#cm rewrite

[gold-onthe-inside]

midst of writing the rest of season 6, wondering about an alternate storyline where both tsia and emily survive and hide out in paris together. feel free to drop any ideas in a comment, reblog, or hop into my inbox

[gracebethartacc]

Meowssss :3

[multifandom-exe]

okay im thinking for the cm show rewrite either, both reader and elle transfer from sex crimes, or reader transfers to bau by request of gideon

For ncis, the obvious is reader transfers from secret service like kate, or maybe transfers from fbi and is put on gibbs team by season 1 director

for house im thinking cuddy says 'you cant have more male fellows than female' so he has to hire her

im gonna tag everythign with 'cm/ ncis/ house rewrite exe' so you can find everything on my page

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Amplification: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.4k

Summary: A deadly spread of Anthrax is going around infecting and killing people. One of your own is affected that completely tears your world into two. How will you over come this?

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

"It will become fine dust over all the land of Egypt and it will become boils breaking out with sores on man and beast through all the land of Egypt." - Exodus 9:9

"I want to go back," you say in the elevator heading up to the office.

"Me too. Maybe we can make this a monthly thing. You know, go someplace really fancy for the weekend."

"I'd really like that," you grin and pull him closer. You two are the only ones inside the elevator, so you don't feel bad when you kiss him like you would in the bedroom. "I love you."

"I love you."

"No, I mean I'm in love with you. Every part of you."

"You stole the words right out of my mouth," he laughs.

The elevator doors open and the smile is lost from your face. The entire BAU floor is covered with people from the military. Something is happening but you're not sure what. No one is visually panicking but you can feel it all. Derek and Emily are by the glass doors just watching the chaos.

"What the hell is going on?" you ask and join their side. "Why is the Military here?"

Without stopping to talk to anyone, you head into the briefing room where JJ, Rossi, Hotch, and some strange woman are.

"What is going on?"

"Guys, this is Dr. Linda Kimura, Chief of Special Pathogens with the CDC."

"Hello. I'm sorry to meet under these circumstances."

"What circumstances?" Spencer asks.

"Last night, twenty-five people checked into emergency rooms in and around Annapolis. They were all at the same park after two in the afternoon yesterday. Within ten hours, the first victim died. It's now just past seven in the morning. The next day, we have twelve dead."

You take the files and read through them quickly.

"Lung failure and black lesions. Is this Anthrax? This doesn't kill that fast."

"This strain does."

"What are we doing about potential mass targets like airports, malls, and trains?"

"There's a media blackout."

"We're not telling the public?" Email gasps.

"We'd have a mass exodus. The psychology of group panic would cause more deaths than this last attack. If it does get out, whoever did this might go underground or destroy their samples."

"Or if they wanted attention and don't get it, they might attack again. Doesn't the public have the right to know that?"

"I agree with Emily here. The public has a right to know this," you agree.

"If there is another attack, there's no way we'll be able to keep it quiet. Our best chance of protecting the public is by building a profile as quickly as we can. What do we know about this strain?"

"The spores are weaponized, reduced to a respirable ideal that attacks deep in the lungs. It's odorless and invisible. This is a sophisticated strain. Only a scientist would know how to do that."

"These lesions are doubling in size in a matter of hours."

"It's not the lesions I'm worried about, it's the lungs. We don't know how to combat the toxins once they're inside. The reality is, we may lose them all. The remaining survivors have been moved to a special wing at Walter Reed Hospital. I'd like for your offices to become a small command center."

"We'll be working with military scientists from Fort Detrick," Hotch says.

"General Whitworth is coming here?" Rossi asks.

"He's in charge of site containment and spore analysis. Determining what strain this is will help inform who's responsible."

"My team is in charge of treating all victims," Linda informs.

"Reid and Y/N, go with Dr. Kimura to the hospital and interview the victims. Morgan and Prentiss, there's a hazmat team that will accompany you to the crime scene." Linda brings in some pills for everyone in the room. "This is Cipro. Everybody needs to take it before we go."

"We don't know if it's effective against this strain, but it's something."

You take a deep breath to calm yourself and grab one of the cups. You look over at JJ who is trying to suppress her concern. As soon as she takes it, she leaves and heads to her office to be alone. You know she's worried about her family. If she can't tell the public, then she can't tell her family about the risks.

Before you can go to the hospital, you need the files on all the victims who have been affected by this strain. JJ has all the files, so you and Spencer follow her to her office. She is looking at her phone with a look of concern on her face.

"Do you have the files on the victims?" Spencer asks.

"Did you see this memo from the director? Office phones and emails are being monitored."

"Yeah, they're trying to protect the media blackout. Files?"

"Right here."

She hands them over to him.

"Thanks. I want to see what kind of medical treatment the victims received before we head to the hospital."

There had been another strain of Anthrax that was going around in 2001 where the suspect put the Anthrax on envelopes. It affected a lot of people but it was never this deadly.

"Why do you think the suspect in 2001 stopped sending the letters?" JJ asks about the previous incident.

"I have no idea, but if he hadn't, it would have been much worse."

"The worst part was not knowing when it was gonna be over. You know, feeling safe opening mail again."

"Five people died. Many more were exposed and gotten sick including a baby who was admitted into the hospital after lesions appeared on his skin."

"How did he contract it?" JJ asks worriedly.

"I have no idea. The baby must have come into close contact with a tainted letter or crossed paths with the unsub himself."

"How old was the baby?"

"Seven months."

Fear and panic spike from JJ. She thinks about her own son getting this. She wants nothing more than to contact her family and warn them.

"Did he survive?"

"We gotta go. Dr. Kimura's waiting. I'll call you from the hospital."

"Spence. Did the baby survive?"

"Yeah, but, I mean, that was a curable strain. This thing's entirely different."

"Spencer, you are freaking her out," you whisper. "She has a baby of her own." Spencer goes quiet and decides to leave before he says anything worse. "JJ, listen to me. Henry is going to be fine. Will is going to be fine. I am your son's Godparent, so I say he's going to be just fine. You can't think like that."

"Like what?" she whispers with tears in her eyes.

"Like that. You're going to go home and be with your family who are going to be fine. I love you, but I have to go now. Keep your head up, JJ. They're gonna be fine."

Rossi and Hotch work with General Whitworth and the CIA to figure out what's going on here. The CIA said there are a few overseas terrorist groups with funding and capability for this. The FBI and CIA need to look at anyone who is going to profit from poisoning everyone, especially people who have patents on Anthrax vaccines. Not to mention anyone with access to weaponized spores like people from universities, scholars working in bioweapons research, and employees of labs who keep germ collections.

General Whitworth and his men are trying to decode the strain and learned that the additives used to strengthen the bacterial capsules don't exist at the CIA research labs, and there aren't any known labs to have these substances. He'll provide a list of all scientists in the CIA Anthrax programs just so the FBI can rule out anyone who decides to have a side project.

This unsub is someone who has the ability to manipulate and weaponize Anthrax, so it doesn't matter what General Whitworth's views are on the BAU. Someone above him believes in the power of profiles, so he has no choice but to listen to orders.

You and Spencer reach the hospital with the people who are sick with Anthrax. The public doesn't know what is going on so there isn't a lot of panic going around, but the ones that are affected are struggling very hard. There is only one person who is well enough to answer some questions since most others are either dead or close to being dead. Dr. Linda Kimura leads you and Spencer to Abby Belle's room.

"Hi, Abby," Linda says gently. "Are you feeling any better?" She shakes her head no. "This is Agent Reid and Y/N from the FBI. If you can, will you talk with them?"

This time, she nods. You walk around to the other end of the bed and hold out your hand for her to take. She doesn't know what's going on but what harm would this do? She lifts her hand just enough for you to slip your hand underneath.

"Abby, I'd like to try to do a memory recall exercise with you to take you back to the park, if that's okay." She nods. "I need you to close your eyes." She does. "Yesterday afternoon, you rode your bicycle to the park. How did the sun feel on your skin? The breeze through your hair? Can you describe for me what you heard and the people that you saw?"

"It was warm... windy," she whispers. You allow her words to take you back to that day. The park was in full effect with a bunch of people enjoying the sun. There is a game of men playing football, kids swinging on the playground, dogs running around with each other, people on bikes, and others walking the trail. "There were guys playing football... Kids... I see free... Me seen fee me. Free knee."

Her speech is screwed up from whatever the Anthrax is doing to her, and she is panicking.

"It's alright, Abby. You just rest now," Linda says.

"Me mock fee key me free," she whimpers.

"Just rest, Abby. Thank you."

You, Spencer, and Linda leave her room to give the doctors an opportunity to work on Abby.

"What's causing her aphasia?"

"The poison is infecting the parietal lobe which impairs her speech. Some of the other patients displayed the same symptoms shortly before they died."

"There's nothing that is helping them? Nothing is working?" you ask.

"The only thing that's helping them right now is the morphine."

Emily and Derek reached the park in Maryland which has been closed for observation. Emily is against not telling the public about this, but she isn't in a position of authority to make that call. So, instead of telling people the truth, officials have told the public there is Methane buildup in the sewage system. Since they're oblivious as to what's going on, they believed it.

There is a certain spot in the park that has high levels of Anthrax where the unsub most likely released the attack. The wind spread the Anthrax around the park and hit everyone who was there. It's weird because you didn't think that a park would be a target for anything. Terrorists usually target symbols like the White House, Pentagon, and the World Trade Center. The park is nice but it's nothing like a symbol building.

It could be symbolic for the unsub like how Ted Kaczynski sent bombs to Berkley where he taught, to Michigan where he went to school, and to Chicago where he lived. The suspect who attacked with Anthrax in 2001 sent letters to two pro-choice senators whose politics he opposed. People like that can't help but attach a personal motive to the places they've targeted, so this park must mean something to the unsub.

In the last two hours alone, more people have come into the hospital seeking medical attention for being sick, and the panic and fear are getting to you. No one knows what's going on, and humans fear the unknown. You're trying hard not to let it get to you but for someone with your abilities, it's hard.

You wipe your eyes before the tears have a chance to fall, and Spencer takes you off to the side.

"Hey, it's going to be okay."

"Is it? How do you know?"

"I don't," he sighs. "I have hope that we're going to figure this out because we always do."

"I wish that'd give me comfort." You look around the hospital and see parents hugging their sick children and people comforting their loved ones. "Promise me you won't do something stupid."

"What?"

"We're the only ones that know what's going on. Please don't do anything stupid. This is your life. I can't bear the thought of losing you. Please be careful."

"Only if you promise to do the same."

"Sorry to interrupt, but this whole thing is baffling me. Seventeen out of twenty-five people are dead. This strain is duplicated every thirty to forty-five minutes. It's poisoning the lungs and causing massive hemorrhaging and organ failure."

"Whoever created this had to at some point go to the trouble of testing it. First, they start with rodents, then advance to larger mammals, and then they do a very small trial run with people. There's no way this was his first human test run."

"We would have heard about a previous anthrax attack," Linda says.

"Not if it presented itself as something else," you state. "Is there anything that happened recently that was kind of like what's happening now?"

"Yeah, actually."

She tells you what happened a couple of days ago and gives you files on the patients affected. Your phone rings and you and Spencer go into an empty hospital room to answer the phone. You place JJ on speakerphone.

"Hey, JJ."

"Hey, you have me, Hotch, and Rossi."

She sounds like she's been crying because she is so worried about her family. She can't tell them anything but she wants to so badly.

"JJ, are you okay?"

She doesn't comment.

"It turns out that two days ago, two people in two separate Baltimore ERs, and one person in a Philadelphia ER slipped into comas and died suddenly. The COD on all of them was meningitis. Doctors didn't test for Anthrax because the illnesses presented themselves as meningitis, but I think it can be caused by Anthrax."

"Did they show symptoms that we're seeing now like the lesions?"

"They wouldn't have if the bodily functions expired as quickly as they did."

"How quickly?"

"They were all dead within three hours of being admitted."

"Wait, the first patient died yesterday at ten in the morning."

"If they inhaled a higher concentration of the strain, it would cause a quicker death through organ failure without exterior physical symptoms."

"What are their names?"

Spencer looks through the files. You can feel JJ's sadness through the phone. You'd love nothing more than to tell Hannah about what's going on, but she's in New Jersey and likely won't be affected. Will and Henry live right in the danger zone.

"JJ, listen to me. I need you to breathe. Henry is going to be fine and so is Will. You're going to go home and see your family. You need to tell yourself this."

"Okay, their names are Gale Mercer who was thirty-one, Martha Finestein who was forty-eight, and Albert Franks who was fifty-two."

"Did they visit the same place on the day they were affected?"

"Gale made a credit card purchase at a bookstore owned by Albert."

"We'll send Morgan and Prentiss out there to investigate."

"Remember, JJ, breathe," you say before hanging up.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[iicomet]

(rewrite-ish) part II

(In which he ponders over the final moments of his senior.) (ooc? chungmyung and gn!reader - third to second pov, angst.)

(tw! mention of blood, war.)

  In his blurred memories of blood and violence, he wonders where everything went wrong. 

  He wished it was just a simple, ‘oh, senior accidentally stumbled on their feet and landed on their face right in front of their enemies!’. But honestly, when had the gods ever favored him? If not him, when had the Gods ever favored his senior? He swore that perhaps the ever benevolent senior had wronged a deity in their past life, for their misfortune and their sufferings shouldn’t be given to a saint like them.

  Or maybe that stupidly kind senior took the blame of a friend and gained their curses instead. That sounded much more plausible, to be frank. He wished he could grumble about it, but a part of him wonders why his senior became like this. 

  Even if he wanted to, it’s not like he could ask them now.

  Chung Myung was no fool. He knew that in a war, there would be casualties, even if he was the strongest. It’s a dog-eat-dog kind of world out there, especially when the apex predator in this situation is the so-called heavenly demon Cheonma. In that situation, even him, who was renowned as the ‘plum blossom sword saint’, a person who would wreck others’ swords and pride easily with a single blow, felt like a mere rabbit struggling for survival. 

  It’s so, so tiring. It hurts so, so much.

 Chung Myung could feel his blood drip down his skin, mixing with his sweat and producing a disgusting smell he tried to ignore. If Senior was around, maybe they would swat him away with a disgusted expression, telling him to go clean up or something. They would pinch their nose and scrunch up their eyebrows, a deep frown decorating their usual calm and collected face. During those moments, it was times where he would either be a good junior brother and obey his senior’s requests, or he would annoy them and stick closer to them, earning several frustrated shouts and futile attempts to pry him off.

  He wonders, how his senior was managing? Someone as strong as them, would surely be able to fend themselves easily, right?

  Oh, how he wished he was right. 

  But then again, perhaps the uneasy expression in his senior’s eyes before they departed for the journey would have warned him about the impending doom and unsettling feeling he had ignored at that moment. He should’ve stayed, tried to ask his senior what’s wrong, and maybe even protected his senior who shielded the entire mount hua with only a foolish smile and a sword in hand.

  He really should’ve tried, even if he never managed to understand his senior. 

  When Chung Myung landed eyes upon his senior, he wished he could run towards them and block that swing. He wished that instead of fearing, he would’ve taken action instead. He wished that instead of shouting his senior’s name, he would’ve run and taken it for them. 

  Senior, why were you so stupid? Why did you only watch as the sword hits your chest, letting the tears you usually try to hold back flow down your cheeks? Why did the grip on your sword tighten as if you were going to war, yet your free hand tried to hold your opponent’s face, cradling it so softly as if they might break?

  Senior, you’re so stupid. He couldn’t see your attacker’s expression, but he knew it held no love, for the desperate and heart-broken eyes you showed clearly reflected their face. The emotions you always tried to reign in, rained down your features so clearly now. The eyes that used to glimmer brightly in the sun, the eyes he used to love staring at, the eyes he could get lost in—It reflected the face of a person who he held so much hatred towards. At that moment, perhaps he was also angry that you held so much love towards that ungrateful bastard who had struck you. But, it’s all useless now, right?

  Maybe you still had some sense in you when you raised your sword once more, realizing your duty and blocking off your feelings as if it was second nature. Once more, you showed your swordsmanship to the world, as if it was your final dance, your final performance before you’ve retired from the stage. Swords clashed against each other, the metal resounding across the stadium of your show as you replayed the tragedy of the eon. Light against dark, your determined expression faltering and revealing so much regret and pain. Chung Myung would’ve wondered what you regretted at that moment, for his entire life, you seemed as if you lived with no worries. But, he was no fool. He knew there were nights where you spent it alone, staring at the moon as if a lover had lost everything to the hands of fate.

  Senior, why did you smile at him when your heart was so heavy with pain?

  Even at that moment, where your life seemed to begin replaying before your eyes, you still smiled when you saw him, that same sheepish expression revealing itself whenever he caught you. 

  You whispered something to him, but he couldn’t hear it. He was too far, he always had been. And you, you had always walked too quickly for him to catch up. Not only him, you’ve always managed to outrun everyone else in Mount hua, always so far away from everyone else. Nobody could ever catch up to you. Nobody could ever understand you.

  Even so, he wanted to be the first. He wanted to be there for you, just like how you were to him. So, why didn’t you give him a chance? Why did you leave so soon? Just when he thought he was able to, it seemed that you were still so, so far away from him. You always managed to catch him, so why couldn’t he do the same for you?

  Senior, in your game of tag, can he play again with you soon? He promises he will try to catch you this time, so don’t leave so soon. He’s asking you politely, he swears he is. He wouldn’t be rude, he wouldn’t tease you and he wouldn’t smother you whenever you think he’s dirty. He’ll listen to you this time, so won’t you be a good senior and play again with him?

  Chung Myung ignores the rain falling down his skin as he begs for the Gods to give him a chance. He ignores the way his body moves on instinct as he battles across your destroyed theater, hoping for a chance to meet you halfway through. Yet when all he is met with is the aftermath of a war, your body nowhere to be found, he falls to the ground, utterly exhausted.

  Right, he had killed Cheonma.

  He wanted to celebrate this moment with you. But instead, he lies there lifelessly, his body too tired to do anything. Chung Myung thinks he heard your voice, calling out to him and he is reminded of the time where you would let him rest on your shoulder when he was tired, even if he was dirty. Stupid senior, you never really cared about it, didn’t you? All you wanted was for him to be happy. 

  But now, you have killed his heart. How could he be happy now? 

  He wants to rest on your shoulder once more, hear you hum a random tune as you ramble on about whatever that interests you. He wants to hear your voice once more, and this time he promises not to grumble about your nagging. He wants to feel your warmth against his skin once more, not the cold pile of body that lays beneath him. 

  Senior, he wants you to come back. So please, come home already.

[reinanova]

so i finally got fed up with watching criminal minds and seeing the bau mishandle evidence at a crime scene so i started writing a fic where a forensic scientist (ella lopez—iykyk) yells at the bau every time they do something wrong

current working summary:

5 times the bau was reprimanded for improper evidence handling (by a forensic scientist) + 1 time the forensic scientist got revenge

sincerely, a forensic scientist in training (me. i’m the forensic scientist in training. working on my forensic science degree rn)

[winterscaptain]

maybe there will be a day that i don’t live to regret writing absence in one sitting but today is not that day

[wheelsuppod]

See I like the CONCEPT of jemily but I just know they’ll mess up so easily if they actually do make them a thing

literally like hey mr. cbs I don't trust like that anymore!!!

[luminouslion-spam]

Notes:

Hi this is the first chapter to my rewrite of criminal minds! For more infos take a look at the criminal minds: found family masterlist!

Also disclaimer I’m not really happy with this first chapter it feels more like I wrote down keynotes instead of a cohesive story but I also don’t really feel like re-writing it again.

And also no beta we die like Gideon

Word Count: 1,039

Ao3 Link

S1 E1 Extreme Aggressor

They are called out to Seattle, Washington. Women have gone missing and have been reappeared dead. Recently, one woman named Heather Woodlander has gone missing again so the local police office asked for their help in this matter.

It’s one of his first cases with the team, so logically he is even more skittish than normally. Hotch, his unit chief, is sitting in the seat across of the isle, eyeing him every now and then but he pretends he doesn’t notice. Spencer is still hesitant around his new boss, always feeling the need to prove himself. He knows it isn’t normal to join the BAU at his age and that he only got in because of Gideon.

The man himself on the other hand also isn’t in his best shape recently. It’s his first case back after the accident.

After a short depriving Hotch tells everyone to get some rest before the case. Gideon immediately retreats to the back of the plane isolating himself from the rest of the team. Spencer takes the cue and stays in his seats even though he longs for the comfort of his mentor.

He is mindlessly scratching at his fingers and looking out of the window worrying about the upcoming case as he feels someone sitting down across from him.

“Nervous?��, Reid looks up surprised. Hotch just gives a slight nod towards his youngest agents twitching hand. There was no sense in lying now. Especially in front of a well-trained profiler. “Yeah, a bit, I guess.”

“There is no need to be. You are going to do just fine. Nonetheless it is normal to feel nervous during the first few cases. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Hotch assures him with the hint of a smile. Reid just reciprocates it and whispers a quiet thanks before they both fall into a comforting silence Hotch looking through some files and Reid getting lost in his thoughts again.

——

Walking into the local police station Hotch introduces his team getting reprimanded by Gideon for forgetting to introduce Reid as doctor Reid. “This is Dr Spencer Reid our Special Agent on well everything.”

He notices the confused faces the local officers are giving Reid but chooses to ignore them for now. He will deal with them if they start making problems by being disrespectful. But he can’t really blame them for being a bit confused. Reid is young for a special agent and he does look even younger than his actual age. Still, he is ready to intervene if they start giving his agent a hard time.

He takes Reid with him to interview the husband of the recently missing woman. On one hand to not leave him alone in the police station and on the other hand, to ease him into the case. This interview should forgo without any troubles. On the other hand, Morgan and Gideon are more equipped to go and look at the unsub’s dumping place.

Entering the husband’s home, they are immediately greeted by a dog barking at Reid who tries to hide his flinch. The husband profoundly apologizes but Hotch reassures him with a smile “We call this the Reid effect. It happens with children, too.” He walks towards the dog who is being held back by the owner and pats the dog. He can see Reid visibly relaxing, even looking somewhat sheepishly. Good, the kid needs to loosen up a bit. He is still hesitant and nervous around him.

The rest of the interview goes normal sadly without them getting new hints towards the unsub. At some point the husband asked Reid wether he is a genius. Hotch couldn’t help but smile at Reid admitting that he is, after explaining that intelligence can’t be measured like that. They really need to work on his confidence. The kid is smart, and he shouldn’t be afraid to admit it.

Back at the police station the team gathers the new information before deciding on an ongoing plan. While there Reid notices that people make a point of adressing him as doctor Reid and he contemplates asking Gideon about it, but he also knows that Gideon has other things on his mind at the moment. This is also when Hotch walks by him and after a second of doubt he works up the courage to ask his superior instead. “Hey Hotch, do you know why it is so important to Gideon that I’m introduced as doctor?”

Hotch turns around from where he was going smiling at him “You look young Reid. He just wants people to treat you with the respect you deserve and to not underestimate you.”

After that the case goes relatively smoothly. They figure out that there are actually two unsubs and arrest one of them. They even have an idea on who the second one is and manage to gain access to the first subjects computer just as Elle and Gideon lost contact to the second unsub. Now they just need to find out where he is hiding the woman and therefore heading at the moment.

On the computer they can see life footage of the kidnapped woman bound in a cage. That is when Spencer notices an odd thing about the lightning in the live footage. The lightbulb above the cage is slightly moving from left to right like the cage is on a boat at sea. And he was right. They find the woman and rescue her in time without any major injuries.

After wrapping up the case Reid finds himself sitting down on the couch in the plane with Morgan occupying the one across from him. Gideon enters after him shortly pausing in front of him. “You did a good job today.” He simply says but his eyes tell so much more. Spencer can clearly see his silent apology for not being there for him more even though he knows how much cases still stress Spencer out. Spencer in return just smiles hoping Gideon also gets his message. That it is ok. That he is fine.

He watches a small smile also apprear on Gideon’s face before he walks away to quietly talk to Hotch while Spencer himself lays down on the couch and promptly falls asleep.

[eclips3dawn]

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Criminal Minds (US TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Elle Greenaway & Spencer Reid, Elle Greenaway/Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau & Spencer Reid Characters: Elle Greenaway, Jason Gideon, Spencer Reid, Derek Morgan (Criminal Minds), Emily Prentiss, Jennifer "JJ" Jareau, Aaron Hotchner Additional Tags: Eventual Elle Greenaway/Spencer Reid, Album: This Is Why (Paramore), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Anxiety Attacks, Autistic Spencer Reid, Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sexual Content, Hurt Elle Greenaway, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Elle Greenaway Deserves Better, Depression, Suicide, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Childhood Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Drugs, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon Rewrite Summary:

short narrative stories focusing on elle greenaway, and her relationships with the team inspired by paramore's 'this is why' album

[cosmicallymundane]

why am i only getting criminal mind tiktoks WITHOUT penelope???? THAT IS MY WIFE! WHERE IS SHE?

[sidehowriting]

🌹🌹🌹

!!!! I never expected 1 let alone 3!

Ok, here's one from a Thor fic I started writing, then rewriting, ages ago and maybe one day I shall finish it.

"Just because I agreed to an arranged marriage does not mean I don't like sweet happy endings."

Here's one from a Criminal Minds fic I have going on ff.net. This is wayyyyyyy ahead of what is currently posted but maybe one day we'll get this far (publicly).

“I find out, that after months of trying, we’re finally having another kid, from Emily, because she fucked up and said ‘my wife and kids.’

I am also completely obsessed with my Sims family. When I'm burnt out writing fandom fic, sometimes I write stories about my Sims. Here's one!

"It's okay," she said, fighting back the urge to add 'I deserve it.'

[shaiyasstuff]

so hawoo, i saw your writings and i lurv it QuQ and I saw you accept requests for a tiny bit?

if ish okay, i had an HC idea in mind QuQ so sometimes, just sometimes, when we are travelling with someone, particularly a close family, we might get... into a certain disagreement and sometimes argument yea?

so let's say each of the LADS boys and you had an argument while in a holiday, how would both make up? QuQ what will each men do?

it's totally okay to make it either headcannon style or story? whichever you're okay with ✨ and if it's too many, you can just write mr. crow and mr. apple-sunshine since i like them both ><

ps: this is random but... since i read that other request that involves size difference... 😳 i mean i likey >< and being a 5‘3 (i think? since i use cm and foot measures are so confusing @u@) plus being a sylus girlie (and a bit of caleb girlie) well, you know i'm almost a whole foot away from both these men QAQ)

sorry for writing a lot in the ask section QwQ thank chu for taking the time to read all these and i hope you're having the nicest holiday ✨( ´∀｀)

Aww thank you!! Don’t apologise for anything sweetie. Here, you ask and I deliver, no apologies needed🥹🫶🏻 unfortunately I do not write for Caleb because I can’t really get a grasp on his character yet. Perhaps in the future, I’ll do a rewrite of this just for you (or maybe ehem @blessdunrest can help)

Here is how the LADS boys would try to make up after an argument during your holiday getaways.

(I will leave the circumstances of the argument up to you, I wrote the scenes to be set after the argument itself, focusing more on how they would make it up to you, enjoy!)

Zayne

The guest room is quiet when you return. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles after something sharp, something unresolved. Your bag’s still unpacked by the door.

The sun has long dipped beneath the line of trees beyond the window, casting the room in a low amber glow that pools in corners and slips across the floor.

You sigh and start to change out of the clothes from earlier—still rumpled from walking too far and talking too little.

And then you see it.

A cup. Your favorite warm drink, placed neatly on the nightstand. The steam has thinned, like it’s been sitting a while, but the effort is unmistakably him. No note. No explanation. Just the smallest bridge, laid gently between you.

You don’t touch it. Not yet.

Outside, the wind stirs the branches. You catch a glimpse of him through the glass door—on the balcony. Hands in his coat pockets.

The same coat he wore when the two of you first arrived, when he offered you the window seat on the train without saying a word.

You open the door quietly. Step out.

He doesn’t turn to you. Just keeps his eyes on the horizon where the last of the light fades.

“I was wrong,” he says after a long silence. “About what I said earlier.”

The words come slowly. Like it costs him to admit them, but he does it anyway. For you.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he continues.

“Sometimes I… I think too much. I try to stay in control of everything, and I forget that I’m not the only one in this.”

You watch him carefully, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curl in his coat pocket like he’s holding something in—something heavy.

“I don’t want this to ruin the time we have here,” he says softly.

“I don’t want you to remember this trip as the one where I hurt you.”

Finally, he turns his head, eyes meeting yours. In them, something raw flickers. Quiet remorse. That particular tenderness he never shows to anyone else.

“I’m not great at fixing things,” he adds. “But I want to try. With you.”

He hesitates—then offers a small, almost shy suggestion.

“Maybe tomorrow we could start fresh. Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet. You can pick.”

And for a long moment, he holds your gaze. Like he’s hoping you’ll say yes. Like it matters more than he can put into words.

Sylus

You don’t slam the door when you come in, but the silence that follows is louder than anything you could’ve said.

The villa is dim—just the flicker of one dying candle on the table, shadows curling along the walls. Rain taps against the tall glass windows, steady and unrelenting. The storm outside hasn’t let up, and neither has the one still simmering in your chest.

You expect him to be gone. Or brooding somewhere far away, like he always does when things fall apart.

But he’s there.

Sitting in the armchair by the fire, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just speaks, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over broken glass.

“You’re late.”

You don’t answer. You’re not in the mood for his games.

His head turns slightly, just enough for you to catch the glint in his crimson eyes. “I didn’t realize sulking in the rain was part of our itinerary.”

That earns a glare from you, sharp enough to slice through steel. But he doesn’t flinch. He never does.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter.

He stands.

Slowly. Deliberately. As if the weight of everything unsaid finally pushed him to move.

“I know,” he says, walking toward you with that infuriating calm. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

You want to push him away. Shove him back into that fire and let him burn with every careless word he said earlier.

But then he’s right in front of you. Taller. Warmer. More real than ever.

“I’m not good at being soft,” he says. “I say the wrong things, I let pride get in the way, and when it comes to you—”

He stops, jaw tightening. “You terrify me. You make me forget the edge I built my world on.”

He brings your hand to his chest, where his heart beats too fast.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness,” he murmurs. “That would mean pretending I didn’t mean what I said.”

You stiffen.

“But I didn’t mean to hurt you. There’s a difference.”

And then, softer, almost vulnerable beneath all that bravado.

“I missed you the second you left the room.”

He leans down, brushing his lips against your temple, breath trembling just enough to betray him.

“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers. “Breakfast in bed. An apology written in kisses. You name it, it’s yours.”

And then, with a crooked smirk, “I draw the line at begging, though. Even I have limits.”

Rafayel

You storm out before either of you can say something unforgivable.

The screen door slams behind you, wind tangling your hair as you make your way down the gravel path, past the rows of tall pines lining the edge of the lake.

The sky is still pale with late afternoon light, but your chest is a storm all its own—loud, spiraling, tight.

Rafayel had laughed.

Laughed, while you were trying to talk about something that mattered.

And maybe it wasn’t malicious. Maybe he was trying to ease the tension, deflect like he always did when things got too raw. But it hurt.

You find a quiet patch of rocks by the water’s edge and sit, hugging your knees, breathing hard.

You’re not sure how long you’re out there when you hear footsteps. Fast. Uneven.

“There you are,” Rafayel breathes, slightly out of breath, like he’d been running. “You can’t just vanish after a fight—my heart’s not built for this kind of cardio.”

You look away.

He exhales, kneels beside you, and gently places something warm-wrapped in a towel on your lap.

“…Is this a bribe?” you mutter.

“A peace offering,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “Handmade. Still warm. Possibly edible.”

You raise a brow, suspicious. “Did you poison it?”

He gasps, wounded. “I slaved over a tiny stove in a tiny kitchen with even tinier pots—for you. There’s rosemary in there. Do you know how much I hate rosemary?”

You don’t reply. But your fingers tighten slightly around the towel. The warmth seeps into your skin.

Rafayel sobers, voice quieter now.

“I shouldn’t have laughed,” he says, and his usual lilt softens into something tender. “I panic when things get serious. Especially when I care too much.”

You glance at him. His expression is still boyish, teasing—but his eyes give him away. Bright, worried, sincere.

“I thought I had time to figure out how to be good at this,” he says. “Turns out, I really, really don’t want to waste any of it.”

You stare at the food, then at him. He nudges you with his shoulder, coaxing.

“One bite,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll let you throw me into the lake.”

A pause.

“…Twice.”

You crack a small, reluctant smile.

And just like that, the storm begins to clear.

Xavier

You lie in bed facing the wall, stiff beneath the sheets, arms curled tightly to your chest.

The argument still burns behind your eyes, echoes of sharp words and colder silences stretching across the room like invisible scars.

You hadn’t meant for it to get so heated.

But Xavier—stoic, unreadable Xavier—had shut down when it mattered most. Again.

And he hadn’t followed you when you left the table.

Not then.

But now you hear the quiet sound of the bedroom door opening. His footsteps. Hesitant. Careful.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just slips under the blankets on his side of the bed, slow and deliberate, the way he does everything. The silence tightens around you like a second skin.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, to forget, to not care.

And then—you feel it.

His arm curling around your waist. Tentative at first, then firmer when you try to squirm away.

“Xavier,” you say, low and angry, “don’t.”

He doesn’t let go.

You twist slightly to glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already there, face inches from yours, eyes unreadable in the dark.

“I’m not letting you fall asleep like this,” he says quietly. “Not again.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re the one who—”

“I know.”

The two words drop heavy between you, flat and final.

He exhales slowly, forehead pressing gently to the back of your shoulder. You can feel the way his hand rests against your stomach now—hesitant, as if unsure he has the right. But he keeps it there anyway.

“I didn’t know how to say the right thing,” he murmurs. “I always think too long and speak too late.”

You don’t answer.

“I was wrong,” he says finally. “And I… I’m sorry.”

The words sound strange coming from him. Like he’s still learning how to shape them, how to offer them without flinching.

But he means them. You can feel it in the way he’s holding you now—not loose, not gentle, but like something anchoring. Something meant to keep you here.

Stillness settles over the room.

And then, quieter, “I don’t want to lose you. Even if I don’t always know how to say it.”

You don’t turn around.

But your hand slides over his, lacing your fingers with his beneath the covers.

And he holds on like it’s the only thing that makes sense in the world.

[onlyangel4]

kayfabe. cm punk. part one.

dark!cm punk x superstar!reader

synopsis: you and punk are placed into a long-term onscreen pairing. a storyline romance meant to boost ratings. the chemistry is undeniable, but offscreen, punk is distant. until he’s not. he begins texting late at night. watching. testing boundaries. you realise he’s not method acting. the possessiveness, the tension, the jealousy, it’s all real. and if the storyline ends, he won’t take it well.

part two

you were used to surprises in wwe. sudden call ups. last minute rewrites. plans changing five minutes before showtime. that was just how the business worked.

but you hadn’t expected this.

sitting in the producer’s office with a cold bottle of water sweating in your hand, you blinked once. then again. bruce was smiling, that managerial, rehearsed grin that always meant he thought he was giving you a gift.

"you’re serious?" you asked, voice flatter than you intended.

"dead serious", he said, still smiling. "you and punk. onscreen pairing. starting next monday."

you opened your mouth. closed it. punk? cm punk?

"he signed off on it?" you finally asked. not because you didn’t believe it, but because you had to believe it. no way they were putting you with him unless he’d agreed. cm punk didn’t just go along with creative. he was creative.

bruce leaned forward, hands clasped. "he liked the pitch. said it had legs. real chemistry potential."

you sat back, heart stuttering in your chest. you’d only worked a few segments anywhere near him. a backstage pre-tape three months ago. a passing comment on once. that was it. he was always distant. Professional, but cold. not cruel. not rude. just deliberately detached. like nothing backstage was worth touching.

and now, apparently, you were.

you gave a tight nod and stood, hearing your name called elsewhere in the hallway. "i’ll start prepping for monday", you said.

bruce called after you. "think of the buzz. you two? twitter’s gonna melt."

you didn’t look back.

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

outside the office, the hallway buzzed with the usual chaos, crew shouting, boots thudding on concrete, someone arguing about pyro in gorilla. you moved through it on autopilot, heart still ticking faster than it should’ve.

you passed catering, ignored two texts, nodded at a ref you didn’t quite know, and slipped into the women’s locker room without a word.

you needed a minute.

cm punk.

it wasn’t that you didn’t respect him. everyone did, even the ones who pretended not to. his return had changed the air in the company, sharpened it. like something dangerous had crept back into the bloodstream. he had this weight. like the room bent around him even when he wasn’t speaking.

but working with him? in a romantic angle?

you weren’t naïve. you knew what that meant, more screen time, more heat, a fast track to main-event storylines. you’d earned your spot, climbed out of undercard purgatory with sweat and stubbornness. but this was another level. this was headlines.

and it wasn’t just the cameras you had to think about. It was backstage. locker room politics. fan perception. everything blurred when storylines got too close to the bone.

you pulled out your phone and scrolled, half-hoping to see something. a message from creative. a heads-up from punk himself. nothing.

your stomach tightened.

maybe that was what bothered you, that he hadn’t said anything. no professional courtesy. no "hey, we’re working together now." just silence.

a knock hit the door, quick, two taps and before you could respond, it opened.

a crew runner peeked in. "hey. they want you on set in ten. promo run-through."

you nodded, grabbed your jacket. "who’s running it?"

the runner hesitated. "uh punk. it’s his segment."

your pulse skipped.

"right", you said. "tell them i’m on my way."

∘•···············•∘ʚ ♡ ɞ∘•················•∘

the soundstage was dim, backlit by the soft blue wash of a test spotlight. cameras weren’t rolling yet. one of the pas was fiddling with cords by the monitors. a stagehand rolled a fake brick wall into frame, part of some moody backstage backdrop. it smelled faintly of smoke machines and spilled coffee.

you spotted him instantly.

punk stood near the far wall, arms crossed, black hoodie zipped up over his gear. he wasn’t speaking to anyone. just watching. waiting.

he didn’t look up until you stepped fully into the light.

then his eyes lifted, slow and deliberate and locked with yours.

no smile. no nod. just that unreadable stare.

you moved toward him anyway, steadying your expression. "guess we’re finally working together."

a beat passed. two. then. "seems that way", he said, voice low, dry.

you tilted your head. "any thoughts on the script?"

he shrugged one shoulder, but it wasn’t careless, more calculated. "doesn’t matter what’s written. what matters is what sells. this is just a chemistry test"

you crossed your arms. "and what sells, according to you?"

he stepped a little closer, not enough to invade your space but enough that the air changed. he smelled faintly of leather and old cologne. his voice stayed even, but there was something under it. a slow current.

"tension", he said. "real tension. people don’t buy perfect love stories. they buy the kind where someone could burn for it."

you felt that line hit, low in your spine.

before you could reply, the floor director called, "run-through in thirty! get your marks!"

punk nodded toward the taped x on the floor. "let’s see if this works."

you moved to your spot. he moved to his.

the red light blinked on.

and then he looked at you, really looked and when he spoke, it wasn’t just scripted lines anymore. it was the kind of voice that curled into your bones and stayed there.

"don’t act like you’re not curious", he said, tone dark with challenge. "about what happens when you stop pretending this is just business."

you blinked.

That wasn’t in the script.

your chest lifted with a slow breath. you didn’t look at the director. didn’t break. instead, you stepped forward, right into the fire.

and you answered.

"don’t mistake curiosity for interest", you said, calm and sharp. "you’re not the only one who knows how to play the crowd."

his eyes flashed, not with anger. with something more dangerous. amusement. interest. maybe even approval.

the light cut.

someone clapped. "perfect. that’s money."

but he didn’t stop looking at you.

and suddenly, you understood: whatever this was, it had already started. and punk wasn’t playing a character.

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

Roadkill: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.2k

Summary: Someone is using their vehicle to run people over, but why? What compels someone to take another life?

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If there are any warnings that exceed the normal death/kills from the show, I will list them. If you’ve seen the show, then it’s the same level of angst unless otherwise stated

x

"I'm not sure about automobiles. With all their speed forward they may be a step backward in civilization." - Booth Tarkington

You have some time before the briefing to steal away for yourself, and you and Spencer are in the break room alone together. You're leaning against the counter and you pull Spencer in closer to you by his hands. You wrap your arms around his neck and look into his beautiful brown eyes.

"I got us a nice hotel room for the both of us this weekend. It has a fireplace and a really big bathtub that can fit two people. What do you say?" you grin.

"That sounds amazing. We could really use it to get away."

You pull him in closer and kiss him slowly with a hint of tongue. No one else is around to judge you, but that blissful peace doesn't last long. Derek walks into the break room just as you pull away from him.

"I'm telling you right now, we're not leaving the room," you chuckle.

"What are you two talking about?"

"How much hot sex we're going to have over the weekend."

Spencer blushes deep red and Derek laughs as he pours himself some coffee. He caps his cup and walks past Spencer but not before he pats his chest.

"Wrap it before you tap it," he winks.

"It's so easy to get you like this," you smirk and pull away from Spencer. "You're cute when you're flustered. If only they knew what you were like in the bedroom."

"Don't you dare tell them," Spencer gasps when you walk away.

"Yes, sir," you smirk and wink.

Everyone makes their way to the briefing room where JJ is getting set up. Once everyone is in, she puts up pictures of current victims and their crime scenes. This unsub is killing people with his car; that's new.

"An unsub that kills with his car? I haven't seen that before," Emily says.

"Neither have the police in Bend, Oregon which is why they need our help. There have been two victims in the last twelve days. The first victim is Maria Delgado, twenty-three. She was hit on a morning jog. The second victim is Shannon Makely, forty-three. She was stranded on the side of the road when her car broke down.

"What makes the locals think that they were connected?"

"For one thing, they were both backed over after the initial impact. This wasn't an accident. Plus, they matched treads in both scenes. They were large wheels for all terrain. Their wounds also indicated a raised bumper, so they're thinking a large SUV to a truck."

"Do they know the make or model?" you ask.

"No. The tires are made for multiple kinds of vehicles."

"I'll do what I can to see what kind of car it is."

"Were there any witnesses to either incident?"

"No, both victims were attacked in secluded areas."

"Two tons of metal make a hell of a weapon," Derek says.

"Serial killers have been known to become rather attached to their vehicles. Bittaker and Norris even gave theirs a nickname. Murder Mac," Spencer explains.

"Bittaker and Norris were sexual sadists. There's no sign of torture here. This sounds like thrill kills for easy targets randomly selected."

"We need to think about if they're not random. We need to see if there is a connection between the two victims."

"With this type of impact, the vehicle shouldn't be hard to pick out of a lineup. There should be significant front-end damage."

"Somehow I don't think it's gonna be that easy," Rossi shrugs.

"Well, I think it's safe to assume our unsub is male," you say.

"I agree with you, given what we know about aggressive driving and road rage."

"And the fact that men have an unnatural bond with their cars," Emily adds.

"That is true," JJ nods.

"Wait a minute, I don't know about unnatural," Derek says.

"I once dated a guy who washed his car more than he washed his hair," JJ says.

"A nice car needs love."

"A woman doesn't?" you ask Rossi.

"I'm not qualified to answer that."

"I'm just saying a big car is phallic like he's overcompensating for something. Maybe he's impotent. If the unsub sees himself as physically defective, the car not only gives him the power and control he otherwise lacks, but it also serves as a shield."

"Maybe a way to avoid physical contact?" Hotch asks.

"Now we're going in a different direction. Power, control, and female victims equal up to a rape profile."

"Rape and thrill kills are two very different profiles. What does victimology tell us?"

"Nothing, yet. Shannon Makely was a white, married, commodities trader. Maria Delgado was a Hispanic grad student and a competitive tri-athlete."

"So far, gender's our only link. Hopefully, the crime scenes will tell us more."

It takes eight hours to get to Bend, Oregon from where you are, and Detective Quinn is waiting for you, Derek, and Rossi when you arrive. The rest went back to the station to get set up. The crime scene is so new that the blood is still on the ground from where Shannon was hit. You're kind of floored by the energy she left behind, you have to take a moment to gather yourself.

Rossi and Derek immediately talk to the detective while you stay where you are. All the officers and police cars disappear until the only one that's left is Shannon's car. She is stuck on the side of the road after her car broke down, and she's holding her phone up to get a signal to call for help.

She gets out of her car and starts walking in hopes that she catches a connection. She doesn't get far when the unsub comes around the corner. He stops exactly where the tire tracks are found in real-time. Time slows down the second Shannon turns her head toward the unsub. He slams his foot on the gas and lurches forward, still in slow motion. He rams her at full speed, backs over her, hits her again, and speeds off down the road.

You walk closer to the spot where Shannon's car broke down and focus on the big lifted truck instead. You rewind the events until the truck is right beside you. Of course, you can't see anything inside the car. Either the windows are tinted or your abilities can't put together what the inside looks like. Still, even though you can't see inside, you feel the unsub looking at you.

There is no distinctive mark that tells you what make and model this is, but you do know a couple of things. This is a lifted truck that someone put time and effort into, it's black in color, and the taillights are rectangular and small. You replay the events five times before letting the unsub escape. You're not getting anything else off the truck, but you're glad you got this much.

"Tell us about what happened," Derek's words bring you back to reality.

"Shannon lived a little outside of town and was on her way home from work when she broke down."

"So, she breaks down and gets out to start walking. Why not call for help?" Rossi asks.

"There's no service," you say. You point to the tire tracks on the ground. "He made a complete stop here then hit the gas at full speed. He hit her twice and then sped off."

"Full stop in the middle of the road? I take it there's not a lot of traffic out here?"

"Not on this stretch," Detective Quinn says. "Not at that time of day, at least."

"She was done working by three in the afternoon? What did she do?"

"She was a broker that specialized in foreign markets. The time difference made for some odd hours."

"There's something not right," you say.

"What are you thinking about?"

"What are the odds that she breaks down right here? She can't use her phone, there's no traffic, no witnesses, and nowhere to run. It's the perfect place for an ambush."

In the case of Maria Delgado, she was hit while she was jogging. The area in which she was hit is a popular spot for joggers, and not many people can take the stress of that hill. Maria was a tri-athlete that was jogging up there from off the main road. The unsub drove in where he could and ran her down the hill.

That's theory one. Theory two is that he was already there lying in wait. A woman jogging alone would be aware if someone was tailing her. She was the reason he was up there lying in wait like he knew she would be there. These attacks aren't random; they all have some significance to the unsub, which means they can be connected.

Once finished at Shannon's crime scene, you headed back to the police station to talk with the other half of the team.

"The only thing I got from his car is that it's a lifted truck that someone put time and effort into, it's black in color, and the taillights are rectangular and small," you say after you explain what you saw. "I also think he may have targeted these women. They have to be connected."

"That takes thrill kill off the table."

"Why, because the murders were planned in advance?" Quinn asks.

"Yeah, this type of stalking behavior indicates a personal motive. There's a reason he chose these victims. He knows their work schedules, jogging routes, and drive patterns. That would explain how he knew where to strike."

"It explains Maria. She was on a run, but he couldn't have known Shannon's car was gonna break down out there."

"Did you look at her car?"

"The guys at the impound lot said the water pump blew. They said it's a common enough problem."

"We should look at it. I might be able to get something off it," you say.

"Why don't you and Rossi head over there, and let me know what you find out," Hotch says.

You and Rossi head over to the impound lot to see Shannon's car. There isn't a lot of damage to it externally since the unsub didn't hit it. However, the deeper they went, the more they found the problem of why it stopped. No one else can see this, but you see two legs sticking out from underneath the car. The legs have the same energy as the energy you saw at her crime scene.

The unsub tampered with her car which is why he knew it would stop in that location.

"Can you tell us what the problem is?" Rossi asks.

"We figured it was the water pump because it was pretty much melted, but we didn't prepare for this."

The mechanic shows that there is a clear cut in one of the tubes inside the engine.

"This car is pretty new. This wouldn't be normal wear and tear, right?"

"No. The rest of the line is in good condition. Someone punctured it. You can tell from the smooth edge."

"How did they do it?"

"Probably reached a blade right through the grille with a penknife or something like that."

"They wouldn't have even had to pop the hood. If she drove away without water in the radiator, it explains the overheating."

"Could somebody possibly gauge how far she could have traveled with the car in this condition?"

"Someone who knows cars could make an educated guess, sure."

"Thank you." You and Rossi walk away from the mechanic. "The unsub did this to her car. He screwed with it. I saw his legs from underneath his car. He must have gone from the bottom instead of through the grille."

"Sabotage. He's more focused than we thought. He's well-organized and highly motivated."

"By what, though? What do these women have in common? They're all of different ages, appearances, and social class. He's not hunting a specific type. Their only connection is the unsub. There has to have been contact before the attacks."

"We profiled a guy who's afraid of contact. The truck's a shield," Rossi says.

"Maybe the contact's incidental. There's something he perceives in their exchange, something about his perception triggers his fixation. It could be the way she looks at him, something she says, or even something as trivial as what she's wearing."

So far, the team has narrowed down the lifted truck to an older model that's American made. He must have removed all emblems from the car so it'd be harder to track the car to him. One way you can narrow down the list is to send what you have to the DMV, but you're going to waste a lot of paper that way. The truck is only going to get you so far, so you have to build on the profile if you want to catch him.

Some things you know about the unsub are that he's mechanically inclined since he certainly knows his way around an engine, and he's strong enough to pull out dents in his car from each accident if he's fixing the damage to his car. Both victims were killed during office hours, so he must have a flexible work schedule or none at all. If he's stalking someone and getting to know their schedule, he has to put aside a lot of time for that.

Why did he start doing this in the first place? If he doesn't have a job, then losing it could have been the stressor. Eight percent of this state is out of work recently. You need to look for men who are employed as mechanics, work in a body shop, and have criminal records for reckless driving and assault. Two murders in two weeks isn't much of a cooling-off period, so he's not going to wait for another opportunity to present itself.

He's gonna create one, and soon. You just didn't think it'd be this soon.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​​​​​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[iicomet]

(In which the beloved senior of mount hua ponders over a selfish person's final moments.)

(gn!reader - second pov, angst.)

(tw! mention of blood, war.)

It all happened at that moment.

A moment so short, it could hardly be considered a second. You wondered why you thought it felt like eons when it only lasted in a blink of an eye, or rather— a look in the eye.

Sometimes you feel like you've already made peace with the past. Your heart no longer aches for the fleeting memories of a childhood innocence, your tongue no longer tastes bitter at the sheer mention of them. You no longer need to spend countless nights weeping over your imaginary scenarios, the what-ifs, the pleases, and the if onlys.

After so, so long, you've grown. Finally, at last, you'll be able to live in the present with no more strings tying you to the past, chaining you down and cutting into your skin with each step, forcing piercing tears to fall down your eyes as you tried to deny it all and smile in front of your juniors who knew nothing. They, who you protected with your life, were oblivious to the shadows that hid behind their beloved senior; They, who only lived under the wings of their seniors and sect leaders, were unaware of the tattered and stained wings their senior owned, as if it was natural, as if it had been there all along. Him, who thought he had seen it all, were still so, so unsuspecting of your obvious lies—

—Of your past, your pain, your love.

—Of your experiences, your heartbreak, your one and only.

Lovely senior, perhaps if you had heeded their warnings and opened up, allowed those who wished to understand to learn, then perhaps your demise would've been like the you you presented to your people.

Peaceful.

Instead, you've shown the whole world who you truly are, destroying your perfect reputation with your foolishness.

In a frenzied haze of battle-struck wounds, with the blood that your parents had given you flowing out uncontrollably and returning to the earth, with the tears that you used to hide away in your eyes staining your cheeks as you looked so pitifully vulnerable in front of all those who had seen you as a warrior.

You felt shame.

That was how the world was going to remember you.

That was how they will remember you.

That was how he will remember you.

Their senior, always so strong, had turned out to be the weakest among them all. Their senior, who had given everything to them, had turned out to be the most selfish person they had known. How could you give up on them and leave them behind like that? How could you throw away everything just for a lost memory? How could you, How could you how could you how could you how could you—

—How could they ever respect someone like that from now on?

You wished you could laugh, but the voice you thought you had had given up on you as well.

Maybe, in another life, you could be stronger. Maybe, in another life, you could start again and be better.

Maybe, in another life, you could meet them again.

"I'm sorry, Mount Hua."

Maybe, in another life, your wishes would come true.

(In which he ponders over the final moments of his senior.)

(ooc? chungmyung and gn!reader - second pov, angst.)

    When did everything go so wrong?

  He knew that there would be losses in this fight— it was against the heavenly demon, after all. He was ready to watch his companions die before him, watch the way they take the last of their breaths and watch them lose their life fighting. He knew that that might be his own fate as well, but he knew he had to keep fighting.

  He just never expected your death to be one of the firsts.

  Your death was so stupid as well, to save someone else instead of your own life? Were you dumb? They could've saved themselves. He knew they were strong enough. You knew they were strong enough. You were strong enough to win.

  So why did you just go ahead and die? What made you give up on your own spirit and hesitate in a moment of war, even when you're the one who took this opponent for yourself? He couldn’t understand the train of your thoughts, and even after all those years spent trying, he never seemed to be able to.

  He wished he did, though.

  He watched the way your eyes widened briefly at the strike, your blood rushing out of your body with a splatter and draining your face of its color. The grip on your weapon loosened, but you still held onto it like it was your lifeline. You gritted your teeth, ignoring the way blood dripped down your own skin like it was sweat and rushed forward, swinging your weapon towards everyone but the person who struck you first. 

  It was a cinematic beauty. The dark skies and heavy atmosphere, your strong and undefeatable spirit, a light against dark situation. The way your eyes shone with so much determination, even if the same light was slowly disappearing with each passing moment. Your sword, once smooth and powerful, struck with force that seemed to be filled with pain and regret.

  He wonders, centuries later— was it your wounds that made you this way? Or was it the scars in your heart that had reopened the moment you saw your opponent, causing you to falter? 

  He sighs. He’ll never know.

  The words you mouthed to him at the last moment as well, the desperation and guilt over taking you as you still tried to reassure him in your final moments from afar. Stupid senior.

You’re the one hurt, not him.

You’re the one who’s surrounded with enemies, your strength depleting quickly, not him. 

  You’re the one dying, not him. 

So, so foolish. So, so reckless. So, so arrogant.

So, so foolish. So, so reckless. So, so arrogant.

 (He ignores the reminder of who he was truly describing at that moment.)

  Chung Myung blinks, his vision blurring despite the tears that welled up in his eyes. No, it’s just the rain. He doesn’t cry, he’s not weak enough to cry over matters like this. After all, he had just decapitated the heavenly demon, the one who took away his comrades, his Mount Hua, his senior.

  He huffed, the adrenaline rushing out of his system as the regret began to flood in. Ah, he really should’ve trained harder. He really should’ve listened. He wondered, what will become of Mount Hua after this? What will happen to everyone else? He worries, worries so much, but there wasn’t enough time to think.

  His eyes began to fail him, his body falling to the ground. It felt soft, despite the hardships the people below him had carried. At that moment, he thought he saw his senior, crawling over to him with tears in their eyes, weakly calling out to him. He thought he could feel their familiar warmth, hugging his slowly freezing body that was sticky with blood. 

  “Chung-myung…Don’t go, Chung Myung.”

  He hears, desperate and anguished. 

  He felt like laughing. Did his mind go crazy during the fight? His senses were all wrong now. How could he hear the voice of someone dead? They’re gone. Now, even his senior who always caught him in his mischief, couldn’t catch him anymore. He laughed—or rather, he tried— but failed, his voice stopping at his lungs that had begun to disappoint him as well.

  Maybe, just maybe—he’ll see his seniors in heaven.

  Even if he wouldn’t, he could always just fight gods to make sure he could meet them again.

  Unfortunately, it was just a hopeless wish. How foolish of him, to even think it would come true. Perhaps this is karma for being the way he was when they were all still here.

  (But, at least he’ll see them again soon.)