for a cognitive? I know the effects may be wearing off, but you’re gonna be cloudy for a while. If you don’t want to do it now, all you have to do is say the word,” I murmured, keeping my voice low so that only he could hear it. “I can tell that you’re a bit overwhelmed, and that’s okay.”

           Spencer’s response came in the form of a shrug of his shoulders.

           “I want to try, because I know it’s important. I just don’t know that it will be of much help,” he replied, casting his eyes down to me.

           “Yes, it is important, but don’t put too much pressure on yourself. We’ll figure this out even if you can’t remember it all right now.”

           Spencer nodded once before running his tongue across his chapped bottom lip.

           “I don’t remember what happened, but I know I didn’t kill her,” he whispered, barely audible. Even though his words were quiet, I could hear the desperation in them; almost as if he was begging me to believe them, begging himself to believe them.

           I made the irrational decision then to throw professionalism aside and wrap both of my arms around his torso, my grip tight and assured. Spencer’s aversion to touch was common knowledge amongst us all, but for some reason that never seemed to apply to me, and I could see in his eyes that the way we were all treating him like he was fragile was wounding him more than he would ever admit. I hoped to remedy that with my embrace, and the speed in which he reciprocated was so fast that I was certain he was thankful. He wrapped his injured hand around my waist, the other finding purchase in my hair. I felt his chest move as he let out a shuddering breath.

           “I know you didn’t, Spence. Everyone on the team knows you didn’t,” I reassured him, my words muffled as my face was pressed against his chest. “And we’re not going to stop until everyone else knows it, too.”

           I was well aware that our embrace had garnered the attention of our teammates, but Spencer’s hold on me hadn’t faltered in the slightest, so I didn’t let mine either. Instead, I gripped the fabric of his flannel shirt tighter in my hands.

--

           When Emily exited the room in which they had conducted the cognitive interview, the look on her face was grim. I visibly cringed at the sight as I felt the sliver of hope that I had left die a miserable death.

           We are so beyond fucked.

           “How’s he doing?” Rossi asked, obviously taking note of the distress on Emily’s face.

           “He’s made some breakthroughs, but I’m not sure how helpful they’ll be,” she sighed, running a hand through her jet-black hair. When none of us spoke, Emily’s eyes flitted around, finally noticing that our expressions were a direct reflection of her own. “What is it?”

           “They just charged Reid with the murder of Nadi Ramos.”

           Hearing it said aloud wasn’t any easier the second time.

--

           While the rest of us had taken it upon ourselves to lean against the cement walls, Luke had begun pacing down the short hallway. After about ten minutes of unbearable silence, he decided he’d had enough.

           “We can’t get him out of here, can we?” he finally spoke, his voice a mix of anger and desperation.

           “I don’t know how.”

           “He didn’t kill her,” I reiterated, speaking more to myself than the three of them.

           “If all I had to go on was the evidence, I would swear he did,” Rossi sighed. I knew he was right; Spencer’s personal belongings were all over the hotel room, which was about as incriminating as you could get. “But knowing Reid, hearing the cognitive…”

           “Yes, he said there was another person in that motel room, but,” Emily pressed play on the audio recording, and her voice proceeded to flow through the speakers.

           “Who has the knife? Who is stabbing Rosa?”

           “I don’t know. It’s in my hand.”

           Emily pressed the power button and the screen went black.

           “Right now, this is just more evidence against him.”

           “So, what do we do now? Do we just sit and twiddle our thumbs until the consulate agrees to the extradition?” I asked. “There’s got to be more we can do. We can’t let them take him to jail, he won’t survive in there.”

           “I called in some help from IRT. Clara Seger and Matt Simmons will be arriving at any moment,” Emily said, checking her phone after hearing it ping. “In fact, that would be them. They’re here.”

           I breathed a sigh of relief as we all fell into step beside Emily. Having people from other areas of expertise that are willing to help is a good thing. Maybe they’ll be able to see something that we didn’t.

--

           “We come bearing good news,” I announced, leading the group as we all entered the holding cell. Spencer was quick to turn around and the corners of his lips pulled upwards as he set his sights on all of us. “Back up is here.”

           “Hey Spencer,” Matt greeted, offering up a small smile before crossing his arms across his chest.

           “Hey,” Spencer replied, moving to stand up from his spot on the bench. He was still a little wobbly on his feet, but he was doing much better than he was when we had arrived. “Thank you for coming.”

           “Yeah, of course. Jack and me are finishing up a case in Costa Rica, so we hopped on a commercial plane to get here,” Clara explained.

           “We’re trying to stop you transfer to El Diablo.”

           Spencer’s eyes darted over to me and he swallowed hard before speaking.

           “Do you think it’s possible?” Hearing the hope in his voice tugged at my heart strings. The way that he could manage to stay optimistic at time like this was a true testament to his character.

           “Yes,” Clara began. “Lab reports on the vials came back and some of what was in there hasn’t been approved by the FDA, but there aren’t any illegal substances.”

           “That’s great news,” I sighed, letting out the breath that I didn’t know I had been holding.

           “Is there anything else you remember about your time here?”

           “I remember what happened to the vials at home. My mom threw most of them out.”

           “So, that’s why you were here. To get more,” Clara said in an attempt to clarify.

           “It must be,” Spencer murmured, shuffling anxiously from one foot to the other.

           “Well, you’re off the hook for that. There’s no contraband involved,” Matt announced. Okay, this is good. One less thing to worry about.

           “Yeah, but we’re still looking at the planted drug and the murder charges, which could keep you here for a long time.”

           “Can we do anything to delay the transfer?” I wondered aloud. Clara took into account what I said and sighed, before turning towards Spencer once again.

           “You said that you met Nadi, who calls herself Rosa, in Houston. Why didn’t she just give you the vials in the U.S.?”

           “I don’t know,” Spencer said, running his uninjured hand through his hair. “I don’t know, but she helped us and I trusted her. I was right to. I still believe that.”

           “Well, she convinced you to cross the border multiple times. She had you risk your life,” Matt argued.

           “Because she must have something to lose, too,” I mumbled, eliciting a series of fervent nods from Clara. “Family, maybe?”

           “We need to know more about her,” Clara said.

           And then, something glorious happened. It was like a switch had flipped inside of Spencer’s head, and all of the sudden the lights were back on. I could tell that he had been struck with an idea, and it was a wonderous sight to behold.

           “What was in those vials?” Spencer asked, only solidifying my observation.

           Matt produced a paper with the lab results and began reading off the results.

           “There are so nootropic compounds like Ampalex, uh, but also some more natural stuff; coral calcium, jimson weed, coconut oil, a variety of vitamins. B12, D3-”

           “Where are we right now?” Spencer interjected.

           “Matamoros, Northern Mexico.”

           “Jimson weed, otherwise known as the Devil’s Snare, originated in Mexico but its natural growing region is further north or south of the border,” Spencer said, his words flowing out rapidly. I felt my heart soar and I didn’t even try to suppress the smile that fought its way to my face.

           “Boy Genius is back,” I announced, and for just a moment, the mood in the room lightened for the first time all day.

           “So, if it isn’t from here, then were did she get it?” Clara asked.

           “Let me get Garcia on,” Emily murmured, dialing the number and tapping her foot as it rang. On the third ring, Penelope’s bright and cheerful voice filled the room, a sunbeam shining through on a cloudy day.

           “Please tell me you’re calling to tell me some good news.”

           “Garcia, I have some questions for you.”

           “Hey, Penelope,” Matt greeted, earning a pleasantly surprised gasp from the woman on the other end.

           “Oh my God, it’s the dulcet tones of Matt Simmons,” Penelope gushed. “Are you there to save the day?”

           “I’m trying. Clara’s here, too.” A relieved sigh floated through the speakers.

           “Knowing we have you guys as backup is providing me some much-needed hope, and I work better this way.”

           “Hey, lady,” Clara greeted. “We’re trying to catch up on a few things. Where is Nadi Ramos from?” Before Clara even managed to finish her sentence, the sound of Garcia’s acrylic nails tapping away at her keyboard could be heard.

           “Mm she lives with her family just north of Matamoros.”

           “That must be where she got the jimson weed,” Emily pointed out.

           “What’s weird in she crosses the border, like, a lot.”

           “Why?”

           “Well, she works in Houston at that clinic, but she also helps at a low-income healthcare center. I can’t find a visa on her, which is double weird. And, in finishing the weird trifecta, there’s a social security number on her W2 form.”

           “Social security? She’s an American citizen?” I asked. Matt confirmed my suspicions with a nod of his head.

           “Yeah, she had dual citizenship. She was born in Houston, and her family had to move back to Mexico. She lives with them and she works in the U.S.”

           “This changes everything. We need to talk to the consulate,” Emily stated.

           Just as things were beginning to look up, Chief Castenada decided to grace us with his presence once more; and this time, he had an entourage.

           “It’s time for his transfer,” Castenada announced, looking pointedly in my direction.

           “We’ve had a break in the case,” Emily argued, shaking her head at him. “The victim was also American, and that calls for extradition.”

           Castenada merely shrugged before walking past us all.

           “I’ve got orders, sorry,” he muttered, making Gavin’s apology from earlier in the day sound heartfelt in comparison. Castenada wasted no time in beginning to place handcuffs on Spencer, locking them in place with a definitive click. Spencer and I shared a look of panic before both of us looked towards Emily in a silent plea.

           One of the men roughly grabbed Spencer by the arm and led him from the room. I watched in horror as they led him away, my heart threatening to beat out of my chest. I barely registered the fact that Emily was now on the phone. I just stood there, staring blankly at the entrance to the cell.

           “With the victim having dual citizenship, we now have concurrent jurisdiction. It was my understanding that the official order to extradite SSA Spencer Reid would be evaluated,” Emily damn near snarled into the phone. She paused for a moment, listening to the voice on the other line, before a look of relief washed over her face. “I understand, thank you.” She promptly hung up the phone before turning to face Luke. “They’re taking it to their brass. Go get him.”

           Luke took off in a rush, not needing to be told twice.

           I only wished I could be there to see the look on Castenada’s face.

--

           “We’re working on all channels here. Matt Cruz is on with the consulate right now. We could get an immediate extradition, but it’s just the beginning,” Emily explained, her voice stern.

           Spencer regarded her with a weary expression. The drug induced haze had finally lifted, leaving him painfully aware of how dire the situation was.

           “I really screwed up and I’m so sorry,” he choked out, resulting in a crack forming in Emily’s hard exterior. I couldn’t blame her; it wasn’t easy to stay mad at Spencer Reid. Spencer’s eyes were like kryptonite to most; big and brown and full of emotion. I’m sure if you searched ‘puppy dog eyes’ in the dictionary, a picture of Spencer Reid would be found in example.

           “It was for the right reason.”

           “I can’t remember what happened, but I know I didn’t kill anyone.” It was obvious in the way that he kept repeating the words that he was desperate for us to believe him. No amount of calm reassurance from us could quell the voice in his head that was surely telling him that we thought him guilty.

           “We do, too.”

           Clara was first to enter the cell, immediately followed by Matt.

           “Hey, they approved the extradition,” Clara announced, smiling brightly at the three of us.

           “Effective immediately,” Matt added on.

           We all exchanged relieved smiles before Matt and Clara led Spencer from the cell. Emily and I were quick to follow, right on Matt’s heels when we were stopped by Castenada.

           “I must point out that I feel like justice isn’t exactly being served with this move.”

           I pursed my lips together. In the short time we had been in Mexico, my feelings towards the man had grown from distaste to almost a full-blown hatred. That being said, I couldn’t help but understand where he was coming from. If Spencer hadn’t been a federal agent, he wouldn’t be granted the privilege of the extradition. Nor would he be allowed to fly home with us. I hated to admit it, but Castenada made a valid point.

           “I understand, but I can assure you that this has gone to the highest ranks and there will be a full investigation,” Emily reassured him.

           “Thank you for working with us,” I offered in an attempt to smooth over the rift I had created earlier. Now that my judgement wasn’t so clouded by my need to defend Spencer, I could see the error of my ways. I hadn’t been the most professional.

           Castenada nodded once in my direction before turning his attention back to Emily.

           “For our reports, I would like to have the recording of that cognitive interview.”

           I felt my blood run cold. That interview would just add to the list of things that could be used against Spencer in court. He had openly admitted to holding the murder weapon in his own hands, an admission that would surely earn him twenty to life.

           We cannot give him that recording.

           Emily seemed to be on the same page as I was.

           “I didn’t record it.”

           Castenada’s face contorted into an ugly frown.

           “But that was our agreement,” he squawked angrily.

           “I determined he was still under the influence. Anything he said wouldn’t have clarified matters.”

           Castenada’s gaze never faltered, eyeing Emily in an attempt to discern if she was giving him the run around. Luckily, Castenada was unable to find a hint of dishonesty on Emily’s face, and he nodded in resignation.

           Years of profiling will teach you how to control your micro expressions.

           “You’re committed agents. And I’ve worked with the IRT before. I trust you know what you’re doing.”

           “We do. I promise,” I stated, my voice giving off more confidence than I felt. Yes, I thought to myself, there’s no doubt that we’re good at what we do.

           But so is Scratch.

--

           All was quiet on the jet, the steady thrum of the engine being the only sound that could be heard. Rossi had been the only one able to fall asleep, something that I would be sure to tease him about later. Next to Rossi sat Emily, who had busied herself with flipping through Spencer’s arresting report. Clara and Matt sat across from them, engulfed in their own hushed conversation.

           Spencer had opted to sit on the couch, but he didn’t allow himself to sprawl out like he normally would have done. He was visibly exhausted, wiping at his eyes frequently in an attempt to keep the fatigue at bay. It was almost like he was punishing himself; like he didn’t feel he deserved the solace that sleep would bring.

           “You should go talk to him. See if you can’t get him to lay down,” Luke whispered encouragingly from his seat beside mine.

           “I have no idea what to say to him,” I confessed. I tore my gaze away from Spencer and turned my attention to Luke. “There’s nothing I can say that will make this any better.”

           “You’re not wrong about that, but maybe just letting him know you’re here for him will help. Just go and sit with him, I’m sure he could use a friend right now.”

           Luke was right. I let out a dramatic sigh before shooting Luke a pointed look.

           “Since when did you get so insightful?”

           A grin stretched its way across his face.

           “Always have been, sweetness. It’s part of my charm. I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”

           “And on that note, I’ll be going,” I announced, standing up from my seat and walking the short distance to the couch. Luke’s chuckles sounded off behind me and I couldn’t help but smile; note to self, make more of an effort to get to know Luke Alvez.

I approached slowly, hoping not to startle him as he seemed to be lost in his own world. He didn’t notice me until I came to a stop in front of the couch. Spencer’s head shot up suddenly, the worry on his face melting away to form a small smile.

“Hi,” I greeted, returning his smile tenfold. “You looked like you could use some company. Do you mind if I sit?”

Spencer gave me a soft smile and scooted over, patting at the space next to him. I lowered myself onto the couch, angling my body so it was facing him.

“You’re tired,” I observed, leaning back into the soft cushions. Spencer shrugged in reply, opening his mouth to argue, only for a yawn to slip out. I let out a light laugh. “Don’t even try to argue. There’s no telling how long you’ve been up. Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

Spencer’s eyes reluctantly met mine and I felt almost paralyzed when I saw the sheer vulnerability in them.

“Researchers from the University of Cardiff conducted a two-part study looking at whether people’s daily frustration or fulfilment of their psychological needs, such as feeling autonomous or competent, affects their dreams. The results from the first study showed that people who were frustrated with their daily situation tended to have recurring dreams in which they were falling, failing or being attacked,” he rasped out, his words jumbling together as they fell from his mouth in rapid succession. “The lead author on the study concluded that negative dream emotions may directly result from distressing dream events, and might represent the psyche’s attempt to process and make sense of particularly psychologically challenging waking experiences.”

“And you’re worried your dreams will reflect what happened today.”

Spencer bit the inside of his cheek before nodding in affirmation.

“I can’t promise you that you won’t dream about those things,” I began, my voice coming out soft. “But I can tell you that sleep deprivation can cause lots of very unfortunate symptoms like impaired memory, reduced physical strength, and inability to concentrate. Do you know how I know those things?”

A light flush dusted over the tops of his cheeks.

“Probably because I’ve made it a habit to bore you with my information dumps.”

I shook my head adamantly, reaching a hand up and ruffling up his hair. He batted my hand away, ducking his head to try and hide the smile tugging at his lips.

“Never a bore, Spence. But yes, I know those things because of you and that remarkable brain of yours. And we’re going to need that remarkable brain in tip top shape if we want to get you out of this mess, understood?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he relented.

I patted a hand on my lap, an invitation for him to use me as a pillow. He seemed hesitant, eyes flitting from my face before going back down to my lap.

“Don’t act shy around me, Pretty Boy. I know better than anyone that you’re a secret cuddle bug,” I teased, earning a snort from the man next to me.

“Am not,” he harrumphed, before deciding to take me up on my offer. He laid his head down on my lap before stretching his legs out across the expanse of the couch. My heart lurched pitifully when he nuzzled his head into my leg before letting out a loud sigh.

“Thank you,” Spencer whispered, voice thick with emotion. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, casting tiny shadows on his face. I smiled at the sight and began carding my hands through his hair.

“No need to thank me,” I murmured, raking my nails against his scalp and eliciting a pleased hum from him. “Don’t you worry about a thing, okay? We’re going to get you out of this. I know we will. And don’t worry about your mom, either; I’m going to check on your mom every day, I promise.”

Spencer’s breathing stuttered at the mention of Diana, and I worried I had crossed a line. He stayed silent for a moment, before moving his hand up and squeezing my knee.

“You’re entirely too good to me.”

“Yeah, well, you’d do the same for me. That’s what friends are for.”

No more words were exchanged, and within five minutes Spencer’s breathing evened out and he was asleep.

--

Several hours later, we were all filing out of the elevator and into the bullpen. I shivered slightly as the cool air hit my bare arms, but I tried not to show my discomfort. I’d shrugged off my sweater and offered it to Spencer the moment we stepped off the jet, draping it across his cuffed hands in an attempt to conceal them. Spencer had thanked me with a pitiful smile and I returned the sentiment, blinking several times to try and stifle the tears pooling in my eyes.

JJ was the first to greet him, with Stephen, Tara and Penelope following closely behind. I watched on for a moment before my attention was pulled elsewhere. Stephen’s phone had rung, prompting him to slip away from the group and retreat further down the hall. I furrowed my brow at this, taking advantage of my colleagues’ distraction as I wandered towards Stephen. I strained to hear his whispered words, but just as soon as I neared, he ended the call.

“What was that about?” I asked quietly. The look on his face told me that the news couldn’t be good, and I didn’t want to ruin the reunion going on just down the hall. They all deserved a few moments of relief.

Stephen let out a long sigh and ran his hand through his hair before speaking.

“I, uh, just got a call. Reid isn’t eligible for the bureau’s legal assistance.”

Stephen’s words sent a jolt of white-hot dread through me. “How is that even possible?”            “Spencer went without being briefed, and he wasn’t in Mexico on government business. They refuse to represent him.”

I let my wary eyes drift down the hall, towards the group of wonderful misfits that I had grown to think of as family;

Penelope, whose optimism never wavered, even in the face of the absolute worst that the world had to offer.

JJ, a devoted mother with a heart of gold and a fierceness that inspired me every single day.

Tara, one of the most intelligent and caring women I had ever had the privilege to know.

Rossi, a father figure to all with enough wisdom to create a legacy that would inspire generations of profilers to be.

Emily, a fearless leader whom I trusted with my life and would follow into battle without question.

Luke, a newcomer who took special care to comfort me when I was at my worst.

Spencer, a man too remarkable to even try to describe with words. A man that anyone of us would defend until our very last breath.

That undeniable truth gave birth to the tiny sliver of hope growing inside of me. Spencer Reid was innocent, and we are all hellbent on proving it.

I nodded once in affirmation, more to myself than to Stephen, before allowing myself to meet his gaze.

“We’re on our own.”

And if anyone could pull this off, it was this team. My team.

There is a point when facing the unknown stops being a longed-for adventure and becomes a terrifying reality.

           -Storm Constantine

[what-is-your-plan-today]

Murder, He Wrote

Part 3 Co-Written with @southerngracela​

Summary: It’s Thanksgiving, but when you’re being held hostage by Hugh Ransom Drysdale there’s really not a lot to be thankful for, is there?

Warnings: Bad language words. MATURE (NSFW 18+) NON-CON situation, kidnap, violence. DO NOT READ IF ANY OF THOSE TRIGGER… READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!

Pairing: DARK! Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this is Part 2 to our submission for @jtargaryen18​ ‘s Haunted House 2020  Challenge. Once again READ THE WARNINGS!!!! This is a DARK Series… don’t @ us if you can’t follow simple instructions and end up with butt-hurt. And if you’re under 18…get off my blog.

Series Masterlist. 

You could feel the chill of the outside seeping into your space, your bones, through the vented window following your shower. The way it crept in made you realize just how far along through fall you were, maybe it was even approaching the onset of the holiday weather. Either way, a storm seemed to be outside. At least it felt like it. Once dried, you found yourself wrapping up tighter in the thick cardigan you’d chosen before you dried your hair, and allowed yourself a quick squirt of perfume before settled into the reading chair in the corner of your room, your journal on your lap.

The little, leather bound book had been in your handbag which had been given back to you earlier that morning as the latest reward for behaving and as you ran your hand over the deep brown cover, you couldn’t help the air of excitement you felt at having been given your treasured little note book, despite the dreary sky you could see from the porthole above your chair.

It had actually surprised you that Drysdale had kept it and not disposed of it the same way he had your phone and your car. But for whatever reason, he’d held onto it, and for that you were grateful. Grateful that you had something of your own from before this imprisonment to anchor too. You’d expected him to want some kind of favour in return but he hadn’t demanded any sort of sexual gratification, simply informed you he would be out most of the morning and would be back mid to late afternoon. As soon as he had gone you had eagerly tipped the contents of your bag onto the bed, almost crying at the sight of your half empty bottle of Coco-Mademoiselle, the Mac Lip-gloss, NYX Eyebrow pencil, Mont Blanc fountain pen, a full tube of mints and your treasured journal. With teary eyes you’d put everything away in its new place, apart from the book and pen before padding into the bathroom for a shower, deliberately sorting yourself out for the day. All you could think of was taking the time so you could savour the moment when you could hopefully make some sense of the jumble in your head by spilling it onto a page.

You opened the cover and flicked to your last entry, the morning of Halloween. A rambling rant about Mick-The-Prick filled the page and you paused, tears in your eyes, as you’d give anything to be stood in his office thinking about ingenious ways to kill him and get away with it. Ironic, really considering that was exactly what your captor had done; committed murder and gotten away with it.

You went to jot the date down in the corner of the page and realised that actually, you didn’t have a clue what it was. Down here, night bled into day, day bled into night…and soon it all bled into weeks. However, given the fact your cycle had been and gone a week ago you figured that it was maybe four weeks since Halloween. Of course, you could ask Hugh, but the less you had to ask him the better as far as you were concerned. You hate the fact that he had this hold on you, that you had to ask for and ‘earn’ things by being ‘good’. And whilst it made you sick to your stomach, you’d fast learnt it was easier to comply than rebel. The night he had left you tangled in your sweater had hurt. It had taken you a good twenty minutes to muster the strength to work your way out and drag yourself into a bath, your body shaking with the trauma, sobs wracking your frame. Your body ached for days, your mind in a post-traumatic cloud of despair. And whilst it hadn’t broken you per-say, it had certainly made you realise exactly what the bastard was capable of, and you had no intention of finding out just how much further he was willing to go.

So, in summary, it had taken Ransom Drysdale two days to break you into compliance.

You’d become passive, so to speak. You gave into his whims, let him use you as he saw fit, did as he told… for the most part anyway. There had been a few other incidents post the sweater one where you’d forgotten yourself and protested, fought a little and he’d gone hard on you, but nothing like that second night. Your passive behaviour was mistaken by him for compliance, and as such you had earned a number of rewards. The bistro table where you took your meals, a book or two which just so happened to be by his grandfather, a gesture you weren't sure was him purging or pressing an agenda onto you. And more recently and most preciously, your bag. But, the strange thing was, that whilst he wanted you to give into him physically, he seemed to enjoy the fact that you were in no way, shape or form compliant to him in others. You openly sassed him, bit back, called him out and he actively encouraged it. He’d started spending a little more time with you in the mornings and afternoons, not just visiting you to toy with you or fuck, but to engage in these little tete-a-tete’s, and the sickest, most perverted thing about it was that you were almost glad. The loneliness was crippling, and you craved company. Even if it was his.  

All things considered, you’d rather ask him for as little as possible so instead, you flicked to the front of the book and crossed off the days on the small calendar inside the cover. Deciding that the date it led you to was as accurate as it was going to get, you turned back, jotted it down in the top right of your page and stared at the blank lines, looking to sort your thoughts for your next entry.

The saying used to go, what's in a name, however as I sit here thinking back on the last few weeks I wonder now what's in a day. My days consist of imprisonment. Held by a captor I have met once before. He's smart, almost too smart. Displaying forms of abuse and aggressive behaviors any FBI analyst would love to dive deep into. But that's not my job, no, my job is to please and satisfy him. Answer to his whims of gratification at any call of the day. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. But if I behave, he lets few things get by. I miss home, my bed, my life. I miss Mick, which is saying a lot all things considered. I don't know still what he wants from me, other than the obvious sexual gratification with little to no room for anything else. I'm a toy, a means to an itch. I don't know how long exactly I've been here, I can only guess it's been about a month. Nor do I know how long I'll have to stay. The answers are blurred like my vision, marred by tears and the low light inside. I haven't seen outside since the day he took me. I haven't been anywhere outside this room. I can see from the small porthole window above this stupidly soft leather chair the season has changed. It feels like deep fall, and as a storm comes outside, what little sky I see is bleak and dark, clouds covering the bluest of skies, angry and ready to open up, raining down water to wash away the sins of the day. I wish I could do the same. 

Before you realized, time had obviously passed, for the sound of the door bolts unlocking had you guessing it was late afternoon or early evening. A glance up at the porthole behind you confirmed as much. The sky was dark and rain had been beating on the window for a little while. 

In came Drysdale, hair a bit wet, a strand slightly out of place, wool pants and maroon sweater. He carried a plate of food in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looked irked, like he'd wasted time on something, a look you were now able to decipher after weeks of seeing it. 

"Happy Thanksgiving," he said, setting the plate down on the bistro table with its two accompanying chairs, waiting for you to join him. 

Instead of biting back, you simply whispered, "it’s Thanksgiving?" You checked the inside cover of your journal and see the date again. You were a day off and it now dawned on you. It was the fourth Thursday of the month and indeed, Thanksgiving. You glanced back up at Ransom and a deep sadness washed over you. Closing your journal and setting it on the table by your chair, you stood, moving towards him and the plate of food. You took a seat and looked down at the plate, full of the holiday dish basics; turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, stuffing, diced not candied yams and roasted green beans. It was gourmet and nothing near what he'd been serving you or managing to try. "Thank you," you said softly, rolling your fork through the potatoes. You take a bite but it's about as bland and tasteless as your despair. 

"I brought it back from the country club, I met my father there," he looked under your gaze again, as if willing your eyes to his. "Do you not like it?" 

Finally, your gaze met those cold cerulean orbs, setting your fork down and you took a drink of water, "No, it's fine." Then you picked up your fork again and took another bite, this time of the turkey and gravy. You didn't have it in you for an argument or it's physical ramifications. 

"Are you not hungry?" Ransom pressed. 

"I guess not as much as I thought," you repled further poking at your food, your voice cracking a little as you try to keep your composure. The sting of the holiday has you broken, far more than you'd expected. Normally, today you'd be helping your mother in the kitchen, settling the final touches on the side dishes and listening to your father tell your uncle about some a-typical dad joke he'd heard. Your sister would be giddy over the wine while her boyfriend of the month received death glares from said uncle and your father. 

Ransom outwardly sighed and you wait for what you were trying to avoid. "Are you alright?" 

The question threw you off guard completely and you struggled to hide the shock from your expression. He never cared about your feelings before. Maybe he thought you were coming down with something. You braced yourself to answer honestly. There was no point in lying, he'd see through it. 

"I'm fine, I'm not sick if that's what you're thinking," you answered, a deep restraint on your tone to keep yourself in check. "I hadn't realized what day it was. I didn't know it was Thanksgiving." You swallowed the lump in your throat and blinked hard. "My mom, my sister and I, we used to all help make dinner as a family. My dad and uncle would talk a bunch of shit around the fireplace while shooting death glares at my sister's flavor of the month."

He looked at you like he was confused. You scoff, "Of course you wouldn't understand."

"What's that supposed to mean?" He squint his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek. His body language completely changed as he leaned forward on his forearms, popping one shoulder up higher than the other. 

"Nothing," you backed down immediately. 

"Tell me," he pressed. 

God, he was relentless. You pushed your plate forward and leaned on your own elbows. You looked at him with a raised brow, "am I going to be in trouble if you don't like what I have to say?" 

"Depends," he popped a shoulder smugly. 

You matched his expression and his demeanour falters just a fraction. You saw it, but you didn't hold back. "Then I'd rather keep it to myself. That's what you want isnt it? Me to comply, be obedient? Frankly, I'm not in the mood." 

He failed to hide his smirk and you noticed that too, "Sweetheart." It wasn't laced with teasing, rather his pet name for you on his tongue held a cautious venom. 

"You hate your family. You know nothing about love and what it takes to give love. Hell, I don't doubt that for a minute you've ever felt loved. It's all an act. Self-preservation even. I don't know you or your family outside of the hours of research I did and the mere forty five minutes I listened to you drone on about your 'predicament'. But, the cold hearted truth of it is, you don't know how to love." You watched him run his tongue along his teeth as he continued to glare at you, but you weren't finished. "And that's what family is, it's what they do. They love, they are the embodiment of love at its deepest root. Maybe, just maybe somewhere along your life, your parents loved you, but judging by the Thrombey-Drysdale standards, none of you know what love is outside your selfish tithings and flashy cars. It got lost along the way, more than likely long before you ever were born."

"Wow," he raised his brows and clicked his tongue against his teeth, "That's good, that's really good."

You're fear receptors suddenly spiked as recognizable flash of anger in his eyes flashed through his irises. But there was something else there that you couldn't put your finger on it. Your breathing quickly up-ticked as you felt your palms begin to sweat.

He inhaled a deep, almost centering breath, "that perfume in your bag, I like it."

As if he'd grown a second head, you blinked hard refocusing on him. Had you heard him right? You'd just broken a rule, laid out an unspeakable truth for him and now in a blink he's, God forbid, complimenting your scent? Who the fuck was this guy? Was he on meds? Because he should be or he should at least probably share. It might make life here more bearable. "What?" 

"The perfume from your bag, you're wearing it. It smells good," he lamented. 

Alright, now the 'of sound mind' argument might be worth something because he sure as shit wasn't now. You swallowed and picked up your fork, taking a bite of the cold food just to buy yourself some time as you tried to process the scene before you. You had no remark to make. Confusing jumbled any thought of a coherent word you could utter. 

"Maybe if I'm out, I can pick you up a new bottle. I noticed you were near empty," Ransom offered. 

This was starting to make your stomach turn. If he'd gone through your bag, because why wouldn't he at this point, smelled your perfume, had he read your journal? You made a mental note to go back through and see if there was anything he'd read that he had used against you thus far or could use to corner you in the future. You looked around the room, waiting to see if you were being Punk'd. Just who the fuck is this guy? Without your expression giving too much of your confusion away, you nod at him in reply. "Thank you, I'd like that."

"Hmph," he paused, a dramatic effect he seemed to know that your heart rate up in anxiety. "Well, then why are you looking at me like I have two heads, Y/N?" 

Tread lightly, you thought to yourself. He didn't call you by your first name often, in fact, the last time he had, you were very much smarting back and it resulted in a forceful situation that left you raw and sore for a few days. It was always 'Sweetheart'. 

He baited you, you knew it, but you couldn't back out now. So you sighed, "I know I'm not supposed to ask questions, but, I don't even know who you are right now. Do you? One minute you're giving me food and being gentle, the next you're allowing my opinion, and now you're ready to flip this table. That's as close as two heads as it gets." 

"Careful, Sweetheart," he now glared at you. There it was, you were in for it. The approach of choice, you weren't sure of, but he was done. You'd learned the different tones in his voice by now, the cues he gave. You were definitely in trouble. You dropped your eyes to your plate. The food stone cold and no longer even appealing in its slightest measure, a wave of nausea washing over you. You further pushed your plate away, "I don't think I'm hungry anymore."

His broad frame rose from the chair, "you weren't to begin with," his left hand reaching for the plate and holds it in his hand, "Third drawer down in the armoire. Pick something, I'll be back."

You watched him leave, the familiar click of the door shutting and snap of the lock sounded around the small apartment and you exhaled loudly, your head dropping into your hands. This wasn’t the first time he’d requested that you ‘dress for the occasion’ so to speak. With a deep breath you stood up and crossed the room, opening the drawer of requirements, seeking out a negligee for him to no doubt remove. Your fingers roamed over the fabrics and selection. La Perla, Agent Provocateur, Carine Gilson, Coco de Mer and Fleur of England were just a handful of the expensive, high-end brands that filled the space. Your fingers smoothed over a black macrame and tule underwired long line bra and the matching thong that was folded neatly under it. Plucking it from the drawer, you headed for the bathroom. You slipped out of your casual tee, duster cardigan and leggings, the bra and panties you'd had on. You sighed as you took a good look at yourself in your naked form. 

While you hadn't lost a ton of weight over the last month, you could tell you'd grown thinner. You weren't gaunt but your lack of a daily Dunkin' Donuts macchiato had seemed to thin you out. Your captor made sure you were fed, but you didn't always eat. The plump of your cheeks had receded and your little pooch brought on by happy carbs was sucked into your frame. There were a few bruises still seen, near green, an indication of their final healing stage. The pock mark from a hickey he'd given you still a bit scaby as he'd broken the skin just barely. This was your life now and it made what few bites of Thanksgiving dinner in your stomach nearly lurch forward back up your throat.

You swallowed it down, pulling the long line bra straps up your arms and clasping it behind your back. Your legs slipped into the thong panties and you pulled the material up your freshly smooth legs. Your shaky fingers plucked at the hair tie that fastened the end of your brain closed, nails raking through your hair to loosen your tendrils. He always wanted your hair loose. You looked at yourself in the mirror, you were ready. 

***** Ransom tossed the un-eaten food into the garbage and dumped the plate into the sink to be dealt with later. Turning so that his lower back was leaning on the edge of the kitchen counter he ran a hand over his clean shaven jaw, his mind ticking over the events of the day so far. A pain-in-the-ass Thanksgiving meal with his father had been made bearable by the fact he knew he was coming back to her, and because he hadn’t wanted to be a complete monster he’d made the effort of bringing her a nice dinner back too. But she’d hardly touched any of it.

And what disturbed him most about it, was the fact that instead of wanting to punish her for being an ungrateful bitch, he instead felt a deep rooted sense of concern. She’d lost weight, her face was pale, her hip bones more pronounced, and frankly the last thing he wanted was her passing out on him. Whilst he wanted her compliant, necrophilia really wasn’t his bag.

He had thought by giving her back the bag she’d had on her the night he took her he might have seen a lift in her spirits so to speak, a little gratitude, but instead she’d been meek and reserved until he’d coaxed that familiar sass out of her. And even then she’d been reticent.

It should have pleased him that she was learning her place and becoming more subservient. But if he was being honest with himself, he almost missed her fighting and arguing back. It had been exciting in a way, and he had thought it would have taken longer than it had to break her so to speak. Maybe he had overestimated exactly what a fighter she was, maybe she wasn’t the right muse for his writing after all. Because, let’s face it, writing a tale about a woman who was captured and broken into submission within two days, merely becoming a puppet for her captor’s whims was hardly going to win him any accolades was it? He needed more, needed something that he could spin a good story from. He knew now that when he went back down to her he had to try a different tact so to speak, he needed to coax her mind into reacting not merely her body.

Because if he couldn’t do that, there was no point in keeping her.

He allowed her half an hour or so before he headed back down the stairs and found her sat on the bed, dressed in one of the sets he’d purchased, her hair loose round her face and shoulders the way he liked. She jumped to her feet and he had to actively supress the groan that was rolling in his throat as his eyes scanned her up and down, and he didn’t miss the slight bruises that dotted her skin in various places where he’d marked her as his own. She’d long since stopped trying to cover herself up. Instead she stood stock still, her eyes focussed on the floor.

With long strides he walked into the room and stopped in front of her, tipping her chin up with his finger so she was looking at him, her eyes wide with trepidation and he gave a smirk as he reached up, brushing her hair off the side of her face and neck, dropping his head as he did so.

“You smell so good, Sweetheart.” He inhaled against her pulse point, lips pressing into her there. He felt the gasp of her breath, the way her skin pricked with chill bumps. He smirked to himself, he’s found her spot. And he filed that away, committing it to memory. 

“I like this…” he practically purred as he toyed with the straps to the bra, a long, thick middle finger outlining the strap against her skin, lips following pursuit.

“You should, you chose it.”

He chuckled, ignoring the snark behind her words. “Like I chose you, huh?”

Like I chose you.

His words echoed around your head, reminding you exactly why you were in this fucking situation. Because he had decided you would be. He wanted you, and just like with everything else in his life that Hugh Ransom Drysdale wanted, he simply took. But what worried you the most about all this was whether or not you would be discarded the same way he no doubt discarded the other possessions he lost interest in.

You took a deep, steadying breath as his hands moved from the straps of your bra, long fingers moving to caress the back of your neck, but there was no grabbing, no force. He was being positively gentle.

And it scared the crap out of you.

“Are you afraid of me?” He asked, his breath hot and wet in your ear as you trembled under the further graze of his fingers against the macramé of your set. 

“You know I am," you swallowed nervously. You weren't new to this, this wasn't your first time, but the way he was being soft, a stark character change to his a-typical stance with you was what had you crawling in fear in the inside. Was it a game? Was it some sort of ploy? Was this his idea of foreplay now before he turned it up and went hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to make you cry?

A flat palm ran down your abdomen, already taught in fear. But not before a thumb grazed along the underside of your breast. Agonizingly slow, his hand, still splayed over you, dips into your matching macrame panties, dipping into your wet folds, thumb lightly pressing against your clit. 

“You’re so wet, considering you’re scared.”

You didn't answer, just swallowed hard, the lump stuck in your throat as it fought against a little whimper. 

His mouth once more latched onto your neck, the kisses gentle as opposed to the bruising ones you had become accustomed to. The fingers in your folds matched his slow nature, teasing you in such a way that when you closed your eyes and focussed your mind elsewhere, you could almost believe you were somewhere with a man you’d given permission to touch you in such away. But when his lips moved to your jawline and you took a deep breath, the heady scent of his cologne hit your senses and your eyes flew open as you were reminded just whose lips and hands were violating you in such away.

You swallowed as Ransom pulled away, his hand gently grasping your chin once more as he issued a simple instruction.

“Strip for me, sweetheart.”

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the bile that had once more risen up your throat as he sat down on the edge of the bed, his legs bent, hands resting on his knees as he watched you the way a lion watched its prey. You undid the clasp on your bra, your eyes remaining locked on his as you slid the straps down your shoulders and dropped the garment to the floor. Your captor took a deep breath, his eyes flicking down your body as you moved to shed the bottom half, wondering what on earth had been the point of wearing it in the first place. But even as you asked yourself that, you already knew the answer. It was a bout power, another way for him to remind you just who you belonged to now. How he could strip you bare in more way than one without even lifting a finger.

But lift a finger he did, curling it in mid-air as he beckoned you towards him. You took careful steps over the floor until you were stood in between his legs. His large hands smoothed up the outside of your thighs, before he pulled you towards him, his nose brushing the skin of your abdomen as he took  a deep breath, fingers curling round your thighs.

And then, in a flash he stood, taking you with him, and before you could so much as utter a squeak or noise of surprise he had you naked, laying across the bed, the sheets cold against your skin, a contrast to the heat emanating from the body against yours. The look in his lust blown eyes was overwhelming. You didn't know what you were in for but as his body, still clothed in the frayed maroon sweater and wool slacks sunk into the mattress between your legs, you felt a chill course through your veins, your skin, again, pricking in bumps all over. His hands, with their thick fingers, trailed long lines up and down your thighs, Ransom's full lips kissing at your sensitive inner skin, a nip or two here and there as he went from your knee, upward. 

He could smell your arousal, see it glistening as it dripped from your core. "Someone's ready," he quipped. He watched you swallow hard, a literal lump in your throat bobbing the skin. Your eyes never left him. "No cumming until I tell you. Do you understand?" When you didn't answer immediately, he swiped his tongue over your wet lips, tasting the honey your body gave him, your back arching away from sheets. "Do you understand?" 

And there it was, your punishment finally arriving from your little moment before over dinner. As you still had your wits about you, you uttered a single word response, in the hope that the more submissive you were, the more accepting you were of your chastisement, the less hard on you he was going to be.

"Yes." 

His mouth expertly devoured every inch of you, from your inner and outer pussy lips to the depths of your walls, tongue fucking you like you he was starving, the lavish holiday meal he'd partaken in not filling enough. His thumb pressed against your engorged nub, causing you to writhe but a firm arm over your abdomen kept you in place. The same thick fingers that traced lines up your thighs, two were now buried deep inside you, his tongue working away any juices that seeped out. As he gave you a third, stretching you more, you felt your walls start to tighten, that burning coil in your belly flare and your hands gripped the sheets tighter. 

Ransom could clearly feel you flutter against his fingers as he stopped his assault and looked up at you.

"What did I say?" 

Your chest heaved, your stomach taught and you fought to obey. When you managed to calm yourself, he began again, almost from square one, slowly, tantalizingly slow. 

The action was torture and you were desperately willing yourself to remain grounded as again your body fought to ride over the edge building inside you. When his mouth was over you completely, tongue deep, thumb pressing again into your clit, you felt the urge to cum. But he pulled away, slowly, his thumb stopping the pressure, his tongue slowly dragging out of you. 

"I said no. This is your punishment for your smart mouth over dinner."

"Please, I need to, I'll... I'll make it worth your while, please just let me." Your voice sounded alien as you spoke, the words leaving your mouth in the desperate hope he’d take pity on you but to no avail. Your attempts at bartering served only to frustrate him, anger him even and he Ransom backed away, roughly pulling you to the edge of the bed before stripping out of his sweater and undershirt, the undeniable outline of his hard cock along his thigh strained against his wool slacks. 

Harsh in his grip, he repositioned himself between your legs, your thighs across his shoulders, ass dangling above the floor as a heavy arm kept you still. His flat tongue, hot and full of your sex was eating away at you while his final throws of resolve ate away at him.

“I’m done playing fucking games.” he growled against your aching cunt “I should have gagged you, stuffed my cock deep into the back of your throat, something, anything to shut you up.”

You barely had time to register his words before once more you were flat out against the mattress, trying to regain your breath and calm yourself down when he backed away, tore open his flies and smirked down at you.

"Oh no, Sweetheart, we're not done yet."  He kneeled beside you, his chest heaving, hair completely out of place, anger and wait, was that pain, flickering in his eyes as he stuffed you with a hard thrust of his length. "Now you’re gonna cum on this dick."

He thrusted hard and within a few slams of his hips against yours, he allowed you the release you were begging for, "that's right, Princess, cum on my cock." 

You wept at the feeling finally freeing you, cries of pleasure spilling from your lips as you squeezed around him. Your chest heaving against his, skin to skin. The fabric of his wool pants hot and itchy against your inner thighs. He was still thrusting but now it had slowed to a roll, slow and calculated. Your muddled mind was buzzing and rapidly trying to sort out if he'd cum inside you or if he wasn't finished. His features were softer, but still filled with purpose and his lips latched onto a naked breast causing your body to react, tingles and flames licking at your core again. His eyes looked up at yours as he caged you in, still buried deep inside you, hips rolling. 

"I said we weren't done," he rasped. His thrusts and rolls, the two very different tactics mixing now, made the swell of his cock inside you abhorrently pleasurable. Try as you might, it was impossible to feel otherwise. 

And Ransom was finding it equally as hard to hold on. His weight was evenly distributed over her, his cock swelling inside her heat. It took all he had not to blow his load the first time he made her cum, hearing the sinful sounds of her orgasm that felt like a volcanic eruption around his hard shaft. But now he could feel her again, tiny little pulses around his already overtly sensitive dick. He was sure his precum was leaking out, wanting to paint the way for the rest of him to follow. He rolled and thrust as his lips nipped at her neck. She moaned loudly, her body exuding lust. He could feel her shake beneath him and to his delight and surprise her eyes were no longer screwed shut and turned away. Instead they were locked on his. The moment those deep hued orbs met his, he felt a hitch in his breath and tightness in his chest that travelled through his belly and into his cock, causing the thick member to throb inside her. Tiny, soft hands gripped at his biceps, her touch a fiery scald against his skin, almost as if it were frost bite. Her touch equally shocking as her stare and he gave a roll of his hips to hide what he felt. A deep, satiated roll of his hips that sent her over the edge. 

"Hugh!" She came around him, harder than her first, crying out his given name. It snapped him from his moment of revelation, driving him insanely frustrated at the word leaving her lips. He slammed into her as she rode out her orgasm, chasing his own. 

You felt the dismissal of his body as he violently pulled free from your walls, spewing his hot seed over your abdomen, drops claiming your tits too. He nearly collapsed, his dick in hand, the other holding himself up against the mattress between your legs. 

He left you there, dirty, degraded and shut the door with a barked instruction for you to clean yourself up. You no longer cried in front of him, either before, during or after. There was no point. He didn’t care about how you felt, but the thing he DID seem to care about was the fact that you still refused to call him Ransom. 

It was the one thing you held on to, the only thing that gave you an inch of control in this entire fucked up situation. You hadn’t missed the look on his face when you’d cried out 'Hugh' in the throes of your last orgasm. Before that moment there had been a softness in his eyes, one that had unnerved you no end, along with something that had looked suspiciously like hope. But when his given name had tumbled involuntarily from your mouth and not the one he preferred that softness had turned to contempt and you didn't miss the undercurrent of disappointment either.

And seeing that, knowing that it pissed him off and dare you say it, upset him so much was your single, albeit feeble, act of rebellion that served as a desperate boost to your ever waning inner strength. *****

Ransom laid in his large, plush bed, hands behind his head as the silk sheets pooled at his waist as morning was in full swing outside. His thoughts strayed to his girl in the basement and he took a deep breath, shifting slightly as he remembered the way her fingers had felt as they’d curled around his biceps, her touch firey but cold. That had been the first time she’d touched him when she wasn’t trying to push him away, it had been involuntary, he knew that, a reaction to the way she’d been feeling, the way he had made her feel. 

A twitch resounded deep in his belly....the way he made her feel.

He realised now that he’d been going about this the entirely wrong way. The force had been necessary to make her comply at first, but last night she hadn’t just complied she’d participated, just what he had wanted all along. And all after he’d shown her a little leeway, brought her dinner, entertained her talk. He understood now that he needed to play a different card from his hand. She responded better to conversation, talking. Ransom hated fucking talking, he was more cerebral, calculating. Conversation means connecting, and connecting was something he wasn’t particularly interested in normally. He needed to lead, to be in charge, but it was clearly what she knew and thrived on, so he had to swallow his apprehension down to play the long game, to get what he wanted. 

Now he understood that, it was going to be so fucking easy. All he had to do was to seemingly show her compassion, a little give so he could take so to speak. He rolled his head, cracking his neck as he remembered what she said about cooking with her mom so he decided that after her stellar performance last night, today she’d earned a bigger reward than a book or some journal. He was going to show her what she could have if she just gave in and admitted what he knew she truly wanted. A large house, a garden, a pool, a hot tub, silk sheets, a large bed, and a man to fuck her every way to heaven and back. He could give her everything that any woman could possibly desire, and then some.

With a twitch of a smirk across his lips, Ransom pulled his naked frame out of bed and slipped into joggers, a soft waffle knit thermal long sleeve pulled over his tousled hair. He felt like company for breakfast and he knew exactly to invite up. 

His bare feet padded with purpose over the plush carpet of his room, down the stairs and onto the first floor, over the hard wood and marble tile of the halls and entry, down the plush carpeted spiral staircase down to the basement.

He reached the door and gently turned the locks, quietly pushing the door open as he turned the knob. It opened quietly and his eyes fell upon the empty bed. He frowned slightly, wondering where she was. Then his eyes found her, sitting curled up with her eyes cast upward, that little tease of a porthole window in her focus. She'd turned her chair around so she could see it more clearly, the throw blanket he'd tossed at her the week before was wrapped around her body. He didn't know the time, but it wasn't early nor was it afternoon. Not that it mattered, neither had anywhere else to be.

"Good morning," he said lowly. He watched as her eyes slowly moved away from the only bit of outside world she'd seen for weeks now.

"Morning," she replied quietly, her eyes locking onto his. "I err, I was just..." she trailed off. "Actually, I don't know what I was doing to be honest."

He stalked up to the chair, kneeling in front her. His hand reached up and cupped her cheek, his thumb running over her cheek bone. "You were such a good girl last night. Took me so well, teased me with that little number you had on. I've thought about you all morning."

Ransom watched her throat bob as she swallowed before licking her lips and biting the inside corner of her lip. Such an innocent gesture that had him half hard straight away.

"I want to give you something. But you have to be good, or it goes away," he started. "Can you be good, Sweetheart?"

She nodded, slightly. "Okay," he smirked. "Now, fix the chair and come up to make us breakfast."

Ransom stood back, allowing you some space to accommodate his request. You slipped the throw blanket from your shoulders and left it in the chair as you rearranged the piece back to its normal state. You met him at the doorway. You didn't miss the way his eyes moved over you, the way they lit up in a way at as he looked at the silken material covering your body. The dark teal silk and lace cami set was just one of a handful of options he'd provided for you. All the same, different colors, all in your size. 

You hesitated for a second, not sure if this was another one of his little games but he simply met your eyes with his own and nodded up the stairs. With tentative, shaky steps you climbed them, sensing him close behind you as for the first time in weeks you left your prison.  You felt anxious, highly on edge and nervous. What was awaiting you? There was the sickening feeling in your stomach of excitement too, you hadn’t seen the outside since Halloween. You paused at the top of the stairs in the hall. The kitchen was directly across from you, the entry to your right. The door to the basement clicked shut and you felt Ransom’s firm chest behind your back as his form invaded your space. He dragged a finger down your arm causing the strap of your top to fall away, placing a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Straight ahead, Sweetheart."

“Okay,” you whispered before you slowly made your way through to the large, airy kitchen. You stood looking around, taking in the fancy appliances before you turned back to Ransom. "Did you have something in mind?”

"Well..." Ransom leaned in the doorway, watching you as you stood in the middle of the tiled floor "Yesterday wasn't the first time you said you enjoyed to cook so I thought you might like to." His eyes flicked once more down your frame and back up again before he nodded his head towards the rear of the room. “Anything you need is in the pantry and fridge.”

“And I can make anything I want?” You blinked, not quite able to believe what he was allowing you to do. It was fucked up that you were even considering this as a reward but, you’d take it. Boy would you take it, anything to grasp some sense of normality in this day-by-day hell you were living.

“Sure.” Ransom popped a shoulder again and you took a deep breath before you turned and headed to the sink to wash your hands before sorting out your menu and you froze. The outside landscape had stopped you cold. From what you could see of the back garden the property was secluded, not over looked. A lawn extended a fair distance back from the rear of the house, a neat decking area stood to the right which sported a hot tub and a little further down there looked to be a pool of some kind which was covered over for the season. Trees hung over the bottom of the garden lining the high wooden fence, what few leaves they still sported were shades of crimson, gold and brown and the river traced it’s banks as it curved around the side and back of the house, the sun shining off the surface, giving it the impression it was made of sapphires. It was breathtakingly beautiful and you felt your heart shatter, your eyes well and you couldn't help but hold back the urge to weep as your chest contracted painfully. You were so close to the outside, separated only by a pane of glass, yet it had never felt further away.

His voice broke you from your despair and you swallowed back the sob that choked your throat as you flicked your attention to the left, Ransom's reflection drawing closer towards you as he crossed the terracotta tiled floor.

"Everything alright?"

You cleared your throat and gave a quick shake of your head, "Fine."

Again you felt him in your space. His presence consuming. “You sure?”

Sure? No you weren’t sure. Because none of this was fine, in fact it was as far from fine as it could possibly get. In that moment you wanted nothing more than to spin round and hammer your fists into any part of his body you could hit but you knew that it wouldn't get you anywhere, bar back in the basement likely shackled naked to the bed so you instead turned slowly to find yourself caged in by his broad frame so close to yours. You cast your eyes downward, uncomfortable at his searching stare, "Yeah, I’m sure.”

Your tongue flicked nervously over your lips as you continued to avoid his gaze before you cleared your throat “How do you like your eggs? Or would you prefer an omelette? Pancakes even?" The urge to move away from him pulled you away from your idea of a menu. Brunch basics were flooding your brain and you rattled off a few nervously. He may have said you could make whatever you wanted, but right now, you had no clue. Seeing a different space, the outside world and breathing new air had rattled you.

“You choose.” Ransom spoke softly, his hand reaching up to brush your hair off your face before he tipped your chin up so your eyes met his. He looked at you, and you swallowed as for the first time there was something unreadable on his face. His eyes were looking at you in a way they’d never looked at you before, with a softness you’d never have anticipated he could possess.

"Waffles." You suddenly blurted out, desperate to escape his gaze "I err, do you have a waffle iron?”

“No.” He deadpanned.

"Oh," you swallowed "Erm, then in that case French toast...maybe? Is that ok?"

“Sounds delicious.” He said, his hand dropping from your face, “Sure it’ll taste almost as good as you.”

“Great. How about with fresh Chantilly cream and berries if you have them?” You asked, completely ignoring his blatant back handed compliment and you started familiarizing yourself with the space as you glanced around.

“Like I said, whatever you want, Sweetheart.” He shrugged, and with that he stepped back to allow you to move away.

Ransom watched her move around the luxurious kitchen, looking through the pantry and cabinet near the stove taking out cinnamon and vanilla, plucking items like bread, butter, eggs, berries and cream from the fridge. Searching drawers for utensils and measuring cups and spoons. Finding a pan and bowl from a bottom cabinet. Measuring sugar from the glass jar on the counter. He hoped the ingredients were still fresh, he wasn't exactly sure how long they'd been stored. She moved like she belonged there, he thought to himself. So sexy looking in her nightwear, bare feet on the tile, her ass and breasts moving underneath the silk as she stretched and worked. 

"Coffee?" He offered, as he moved from one side to the other. He made sure his exquisite espresso machine was ready as it sat in all its glory on its own portion of the counter like a batista station inside Starbucks. 

He didn't miss the way she watched him move around her, preparing the coffee and grabbing the orange juice from the fridge. He reached over her shoulder, his body brushing against hers as he opened the cupboard where he kept the glasses and mugs. He peered down at her, giving a twitch to the corner of his mouth. A smirk indeed. He noted the way her eyes followed him as he poured the juice, like he was going to poison her or something. 

"It's just juice, Sweetheart," he said nonchalantly and put the juice back in the fridge. He set the breakfast table for them and took a seat in his place, a now hot cup of coffee in his hand, hers sitting on the counter next to her. 

It wasn’t long before she had finished and brought the plates to the table, sitting down timidly in the seat to his right as he gestured to it, stopping her dead as she was about to make her way around to the opposite side.

It was quiet, the only sounds heard for a while were the click and scrape of forks and knives cutting away at the plates of food. Ransom wouldn't admit it out loud, but this was the best French toast he'd ever had in his life. Something about it, the way it was not soggy, but perfectly moist, the edges just crispy. The way the cream made for no syrup and the sweet berries added the final element. He watched her pick at the food for a moment or two as he glanced over at her and saw a small bit of Chantilly in the corner of her mouth.

A long arm reached across the table and automatically she flinched a little, as if she was going to pull away but one firm stare stopped her in her tracks. His thick thumb padded away the white, sweet cream and he brought the same thumb to his lips, sucking the cream away. He lifted his brows in a teasing manner and twitched up his lips, "Delicious. Like I said, almost as good as you, Sweetheart."

"Thanks, I think," she paused. 

"Trust me, I know."

The comment seemingly threw her off her meal and it didn't get past Ransom. She had started picking at it, moving it around the plate like she had done with her dinner the night before. He, on the other hand, was near finished. 

"Are you still not hungry?" He inquired. 

She shook her head, "I just made my portion too big. I overestimated my appetite, I guess."

"Huh," he placated her reply. He knew she was lying but he let it slide, realizing that seeing a new space, the window to the outside was overwhelming. So, he thought he'd sweeten the deal. "I thought maybe you'd like to see the house," he offered, watching as her big eyes locked onto his and she took a deep breath.

"That sounds nice, thank you."

"Good, after breakfast then." He nodded affirmingly, as if it were drying ink in his mind. He picked up his coffee and finished it off, his plate already clear. 

She stood from the table, collecting his plate with her own and headed for the sink. He turned in his chair, stalking her, watching her every move. The way she pitched over the sink, bending her frame over the dishwasher to load it as she cleaned up the kitchen. 

With each bend and snap of her hips, he felt his mouth water more. Her little silk cami riding up as she moved, her breasts falling in and out of a fuller view. When she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, he was on her. He moved behind her, his hands grabbed her hips as she spun around completely startled giving a gasp and a quick yelp. 

"Easy, Sweetheart," he chuckled as she looked at him, her eyes wide.

"Sorry... you, err...you startled me." She whispered as he moved his hands so they gripped at the side of the kitchen counter on either side of her, caging her in with his body.

"Some women would like that," he quipped, arching an eyebrow a little and watched as she swallowed hard and cast her eyes downward. Moving one hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder and around her neck, he tipped her head back up so those large, Bambi eyes locked onto his.

His hand adjusted, gripping her chin softly as he moved closer still, dipping his head he pressed a firm kiss to her lips. He felt her go rigid, her chest spiking as she drew in a sharp breath, her body shaking slightly in his hold. "Stop fighting it..." he whispered against her mouth before he kissed her again. This time, his tongue traced the line of her upper lip, the feel of it soft and soothing.

You felt his tongue line your lip and you couldn't hold the whimper of fear that passed through you. He’d never kissed you before, not on the mouth anyway. You felt him deepen his kiss, his big hand cupping your face, pulling you into it more. Your mind went elsewhere, imagining anyone but him kissing you like this. You couldn't deny it, this intimate moment, completely lost on both of you for different reasons, felt good and he was good at it. He was damn good at it in fact, and that alone made you want to vomit your breakfast into his throat. At that, you jerked back, panting a little, feeling your lips swollen from the way he'd sucked your bottom one between his, pulling at it just the right way. You hated the feeling between your legs that it had evoked, your body betraying you just like it always did.

In an attempt to stave off the conflicting emotions spiking within you, you focussed on his face, the face you hated and to your surprise he looked dazed. The usual stoic expression that clouded his features had been replaced with something akin to surprise but no sooner had you noticed it, it was gone.

"Clean up and I'll meet you in the study." He told you, his voice a deep almost pained whisper. 

"But I don't..." you started but were quickly cut off. 

"You're a smart girl, figure it out," he smirked and slipped away. 

You were tempted to follow, just so you'd see where he was going but you knew not to defy a command. The feeling of unease seemed to disappear as you slumped your shoulders and instead defeat filled your frame. A trembling hand came to your lips as jittery fingertips touched your swollen skin. Your bottom lip quivered like a ripple in a river and you quickly covered your mouth, turning on a dime as your French toast littered the sink. If the water hadn't been running already, Ransom would no doubt have heard you retching. You rinsed your mouth out to attempt at hiding that vomit taste from your tongue and quickly finished your task of cleaning up the kitchen, salty tears dripping from your chin, mixing with the soapy water. 

When you could stall no longer, you sighed and headed out into the large hallway, taking a quick look around. It was light, airy, the grand staircase swept in and curved round to the next floor and your eyes lingered on the heavy wooden door just beyond it. You hesitated, and then with a dejected sigh realised there was no point even trying to escape. Even if it was unlocked, which you doubted, the threat to your family was just too much for you to risk. Instead, you decided to head down the corridor to your right and found yourself in a large open plan living room of sorts. It was decorated in clean whites and crisp greys with a huge feature stone open fireplace and sported a bar at the back. A brown leather sofa and two matching arm chairs were strategically placed around an expensive looking coffee table but you didn’t bother to look at the rest, this wasn’t the room you needed so you turned back on yourself, walked back into the hall and took the turning to your left.

This time you found yourself walking into what you could only assume was his study-come-den of sorts. It was huge, and once again sported a sofa pushed up against the wall, looking out over the spectacular view of not only the garden but the river too. But that wasn’t what caught your attention, nor was it the walnut desk and laptop that sat upon it. It was the floor to ceiling bookshelf behind it. Your mouth dropped open as you made your way towards it but then you stopped, biting your lip. Were you supposed to be looking at them? But, he had said to meet you in here. And left you to find your own way.  Surely, if he didn’t want you looking around he wouldn’t have left you to it.

Throwing caution to the wind you strode forward, your pace hurried this time and your eyes quickly scanned across some of the books. You couldn’t help but feel shocked. Whilst there was a huge collection of his Grandfather’s books, and a number of other crime novels of types, it was the colourful spines to your right that made your chest heave in delight. The entire Harry Potter collection. With a shaky hand you reached for The Philosopher’s Stone, noting the British version of the title, and opened the front page giving another gasp as you read the publishing details.

This was a first edition.  And from the date you also knew it would be one that contained the misprint errors. And as such, would be worth a small fortune.

“See something you like?” that familiar voice hit your ears and you gave a little shriek, jumping around, clutching the book to your chest to avoid dropping it.

“I’m sorry.” You hastily began to apologise “I was just…erm…”

“It’s ok.” He assured you, crossing towards you. Once more he encroached into your personal space and you felt the blades of your shoulders press into the shelf behind you. “Harry Potter fan?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, “Didn’t think they’d be your type of thing.

“They’re not really.” He shrugged “I’m a collector. Everything on the shelves, well they’re all first or limited editions, so worth a lot.”

“Figures.” You mumbled, turning round and slotting the book back into the space it had come from. As you did you felt him push up behind you, his hands on your hips, the unmistakable feel of his hard on dug into the lower part of your back and you fought to stop yourself shuddering. He was after pay-back for allowing you to leave your prison.

“Did you like the house?” he asked, brushing your hair off your neck.

“Yes.” You answered politely, your voice catching a little as he placed a kiss to the crook of your shoulder.

“You know, it could all be yours sweetheart if you just stopped fighting what you know you want” His kisses continued up your neck as his words whirled around your brain and you were back to where you had been in the kitchen. It felt good. And that disgusted you.

“Did you enjoy making breakfast?” he whispered, his lips by your ear.

“Yeah.” You nodded, your voice barely there.

“Show me how much.” His teeth nipped at your lobe, his hips grinding forward and you swallowed and closed your eyes. You knew what he wanted but as you turned to face him you had an idea. One which would save you being fucked no doubt over the desk or on the hard looking couch.

With a lick of your lips you looked at him and sank slowly to your knees, taking his sweats with you. His hard cock sprang free, slapping his lower abs and you reached out, grasping it in your hand.

“Fuck, yeah baby…” Ransom hissed as you moved your head forwards and took him in your mouth.

You pulled out all the moves, you took him as deep as you could, gagging a little as he wasn’t a small man. You kept your hand firmly on the base of his cock, you hollowed your lips, you swirled your tongue around his shaft and he let out a little groan his hand fisting in your hair as his hips bucked forwards.

“Jesus, I knew your mouth was smart but…” he panted, looking down at you. You raised your eyes to look at his as he bit his lip, his entire face contorted in pleasure…

Pleasure that was ruined by the sound of the doorbell.

 “What the fuck…” Ransom growled out, un-fisting his hand from her hair. “Who the fuck is that?”

He glanced down at her and she looked up at him, wide eyed. She was a mess, swollen lips, wet chin and dressed in nothing but her skimpy tank and shorts. With a frustrated growl, Ransom pulled his dick out of her mouth and grabbed his phone from the table to check the doorbell camera. His face blanched as he saw who it was.

“I don’t fucking believe it…” he mumbled, as she looked up at him.

“Who is it?” She asked, wiping her face, “I’m not exactly dressed for visitors, Hugh.”

Ransom might have been pre-occupied with the familiar face staring at him from his phone, but he still picked up on that 'Hugh' and he glared down at her. “No shit, and because we have a visitor, I'm gonna let that one slide. Get up.” She rose to her feet, blinking a little as he pulled off the thermal he was wearing and tossed it to her. “Put that on. No one gets to see you in silk but me.”

She blinked as she caught it, confusion spreading across her face. “Don’t you just want me to go-“

In a flash, he grabbed her chin between his thumb and finger and she winced, “If I wanted you downstairs I’d have said. So put the damn shirt on, and when he starts asking questions just remember what I said I could do to your family and friends.”

In complete complacency, he watched her slip his thermal over her head, her fingers barely peeking through the sleeves to fix her dishevelled hair. The material hit her mid-thigh and his eyes brows gave a flicker of approval before he walked to the entry and opened the door. "What do you want?"

"Pleasure to see you too, Mr. Drysdale..." that infuriating Southern drawl hit Ransom's ears with all the finesse of a cheese-grater. Benoit Blanc, without so much as a gesture of request, pushed past Ransom as he strode inside, stopping in the tiled entry, looking around.

"Do you have a warrant?" The man of the house snipped in his usual spiteful tone.

Blanc still didn’t reply, and Ransom rolled his eyes following him as he wandered down the hallway, stopping at the open door to the study. "Well, if it isn't the lady of the hour."

Ransom stood behind Blanc, an infuriatingly warning glare sent his girl's way. He noted the way she was sitting on the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, lips still swollen, cheeks flushed, hair tousled. She looked like a sex kitten, and maybe that was the idea. He warned her to sell it after all…

"Excuse me?” Y/N looked up at the two men in the doorway. 

Blanc stepped inside the room, taking a seat on the edge of the same couch where she sat. "I've been looking for you, young lady. A lot of people are looking for you, you know Miss Y/L/N.”

“I errr…” she swallowed a little as she slowly got to her feet, her hands pulling the hem of the thermal down before she folded her arms across her chest, not in a defiant manner, but almost as if she was hugging herself “Did someone send you or…”

“No, nothing like that. You see, I heard you'd gone missing, and I knew you had a work connection to Mr. Drysdale, that, shall we say didn't go quite as planned. So when things started adding up, I thought to ask the man himself."

“Well, congratulations, this is one mystery you actually solved correctly, Sherlock. As you can see she’s here and she’s fine, and we were in the middle of something, so if you don’t mind….” Ransom folded his arms, his eyes moving from hers to Blanc, who was irritatingly completely ignoring him, his gaze focussed intently on the woman who stood in front of him.

Ransom could see him take her in fully, now seeing the situation he may have just walked in on. She looked dishevelled and was missing crucial parts of her clothing, but she had no tears in her eyes, no markings looking to be of abuse or out of the ordinary. None that were visible anyway. Blanc’s gaze then dragged over to Ransom who was bare foot in joggers and still half aroused, which he did nothing to hide as he folded his arms over his naked chest.

Ransom held Blanc’s gaze, his chin jutting out defiantly, the detective only looking away when the lady of the hour spoke, her voice quiet, as she gave a small nod. "He’s right, I’m fine."

"Then why not tell your family where you are?”

“I err…” Y/N’s right hand gripped he cuff of the sweater sleeve tightly, “I just, well, I…”

Ransom could see that she was losing it and he knew he had to intervene. He walked over to her and placed an arm around her, kissing the top of her head lightly, "It's alright, Sweetheart. I know how he can be frustrating. We're doing nothing wrong."

With that he turned his gaze to the man in front of him, not even trying to hide the sneer of contempt that was crossing his face “I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you Blanc.”

“Well, maybe Miss Y/L/N has some crayons hidden up her sleeve so to speak.” Blanc smiled innocently and Ransom felt the anger floor his system.

“You’re starting to really piss me off.” he snarled, “You barge into my home, without so much of an explanation…” his rant was stopped dead as Y/N placed her hand on his chest, palm splaying over his bare skin. Ransom swallowed at the touch of her fingers against his skin, firey hot just as they had been last night when they curled around his arms.

"Hey," she spoke and he looked down to see her giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but one that should be enough to convince the dumbass detective who was watching them. "It's okay." She then turned to Blanc as he held his hand up, palm open, speaking to Ransom.

“I’m not trying to be frustrating Mr. Drysdale, I'm merely enquiring after Miss Y/L/N’s wellbeing."

"I'm not here under duress if that's what you're thinking.” She spoke, clearing her throat. “Hu… Ra, we have had to keep our relationship private,” she stumbled on the right identity, settling for 'we'. Clearing her throat again and settling her nerves, she continued, "Mr. Blanc, as you well know, I'm reporter and his background has been less than stellar as of late. It no doubt would not look good for either of us if it had come to light. My reputation as a journalist would have been in tatters.”

“Well, lies and deception certainly go hand in hand when it comes to Mr. Drysdale...”

Ransom rolled his eyes dramatically “Change the record, Blanc. The static is a little loud.”

Blanc completely ignored him, his attention still on her. “So you caused all this worry, because of some…” he waved his hand in front of him, gesturing between the pair of them. 

Ransom’s arm curled round her even tighter, his fingers pressing into her hip and he felt her stiffen a little before she relaxed into his side and gave a small nod.

"Like I said, it wouldn’t have gone down well with my family, or my career.”

“Ahh, yes, your job, which you quit.” Blanc looked at her. “Yes, I spoke to your boss.” He answered her unasked question. “Why would you be so worried for your reputation as a journalist, if you’re not actually a journalist anymore?”

At that she took a deep breath “I quit the paper because my boss is an asshole. His antics on Halloween were a step too far. But that doesn’t mean I have no intentions of working ever again. I'm currently taking a long overdue sabbatical.”

Blanc studied her again, almost as if he was weighing something up and she once more began to fidget and Ransom decided he’d had enough.

"Okay, I’m done being polite,” Ransom moved his arm from around his girl and stepped towards Blanc, placing himself directly between the detective and the woman. “You've interrupted out little post brunch love affair and I’m horny, so…do you need help finding the door, or can your super sleuth skills figure the way back out of it on their own?”

“Miss Y/L/N?” Blanc spoke, his eyes locked onto Ransom’s. Ransom felt the nerve in his jaw twitch, the fact that Blanc wasn’t scared of him irritated him no end.

There was a pause and then her voice came clearly from behind him as she spoke, “If you'd be so kind as to not tell my family where I am, I'd appreciate it. I prefer this time without their unwanted opinion.”  Her voice was steady, measured almost. “You can tell them that you've found me, alive and well."

Blanc knew he wasn't welcome, he had proof of life and no reason to suspect foul play. He stood, his long wool coat falling into place around him. "Well, then I guess my work is done." He brushed passed Ransom and gave a quick quip, "I'm warning you...." 

"What was that?" His girl wondered. She'd heard him. 

"Have a nice day," Blanc nodded curtly “I’ll see myself out.”  

You watched the back of the detective as he left the large living room, Ransom following him to the doorway where he stood, arms folded, watching. The sound of Blanc’s feet on the tiles of the hallway grew fainter and fainter until eventually they stopped completely.  The latch of the door sounded and you fell to the closest thing you could sit on. Your while body shook with a chill that crept into your bones but not from the cold. No, you were sick to your stomach in fear and worry. The bile of deceit rose to your throat and had you not already spewed up your breakfast it would have most likely decorated the carpet of the study.  Instead, you swallowed down the sour bile as Drysdale approached you and you glanced up at him, blinking whilst he studied you for a second, his face passive. As you held his gaze, something akin to amusement flashed in his cold blue eyes and a twisted smirk spread across his face.

“Your acting skills certainly improved there along the way, at the end you were almost award worthy.” He drawled, his hands falling to his hips. “Even Meryl Streep would be jealous.”

"Fuck you," your voice quivered.

He arched an eyebrow, an amused expression on his features “Already played that game Sweetheart, and carry on back-chatting me and you’ll be back in the basement.”

"Wh... What?"

"You pulled through in the end there. It was a rough start, but you convinced Colonel Sanders that you were here on your own."

“Colonel Sanders?” You blinked, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Blanc. CSI KFC.” He replied. You were none the wiser as to what he was going on about and it must have shown on your face as he simply rolled his eyes. "Never mind...the point is, sweetheart, I'm in a good mood. And seeing as you behaved...”

"What?" Your voice was quiet, meek.

"If you shut that pretty little mouth for longer than a second, I'll explain." His tone was measured but you didn’t miss the underlying threat.

“Sorry.” Your eyes fell to the floor, your left hand worrying at your right.

“Eyes on me.” He barked and your head whipped up automatically and he smirked at you as you took a deep breath. “As I was saying, seeing as you were such a good girl, I thought I’d reward you, let you stay up here with me for the day.”

The notion shocked you. Your mouth went dry and you couldn't make sense of it. But then, the more you thought about it, the more his audacity irked you. He’d imprisoned you, used you, abused you…and now he was implying that staying in his company was a fucking reward.

“Wow, thanks…” you blurted before you could stop yourself, sarcasm lacing your tone. As soon as the words had slipped from your mouth you felt panic flood your system as he stepped towards you and reached out, his right hand curling around your throat.

"Don’t push me sweetheart.” His voice was low as his fingers squeezed the column of your neck, a reminder of how easily he could simply end it all whenever he chose. 

And just like that the softness that he had displayed with you earlier that morning was gone, and the shutters were back up. You swallowed hard, feeling the strain of your throat against his touch, his eyes now dark and full of that familiar angry lust and desire that chilled you from head to toe. Blanc had riled him, gotten underneath his skin, that was easy to see while your mouthy comments fuelled that ire. And as such, he needed an escape, an outlet.

And he was going to get it from you.

“Now on your knees and finish what you started."

[the-modernmary]

my best habit || aaron hotchner x reader (ch. 3)

Chapter summary: The morning after, and you and Aaron are getting back to your old routines, and you go to the BAU for the first time.

Warnings: mentions of smut, but nothing really explicit.

A/N: thank you all so SO much for reading this story!! i love that you all are enjoying it! icymi, i went ahead and put up an intro + blog rules that you can read here!! Please, please read these are they do apply to this story!

masterlist || read on ao3

And here we go again, we know the start, we know the end

Masters of the scene

We've done it all before and now we're back to get some more

You know what I mean

-ABBA, “Voulez-Vous”

~~~~~~~

You woke up the next morning to the smell of coffee wafting throughout your apartment. Still half asleep, you slowly blinked your eyes open and slid out of bed. You cursed to yourself as you stood up; your whole body was sore. A small grin grew on your face as you realized exactly why you were sore, the memories from last night coming back to you.

You walked out of your bedroom to your kitchen, where you were greeted with the gorgeous view of Aaron, hair wet and still in just the sweatpants he borrowed. Clothes from last night were scattered around the living room, untouched. “Mornin’,” you grumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

Aaron, on the other hand, looked wide awake. “Good morning. I hope you don’t mind, I took a shower and made some coffee,” he greeted.

“It’s fine, as long as you made enough for me,” you told him through a yawn, although it was unnecessary, considering you were almost positive that he prepared you some coffee already. Mornings after with Aaron weren’t exactly domestic, per say, but they were efficient and friendly. Both of you knew you had your lives to get to, and you were willing to help out the other one to make sure they succeeded. The routine worked, and you had grown to look forward to it.

Aaron just chuckled and pointed to your refrigerator. “Already done. You still take it iced with caramel syrup, right?”

If the fact that Aaron remembered your coffee preferences after so long made your heart skip a beat, you elected to ignore it. It’s not like it was a complicated order. Instead you just sauntered towards the fridge, brushing past Aaron’s bare skin on your way over.

Aaron turned to look at you as you grabbed the drink out of the fridge. Now that you were more awake, you could actually take in Aaron in all of his morning after glory. Even with it damp, his hair was fluffier and falling into his eyes, free from any styling product he usually used. His shoulders were relaxed and, you noticed with a smirk, broader than they were before. So he had been working out...

It wasn’t until you got to his bare torso that a soft gasp left your lips, your heart sinking to your stomach. There were nine, almost identical scars, all raised and seemingly staring right at you. You had been so distracted last night that you hadn’t noticed them, but now you weren’t sure how you didn’t see them. They looked healed, but they weren’t faded much, and they definitely weren’t there last time you saw Aaron.

“Aaron,” you whispered, unable to take your eyes off the thick white lines covering him. “What happened?” Almost as if you were in a trance, you reached out to him, wanting to run your fingers over the scars.

Aaron moved to the side quickly so that he was out of your reach, his eyes hardening. He immediately went into defensive mode. “Nothing that you need to be concerned about,” he said firmly, signifying the end of the conversation.

Really, he should have known you well enough to know that you would keep pressing him. “Are you okay?” you continued, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

Aaron walked towards his discarded shirt from last night, putting it on quickly so that the scars could be out of sight. “These weren’t meant to kill me,” he said finally, sadness seeping into his words.

That’s what made you decide to drop the topic. If the scars weren’t meant to kill Aaron, then they were probably supposed to be a torturous reminder, and based on his reaction, it was working. You also figured that it wasn’t just any serial killer who gave those to him, and bringing up his dead ex-wife's murderer wasn’t part of the lighthearted banter the two of you had perfected.

Clearing your throat, you quickly shifted the topic to fill the silence that was hanging over the two of you. You lifted yourself so that you were sitting on the countertop. “So... what time should I be at the BAU?”

Aaron finished buttoning up his shirt and was now reaching for his slacks, his back still turned to you. But his shoulders looked like they relaxed, even a little bit. He was grateful at the subject change. “As soon as you can. We want to try and wrap up this case as quickly as possible.”

“Shit, I still have to shower and get ready. You should have woken me up when you woke up,” you mused, taking a sip of your coffee.

Now fully dressed in the suit he wore yesterday, Aaron turned back to face you, the corners of his lips quirking up in a smile. “I tried,” he explained, slowly letting down his defenses again. “It was hard to tell with the covers you pulled over your head, but I think you told me to go fuck myself or something?” His eyes twinkled with amusement as he made his way back towards you, placing his hands on the counter on either side of you and standing in the space between your legs.

You just shrugged, taking another sip of your drink. “What can I say? I was spent last night and needed my rest,” you told him, feigning innocence.

If Aaron was trying to hide the pride in his eyes at your comment, he didn’t do a very good job at it. His eyes flickered back and forth between your eyes and your lips. “I should get going soon,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you. “I still need to stop by my house to get a change of clothes.”

You placed your coffee to the side of you so that your hands were free to cup the sides of his face. “Probably,” you agreed, but you were still leaning towards Aaron. “But you’re the boss. Who’s going to get you in trouble if you’re a few minutes late?”

Your forehead was pressed against his by now and your thumbs were stroking his cheeks. You could see the desire in Aaron’s eyes, which you were sure was reflected in your own eyes, but instead of taking you right there on the counter like you were hoping he would, Aaron simply pressed his lips to yours, just long enough to leave you desperate for more.

“As tempting as the offer is,” he murmured, his lips still brushing yours. “I really do need to get to work to prepare for our meeting today. And... I’ll need the time to field all the questions I’m sure Dave will have for me about my sudden departure yesterday.” He added the last part as an afterthought, as if he just remembered that the entire BAU was watching the interrogation from yesterday.

You pulled away from Aaron ever so slightly, raising an eyebrow. “They know you’re here?”

Aaron shook his head, much to your relief. You weren’t sure if you would be able to face his entire team if they were all aware you had been sleeping with their unit chief. “Just David,” he admitted. “And that’s only because he figured it out before I could even come up with an explanation. But he covered for me and told the rest of them you were just one of Sean’s old friends, so if any of them ask…”

His words trailed off, but you understood what he was implying. You raised your hands in faux surrender. “Got it, don’t need to tell me twice. And don’t worry, no more flirting in front of your coworkers. I will be the epitome of a professional law intern. I can be a good girl when I want,” you teased, and you were rewarded as his eyes darkened.

“The way you said that makes me think you can’t,” he told you, his voice low.

You laughed and leaned in to kiss him again. The kiss was slow and deliberate and you could feel his lips curling into a smile. Aaron’s hand reached up to cup the back of your head, pulling you in closer to him. There was an unusual softness to the kiss, and you were surprised to realize that you liked it.

You pulled away reluctantly, looking directly into Aaron’s eyes. “You should go to work,” you reminded him. “I’ll be there in an hour or so.”

Aaron stepped away from you and made his way to the door, patting down his pockets to make sure he had everything. You slid off the kitchen counter, watching his every movement. Aaron hesitated as he reached for the doorknob and instead of just walking right out, he turned around to look at you. “When you said yesterday ‘If you ever need somebody to help you pick up those broken pieces’... Did you mean it, or was that just to get a reaction out of me?”

His words were hesitant and vulnerable, which was so unlike him that it took you a second to respond. You realized slowly what he was insinuating: He wanted to keep seeing you. The thought made you happier than you had expected, but that was something to unpack way later.

You kept your voice light in your reply, hoping to calm his nerves. “A little bit of both,” you joked, and Aaron gave you a small smile. “But to answer the inevitable next question, I also would like to see you again and continue this. At least, that’s what I’m assuming what you were going to ask, considering the amount of times you said I was yours last night. ‘My cock whore’ is a new one.”

Aaron let out a breathy chuckle, nodding to himself. He didn’t say anything else, he didn’t have to. The two of you knew the rules to this relationship, and it was already coming back like it was second nature. So instead, Aaron just opened the door, leaving you with a “I’ll see you at the BAU.”

~~~~~~~

Luckily for Aaron, his house was on the way to the FBI headquarters, so he was able to change clothes and be in his office in only 30 minutes. He wasn’t there as early as he usually was, but it was still early enough as to not raise any suspicion, and nobody questioned it when he made a beeline to his office, giving general greetings to the people he passed.

When he sat down at his desk, Aaron really did have every intention to do the paperwork that was slowly piling up and consuming his entire office, but his mind was wandering too much to focus on bureaucratic red tape. Flashes of the night before sped through his mind.

He remembered the way Y/N begged for him to touch her and how good his name sounded coming from her lips. He remembered her face as she was pressed against the wall and the almost animalistic smile she had given him when he had his hand wrapped around her throat. He thought about how beautiful she looked as she was coming down from her orgasm, mascara tears running down her face, hair tangled and sticking in every direction, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath, and the adoration in her eyes as he muttered praises to her.

Aaron hadn’t planned on asking to continue the situation he had with her. Last night was supposed to be the only time, considering the amount of baggage that came with that relationship for Aaron. He and Haley had technically been divorced when he first met Y/N, but it was just barely and it just toed the line of being a full blown affair. Going back to Y/N now could potentially complicate everything and bring up feelings about Haley that he had buried. But Aaron couldn’t deny that being with Y/N was a welcome distraction. There was no pressure to be “on” all the time. He didn’t feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. He felt more at peace than he had in a long time.

“He needs to know you weren’t always so serious…”

A knocking on his office door shook Aaron out of his thoughts. His head shot up to see Rossi, who was leaning against the door frame with a knowing look in his eyes. “You know,” Rossi started before Aaron could even get a word out. He walked into the office and made sure to close the door behind him. “Pretending to do work is more effective when you actually have a file in front of you.”

Aaron audibly exhaled, gesturing for Rossi to take a seat, although it was just a formality; Rossi was going to talk to Aaron about the situation whether or not Aaron wanted to. Rossi leaned back in the chair and quirked up his eyebrows. “How was your night?” he asked, holding back his amused laughter.

“It was fine,” Aaron said in his monotone voice, but it was no use. Rossi just stared Aaron down, patiently waiting for Aaron to elaborate.

“Are you going to see her again?” Rossi pressed, and this time it was hard for Aaron to hide his smile.

Instead, Aaron just side eyed Rossi for a quiet moment. “I am,” he said finally before reaching for one of the files. He really did have to start on that paperwork, and maybe it would send Rossi a hint.

It did not. Rossi nodded approvingly at Aaron’s declaration of seeing this woman again and placed one of his hands on Aaron’s desk. “I’m glad. I think dating will be good for you. Getting back out there is healthy, Aaron.”

Aaron went completely still, thinking of the best way to respond to Rossi. “We are… not exactly dating,” he said slowly, ignoring the shock that flashed past Rossi’s face. For as close as Rossi and Aaron were, their sex lives didn’t come up in conversation much, and Aaron certainly didn’t have the reputation Rossi did. “And I would appreciate it if this stayed between us, at least until after the case. I know how quickly gossip spreads in this office, and I shudder to think what will happen once Garcia gets this information.”

Rossi chuckled and made a zipping motion over his mouth. “My lips are sealed. I am happy for you, though. Maybe she will finally be the thing to get you out of the office on time finally.” Rossi laughed to himself, like he had a secret. “Even if you’ll still be up all night. At least you’ll be de-stressing.”

A knock on the office door spared Aaron from having to hear any more jokes from Rossi at his expense. “Thank you for that pep talk,” he said sarcastically to Rossi before calling out “Come in!” and putting his Unit Chief persona back on.

Emily opened the door, blissfully unaware of the conversation that was happening between the two men just seconds earlier. “Sir, Y/N is here.”

Aaron cleared his throat, ignoring Rossi’s eyes burning a hole into the side of his head. “Good. We will meet in the round table room, go ahead and brief her. Dave and I will be there in a few moments. Thank you, Prentiss.” Emily nodded and left the room just as quickly as she came in.

Rossi tapped on Aaron’s desk as he stood up. “That’s our cue, but mark my words, Aaron. I will learn all about this mystery girl from you, even if I have to lock you in the interrogation room to do it.”

Aaron laughed ever so slightly at that and just nodded. “I will fill you in before it gets to that,” he promised, and was surprised to realize that he meant it. Somehow over the years, Rossi had become his closest confidant, and it was comforting to know that Rossi was encouraging of this new relationship, as unconventional as it was. “But right now we have a case to focus on.”

~~~~~~~

You knew that the FBI headquarters was going to have high security, but three checkpoints seemed a little excessive to you. Nevertheless, you clipped the shiny visitor’s badge onto the waistband of your pants and waited for the elevator to take you to the correct floor.

It was weird to be going to the BAU, even if it was just for a case. It felt like you were encroaching on Aaron’s personal and professional life, something you never intended to do. You were happy being blissfully ignorant about Aaron’s coworkers. You knew a few of your names and that was all you ever needed to know. Being at the BAU was mixing up the carefully compartmentalized lives Aaron and you had built.

The elevator doors opened and you cautiously stepped out, trying to find your way around. You really should have paid more attention to Agent Prentiss when she was giving you instructions. Luckily, you were in a building full of profilers and one of them noticed your inevitable look of confusion.

“Are you Y/N Y/L/N?” they asked, and you nodded quickly. “I’m Agent Derek Morgan. You can follow me, I’m one of the agents on the case.”

You followed Derek through the glass doors and to one of the desks in the bullpen. He said something to another agent- Prentiss, you remembered- before gesturing for you to sit down. “Would you like a coffee or water?” Derek offered offhandedly, but his eyes were scanning you up and down, obviously trying to profile you.

Following on your promise to be professional, you had put on a nice pair of grey plaid slacks and a satin button up blouse- an outfit you had worn to your internship and to court a million times. But Derek’s gaze seemed more than just surface level profiling. It felt like he distrusted you. And then it hit you. He was probably watching you in the interrogation room yesterday, as you shamelessly flirted with Aaron. Everyone you were about to meet probably saw it, and they were all going to try and figure you out.

It had seemed funny in the moment, when you didn’t think you would ever have to see these people again, but now? Not so much.

You idly considered taking Derek up on his offer, just to keep him from profiling you any longer, but that would just give him the opportunity to share his findings with the rest of the office. It was easier to keep him close. “No thank you,” you said finally, giving Derek a polite smile. Despite what they had seen yesterday, you were excellent at networking, and you knew how to charm a room. Getting these profilers to like you wouldn’t be too hard.

Derek studied you a little closer, but your eye contact was unwavering. “How do you know Hotch?” he asked.

Thank God Aaron had warned you about this. “I was friends with his brother, Sean,” you lied coolly. “I met Aaron through him and he was nice enough to let me interview him when my studies revolved around an old prosecuting case of Aaron’s.”

Derek looked like he wanted to ask you more questions, but you were saved by Jennifer gathering the team and you to meet in a conference room.

Despite the fact that you had met a good portion of them yesterday while being interrogated, everybody reintroduced themselves to you, albeit much friendlier. Now that you weren’t in handcuffs, the team warmed up to you quickly.

You also chose to formally introduce yourself to the team, considering that you were still probably just a file in their minds. “And I apologize for making your jobs more difficult yesterday,” you added onto the end, only half joking.

JJ- which Jennifer insisted you call her- gave you a comforting smile as she walked to the front of the room. “We understand. Interrogation rooms are designed to get those sorts of reactions.”

You were about to reply when the sound of footsteps caused you all to turn your heads towards the door. “Good, you started,” Aaron interrupted, making his way to the front of the room. “Y/N, glad you could make it.”

You just greeted him with a polite nod, before turning your focus to David Rossi, who was introducing himself to you. He had a good enough poker face, but you caught a mischievous glint in his eyes. At first, you were confused, but then you remembered that he knew Aaron came over to your place last night. Maybe he knew even more, which was an uncomfortable enough thought. You didn’t have time to focus on that at the moment.

You stood up to shake Rossi’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, really,” you said simply, your voice light and polite. You had been around the DC law scene long enough that you knew exactly how to get people to like you. “I’ve written about you and your books for my classes.”

Rossi tilted his head to the side slightly. “I didn’t realize my books translated to law courses,” he questioned, sliding into the seat next to you. You took that as your cue to sit back down.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you saw Aaron watching the interaction carefully, causing anxiety to bubble up in your stomach. He had never seen you in a work or academic setting, with the exception of that first meeting, but that hardly counted. He had read some of your academic work, would help you with the occasional homework assignment, and even let you practice your mock trials runs with him while he gave you pointers, but he had never seen you truly in action. The thought unsettled you.

“I’m in a joint degree program,” you explained proudly. You had to make an appeal to the school to allow you to do this joint degree, and you’ve busted your ass ever since. “On top of my JD, I’m getting my masters in Forensic Psychology. I’ve studied your past cases and examined the ethical implications involving your interrogation techniques, specifically when working with offenders with severe mental health issues.”

You regretted the words as soon as you said them. To anybody else, it would have been impressive. Even some of the other profilers were intrigued by the concept, but saying it directly to David Rossi was a whole different ballpark. To his credit, he just chuckled good naturedly, seemingly completely unbothered by your comments. “I can only imagine what they’re saying,” he joked. “Interrogations are very different now than they were back when I started in the FBI.”

“Rossi,” Aaron interjected, and that word was a simple warning. He was obviously trying to stop the conversation quickly. Tension hung in the air briefly as Aaron, Rossi, and you all remembered the unspoken secret the three of you were sharing. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

[hintsofhoney]

Like Me

Paring(s): Soulless!Sam Winchester x F!SerialKiller!Reader

Summary: Y/N is a serial killer who's eyeing Sam Winchester as her next victim... things don't go as planned when she realizes that he's a lot like her.

Square(s) Filled: Serial Killer AU for @spnaubingo​

Tags: 18+, rough sex, light bondage, oral, edging

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: Not sure where this came from. Anyways, enjoy my depravity I guess.

You can also read me on Ao3!

SAM WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

I enjoyed watching the life leave their bodies. What have men ever been good for? Men like my father who leave as soon as they found out they knocked the girl up, men like my ex-boyfriend who would cheat on me, lie to me... Yeah, I enjoyed watching the life leave the bodies of men like that. This man, the one who kept staring at me as I worked, he seemed like one of those men. I haven’t killed in a while. I was itching to kill. He stood at about six-foot-four. I could take him. His expression was blank, his eyes empty, dark… soulless even. Like me. I often wondered if I had a soul. I haven’t fully decided on a verdict yet, but I’m leaning towards probably not. I enjoy killing too much to have a soul. Fuck, I need a release. I check my watch; my shift’s over in 20. The way he’s looking at me, I want him writhing beneath me, begging for his life. Stop looking at me like that. He was looking at me how I look at men. Like I want to kill them. Is he like me? Does he want to kill me? Could be a fun challenge.

I smirk at him on my way out the door with the hope that he’d follow. I can hear the jingle of the bell above the door as I make my way to my car; he got the hint. I hear his footsteps behind me, the gravel of the parking lot crunching beneath his shoes as he walked. I whipped around when I got to my car, leaning against the driver’s side door.

“You’ve been looking at me all night,” I say, staring into the man’s empty eyes.

“You’re hot,” he says simply. I smile. This one’s gonna be fun.

“Get in,” I say, nodding towards the passenger’s side door. He smirks. He has no idea what’s coming. I get in my car and start the ignition. We sit in silence for a while as I drive home. “What’s your name?” I finally ask; I liked getting to know my victims. I’m sick, I know.

“Sam,” he replies, staring out the window. “What’s yours?”

“Y/N.” I use my real name. They never get away. They’ll die alongside their sexism and misogyny knowing who killed them. “Where you from, Sam?”

“Everywhere.”

I pounced as soon as we walked through the door. He was under me, I had him, I swear I had him. He was too good; a fighter if I’ve ever seen one. Better than me; that’s why I’m the one tied to the chair.

“This some kink of yours? Hitting on women, following them home, tying them to chairs?” I ask.

He chuckled. It was like a low rumble. Like soft thunder erupting from his throat. “Let’s not forget who invited me into her car, hm? Or who attacked me? You don’t get to play victim here, Y/N.”

I hated that he knew my name. I regretted telling him my name, but the way it fell off his lips… I didn’t regret telling him my name.

“What do you want?” I spit, tugging on the ropes that had my arms tied behind a wooden chair. This chair was part of a dining set I got at a flea market. Right after a kill. A little reward for myself for taking another scumbag off the planet.

“It’s you, isn’t it?”

“What?” I look at him sitting across from me, a smug look on his face, leaning back in a chair just like the one I was tied to, relaxed, his jean-clad legs spread apart. Fucking men. Even the way they sit is cocky; like they have power over you at all times.

“You’re the one who’s been killing all those men,” he says, “Why? Is it a kinky thing?”

I’m quiet. I don’t dare say a word. Who is he? The police? FBI?

“Who are you?”

“I’m like you,” he says with a devilish smile. Something about it makes me tense up, in a good way. Someone like me? I knew he was like me.      

“You’re a killer, too?”

“Oh… I dabble. Of course, I have an excuse. I have no soul.”

“Welcome to the club,” I say. I knew it.

He got up from his chair and walked over to mine, leaning in close to my face, his hands resting on the arms of my chair on either side of me, “I’m afraid you’re not a part of that club, doll,” he whispered. It sent chills down my spine. Why was it sending chills down my spine?

“How would you know?”

“I could kill you right now, and feel absolutely nothing. You? If I were to untie you right now, you wouldn’t kill me, would you?”

I gulped. How did he know that? It’s like he could he feel the heat that had been growing in between my legs. He chuckles again. That same, low rumble. Stop doing that.

“Yeah, I thought so. Lucky for you, I didn’t come here with you to kill you. I came here to fuck.”

Who was he? It’s been years since a man has turned me on like this. Am I so fucked in the head that I need a man who’s just as fucked to make me wet? Probably. The way he was looking at me was different; there was hunger in his eyes now. He ran his tongue over his lips. The desire I had for him to run his tongue over parts of me was overwhelming. He must’ve sensed it; his tongue was on my neck. I gasped; is this really happening? I squeezed my thighs together; I could feel my panties start to dampen. I was wearing a skirt; part of my work uniform. Easy access. Please, please touch me. He read my mind again; I felt his fingers on my heat, rubbing me over the cotton layer. That chuckle again.

“Such a little whore, hm? Wet for me already. I guess you don’t usually fuck your men before you kill them?” He whispers in my ear, his hot breath giving me goosebumps.

“I don’t kill men worth fucking,” I reply, trying to sound confident, but my voice shakes. What’s he doing to me?

“Funny. I haven’t fucked a woman yet who was worth my time, but you seem different. I guess we’ll see.”

I hated him. Every disgusting, sexist word that came out of his mouth. I wanted to slit his beautiful fucking throat. His fingers moved my panties aside. I wanted to cut all of them off. All ten of them, not just the two that were slowly moving through my folds, drenched in my slick. He was exploring, memorizing, studying, concentrating on me. On my body. I was his now. I had no power anymore. I was his without having to say it. My mind switched back and forth between wanting to kill him and wanting to be savagely, mercilessly, fucked by him. His fingers slid into me. That chuckle again when I moaned. He was still leaning over me, his breath ragged and steady against my ear as he pumped his fingers in and out of me.

“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he whispers.

The “sweetheart” isn’t said sweetly. It’s said in the same way that an asshole stranger on the street would yell, “Hey, sweetheart, give me a smile!”. It’s the same “sweetheart” that I’d kill a man over. That I have killed a man over. That I’ve killed men over. However, for some reason, when the word left his lips, it only made me want him more. He was full to the brim with confidence, yet so obviously empty. He was the shell of whoever he used to be; probably someone kind and caring. Someone who gave a damn. Now he was… well, he reminded me a lot of me. The men I kill… they don’t ever remind me of me. The men I kill have some semblance of a soul remaining; that’s why they beg for their lives, it’s why they say they’ll change if I spare them. My breath hitches as his long fingers push their way deeper into me. He didn’t want me thinking about anything other than what he was doing to me. I’m sure there was a small puddle forming on the seat of the chair between my thighs; I was so wet that I could barely feel his fingers in me anymore. He adds a third and smiles devilishly when I gasp at the feeling of my cunt being stretched. It’s been so long since I last had sex. Too long. He kneels down in front of me and my pussy clenches around his fingers with anticipation of what was to come. He pulls out of me briefly, only to rip my panties off and force my legs apart, and then puts his three fingers right back where they were before. He licks his lips before he leans in between my thighs, his tongue exploring every inch of my folds, purposefully ignoring the one spot I wanted him the most. I squirm under the ropes that are keeping me tied down; I want to snake my hands through his hair, I want to keep him right where he is for as long as possible. He chuckles again, the low rumble sending vibrations through my body, and I bite back a moan. He still won’t touch my clit; he was teasing me and enjoying every bit of it. And I’m the sadistic one?

“Sam, please,” I breathe. It isn’t like me to beg, but at this point I’ll do anything to get the touch that I so badly desired.

“Well, since you asked nicely,” he hums, as he finally brings his lips to meet my clit. My thighs come together instinctively, only to be caught by his hands and be pushed apart again. The absence of his fingers in me draw a whine from my throat, but his hands stay where they are with a firm grip on my inner thighs. “If you’re gonna move, I’m gonna have to hold you still,” he explains as he came up for a breath of air only to go back down again. He was sucking on my clit while flicking his tongue over it simultaneously and it was almost too much to bear. Almost painful, even. There is nothing I can do to keep myself from squirming. Every movement he makes with his mouth makes me want to recoil from how sensitive I am, but he doesn’t care.

“Fuck, Sam, please,” I beg, beginning to learn that I was going to have to ask for the things that I wanted.

“Please what?” He asks, a smirk on his face as he pulls away from my core for a second. I can see my juices glistening around his mouth and chin and I took a deep breath. It’s hard for me to focus on anything but him.

“I’m so sensitive Sam, please, I just…,” I lose my train of thought.

“Aw,” he teases as he pushes his bottom lip out into a pout, “you’re sensitive? That’s just too damn bad I guess.”

He dives his head back in between my thighs, showing absolutely no mercy on my clit. I can’t tell if each flick of his tongue is painful or pleasant, though it seems to alternate. I try to squeeze my thighs together but he’s still holding them in place. I let out a moan as he continues to eat me out; there was no point in trying to hide my arousal or enjoyment from him anymore. He licks a few more stripes up my folds before finally standing up and pulling a small knife out from his back pocket. Usually, I would’ve gone into survival mode. But I trust him. For some God-forsaken reason, I trust him. He walks over to stand behind me and cuts the ropes that were binding me to the chair, leaving the ropes that were keeping my wrists together behind my back alone. He grabs me by my upper arm; his hand almost fit all the way around my bicep.

“Where’s the bedroom?” He growls, and I nod towards the door down the hall. He practically drags me there, forcefully pushing the door open. He walks over to the edge of my bed, his hand still squeezing my arm, and sits down on the edge mattress, dragging me down to my knees in front of him. He sits the same way he was in the chair outside; relaxed, confident, legs spread. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. “You know how to suck cock, Y/N?” He asks. I nod. He smirks and begins to undo his belt, the button on his jeans, and the zipper. He stands up a little so he can slide off his pants, his erection fully visible to me now through his boxers. Fuck, he’s big. I want him inside me. He takes off his boxers and his cock springs up from them. I lick my lips; I can’t remember the last time I had a cock in my mouth. I used to love sucking dick; it gave me a sense of power. He leans back on the bed on his hands, his legs still spread in front of me, a drop of precum leaking from the tip of his cock. “Get to work, then,” he commands, and I lower my head, closing my lips around his cock, moving my tongue around the tip. I bob my head up and down, wishing so badly that my hands were not still tied behind my back. His cock was long and thick, and taking all of him was a challenge. It would be easier if I had my hand to cover the base of it with. He snakes his hand in my hair, forcing my head down on his cock. He thrusts into my mouth, hitting the back of my throat with each thrust. I pinch the area of my hand between my thumb and pointer finger; a trick I learned a long time ago to subdue a gag reflex. There’s spit dripping down my chin and running down Sam’s cock, and I feel so dirty, but in a good way. Sam finally pulls me off his cock and stands me up as he stands up himself. He bends me over my bed; there hasn’t been a man who’s fucked me on this bed or in this room or in my house in years. Not since I started killing them. I can feel my juices running down my thighs, and I turn my head to watch as Sam rips my skirt off and bends a little at his knees, lining his cock up with my entrance. He thrusts into me, hard. I feel nothing but pleasure, probably due to the fact that he had spent quite a while stretching me out earlier.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he grunts between thrusts. He grabs my hips, pounding into me harder.

“Fuck, Sam,” I moan. I couldn’t help it; I’ve never been fucked this good.

“Forgot what it feels like to be fucked, hm?” He pants, as he continues to thrust into me. I did forget. Or maybe I never knew that I could be fucked like this, or how much I’d enjoy it; feeling like someone’s fuck toy. Or maybe it was just Sam and the way that all of this was so natural to him; the way he carried himself, the way he fucked. Sam thrusts into me a few more times, grunting as he got closer and closer to his climax. His cock twitches and I felt his warm cum fill me, coating my walls. I’ve never had a man cum inside me before. I don’t think I’d let anyone but Sam do it again. God, what’s happening to me? Why am I giving myself over to him like this? Sam pulls out of me and unties my wrists from behind my back, flipping me over and pulling the ropes, my individual wrists still tied to them, to the front of my body. “Move to the middle of the bed and lie down,” he commands, still a little out of breath, and I obey. He ties my hands above my head to my headboard. “Don’t move,” he hisses.

“As long as you don’t Gerald’s Game me,” I reply. He pauses as if to think about it. For a minute I thought he might actually leave me there, tied to my headboard, his cum dripping out of me, my clit pulsing, begging for an orgasm. He chuckles. That damn chuckle. He leans in close to my face, his hands resting on the mattress beside me.

“I know a dirty whore like you has a vibrator here somewhere?” He whispers. There go the chills down my spine again. I nod towards the dresser.

“Top drawer,” I breathe. My heart is pounding with anticipation. I don’t think a man has ever gotten me off after sex. Sam finds my vibrator under a pile of underwear in the top drawer of my dresser. I watch him as he walks over to the end of my bed, holding the one thing that’s been able to give me an orgasm for the past five years. He crawls onto the bed, on his knees, and makes himself comfortable between my legs. He spreads them forcefully, his large hand grabbing the underside of my thigh and pushing it up towards me. He smiles at the view; my dripping cunt with his cum still leaking out of it. He turns on the vibrator and places it directly on my swollen clit, causing me to squirm.

“Stay still,” he growls, and I do my best to focus on anything but how incredibly sensitive I was. I take a deep breath and tense every muscle in my body in attempt to follow Sam’s order. “You’re an obedient little slut, aren’t you?” He asks with a teasing smile. I wasn’t. Especially not to men. But Sam, he wasn’t a man. He was the shell of one. He was a dark, soulless, empty being in a man’s body, and for some reason, I didn’t want to do anything but obey him. I feel the familiar heat in my abdomen begin to rise, and it’s taking all I have to not move against the vibrator. I need more friction. Sam plunges two fingers inside of me without warning, causing me to yelp and arch my back. He chuckles again, clearly enjoying the hold he has over me. The power he has over me. He leans over me, his face close to mine again. “Do not cum until I say you can.” With these words, I was on the edge. I have never had a man dominate me like this, and fuck, was I enjoying every bit of it. I arch my back further as my orgasm builds up inside me.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I breathe, trying to hold it in, scared of what Sam would do if I disobeyed him.

“You wanna cum?” He asks, his voice low and lined with a smile.

“Yes, Sam, please,” I beg. I was almost there. Sam pulled the vibrator off my clit, causing me to whimper. “Sam, please,” I say again, looking up at him with the biggest puppy-dog eyes I could muster. He smirks and puts the vibrator back on my clit again, my orgasm building back up twice as fast. He does this a few times, bringing me to the edge and then stopping, until finally, I hear the words that I’ve been listening for. “Cum for me, Y/N.”

My orgasm shoots through me. I arch my back and curl my toes, feeling the euphoria in every part of my body. My eyes roll back into my head and my brain short-circuits for a minute. I ride it out and then lay there, still, sweating, and out of breath. Sam unties my wrists from the headboard and I let them fall to my sides. I don’t want to move, ever. Even killing never left me this exhausted. Sam stares at me, the empty look back in his eyes. “What?” I ask.

“You need any help with your next kill? All that got my adrenaline going.”

[percontaion-points]

King’s Men chapter 15

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions.

Chapter 15

"By now Kengo knows my father's dead and I'm alive. Worse, he knows the FBI has already talked to me. He has to make a decision on me one way or the other. Will Riko risk making the first move?"

The dude has publicly attacked the foxes, and Neil admitted to reporters multiple times about having been with the ravens over the winter break.

I know that I talk about Neil being 99 cents short of a dollar, but Riko is up there with how stupid he is. I think that Riko is worse because he thinks that his ego, his talent at exy, and his daddy can save him from any situation.

"They touched what they never should have. By erasing your tattoo they've swept him aside as insignificant. Riko won't tolerate that."

So Riko is going to...??? Punish Neil??? For having been kidnapped and his face burned off? I mean, as I said, Riko isn't exactly going to join MENSA anytime soon, but this is scraping the bottom of the intelligence barrel here.

Andrew clapped his hand over Neil's mouth and kept it there until going to his knees meant he couldn't reach anymore.

Is this the part that all of the reviews warned me about? How the plot goes flying out the window because the author was apparently bored with her own story, so we just get porn instead?

"I hate everything about you anyway," Andrew said.

This is such a shitty, toxic relationship. If one of them was a girl, the world would have been screaming at her to get away. But from what I'm gathering in the AFTG fandom, this gets an automatic pass simply because they're gay?

"You do like the mountains, don't you?"

"I cut through them once," Neil said. "We didn't stay.”

The mountains, they say, like there's literally one single mountain range in the entire world. DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING BIG THE GODDAMNED ROCKIES ARE? HOW ABOUT THE FUCKING APPALACHIAN?!

JFC get some goddamned perspective...  

"You should have thrown my file away," Neil said at last. "You should have walked away when I threw your contract back in your face. But you took a chance on me and you brought me here. You saved my life. Three times," Neil said, "you've saved my life. I can't just say 'thank you' for that."

Really? That's the take-away that Neil's getting from any of this? That the man who refused to accept “no” for an answer, whose offer to play exy for 5 years against Neil's better judgment and questionable measure of self-safety... SHOULD BE THANKED?!

Maybe it is better to have come out on the other side of this, especially after the half-life Neil had been living. But everything that Neil went through could have gone wrong in a heart-beat, and this could have ended in another funeral.

He'd laid the groundwork for Aaron and Andrew's therapy and it'd been weeks since Aaron first muscled his way into one of Andrew's sessions, but this was the first hint that they were actually doing something real with that time.

With the literal mafia shit that's been happening, I literally forgot about the Aaron/Andrew subplot.

Trigger warning: rape discussion

"Just wondering how you went from your whole I-don't-date high horse to Andrew's bed," Aaron said. "Either you were lying to us to hide the fact you're a flamer, or you saw Drake rape Andrew and realized he's easy prey."

This is literally the first time that Andrew's rape had been brought up. I was under the impression that we were just supposed to have forgotten about it, and just accepted that Andrew wanted to bang Neil, for some reason. That even the older rapes no longer mattered.

But now that Aaron mentions it...

He didn't care how much it hurt so long as he could pull Andrew closer, and he let Andrew take him apart until he couldn't think anymore.

Chapter 15 summary: The next morning, they talk about how Riko is going to react upon seeing Neil's burned face. Neil however feels like he has nothing more to fear from Riko, and continues to call Kevin out for bowing to Riko's reign of terror.

Neil goes to the bathroom, where Andrew helps him with his injuries, and puts these plastic bags all over him so that he can get a shower. Andrew joins him, although... I think that both of them are more or less fully dressed? It gets steamy, but the only just make out a little.

After that, the foxes then go to brunch, where they decide that there's still a bit of spring break left, so Allison books them a cabin for the rest of their holiday. However, they can't leave right away, because Neil has to go to a check-up with Abby, so they go back to the stadium. Once there, Neil randomly thanks David for having picked him, and kind of forcing Neil into this situation. As I said above: don't reward that kind of shit behavior. Kevin comes over, and says that despite the FBI's best plans to hide the foxes and what happened with Neil, the press somehow caught wind of it. Kevin and David go into David's office, where Neil knows that Kevin is felling David that he's the father. Neil goes back to the others and tells them this, too. This news is met with surprise.

They then pack up and drive out to the cabin in the mountains that Allison rented. There's a lot of padding, and they all get drunk, including Neil. Nicky kind of comments about Neil's drinking, but it's heavily implied that Neil doesn't have anything to fear anymore, so no reason not to. However, the book quickly reminds us of the sour Aaron/Andrew situation, and how Aaron is a piece of shit, regardless. They've been going to therapy together, but it's clearly not enough. Aaron calls Neil out, and reminds him of Andrew's past sexual abuse. Says that Neil is obviously taking advantage of Andrew and manipulating him.

This goes nowhere, and they all get drunk. Neil goes into one of the bedrooms with Andrew and they hold each other.

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Let It Out

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27496237

L takes Light to an art show--as a test to see if he can take him off probation earlier than intended--but somehow ends up realizing he actually misses Light's Kira persona in doing this.

"When did you become an artist, Ryuzaki?" Light asked L, as the detective was showing off some of his work at an art show in Tokyo.

The Kira case had ended five years ago… and when Light had confessed—and seemed to actually feel repentant for what he’d done—L had been able to wave away the death sentence for him, as he instead put his mind to good use. But since there was always a chance of a relapse, L watched Light twenty-four/seven. And it was something he actually did not hate.

"A long time ago, Light-kun,” L answered now, as he used a crayon to dab the finishing touches on this piece of a baby in a basket. “I became an artist to try and remember the beauty I’ve seen in even my most painful cases... And I may have been a little inspired by Kyle XY."

L added the last part on kindly, thoughtfully, because he knew that Light would otherwise have asked if there had been any beauty in the Kira case. And L wasn’t quite ready to touch that topic yet, for a few different reasons.

Light laughed at L’s answer, just as the sun chose that moment to get away from the clouds and burn both of their skin. And somehow, despite everything, that sound was music to L's ears… and maybe he was glad that he had saved it. "I expected you to try to psycho-analyze me here, Ryuzaki. Like, I was certain that crime scenes, somehow, were your inspiration to start drawing… but that if I said so, you would use that as evidence to say I’m still Kira. I’m glad that I was proven wrong, and that really you’re just a nerd.”

This type of conversation that he and Light were having now, wasn’t unlike the types they’d had when Light had lost his memory. Or even since then. And though some of Light’s comments ticked him off—because he didn’t try to push Light into being Kira anymore, thank you very much—he was still mostly enjoying it. So he laughed himself some, as he handed his finished design to the proprietor just behind him, so she might put it in a frame.

"Of course I wouldn’t do that. You know I've already somehow forgiven Light-kun for being Kira."

And he had. For whatever reason, he had. Though the deaths of Raye Penber, Naomi Misora and the FBI agents still didn’t sit well with him… but L liked to believe that Light Yagami—honestly one of the most decent people he’d met—had been corrupted by the Notebook. Nothing more, nothing less.

And If L would have expected Light to say "thank you" for his letting things go, he would have been sourly disappointed. And frankly, L was almost glad that he didn’t… because despite everything, his rivalry with Light was one of the things he still held the dearest: something he thought allowed them to get meaningful work done, as Light made L look at things from an angle he would not have without him.

So, seeing that Light wasn’t going to carry on this conversation unless he spoke again, L changed the subject. "Light-kun should find a sketch pad and some writing utensils here to draw himself. We are at an art fair, after all. You might as well enjoy it." L certainly was. He’d been given a new canvas to draw on, and this time he thought he might be kinder and draw a child in less dire circumstances.

Light glowered at L here—perhaps because he thought he wouldn’t so simply be rewarded that, since he had a handcuff slapped onto his wrist, even though it was attached to nothing at the moment—but L knew that if he turned that frown upside down and turned the charm back on, he would surely get what he wanted. He still was Light Yagami, after all.

“…Fine,” Light allowed. And L watched from the corner of his eye, as Light became smiley and cheery and told Aki—the woman hosting this event—that he’d always wanted to try his hand at art, and would love to have that chance now. Less than two minutes after that, Light had procured his own easel, canvas and paints, and was right by L’s side again.

And like L thought he would… he wasn’t even remotely surprised that Light began drawing houses. The young man actually had an impeccable eye for floor plans and blueprints; and had expertly drawn many that they would need to know for a mission, after they’d hacked into a system.

By the time that Light was starting to paint a red, slanted roof onto the mansion he was creating, he seemed truly relaxed. And L couldn’t help feeling that maybe, long ago, he should have been doing this, rather than writing in a notebook… But he also didn’t mean that at all, did he?

"…Why are we here doing this, Ryuzaki?” Light asked at last, when the sun went behind the clouds once more to paint the square in patches of black. “Even if this somehow relaxes you, I know it’s not more important to you than your detective work. So clearly this pertains to it—and surely my case—somehow. So how?”

There was that deductive reasoning of Light's, that L loved so much. The truth was, of course, that he was seeing if he could take Light off the leash earlier than intended. But would it serve to tell him that?

Then again, L doubted that Light would buy anything else. So, the truth for once.

“I’m trying to decide if I should end your probation early,” L admitted, whilst he finished drawing the baby’s eyes, that were looking up at him innocently and full of wonder.

And just like that, Light was stepping away from his own drawing, walking in L’s direction, and picking him up by the collar of his shirt as he hissed, "What? Are you seeing if I'll snap and kill everyone here?"

L hadn’t been thinking that. But like all things in life, it was a possibility. And L found himself telling Light that truth—for this was like the game again—instead of keeping his mouth shut and saving some face.

"Well, there are certainly thieves at this outing. And before, Kira wanted to start killing people who he deemed to just be lazy. So, if Kira were still within you, you might want to enact vengeance on such a petty crime.”

And it was at this point, that Light punched L in the face, knocking his work of art to the ground as he did so… And yet the baby wasn’t marred even the slightest bit. And whatever the reason, L breathed a sigh of relief at that.

“How can you even get off saying that, when you just told me you don’t try to see Kira in me anymo-”

"Though it isn't simple as all that, is it Light-kun? Because even with my assurances that I'm all about justice, here I am: at a harmless event, drawing some of the horrific things that I’ve seen, like a child who had to be shunned away like Moses, even in this day and age. The mind can only take so much trauma, after all, and needs to find a way to let it out. So, let it out.”

And as Light pulled L in for a violent kiss then—something he hadn’t been planning, but also wasn’t wholly surprised by—he did.

Author’s Note: So, the last line is supposed to be about L actually realizing he misses Kira some, and wanting Light to be that again… oddly enough. But if you don’t want to interpret it that way, you don’t have to. It could be L telling him to let out his angry love for him or something.

Also, if you guys haven’t seen the kinds of drawings that Kyle and Jessi did on Kyle XY, I highly suggest looking them up. They were cool. And that’s how I imagine L to draw here.

Anyway, I wanted my first Lawlight fanfiction to be gritty and intense, but instead it ended up an art show… but maybe that’s for the best. Oh well.

[slippinmickeys]

Of the Eight Winds, Part 7

This is part seven in who knows how many from the prompt from @sunflowerseedsandscience : “Mulder is unhappily married when Scully is partnered with him, and while he doesn’t cheat (because sorry that’s not romantic), he falls for her so hard that he finally gets the courage to end the marriage and start fresh.”

Links to parts one, two, three, four, five and six.

1

When he repeated the words “I, Fox, take you, Dana” he made a face, and she couldn’t help but laugh. It was half nerves and half him and bubbled up from inside her. The officiant smiled at her indulgently, and Mulder repeated himself and again made a face, and again she laughed. This time she looked over her shoulder at her mother who was standing witness, giving her an “ honestly , Dana” look while simultaneously trying to hold a one-year-old Lily who did not want to be contained. Mulder repeated the vows one more time.

“I, Mulder, take you, Scully,” he said, changing the words to better suit them, and there was no funny face, and no laugh. There was only a rightness to it, which washed gently over her and settled her nerves.

When the officiant told Mulder he could kiss the bride, he leaned into her slowly, and then wrapped his arms around her tightly, lifting her feet up off the floor. There were whoops and hollers from the small congress of witnesses, one of which she knew for sure was Charlie, and another she suspected might actually be Skinner.

When they darted out to the car after the ceremony, they were pelted with sunflower seeds which Scully didn’t realize until Mulder picked one gently out of her hair and popped it into his mouth.

They didn’t have a reception, just a small dinner at an Alexandria restaurant.

Scully watched the way Doggett and Reyes sat, heads bent together at the other end of the table and nudged Mulder.

He put his arm around the back of her chair whispered in her ear.

“There’s just something about that office, Scully.”

2

They had both left the X-Files once Scully was pregnant enough not to be out in the field anymore. Scully transferred to her old teaching position at Quantico, and Mulder “retired,” opting to write books for a few years while he finished his PhD, later opening his own practice.

They consulted often with their replacements and Mulder felt like he spent just as much time at various FBI facilities as he did at home working.

When the Lone Gunmen were killed and buried at Arlington National Cemetery, Mulder stepped away, eventually deciding that his consulting days were over.

A couple of years later, after William was born, they received an “It’s a Boy!”  congratulations card postmarked from Arlington, Virginia. It was blank, but for a monogram as a signature, which read simply “TLG.”

3

As a one-year wedding anniversary gift, Melissa Scully offered to take Lily off of their hands for a week if they promised to go somewhere warm and tropical. Mulder figured Scully had probably put her sister up to it -- or at the very least had her add the tropical addendum to her gift, but either way it was nice to get away from it all. He hadn’t slept in one day since becoming a father.

Melissa came to their door with a small suitcase and a giddy smile, eyes only for her niece. She was rewarded with a big, sticky hug.

Mulder already had their luggage loaded in the car, but Scully lingered in the doorway, she was having trouble saying goodbye.

“Scully, our flight is in exactly two hours and I know you like to get to the airport early,” he said. He would not go back inside himself or he’d have trouble leaving, too.

Finally, Scully gave Lily one last hug and said to her sister, “the terrible twos are a real thing, Missy. Call us if you need us.”

“We’ll be fine,” Melissa said, and ushered Scully outside, Lily perched on her hip. Then she called “I’m not offering when she’s a threenager!”

On their flight home, Mulder reached for Scully’s hand.

“I’m not spending that much money on a tropical vacation again, if we’re never going to leave the room.”

Scully wiped a finger down one side of her mouth and gave his lap a meaningful look.

“Worth it,” she said.

4

Mulder defended and received his PhD with little fanfare.

Scully made him a celebratory pie (sweet potato), and they sat down on their back porch to eat it with a bottle each of Shiner Bock once they had both kids down.

It was a beautiful spring night, a warm breeze wafting through the woods behind their house. Mulder could almost swear he could smell the cherry blossoms from the district.

He leaned back after finishing his slice in record time and let his fork clatter to his plate. He lifted the beer to his lips.

When he set the beer back down on the table, there was a small brown box wrapped in white ribbon sitting next to his empty plate. Scully smiled at him as she took a sip of her own.

When he opened it, he found the antique brass compass that had passed between them several times.

“Regifting, Scully?” he said to her, mirroring words she’d once said to him.

“Turn it over,” she lobbed back.

Above the old To finding our way... inscription, it now read “ To Dr. M.” He leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss.

When he sat back down and picked up his beer, she reached over with her own and clinked the necks of the bottles together.

“Doctor,” she said to him on a nod.

“Doctor,” he nodded back.

5

With their second child, Scully went into labor a month early. He’d been speaking at a conference in New York when an organizer pulled him aside as he was exiting the stage from his last panel and told him he had a phone call. It was Mrs. Scully, who sounded concerned but was trying to hide it. In the background he could hear a muffled TV and then a worried three-year-old “ Where’s daddy ?”

The train ride back to DC was torture. He was anxious, could barely sit still. He kept calling Mrs. Scully who said she didn’t know much -- they’d had to take Dana into a Labor & Delivery room and Lily was really bothered by the whole situation so she’d taken her home to her house. Melissa, who had planned to be Scully’s doula, was in San Diego with Bill.

Later, when he was holding the baby for the first time, Scully’s doctor came into the room. There had been some complications with the labor, but Scully hadn’t elaborated, and Mulder had been too elated to by the birth of his son to give it much thought.

The OB informed them that she didn’t think it was possible for Dana to have any more children.

While the doctor was going through the finer points of it, Scully reached out and squeezed his hand so hard it hurt. He could only hear the roaring of blood in his ears.

6

Scully thought “Crusher” was a ridiculous name for a cat. However, family tradition mandated that every pet be named after a female doctor and Will got naming rights on this one. He had recently gotten really into Star Trek .

The cat sat on the coffee table, as black and fluffy as her predecessor, but with a slightly more quarrelsome personality. Scully thought it was probably fitting being that their first born was about to be a freshly minted teenager.

Mulder came into the living room carrying an enormous bowl of popcorn with Lily on his heels, sulky as she plopped into an easy chair. Good grades had earned Will the Saturday evening activity of his choice and he’d opted for a family viewing of the first Lord of the Rings movie. No family member’s presence was optional and Lily loathed sci-fi/fantasy, much to Mulder’s dismay.

He set down the bowl, which Crusher nosed thoughtfully, and cut his eyes to his wife.  

“Will’s in charge of the ice cream,” he said, his eyes widening with a look of slightly anxious amusement.

“Is that wise?” Scully asked.

“No,” said Lily quickly with no small amount of sass, earning her a sharp look from her mother.

Will came in then balancing four tubs of Ben & Jerry’s and several spoons. He paused when he reached the coffee table and gave Mulder a significant look.

“They come in pints,” he said with a British accent, which launched Mulder into an uncharacteristic fit of hysterics. Lily rolled her eyes. Scully wondered what was so funny.

7

Scully had had one of the longest days on record, and if she walked into a messy house one more time, she swore she would walk directly up to her bathroom, climb into a hot bathtub and not get out until morning.

When she got to their front door, she could barely open it for the load of hockey equipment in front it.

“That’s it,” she said to herself.

She would have followed her oath to the letter if she hadn’t tripped on a cat toy halfway through the kitchen. Mulder and the kids were all parked in various spots around the room.

“You okay?” Mulder asked her, barely looking up.

Her silence spoke volumes and eventually the three Mulders in the house were looking at her with a kind of low grade fear.

“Why,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady, “am I the only person in this house who cleans it?”

Will opened his mouth to say something, but Mulder put a hand on the boy’s arm.

“The mop has a handle, not an access code,” she said, giving them each a cold glare before heading up the stairs. “I will be in the tub,” were her parting words.

When she came down a couple hours later, wrapped in a silk bathrobe and a significantly better attitude, she found the house spic and span, a rumpled looking Mulder sitting quietly at the kitchen counter nursing a Coke.

“The house looks great,” she said, and he smiled at her.

“We’ve implemented a few extra columns on the chore chart,” he said, “and I have a row now, too.”

She reached for the Coke and he handed it over.

“Got you something,” he said, and nodded at a lone parcel sitting on the countertop.

When she unwrapped it she found a hastily made homemade sign, made from what she could tell was scrap lumber that had been sitting around the garage. Painted on it were three words in three different handwriting styles. It read “Bless This Mess.” They had all signed it.

She felt her eyes start to tear.

“It’s hideous,” she said, and Mulder laughed. “You can hang it over there,” she sniffed.

It would hang in their kitchen for the rest of their days.

8

Lily was 17 and was just getting over the nightmarish huffy know-it-all stage of the early teens. Mulder and William—who had just hit the gawky, all arms and legs stage of adolescence—were sitting at the dining room table, taking apart Mulder’s old VCR. It had stopped rewinding and they had a plan to watch Plan 9 From Outer Space that night. Mulder swore the movie was better on video, so William swore it too.

“We’re missing a screw,” Mulder said to his son, who was in charge of keeping the various component parts together on the table.

“We’re not, I handed them all to you,” Will said.

Lily came skidding into the kitchen, grabbing the edge of the doorway to keep her balance.

“Dad,” she said, her voice tremulous and shaky. Mulder was on his feet before she finished saying his name. “There’s something wrong with mom.”

Mulder tore up the steps, the thundering steps of his children right behind him and skidded to a halt in the door of the master bath. Scully was on the floor--he couldn’t tell whether or not she was conscious.

“I heard a thump and I came in here and she was like this,” said Lily, nearly in tears.

“It’s okay, Lil,” he said distractedly, reaching forward to feel for a pulse on Scully’s neck.

When his fingers met her flesh, she inhaled deeply, and tried to sit up.

“Mulder?” she said, her eyes flickering open “what… what happened?”

“Honey, you passed out,” he said, giving her a hand to sit up.

She looked pale, but glanced over his shoulder at the worried faces of their two kids and said, “I’m okay guys.”

She did a self-assessment and convinced a not-really-convinced Mulder that she was fine, with the caveat that she go to the doctor first thing the next morning, and when she walked into the house after her appointment, she looked shocked and was shaking.

Mulder walked over to her and tipped up her chin to connect eyes.

“Don’t make me guess,” he said quietly.

Her eyes shone and she gave him a tentative smile.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

[pagetgram]

Getting To Know The Cast Of Criminal Minds

As Criminal Minds rolls out its 15th and final season, the beloved cast gathers to discuss serial killers (what else?), special guest stars, and their millions of phenomenal fans in this exclusive interview. (x,x)

As Criminal Minds rolls out its 15th and final season, the beloved cast gathers to discuss serial killers (what else?), special guest stars, and their millions of phenomenal fans in this exclusive interview.

By David Hochman

The scene is quintessential Hollywood: a train station at dusk. Steam billowing up from the tracks. Loved ones bracing for their emotional farewells. What could be more fitting for the cast of Criminal Minds?

Chugging into its 15th and final season after more than 300 episodes, the police procedural is among the 10 longest-running dramas of all time, and in the top 20 for longest-running scripted television shows. "This is Gunsmoke and Guinness Book territory," says Matthew Gray Gubler, who has played quirky FBI brainiac Dr. Spencer Reid since episode 1.

To honor the landmark occasion, all eight series regulars are gathered at a railway museum in L.A.'s Griffith Park for photos, poignant reflections, and a few behind-the-scenes confessions (mostly involving a tradition called "hot tub wine machine"—stay tuned).

On TV, the tenacious profilers of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit—or simply "BAU" to fans—are a hard-bitten bunch, tracking down serial killers and other vicious "unsubs." But in person, clearly good friends across the board and decked out today in their spiffiest finery, the cast can scarcely hold back tears as they get candid about their extended journey together and what it means to come to the end—sniff, sniff—of Criminal Minds.

Originally published in Watch! Magazine, July-August 2019.

Judging from the misty eyes and group hugs, it looks like the series wrap-up is generating "all the feels," as they say. Are you able to get through scenes this season without a tissue break?

Joe Mantegna (Senior Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi, Seasons 3-present): This is my 50th year in show business, and next to voicing on The Simpsons, Rossi is my longest-running role. I came in with dark hair and now it's gray. I arrived without much of a game plan, and the show and character are now a deep part of who I am. This cast is a true family for me. So every episode this year has an added bittersweet layer. When the director announces, "This is the last profile scene" or "This is our last scene on the jet," you look around with a real sense of passing. It's monumental.

Kirsten Vangsness (BAU Technical Analyst and Media Liaison Penelope Garcia, Seasons 1-present): The term that keeps coming up is "ambiguous loss"—that feeling of losing something you love, and that everything's about to change. In this case it's not a person, thank goodness. But still, in the middle of a scene, it hits you. But you can't cry; you have all this makeup on. Plus, what are you crying for? It's been such an incredible experience. I will have done every single episode except episode 5, every episode of the first spinoff, and two episodes of the second spinoff. I love these people. No, sir. I'm not crying. You're crying. [Editor's note: She's crying.]

Paget Brewster (Supervisory Special Agent and BAU Unit Chief Emily Prentiss, Seasons 2-7, 9, 11-present): Um, I'm in complete denial, so I'll break down into tears the week after we end, but not before. I'm pretending this show's never, ever going to end.

Without spoiling anything, what can you say about Season 15?

A.J. Cook (Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, Seasons 1-present): Well, I can tell you that we will find out what happens now that JJ has expressed her true feelings for Dr. Reid.

Matthew Gray Gubler (Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid, Seasons 1-present): Don't you mean "Jeid?" That's what the internet is calling us. Hey, I'm not spoiling anything. I mean, don't rule out, uh, "Jemily" or "Jarcia" this season, either!

Adam Rodriguez (Supervisory Special Agent Luke Alvez, Seasons 12-present): And we do have guest stars. We love guest stars! [Editor's note: Among others, watch for Jane Lynch to return as Reid's schizophrenic mother, and for Rachael Leigh Cook as a potential new love interest for Reid.]

Daniel Henney (Supervisory Special Agent Matt Simmons, Seasons 10, 12-present): Overall, I'd say 15 has more of an arc through the episodes than previous seasons. Our unsub, Chameleon, is played by Michael Mosley, and he's definitely into some gruesome, creepy stuff.

Brewster: Like, we have a scene where a bunch of body parts are hanging from a tree. Our prop guy, who's a professional fisherman in real life, was on top of a 15-foot ladder with a foot and an ear hanging off his fishing pole.

Aisha Tyler (Special Agent Dr. Tara Lewis and forensic psychologist, Seasons 11-present): And people wonder why my house in L.A. is like a fortress and I'm armed! I'd say it's a direct result of Criminal Minds. This show is definitely dark. I'm not going around profiling sociopaths and serial killers, but, yeah, being on Criminal Minds, you become more perceptive about people's bad behavior.

Anybody else find it hard letting go in real life after chasing serial killers at work all day?

Cook: I'm blessed with a good shut-off switch. Once the day's done, I can block everything out. But as soon as I became a mom, something shifted where the naive girl from Canada got the boot and mama bear arrived. We saw that happen with JJ on the show, too. When she became a mom, it was suddenly like, "Whoa, watch out for that guy in the park!"

Henney: I'll tell you a story. About two months ago, I'm at home sleeping and a burglar alarm goes off, and I literally switched into Simmons mode. All the training I'd done with the FBI guys and our tech advisers instantly came into play. I threw on black sweatpants. I was creeping around the perimeter of my house, FBI-style. I clocked all my points of ingress and egress. When you do so many episodes, basic instincts kick in.

Did you identify the unsub?

Henney: Nobody was there! It was a stupid, faulty window sensor.

Brewster: The show definitely sharpens your reactions to your surroundings. When you start the show, you have access to the FBI training manual, which, frankly, no civilian should ever see because the photographs are so grisly. You end up going through a period of hypervigilance where you can't go into a sandwich shop or airport without thinking, Uh-oh! I think that couple's going to end up in a domestic dispute tonight.

Group question: What's your standout memory from these many seasons?

Rodriguez: I jumped onto this flying carpet 12 seasons in, and my first scene was out in the middle of the desert, and we shot all night long. There was an old car that was supposed to be in the scene, but it broke down and they ended up rolling it into the shot, which was funny. But more than that, I remember how welcoming people were. I was the new guy, but I felt immediately at home.

Brewster: We watched your family grow, too, Adam. You had a kid. A.J. had two kids. I met my husband on set. We've been lucky enough to live our lives and develop together as people.

Cook: For me, having both my boys appear in the show was an absolute treasure. Mekhai, who's 10, has been doing it way longer than Phoenix, who's 4, and he loves it, though I can't tell if it's the acting or that everybody's giving him cookies and ice cream all the time.

Henney: I was really proud to play Simmons because, as an Asian American actor, you don't often get the chance to play the quintessential American guy's guy. He's married to a Caucasian woman and has mixed-race children—which is true with me, too [Henney is also of mixed descent]—and I loved representing that on television. To have a kissing scene with Kelly, my wife on the show—you weren't seeing that 10 years ago.

Tyler: Directing a couple episodes was an incredible opportunity. But for me, just the experience of seeing this through to the end is so rewarding. I was only supposed to do six episodes. Everything's been gravy since then.

Mantegna: Hands down, my highlight was being able to work in my passion for law enforcement and the military by making my FBI character a former Marine. That allowed me to bring in Meshach Taylor, one of my dearest, oldest friends, as my commanding officer in Vietnam, and directing two of the three episodes that involved him as a character.

That included the episode where his character died, because Meshach had died. To actually bury him on camera as my dear friend—I'm the godfather of his kids, and he's the godfather of mine—it was everything. If I do nothing else on television, doing that for Meshach to me means the top of the ladder.

TV shows come and go. How do you explain the enduring success of Criminal Minds?

Tyler: Well, I'd say it's not about prurient interest in the macabre. I think the reason people like the show is because we want to know that there's a smart, dedicated team of professionals out there working very hard to make sure that the rest of us stay safe. Even if we don't know who they are and we can't see them, it's comforting that people are sacrificing their personal lives and their relationships so that they can put evil people away.

Rodriguez: I meet young people all the time, teenagers, who love the show and say they love the game of it all—figuring out how these processes work and the skills that go into solving crimes. I think we've probably inspired a generation of people to go into this important work—on the good-guy side, not on the bad.

Cook: So many people have struggled in their lives, and they can relate to what they see on the show. Hardworking moms, people that have been abused, people who've experienced loss.

Vangsness: I think it comes down to a show with some of the greatest characters on television. Garcia is just a bundle of positive energy, and that resonated. Her desk is a living piece of art to how she's connected with the audience. I've got a papier-mâché heart pen a fan from France gave me. There's a little rabbit from a fan in Japan. A German woman knitted a Penelope doll that's sitting there. Oh, and Richard Simmons gave me a necklace one time because he loved the show!

Criminal Minds fans are a devoted bunch.

Henney: I once checked into a ski lodge in Switzerland and my television wasn't working, so I went to the front desk. The two desk guys started staring at me like zombies and pointed to their TV, where Criminal Minds was on, with me on the screen.

Brewster: It takes you by surprise in the weirdest places. You'll be in a bathroom at a movie theater and girls are outside whispering, That's Emily Prentiss, and they wait for you to finish so you can wash your hands and hug them.

What are you going to miss most about the show?

Cook: Um, everything. The scenes in the jet are my favorites because it's such a tight space that we forget we're on a TV show and just enjoy hanging out together. This show, for me, was a coming of age. You can look online and find me in the beginning of season 1 wearing this ridiculous pink pinstriped blazer that will haunt me forever. I look like I'm 12. But I've grown up along with JJ. [Tearing up.] I'll miss it all so much.

Gubler: Likewise, I really look up to Spencer Reid, and I feel so honored to have played him for so long. I will miss his long, you know, three-page monologues of technical jargon about protons or whatever. I'll miss the way he holds his hands like an ostrich foot when he's solving a problem. He's definitely way smarter than I'll ever be, but I like to think that some Dr. Reid qualities have imbued themselves into my own personality a little bit. If nothing else, I've adopted his ever-changing hairstyles.

Tyler: I'll miss being an FBI badass. I'd love to take the FBI jacket, but it's absolutely illegal to walk around wearing it.

Vangsness: I can tell you what I won't miss. Garcia's glasses—because I have them all already. I've bought every pair she's ever worn, so I have a collection of around 65 at home. They remind me to be confident like her, to see life through her eyes. Garcia is my Sasha Fierce.

Brewster: I will miss the hot tub wine machine.

Hot tub wine machine?

Vangsness: You heard that right, mister. It's an epic hot tub party at my house that the women on the show have turned into a standing gig—or more like a floating gig.

Brewster: It's basically a therapy and gossip and splashing-around session fueled by chardonnay and rosé.

Tyler: And it's ladies only because it gets kinda frisky.

Rodriguez: This is a sore subject for me even as a very securely and happily married man.

Mantegna: They do send us pictures on group text, which is thoughtful of them.

Vangsness: I don't think it's too much of a spoiler to tell you that this fine tradition makes it into our last episode. I co-wrote the finale, and we tried to cram in as many little Easter eggs and satisfying plot tie-ups as we could, both for fans and for each other. So within the episode, you'll see the BAU version of hot tub time machine. We worked really hard solving these super-intense crimes over what will be 325 episodes. After all these years, don't you think we deserve a little spa time?

[justjessame]

Babysitting Butcher Chapter 53

How would a normal person unwind after a day of learning that a trio of assholes literally stood over her body while she was bleeding out basically watching to see if she was going to go “BOOM” and then learning that a little boy had three bleeping microchips inside of him to keep a part of his being neutered because it was easier than teaching him how to control himself?  

I’m not asking because I’m clever and want to brag about my ways, I’m asking for ideas.  I was completely fucking twisted into a tight bundle of nerves and tension and Billy wasn’t much better.  Even knowing that there was a way to inhibit supe powers that didn’t include packing their poopers with C4 didn’t really completely bring him back down to less amped Butcher levels.  

We called Mom from the office, asking her to keep Terror overnight.  Whatever she heard in Billy’s voice, or mine when I got on to tell her everything was fine, we just needed a night to ourselves, she didn’t pry.  We picked up take out, and if you ask me what kind - no fucking clue.  I’m still not entirely sure we ate it.  All I know is that the drive home was a feat of muscle memory.  Getting inside, eating (if we did it), locking up the house for the night, all of it was literally just from routine.  

Once the doors were locked, once night fell, when we were alone and secure in OUR house, away from everyone and everything, though?  That’s when I didn’t need ideas for how to unwind after anything with Billy.  Because that’s when our real muscle memory took over, and when his hands reached for me, we looked for a distraction from the reality of the shit show that surrounded our bubble.  Outside of Billy and me?  We knew we couldn’t be certain of the answers to any of it, or how it would turn out, but here, as his fingers slid down my bare spine and mine danced up his biceps, which I would swear that some sculptor had seen in a vision and based those Greek gods on- here we could be certain of.  

Billy Butcher and Ronnie Taylor. Together. This was something I would be the farm on. Time and time again. Because we’d faced down death and beat it. Repeatedly.  What could possibly pull us apart after that?

We woke up, tangled limbs and sheets.  My face pressed tight against Billy’s chest, his arms wrapped around my shoulders holding me tight against him, not a hair’s breadth between us. The sun was barely cresting the horizon, but we were waking after a well earned rest that came after psychically demanding everything we dared to from one another. Knowing damn well the other would answer with a challenge.  

The night hadn’t been about rewards and gold stars, even if we’d both seen celestial bodies, it had been about remembering that throughout everything that the world threw at us, we had one another.  And when push came to shove, we would always be the best distraction for one another.  

“Hey you,” I smiled into the warmth of his peck, the growl of his voice harsher this morning with hoarseness from overuse and I liked to think I helped cause it.  “Don’t know about you, Ronnie, but I’m tempted to call in sick.”

Chuckling into his skin, I didn’t fight my urge to kiss the smoothness of it.  Salty from a well earned sweat, and uniquely Billy, I propped my chin so I could look up at him.  “Quitter.” It was a mocking dare, but honestly I was pretty damn sore and I hoped he’d call my bluff and roll me over and make me forget I dared utter the damn word.  

His smirk coupled by a flash of those white teeth of his and I was on my back, making me wonder if he could read my mind.  “Not hard to do, Ronnie, you’re practically telepathic when you want me.”  I gasped as our bodies joined, tender from our arduous activities overnight, but Billy knew me too well to give me an inch of leniency.  “Tell me this ain’t what you were hoping for.” His breath fanned hot across my face, and instead of answering him with words, I arched up and his forehead came down, meeting mine.  “That’s what I thought.”  

We didn’t call in sick.  We are actually adults, even if we act like sex crazed teenagers - A LOT.  We got showered, dressed, and we even ate breakfast.  We managed to get to work earlier than usual, simply because we’d been HORRIBLE pet parents and left Terror with his grandparents all night, but Billy and I promised each other that we would not only stop and get him on the way home, but we’d stop and grab him a treat first.

“Not a stuffy,” I muttered, thinking that someone had to put their foot down about Terror’s sexual deviancy before it got out of hand.  “He can have a bone or a box of nibbles, but NOT another STUFFY.”  

Billy was grinning a little too widely to allow me to believe I was winning the argument, but we were in the parking lot and work was a reality that couldn’t be put off.  Since our only avenue for the video sent me would be to have the trio who arrived first enhanced, hopefully so we could do facial recognition on at least one, should some tech magician find an angle that showed one of them NOT shielding themselves completely, we sent that on its way and Billy fired up the drone footage that they’d shot of Ryan’s neighborhood.

We must have watched it fifty times, even with the break for lunch - longer than usual because I found a specialty pet store that we stopped by to grab Terror some guilt gifts - and the verdict was simple.  Ryan’s new placement was shittier than either of us had considered.  Becca might not have had the best option, with Vought’s little cookie cutter make believe shit, but this?  This wasn’t even that.

“Facial recognition has the tutors as teachers, or at least they have certificates to teach.”  I’d brought up the man and woman’s information, throw away lower level agents.  “Nothing special, they’ve been in the CIA for years, utilized for non-dangerous assignments.  This is right up their alleys.”  The neighbors bothered me more.  None of them were recognized.  None.  “Not a single one of these people come up in anything, not CIA, FBI, NSA, OGA.”  I sighed and sat back, licking my lip and trying to think of another avenue.  “Why populate the neighborhood with anyone, let alone untraceable people?  While you happen to be inhibiting his powers?”  If they were, which I was starting to really lean toward.  

Billy was looking out the wall of windows, eyes not focused on anything in particular.  “Going in with you,” I could hear the uncertainty in his voice.  “It’ll be the first time I’ve seen him since -”

“I know,” I could have moved to him, curled into his lap and distracted him, but not now.  Becca was in his head, his vision was on her, his last moments with her and Ryan.  He didn’t need me muddling that up.  “I know it’ll be the first time, but he’s a little boy who is all alone and he has no one, but you.” I hated to say it, to weaponize it, but it was true.  Ryan had no one, and he bore Billy’s name.  And a promise his mom forced out of Billy.  That was it.

“What if I look at him -” Billy stopped, eyes closing as he took a deep breath.  “And I see HIM.”  

“You won’t.”  I wanted to feel more sure than I did, but I wasn’t.  I could only hope that having me next to him, knowing that when I looked at Ryan I didn’t see Homelander would somehow help, but I couldn’t swear.  “And I’ll be beside you.”  

“Until ya get sick of me,” he turned then, eyes open and blazing when they met mine.  

“There you go, making me promise to become immortal,” I shook my head, even as he was reaching for me, needing so badly that reminder of us, and our permanence.  

[violetsystems]

#personal

Because of the Internet, cycles of things don’t really follow the same pattern as the older generation is used to.  They think they know obviously.  Their favorite game is called human capital and we are the pawns, bishops and knights on the chessboard for them to sacrifice.  I’m forced to read a lot of financial opinions as an outsider.  For somebody in the aforementioned camp, Mario Gabelli had at least acknowledged that the Fortnite generation has been slowly growing up.  Apps like Robinhood have opened the market up to steal your hard earned pennies.  And then accounts get hacked, money gets stolen, and the older generation laughs and shakes it’s head.  You stupid kids and your lack of motivation.  If you didn’t spend all your time living your life instead of making us money.  I think he forgets like most boomers do that there’s an entire generation after them that was born and bred on Tron.  I didn’t land into the stock market after playing Call of Duty with my bros to be honest.  I melted down a twenty year pension from a place of employment that ghosted, derezzed and ignored my entire identity.  Other people might have traded online through simulations, harvested their bitcoin at the behest of their electric bill or just have rich parents,  I’m not like other people.  We all have figured this out after how many years of writing these to an invisible tribunal of amazing people.  I often read these other perspectives about the financial industry controlled by pundits, investors, and people who generally talk down to the little person like me.  We are what people refer to as “the retail investor.”  We’re written about like the plague mostly because nobody can really control our strategies or bully us into submission.  Much of the idea of retirement is hinged on investments in America.  Social Security is about to run out at some point.  My generation will probably be the first to see my government stiff the bill and run away.  Corporations and working for them at times can be a whirlwind of interconnected dots.  Money and loss on paper becomes a zero sum shell game for the rich.  It’s not about the work you do.  It’s about the money you spend for them.  Donald Trump took a loss for almost two decades which is incidentally how long I was gainfully employed.  A typical artist in America can take a hobby loss for up to five years.  The same artists with no healthcare to speak of.  The fiscal cliff that we all dread is nowhere reflected in the markets.  Neither is the actual driving force behind their profit.  America is a consumer based economy and America is simultaneously shrinking and bursting at the seams.  These are all stitched together by a frail, aging ideology that doesn’t want to let go.  Generation X’ers like myself are used to being forgotten about.  I travelled the world looking for someone to look at me as more than a number.  And now people follow me around because I’m a name on their company registry.  But nobody really ever speaks to me directly.  I’m a dataset and a demographic that only speaks as a number on paper.  Until I do things that the financial elite can’t stand.  I make a decision that is based on things they don’t value.  I choose to put my money elsewhere.  And this is why people hate us.  Because you can’t speculate on chaos that you do not control.  And America is simply profit off of speculation which is a value amounted to 20.83 trillion dollars in debt.  Which doesn’t sound much like it’s in control of anything except printing money.

I grew up on computers.  My mother helped me start my first bulletin board system.  I had my very first phone line in my bedroom around the time wargames came out.  I used to post the number on boards before I had even set up a system like Telegard.  I would advertise it like a mysterious military site out of a Gibson book.  People would call and the modem would pick up the carrier tone and dump them to a blank monochrome screen.  From there my twelve year old self would punk people into thinking I was an AI.  Years later I found a twenty year career in Information Technology in the Arts which abandoned me in a wholly disturbing way.  My knowledge of computers still stayed and those skills kept me alive in these times.  I grew up playing games because I had no friends and suffered horrible bullying.  I was an only child who was ridiculously intelligent but often quiet and ignored.  Years later it’s not so much different.  The bullying is still out there.  America rewards the loud and the forthcoming mostly because it is too lazy to seek out the nuances.  Convenience has warped America’s attention span beyond the regular flow of time.  Computers and connection over the years have rapidly accelerated the dominance of these ideals.  Jobs exist all over the world these days.  Most of the ones I’ve been interested in have been in China.  But due to the circumstances of my situation, I was forced to take a larger sum of income this year than I would have liked.  Sounds terrible right?  No shortage of people trying to scam me into spending it.  Any further income accrued this year becomes taxed horribly.  Ironically, the Illinois fair tax law changes the game even further as retirement income was not taxed before the amendment.  If passed, any retirement income that was not with held will be owed.  Another round of layoffs to liquidate pensions from the bottom line in cities like ours will definitely affect people worse than me down the road.  I’ve been stumbling through the process alone since the end of July.  A lot of what I had done was to part out and budget money in my own way playing a waiting game that I’ve grown used to in my life.  I am at the peak of stagnancy at the moment.  Staring out at another blank screen typing into the void every week while people lift bits and pieces for their own convenient narrative of me and my value in human capital.  Headhunters no longer stalk the internet.  They follow you around in the street with forced intimidation expecting you to read into what they think you deserve to spend the rest of your life doing.  All the while trying to wrap you up back into an ecosystem for less pay, shrinking benefits, and an economic ecosystem of investments of both human and monetary.  Debtors are paired with debtors.  Marriages are arranged for tax purposes and rich oligarchs with political ties find more ways to pay less.  And yet they never really understand the power of connection they do not have.  They don’t communicate.  They project.  They expect you to believe that we’re all in this together when they never hear a word you say.  The only time they listen is when you take your money away.  I’m single.  Never been married.  An only child.  And pretty much an exile on Wall Street with more liquidity and equity suddenly than most people in America.  And much like everyone paying more taxes to a government that has basically turned into a formulaic limp dick reality show.

A reality show that treats me like the Babadook at best these days.  I can’t even leave my house anymore without somebody following me or watching me.  I realize this might just be the hazards of my next pivot into global employment.   I thought these long forms of prose were enough of a background check for the FBI at this point.  It’s called “transparency and accountability” Scully.  I realize ethics aren’t a valuable skill in America.  But the utter lack of human emotion for my situation speaks volumes to me.  And it should be a wakeup call for most who live and work in this dangerous time.  They really don’t give a fuck about us in such a comedic way that they don’t realize our power.  Our power is confidence and they find ways to undermine it.  Tell you that you aren’t beautiful enough so that you spend more money on things you do not need.  Ignore and isolate you until you breakdown and ask for their help.  Until you treat yourself in bankruptcy so they can print more money.  These times are abusive at best in a way that I have never been prepared for.  But those on top don’t really understand how it feels to be under the thumb for years.  I do.  Corporations aren’t human and neither are most rich people.  I realize that life here is literally all about money.  Last night was a very good example of that when I read the news about a game I played shutting down.  I cried because it was the only thing connecting me to anything social without being overbearing and weird.  And I had invested a sizeable amount of my pension in the thought that this might keep the ecosystem alive.  The lesser of two evils of investing.  Put money where you think it will be used fairly and wisely.  Water the garden and watch it grow.  The amazon stock is literally over three grand per share.  They own everything.  They’ve shattered their profits due to the shift from COVID to delivery.  Small businesses shutter.  Hard artistic work is pissed to the wind.  And people like myself are left to wonder why the fuck Jeff Bezos needs any more money from me to treat me like a fucking lab rat.  These companies do not give a fuck about you as a person.  They want your money.  They want to leverage your image, your words, your narrative to push something that doesn’t benefit you at all.  There is no excuse for me to be invisible after all these years let alone from what happened to me in July.  And yet, there is no real way to get back at it.  Other than to completely divest from something that only hurts.  Capitalism is funny that way.  It desperately wants your participation to stay alive.  A two trillion dollar company like Apple cares only about the cut for their investors not the art that drives these bricks that become obsolete in two years.  The reason the old generation is contentious to us is that we see the scam in broad daylight.  We trolled you behind the scenes.  And when we learn the truth, it hurts.  We can always hurt back.  I divest.  I decouple.  I wonder what motivates me as a human being and not a bottom line for some rich fuck who got their way scamming people into thinking they’re worth less so they could have more.  The internet moves pretty fast.  It can all fall apart in a keystroke.  And these people will still be making excuses and not staring us point blank in the eye.  I’ll still be playing video games and you’ll still be investing in what you think you know about me.  Which last time I checked is jack shit other than the fact that it’s safe enough to plant a nuclear physicist under my apartment for a year without me knowing.  Shall we play a game?  See you at the opening bell Jeff!

[gaycrouton]

Gym Defense

[While doing required fitness tests at the gym, a man pulls some dirty tricks while sparring with Scully, and Mulder is not having it. MSR]

Sometimes Mulder worried Scully’s association to him prevented her from being able to make more friendships within the bureau. He wondered if, before being assigned to the X-Files, she was the type to go out for drinks with friends after work, hang around the office with people she enjoyed, laugh when jokes were made about the spooky guy in the basement.

Call him selfish, but getting all her attention for this past year of partnership had been more than he could ever ask for. He couldn’t really remember the last time he’d been so openly comfortable around another person, let alone someone so incredible. Now he wasn’t just excited to come into work to investigate, but more often than not, his excitement stemmed from the fact he was able to see her. The guilt couldn’t help but gnaw at him, though, when he realized while she finally gave him the human interaction he so craved, he was probably keeping her away from all the potential interactions she wanted.

It was times like this that solidified that was probably not the case.

This was the first time he and Scully had to do the FBI fitness test since becoming partners. It was mostly just done to make sure field agents could chase and apprehend a target. They’d already finished the independent race with perfect times, now they just had to stand in line and spar. It didn’t matter who was the winner or loser, you just had to prove that you knew what to do.

These were the only times he was immersed in an environment with other agents and, to be honest, he hated it. He knew what his reputation was, and he could feel everyone staring at him. He felt like he was Sasquatch, just wandering into the public unannounced. No one dared to approach, just walked passed and gawked, sometimes making passing comments to those around them  under their breaths. Because of this, he expected Scully to stay away and do her own thing, but instead she stood next to him in the corner and, much to his surprise, shared his grief.

Apparently Scully’s desire to socialize was even less than his own. “I don’t see why this is necessary. Doesn’t our record alone and the fact that we are apprehending suspects on a daily basis prove, you know, that we can apprehend suspects?” she sighed, pulling on her hair with both hands to tighten her ponytail.

“I’m surprised you’re not socializing more. I thought you knew some of these people before the X-Files?” he asked, hoping she didn’t take his comment as an implication that he didn’t want her near. He was just genuinely curious why she wouldn’t take the opportunity to get a reprieve from him.

She rolled her eyes and waved her hand in front of her face as if dispelling the crazy notion from the air. “They’re not worth my time.” He smiled at the implication being that he was. “I’m not the mingling type.” For a second he entertained the idea that she was just saying that because she felt bad no one except her would talk to him, but he waved it away like she had. If there was one thing he’d learned about Scully in their short time together, it was that she never did or said anything just to placate him.

His attention was drawn to her when she threw her head back to drink the last of her water bottle. Mulder’d honestly been trying to avoid looking at her too much in fear she would catch his gaze wandering. She was wearing tight nylon runners leggings and a tight tank top to match. Most of the women here were wearing far more revealing athletic attire, but Scully was just radiant. Even as her hair fell from her short ponytail and she was sweaty and flushed from exertion.

“Is my hair falling out or something?” She asked. Caught.

However, before he had a chance to answer, the instructor reigned them all in and split them up into pairs based on physique. He was paired with a tall nerdy guy from the Financial Unit, why he needed to be here Mulder did not know, and Scully was with a short woman who was talking her ear off. Scully looked over at him and gave him a pained smile and he immediately missed their time by themselves in the corner. While he thought the rumors they were married were condescending and tired, he couldn’t help but feel out of his element without her by his side.

They stood in their respective lines and waited their turns. Scully’s line was moving substantially faster than his. The men liked to milk the opportunity to exert their physical dominance, he supposed. A chance for them to showcase their masculinity as if it was a pheromone to the women. He rolled his eyes at the thought and was glad his partner from Finances didn’t look the type.

Scully ended up getting to a mat before he did, and he was glad he had the opportunity to watch. Not that he hadn’t seen her take someone down before, but it was just fascinating to watch. She and the other woman stood on the mat face to face, shook hands, and waited for the count down. Her partner naively tried to strike her immediately, allowing Scully to gracefully duck under her arm and slide around her side, pinning the woman’s arm behind her back before she even had a chance to see what was happening.

With ease, Scully grabbed her other arm in the crook of her elbow and swiped her feet out from under her, preventing her from being able to kick. The instructor began counting down from ten and the match was over within a mere moment. Scully let the woman go as soon as the whistle blew and she stretched out her hand to offer assistance. She smiled politely at the woman and Mulder could see a blush spread across her cheeks when everyone around her started applauding the quick take down. That was another one of his favorite things; seeing others appreciate Scully as much as he did.

A loud thud drew his attention back to the mat in front of him where there was a beefy homicide agent throwing around a younger guy. He was being unnecessarily rough and even the ref seemed put off, though he didn’t say anything. All the guys around cheered as he violently kicked the young man in the leg and hit his back before pinning him in a headlock. Mulder silently thanked the fact he didn’t have to fight a ‘roided out’ guy like him and let his attention wander around the room until it was his turn.

He was last in his line and, from how quickly the matches on the other mat went, he was likely going to be the last match. Most of the women filed out and left after their match was over, but he saw Scully sticking around against the wall, eyes flicking around the activity of the room before inevitably returning to him. He waved at her gently and smiled when she playfully returned it.

He was curious why she was staying. Was she here because she needed to talk to him after, or was she here because she wanted to watch him on the mat. He was embarrassed with himself for how much he hoped it was the latter. It struck him that this oddly reminded him of high school, when he’d be playing basketball and he’d try to slam dunks to impress the cute cheerleaders on the side.

He had to remind himself that this was Scully, his partner, and trying to impress her with displays of masculine agility and strength was probably not the best thing to do. Though, he knew he was going to try it anyway. She started smiling and he became embarrassed when he realized he’d been staring at her, but then she started pointing to his left.

“Sp-Mulder, are you coming?”

Mulder started and realized his partner was waiting for him on the mat. “Sorry,” he apologized, stepping up.

“Too busy checking out his little wifey,” the beefy homicide agent teased, making the surrounding group of men laugh.

He didn’t reward the comment with a response and just got into fighting stance. “Three, two, one!” the instructor called out before blowing the whistle. The finance guy went low and tried to pick Mulder up, presumably trying to replicate something he saw on WWE. Mulder rebuffed him by dropping low and using one of his legs to sweep the other guy off his feet.

As he did this, he saw the homicide agent was talking to Scully, leaning one palm against the wall as he invaded her personal space. Scully didn’t seem to be paying him any attention though as her eyes were still focused on Mulder’s match.

His attention probably should have been focused on his match too, because his opponent took his moment of weakness to pounce on him and knock him off balance. Mulder fell from the impact, but quickly regained his footing, grabbing the man’s wrists in one hand and pinning him down to the mat with his leg trapping the man underneath him. He was making sure to do it in a way that exuded pressure and not force while keeping a good distance between their bodies.

He struggled for a moment before giving up as the instructor counted down. As soon as it was over, Mulder helped the guy up and wished him a good game. However, unlike the other matches, the men all started to walk away, either distracted by something else or simply leaving since it was over.

“Good match you two. Now that everything's over, I have to go report these scores. Make sure to tell everyone they’re free to go,” the instructor said, taking off his whistle before heading out.

Mulder turned to thank his opponent for a good game, only to discover he too was gone. Curious, he made his way over to the group that was huddling, but he didn’t have a good vantage point. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked the people around him.

“Brad challenged Mrs. Spooky to a match since she was the best woman,” one answered over his shoulder.

“What?” Mulder asked incredulously.

The man turned around and his cocky smile died on his face when he saw who he had been talking to. “Oh, uh, sorry Agent Mulder.”

Mulder paid him no mind as he elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, worry gnawing him away. There was something malicious about this and it put a bad taste in his mouth. He knew Scully could handle herself, but a strong surge of protectiveness coarsed through him. His anxiety didn’t subside when he could finally see them.

Brad was probably Mulder’s height, but with the build of a wrestler. He could probably make a brick wall flinch just by looking at it. Mulder felt uncomfortable just seeing him on the mat with Scully, who looked like a child standing next to this man. This wasn’t right. The gym wouldn’t have paired them together; she may be strong and nimble, but that didn’t really matter with such a significant size difference. The only rational thing he could think of was that he somehow antagonized Scully into accepting a challenge. Nothing about this boded well with him.

The countdown started and all the men surrounding the man started cheering when the whistle blew. Immediately Brad grabbed for her, but Scully was quicker, weaving away from his grasp so elegantly that it almost looked like a dance. Her avoidance took Brad by surprise and he stumbled, creating a laugh from the crowd.

Mulder didn’t need to have a background in profiling to know being laughed off just added fuel to the fire. Brad wheeled around and hit Scully in the side with a the back of his fist, causing her to fall in shock, though she didn’t scream. He wanted nothing more than to run onto the mat and wring his neck, but he knew Scully would be mad at him for intervening.

By nature, he felt compelled to throw himself into every situation. Being partnered with Scully had been a learning curve for him. When people said that the gender dynamics in opposite-sexed partnerships were tricky to navigate, there was a bit of truth in it. He didn’t find it difficult in the way they acted; like the woman was a liability or that the sexual attraction would be too much, though there was plenty of attraction on his behalf; but it was difficult because he wanted her to know he respected her and he wanted everyone else to do the same.

Sometimes he had to check himself over things he hadn’t given a second thought. Was he explaining something to her that she already knew? Was he being inconsiderate of her personal space? Occasionally they’d be doing something stressful and he’d see her get pale, or she’d get really quiet before reaching in her purse before grabbing a Midol. He worried that he was pushing her too hard when she was on her period and he should be more considerate. Then after he asked himself all these questions, he worried if that would be considered ‘treating her differently’ and he worried if that, in and of itself, was sexist. He didn’t want to make it sound like it was so hard dealing with her womanhood, he just wanted her to know how much he respected and valued that aspect of her.

All too often he had to watch her get dismissed because of her gender, and it infuriated him. Men talking to him as if she wasn’t there, men looking at him while she talked as if asking for silent confirmation she was worth listening to, or men who leered at her with poorly-disguised intentions. It took him awhile to realize what was happening, what this odd behavior was, but as soon as he did he was disgusted. Scully had told him time and time again that they couldn’t react poorly because it would just perpetuate the stereotype women were emotional or sensitive. This often meant he couldn’t react on her behalf when he wanted to.

Like now.

He saw the pain register on Scully’s face for a split second before she masked it. He bent down to lunge at her, but Scully was quicker. She did a sort of somersault in between his legs and pivoted on her butt so she could kick him in his, sending him falling to his knees. Scully took the opportunity immediately by throwing herself on his back, grabbing his arms to pin them behind him.

The crowd started cheering at her impressive moves and he felt another surge of pride well up in him. However, he simply was too strong for her to be able to hold his arms like that. He quickly shucked one free before sending his elbow back harshly. It landed squarely on her chest, clearly knocking the wind out of her. Everyone gasped with her at the absolutely illegal move. Hitting was frowned upon, but throwing elbows and knees was forbidden.

His fists clenched at his sides until he was afraid the skin might tear. The jovial nature of the room fell slightly and he saw some people catch sight of him before immediately leaving. Even they didn’t like where this was heading.

The man wheeled around and initially grabbed one bicep, his meaty hand completely engulfing her arm, while he slid the other hand in between her legs to grab her thigh. He lifted her up into the air with a triumphant smile and Mulder almost ran onto the mat, afraid he was going to toss her onto the ground. Scully, per usual, was one step ahead of him and kicked his ribs with her free leg, doing it with the meat of her thigh instead of her foot as to keep it clean.

Brad yelled in pain and dropped her, but she was able to land on her feet. The relief was short lived as he quickly recovered and used his full weight and both hands to shove her. A cry escaped her involuntarily as she fell onto her hands and knees. A self-satisfied smirk erupted on Brad’s face as he loomed over her, leaning down to grab her arms and pinning them to the mat while shoving his knee in the middle of her back.

It should have ended there.

The rule was, if a person was unable to move for ten seconds, the match should be called. It was clear there was no way for Scully to get her hand back, so he could just stand there and hold her arm while the timer counted down. He didn’t. Everything about this was already too rough for Mulder’s comfort, but then he really crossed the fucking line.

He slid his knee off her back and eased himself down, pinning her with his weight to the mat by simply laying on top of her, moving himself so one hand grabbed her wrist while the other held her shoulder. Mulder couldn’t see Scully at all since the man completely covered her.

But he could hear her. “Get the fuck off me!” He saw Brad’s body rock a few times and he knew Scully was fruitlessly trying to buck him off. Mulder knew she’d be pissed at him, but he’s never been able to control his temper as well as she could and he was furious.

He pushed aside the group of men gawking, stepping up the mat and grabbing the man roughly by the shoulder “She said get off,” he shouted with enough force it seemingly sucked all the other noise out of the room.

Everyone stood in stunned silence as Brad rolled away a little bit to see who was touching him. “Come on, Spooky. We’re just doing a training exercise.”

He barely heard what was said because all he could focus on was the small part of Scully’s frame that was revealed to him. Her hands were pressing against the mat with so much force that he could see the muscles in her forearm straining. He also could see the ugly red imprint of a hand on her bare shoulder where he’d been holding her down.

Mulder raised his foot, pressed it into his side, and pushed him with so much force, he rolled off of Scully and onto his back. Mulder couldn’t even rejoice in Scully’s freedom because the sight in front of him caused the rest of the world to stop and the blood to pound in his ears.

The man had a full-blown erection; he’d been getting turned on from attacking Scully.

Mulder saw red and he felt like his rage was in control of his body. He leaned down, grabbed a fistful of the man’s shirt and punched him so hard in the face that a sickening ‘crack’ resonated in the room. All went silent as Mulder attacked him, landing blow after blow wherever he could.

He didn’t know how long that lasted until he felt a hand rest on his shoulder followed by Scully screaming, “Mulder, stop!” His fist remained in the air as he turned to look at her. She looked scared and worried and he felt ashamed for putting that look on her face.

He shoved him back down and took a few steps away from him. “What the fuck man?” Brad spat, clutching his nose, which was pouring blood over the front of his shirt.

“That wasn’t a sparring match, that was a full blown assault!” Mulder screamed as several men rushed to help him up. From the looks he was getting now, he’d been wrong earlier. He wasn’t Sasquatch invading their domain, he was Godzilla ruining it.

“They were just having a little fun, come on,” one of Brad’s work partners defended.

“If that’s what you think a woman looks like when she’s having fun, I feel bad for your wife,” Mulder seethed.

It looked like there might be another fight until Scully jumped between them. “Just take him out,” she demanded. They regarded her with contempt before she added, “Now!” The room quickly cleared out, accompanied by a series of grumbles and snide remarks. Eventually, the metal doors closed, and they were left alone.

Guilt overwhelmed him and an apology started pouring out of him almost involuntarily, “Scully, I’m so sorry. I was-”

The look of shock on her face as she whirled around stopped him mid-sentence. “Mulder, why would you possibly be sorry. I don’t want to think how far that might have gone if you hadn’t intervened. What could have happened if you weren’t there.”

He’d been so worried that he’d insulted her pride by interrupting, that her confession brought on a new wave of guilt. Had she been waiting for him to step in earlier? Had she laid there on the ground with that guy’s dick grinding against her thinking that her partner was watching and enjoying it at her expense? “I should ha-,” he started, but she interrupted him like she hadn’t heard him in the first place.

“I just feel stupid. I was distracted, so I didn’t realize this guy played dirty,” she sighed.

“No, Scully. It’s not your-”

“It is though. I should have known what he was doing. He was egging me on, implying that it would be impossible for a woman to beat him, and I was just too blinded by my irritation and my desire to prove him wrong.” She sounded thoroughly pissed at herself and she raised a hand to fix her hair, but she stopped to wince.

His overwhelming need to apologize for his actions were superseded by his concern for her well being. “How bad did he hurt you?”

She blew out air in exasperation and shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think anything’s really hurt, I’m just sore.”

“May I?” he asked, pointing to her hair. Maybe he didn’t help her in time then, but the least he could do was fix her hair. He was relieved when she nodded, granting him permission.

He raised his hand up and grabbed her elastic band, tugging at it slowly so it came undone without catching or ripping any strands. Her eyes fluttered shut at his touch and he ran his fingers through her hair to get out the tangles. “I’m sorry. I-”

“Mulder, you don’t need to-”

“No, please let me explain.” He looked at her face for a response, but she just remained silent, allowing him to continue. He started gathering her hair up in his hands to redo her ponytail. His actions were a little clunky since he was two decades out of practice. The last time he had done this was for Samantha. “I feel guilty that I hadn’t stopped him sooner. I just didn’t want it to look like, or for you to think I was implying, that since you were a woman you needed a man to save you. I was scared you would think it was implying I didn’t think you could handle it, or that you don’t know your limits.”

He paused, trying to gauge a response, but she hadn’t moved. “It just-bothers me. And don’t take this the wrong way, I’ve seen you take down guys bigger than him with ease, but I didn’t like that he was using how tiny you are to assert dominance over you. With the mindset he was in, there was no chance for you to win fairly. And then when I saw he was-” Mulder trailed off, almost unable to voice the words.

“Getting off on my distress?” Scully finished, disgust evident in her tone.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “I just got overwhelmingly protective. I didn’t want you to be mad at me for being, as you put it, ‘territorial.’ Now I realize it might have looked to you like I was just sitting back and enjoying it like the others, and I-”

“No,” she asserted, turning around as soon as he wrapped the band taut one final time. “I would never lump you in with them.”

The conviction that was in her tone and written on her face gave him a sense of pride. Almost like if she believed he was a good man, then it must have been a fact. “Mulder, you’ve never treated me as weak or less than even when I was thinking it myself.” To him, she was impenetrable, a force of strength that blew him away. His heart hurt that she would ever think any less. “I know we haven’t known each other for very long, but I trust you implicitly. Please never question that.”

He smiled at her words and gently pulled her into a hug, happy when he felt her return the embrace. He nuzzled his chin into the crown of her head before placing a kiss to her hair. She pressed her cheek into his chest and gave a little content sigh.

It was clear then, and it’d be clear for the next twenty-five years; it didn’t matter how many blows they would take, they’d always be there for each other.

[poeticsandaliens]

In the morning hour she calls me (post-finale MSR )

This is my take on the post-MS IV canon compliant babyfic. Title is taken from Country Roads (John Denver). Based in part off a post from @foxmulders about Mulder and Scully’s magic teenage son who can explode heads but knows nothing practical about adulting. Tagging @today-in-fic.

Pairing: MSR

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Slowly and strangely, Mulder and Scully reconnect with their son. 

He bought the ring years ago. She saw it tucked away in his underwear drawer, once, during the early days of living with him. Two silver bands twirled around each other in a neverending optical illusion. It had taken her a second to realize what it was, another second to realize what it meant, and a third to remember that no, they weren’t already married. They certainly fucked like newlyweds, on every surface that would hold them and some that wouldn’t. They had cracked every piece of furniture but the coffee table.

She wondered for months if he’d actually do it, drop to one knee and go through the romantic motions. Or if he’d wander into the living room one day, unshaven, hands shoved in his pockets and casually ask her to marry him. The funny thing was, meeting Mulder had solidified her desire never to get married. He was everything she found attractive in a man, and he irritated her endlessly in spite of it (and in hindsight, at least partially because of it). 

He never asked. When she peeled out of the driveway with her life measured in boxes and medical journals, she was glad for it.

They are slurping cheap shaved ice at a roadside shack, indulging the July heat. Scully has one hand wrapped possessively around a cup of mechanical snow and raspberry syrup, the other shoved into her pocket, pressed flat against her stomach in an ongoing attempt to even process the last week’s events. She can still feel her muscles ripple beneath her touch. She wonders what will come first: the vanishing of her taut abdominal muscles or the baby’s fluttering kicks. What will she hear first: a new heartbeat on a sonogram or her son’s heart beating itself back to life on the river bottom, some confirmation he sends her that he is alive and well? She feels it in her gut, but she waits for him to tell her himself.

“Hey Scully,” Mulder’s hand is on her shoulder. “You okay?” 

She nods vacantly. “Thinking,” she replies. About what, she doesn’t have to say. She eyes the grape slush at the bottom of her cup. “Ready to go home?”

“Yeah, but first,” he says, almost sheepishly, in his something to say that I want to be a surprise voice that she always indulges. “I was thinking too, about everything that’s happened in the last couple weeks. I mean, Spender’s dead, Monica’s dead, Skinner isn’t out of the woods yet, William…” he trails off. William is—their son is. Mulder rummages around his jeans pocket. “And I realized, why don’t we get married? Not now, exactly, or even at some set date, but sometime.”

Her bottom lip trembles. “Mulder…”

“Scully, will you marry me sometime?”

And there is the ring. The wedding band he saved for over a decade, that Scully had all but forgotten about, in his outstretched palm over the sticky table. His hands have blue syrup on them. Her eyes water. 

“Yees,” she promises. “Sometimes.” She takes his face in her hands and plants one on him, right there between the shake shack and the Taurus. He tastes like blueberries and cheap candy.

That night, between shuddering orgasms and sweet breath and beads of perspiration, they finally break the coffee table. 

                                                 *        *       *       *

Sunrise curls through the window. Her stomach churns at ungodly hours of the morning, so she kneels each dawn before the porcelain god, then compulsively organizes the kitchen. She needs something to do, even more so since Kersh had informed them of their suspension. So she moves the salt shaker three inches to the right to make room for a potted succulent.

Hey, Dana. Nice plant. It’s Willam’s voice. She’s never heard it in person, but God, she’d know it anywhere. That cavalier, undeniably Mulder-ish tone, as if he were a stranger who could waltz into her life without preamble. 

“William…” Her lungs flatten into her ribcage. “Jackson…”

I’m sorry about the whole dying thing, he says carefully. But you understand why I had to do it. They have to believe I’m gone. They have to believe their experiment failed. 

“William—” 

He cuts her off. Do you think you could answer some questions for me?

“William they may claim ownership of you, call you their experiment. But no matter what, you’re still a person. No matter how afraid and bitter I ever sounded. You will always be our son, and you have a place here if you want it.” She sighs through her nose; she hopes he knows what she’s telling him.

Worry about the little one right now. Of course he knows about the baby. For a moment she’s squared up to give him a talking to for being a know-it-all, but he’s such a stranger to her still. She lacks that kind of authority. That thing’s… what, the size of a blueberry? William continues. That’s what you told that Mulder guy. It’s a lot more fragile than I am. I just need to ask you a question. There is an awkward pause. She counts second until finally, William mutters, if I cut the mold off a sandwich, can I still eat it?

She can’t see him, but oh, she sees Mulder’s son. She stifles a weepy laugh. He isn’t making promises, but she chooses to focus on the fact that he hadn’t refused to come home, either. She’ll see him soon—she can feel it written like a prescription in the fiber of her bones.

                                          *       *        *       *

William communicates sporadically, over the next few weeks. She will be swinging on the front porch, as Mulder collects dead branches and hurls them across the property for Daggoo, and William’s voice will slice into her consciousness. Images will flash through her mind, sometimes the mundane and sometimes the extraordinary. One day he asks, What is it called again when you can make an object float? Telepathy or Telekinesis? The next day, can I put this burrito into the microwave with the wrapper on? And so on. What’s an easy way to hide the bullet scar in my head? How do I get coffee stains out of a white t-shirt?

Sometimes, he sticks around in her head long enough for Mulder to notice. He catches that glassy look in her eye, asks her to tell William he loves him, wishes he would come home. She always says the first part, never the second. She understands now, she cannot ask William to simply melt into their family. “He’ll come when he’s ready,” she promises Mulder, curious if William can still hear her.

I don’t feel like a William, he muses one day. That’s what you named me, right? I don’t feel like Jackson either, but I’m not sure if William is what I want to be called forever.

“We can call him Will,” Mulder suggests cautiously, hunched at his desk. He’s taken to inscribing their adventures in brilliant fiction. His reading glasses suit him. 

I’m okay with Will. Like that boy from Pirates of the Caribbean, the one who died and came back. He was pretty cool. Man, I loved those movies as a kid. He’s stopped paying attention to what he relays to her. She enjoys those oblivious moments before their connection is severed. 

                                              *      *      *      *

She lies on their tattered couch, a medical journal propped half-heartedly against her knees. She’d stopped reading awhile ago, when the flopping and fluttering began in her stomach. She’d felt it earlier, tiny jerks of movement from the inside, but nothing like this. This is the most tangible, physical reminder of the impossible baby developing inside her. She has softened, her body less wiry now, but still, she’s hardly showing; only Mulder takes notice, and he’s particularly interested in her breasts. She presses her fingers into the side of her belly and is rewarded with somersaults that make her wonder if the baby that make her think of acrobats in the Cirque de Soleil. She thinks of an old X-file, a town of Floridian sideshow performers. If it seemed odd once, she and her family would fit right into it now.

There’s a knock on the door. Skinner comes first to mind—he is their only contact with the FBI, the only person who knows where they live. She and Mulder aren’t the type to make couple-friends at local restaurants. 

Mulder thumps downstairs to the door. “I’ve got it, Scully. Don’t get up—” his words catch in his throat. 

“Mulder? Who is it?” Scully swings her stiff legs over the couch and moves to join him. She fetches her sidearm from a drawer, just in case. Her heartbeat quickens as infinite possibilities flicker through her head—agents, assassins, aliens, for God’s sake. Even that crosses her mind, if only for a second. 

But oh–there are no thick-coated men in black outside the door but her son. Their son, lanky and shaggy and taller than his father. He wears a denim jacket, ratty black jeans that cling to his legs and a t-shirt with what Scully presumes is a band name plastered across the front in such spectacular lettering she has to squint to make sure they’re letters.  

“Hey, Dana. Mulder. I’m in town for a few days and I thought, maybe I could crash here?” He looks almost guilty, his lower lip sticking out like Mulder’s. She’s struck by his rumpled, rebellious frame and how closely it resembles Mulder in his youth. And if there was ever any doubt who his father his, she can cite the genetic tendency to die dramatically and spring back to life. 

“Of course,” Mulder says and wraps him into a hug, and he lets out a little oof of surprise. He takes it in stride, though, turning to Dana with a twinkle in his eye that wasn’t there before. When she hugs him, her arms fit around his waist and not his shoulders. God, he’s a foot taller than her. 

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

He shrugs awkwardly. “I didn’t want you to.” 

“Come,” Scully says, because she’s not sure what else to say, here on the front porch of their unremarkable house. “Come inside.”

He follows her into the house, glancing around at the creaky furniture, explosions of books and manila folders, and a smile spreads across his face. “This is a cool place.”

“I’ll show you the spare bedroom.” Scully gestures to the stairs. But when she turns around, Will’s eyes are fixed somewhere else. Her breath catches, because there on the desk is the first sonogram of her unborn child. The other physical evidence, paired nicely with the barrage of kicks where her belly pokes almost unnoticeably over her slacks.

“How old is it?” he asks, and there’s an unidentifiable cadence to his voice.

“Thirteen weeks.”

He nods slightly. “You two are cute parents.”

Her heart cracks at the present tense. Are, she thinks, not will be. Are. She remembers that when three days later, he vanishes from their lives once again. 

                                          *        *        *        *

They see him once or twice more in the coming weeks. Scully has learned to recognize the rat-tat-tat of his beater car pulling into the driveway. When he does come back, he often brings some strange, uniquely tourist-y food from wherever he’d last stayed, and they work it into the evening meal. Mulder reminds her that their son has a lot to unpack at his age. 

She gets mental postcards of his life. Breathtaking scenery, shadowy forests backlit by an industrial flashlight, harkening back to her youth. He asks about laundry at first, then about her old cases. Verbally, in immense detail as she’s walking or reading or shopping for a shitty IKEA crib, she gives him the X-files. Every case feels like a pound of weight off her shoulders. She tells them like an epic, passed orally from bard to bard. It is Will’s turn now.

                                            *         *       *        *

Whoever called it a ‘baby bump’ had an extraordinarily easy pregnancy, she muses bitterly. Twenty-three weeks, she was a fuller, freckled, flush-faced painting of herself. A little heavier, probably healthier if she’s not lying. She’d hit twenty-four, like a fucking timer, and done a double take in the bathroom mirror. She looked pregnant—not long gone due-any-day, but undeniably with child, her midsection smooth and rounded out, protruding slightly even beneath her pajama shirt. 

Mulder had looked at her like she’d plucked the sun out of the sky and handed it to him. She had lain in the backyard grass next to him and it felt like they had come out of time. He pressed his hands to the sides of her belly and grinned. He had, in the course of one afternoon, told the baby about Flukeman, Sasquatch, and the Mothmen in vast detail. 

Strolling through the supermarket, she feels exposed, like her life is laid out for the world to see and judge. To line up her crow’s feet with the stretch marks on her stomach. She swears Will wasn’t this big at twenty-four weeks, or perhaps the frame he grew into hadn’t started out as tiny and tightly wound. 

“Did you ever hear the one about the woman who gave birth to a beetle?” the check-out attendant asks her. “When he got older he really bugged her!” The guy belts out a jolly laugh, and if she were anyone else she might take it in stride. 

She purses her lips. It’s not his fault that he hits too close to home. She can’t think about it, or it’ll all consume her again—Pennsylvania fields littered with tiny, mutated bodies, devil-children cremated outside mansions, insects pulled from women’s wombs. Will sliding into the world in some Godforsaken ghost town into the arms of a woman who seventeen years later would inevitably die in vain.

The woman who gave birth to a beetle? He came out of her screaming and wide-eyed and wet, like any other baby but greener than poison. He suckled her breast with pincers. She read it in an X-file, once. 

It’s too much. She presses herself into Mulder later, kisses him hungrily, seeks in him the antithesis to all her anxieties. He takes her from behind because that’s all they can manage now, and she comes so quickly and loudly it’s almost embarrassing. 

                                                    *      *      *       *

Mulder pokes the peak of her belly. A foot pokes back. She indulges him—all smiles and salt-and-pepper stubble, pushing up her t-shirts reverently touching the ponderous curve of her. She remembers his absence seventeen years ago too distinctly. She pretends not to adore the wonder in his eyes. 

The rhythmic puff of a shitty tailpipe rouses them. They know that car. He helps her off the couch in a daze of frantic limbs as they hurry to the door because he’s here, in all of his snarky, ratty adolescent glory. He looks good. He looks genuinely happy, for the first time since they met him. He looks stronger than last they saw.

“Will,” Mulder calls across the driveway because he can’t help himself. Will waves at him with a crooked smile, ambling up to the door. He has a backpack with him, and a box of what appear to be butter croissants. 

“Hi Mulder,” he says as he’s engulfed in a hug. “Hi Dana.” His gaze flicks to her stomach; hi eyebrows shoot up, and does he realize how long he’s been gone? 

She smiles at him. For a brief moment she’s worried she should have more to say, but Will has been a more constant presence in her life than in Mulder’s simply because he can slip in and out of her mind as he pleases. Right now, she’s said enough.

“I need to put these on the table,” he says, holding up the croissants. “They’re to share.”

They sit around the cramped kitchen table. They bustle awkwardly, preparing sandwiches and opening windows to let the evening sunlight in. With it comes a summer warmth, a red glow on the windowsill. “Why don’t we go outside?” Will suggests. Every time he opens his mouth, Scully expects him to tell her how long he’s staying. Or, she expects an apologetic air, to be able to read the conflict in him and know he will leave in a day or two. She hasn’t felt it yet.

Scully nods and moves to get up from the table. Slowly, with a conscious effort she resents. She sways as she stands, her balance off-kilter. It’s been so long since she’s looked like this. It shocks her how unprepared she is for the shift in her center of gravity. These days it feels like her skin his made of leather, her bones of cold ceramic, and before she can reassure her near-grown son, say, “oh this is normal, you know,” Will’s hand shoots out to steady her.

The heartache flares. It should be the other way around. It should be the other way around. She should have been there to hold him up as he tottered. “Dana?” he asks, and his voice is laced with unanswerable questions.

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just not used to this yet.” She smooths her hand over her belly, her palm jumping as the baby’s foot protrudes out one side. She feels Will’s dark eyes on her, suddenly so much younger than the rest of him. Perhaps he thinks of his own birth. She certainly does. She thinks of how Mulder put his hand right there when he kicked, and how painfully long ago it all was.

“Remember,” she tells him, “we can’t be young forever.”

Will looks at the otherworldly shape of its foot, pushing on her like a drumskin. He looks at the sharp lines of her cheekbones undercut by the quiet, tranquil determination in her eyes when she touches the errant limb. He looks at Mulder looking at her, with unadulterated wonder. It slips out of his mouth, clearly unexpected. “Can I feel?” 

Scully is misty-eyed—some combination of hormones and her body awash with history—when she nods. She sways again; it’s all so overwhelming, and Mulder moves behind her, his hand on the small of her back. She takes Will’s callused hand, her eyebrows raised at him to make sure it’s okay, and places it on the hard mound of her belly. 

He grins. “I can feel it move.” A laugh escapes him. She guides him to where the foot pushes out lopsided. He taps it, and it taps back. She flashes back again to Mulder, in the hospital, his palm flat on the skin that enclosed the amoebic creature to become Will.

William is a boy tailed by Death; it clings to his skin like spiderwebs, haunts him wherever he flees to. She hopes Will finds peace here, feeling his sibling move inside her. It is unspeakably weird, all of it, to have the baby she mourned for decades turn up grown before her eyes. In a way, she’d always pictured him outside of time. But neither does he last forever, so here she stands with stubbled spook-writer Mulder, her adult son holding her steady and clinging with one finger to her unborn child. 

She wishes they could hand Will the sun, but all they can hand him is home, whatever that may be.