#d.c. cross

[dustedmagazine]

D.C. Cross — Glookies Guit. (No Drums)

Arriving just six months afterward, D.C Cross’s latest is very much of a piece with his previous release, Wizrad. Both feature quirky titles (this one apparently referencing a cannabis strain), Cross in a similar pose on the cover, and, like several of his other earlier recordings, a combination of Takoma school acoustic fingerpicking — in this case, played on a six-string without a slide — with some ambient compositions. I suggested in my review of Wizrad for Dusted that that album would leave listeners wanting more, and here Cross delivers the goods.

Once again, Cross’s knack for creating and developing compelling guitar melodies and arrangements is on display. The tracks tend to be concise, with only a couple of them stretching past five minutes. The videos for “Edward River, Denilquin Flow” and “Gen Xer Love Story” showcase the cinematic quality of Cross’s compositions (he is also a videographer). In both tunes, introductory chords lead into a sprightly picking pattern that proceeds through a series of shifts and variations that seem simultaneously unexpected and inevitable, and then the chords are revisited toward the end to complete the journey.

The longer guitar pieces, “The Nepean” and “Rhinestones, in Black and White,” are particularly engaging. The latter, at nearly eight minutes, unfurls from a crystalline picking pattern into a gentle, loping melody and gradually picks up speed before easing up again toward the end in a series of chords leading back to a kind of reprise of the original melody.

The ambient tracks complement the acoustic tracks and contribute to the flow of the recording overall. “Wattle Battle” separates the aforementioned longer pieces, integrating woozy strums and gentle pulses, and “Failed Gen Xer Love Story” serves as a prelude to the similarly titled tune that follows. The longest of them, “EU Psychic Travel Club,” closes the set with found sounds swathed in warm hiss and faint low tones.

Cross is emerging as an important voice among the modern players who continue to find new territory in the world of guitar discovered by John Fahey (who, of course, also experimented with found sounds and electronics). With the release of two fine albums in so short a time, he seems to be on a creative tear. Fans of Bachman, Isasa, Jones, Rolin, et al., take note.

Jim Marks

[emaadsidiki]

National Gallery of Art 🎨 Washington, D.C.

[pagan-stitches]

Started adding the next motif.

This afternoon’s stitching soundtrack:

[hardcorearchitecture]

Iron Cross

The address given for their “Hated and Proud” EP in Washington, D.C., 20007. Source: MAXIMUM ROCKNROLL, issue no. 9, Oct.-Nov., 1983. Street view date: March, 2022. Sample quote from the review: “The new Iron Cross EP represents a step forward for the band. For one thing, the lyrics are vastly better, especially in "Wolf Pack," where a stand is taken against mindless violence. For another, the songwriting is more developed.” (JB).

[aeolianblues]

Reading and Leeds’s account posted Fred Again yesterday (before his headline set) in what I’m sure is a Fontaines D.C. Romance T-shirt! Fontaines also posted a clip of watching his set at the end of the day, enjoying it

UPDATE: HE HEADLINED WEARING THAT T-SHIRT. ICONIC WEAR.

[brucestambaughsblog]

An Encounter With a Homeless Man

The Park at CityCenter, Washington, D.C. Photo by Bruce Stambaugh The man sat on the little padded bench in the entrance to the cafe where my family and I had lunch. He was one of dozens of homeless people we had seen during our extended holiday weekend gathering in Washington, D.C. He sat there silently, bent over from age, the biting cold, and the exhaustion of living on the streets. His…

[pier-carlo-universe]

Amazon Prime: Alex Cross – Un viaggio nella mente di un detective tormentato. Una serie poliziesca drammatica che intreccia azione, emozioni e suspense in otto puntate

Amazon Prime Video porta sullo schermo un nuovo avvincente poliziesco, Alex Cross, una serie drammatica che cattura l’attenzione con una trama intricata e personaggi profondamente sfaccettati.

Amazon Prime Video porta sullo schermo un nuovo avvincente poliziesco, Alex Cross, una serie drammatica che cattura l’attenzione con una trama intricata e personaggi profondamente sfaccettati. Composta da otto episodi, questa prima stagione è basata sui celebri romanzi best-seller di James Patterson, una delle penne più prolifiche e amate della narrativa contemporanea. La serie segue il…

[pathologicalreid]

litmus test | s.r.

in which Spencer needs your expertise to help solve a murder, but crime fighting is most decidedly not for you

find more chemist!reader here!

who? spencer reid x chemist!reader category: flangst (like. the end is a little angsty and it has case details) content warnings: typical cm violence, science talk, fem!reader, reader is not built for crime, morgan being an older brother, some fun banter!! death by firework is crazy lmao word count: 1.68k a/n: this is one of my favorite fluff pieces i've written in agessss i missed chemist!reader so much i learn so many things when i'm writing her. this was a request! i hope you like it as much as i do!!

“Do you have a second?” Spencer asks, his voice slightly choppy over the phone. Between his ancient phone and being inside concrete police precincts, some disconnect was bound to happen.

Saving your document to your computer, you rest the lab phone between your shoulder and ear, “If you’re asking me if I have any corrosive chemicals in my hands, the answer is no.”

He chuckles lightly, “I never know with you.”

You roll your eyes in response, even if he can’t see you, “It was one time and I needed a new phone case anyway.”

“You fused the plastic of your phone case to the material of your phone,” he retorts far too quickly for your liking.

“Yes,” you acquiesce, “but I know the exact chemical reaction that caused that phenomenon.” You cross your legs one over the other, maintaining your balance on your lab stool as you speak to Spencer over the phone.

He gave a light hum in response, “Speaking of chemical reactions – I need your help.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, “You’re asking me for help in chemistry?” There really was a first time for everything, you suppose.

Spencer was more than capable of navigating a lab on his own, even so, he admits, “You have more applied practice than I do.”

Pursing your lips, you nod to yourself, “Fair enough. What’s stumping you, Dr. Reid?” Your inquiry, while innocent enough, garners a wolf whistle from your graduate assistant.

“There’s something burning a hole in these bones, and I’m not sure what would be causing it to happen this fast,” he explains, giving you minor background information on how long the bones were out and if the medical examiner had treated them with something.

You clear your throat, frowning at the notes you had scrawled down in front of you, “Burning or corroding?” What was seemingly a meaningless distinction would actually allow you to filter through approximately half of the possibilities.

“Corroding,” he corrects himself, “My mistake.”

Crossing off some of your notes, you purse your lips at the new possibilities, “No worries. Did you try flushing it out with water?”

You hear papers flipping on his end of the call before you get a response, “That would destroy evidence.”

“Well,” you raise your eyebrows, “It sounds like your evidence is destroying itself.”

“Baby,” Spencer says in a no-nonsense tone reserved for when he was deep in a case. You could’ve sworn you heard Morgan in the background of the call mocking him for the pet name.

Turning back to your notes, you sigh, “Yeah, yeah, all work and no play. Was the body buried?”

“Partially,” his reply intrigues you, “I can have Garcia send you the crime scene photos if you think it’ll help.”

Wrinkling your nose at the thought, you made an unsure sound, “Right, because nothing says lunchtime like getting up close and personal with a homicide victim.”

“What lunchtime? It’s three pm in D.C. right now,” he caught you, a slight chiding tone in his words.

Ignoring his questions, you ask more of your own, “Was the body near water? Did they test the pH of the soil and water?”

There were more papers flipping, likely someone presenting the results of those tests to him, “Yeah, the soil was a five-point two and the water was a seven-point eight,” he listed off for you.

While your knowledge of the pH of the soil in Iowa was limited, you did know that those levels were pretty on par for the northern Mississippi River. “O-kay,” you say, extending your vowels, “and they didn’t find anything else on the scene that points to corrosive materials. Hydrofluoric acid?” You posit, “No, you know what – maybe you should send me those files. My work email is encrypted, you can give it to Penelope.”

He speaks to someone else in the room with him and you resist the urge to ask him if he’s enjoying Iowa, “It’s sent,” he confirms with you.

Pulling up your email only takes a moment, and once you get over the initial shock of seeing a dead body on your computer screen, you lift your lab glasses to the top of your head in order to get a better look. “I mean,” you think for a moment, “those look like alkali burns to me. I’ve never seen them on bones before, but you should do a litmus test to check either way.”

“So, we rinse it with water?” He asks, seeking instruction from you in a way that makes you feel oddly powerful.

Your eyes widen, “No, no, no. If it’s a metal compound then it’ll be covered in a mineral oil, so rinsing it with water would actually make the burn worse.”

Pausing for a moment, you consider the possibility that Spencer didn’t have the luxury of time – he was trying to solve a murder, not do experiments in a lab.

“Alkali burns can be serious, it all depends on what caused them, and most are helped by rinsing with water. So, unless you have the time to test for metal compounds, I’d go ahead and rinse it. You might want to brush the damage to the bones with a dry brush first. If there’s lime on the bones it’ll foam, which not only will corrode the bones even further but it might release a toxic gas,” you have no idea how the corrosion would interact with bone marrow, but something tell you that you don’t want to know

“Wait a minute,” Derek interjects, being included in the conversation now that Spencer put the call on speaker, “I thought things like alkaline water were good for you.”

You scoff instinctively, “Oh, there’s no definitive evidence that shows alkaline water as having any real health benefits. Especially not the benefits that the internet says it has.” Straightening up in your stool, you continue, “In fact, there is evidence from the NIH that says drinking alkaline water could cause kidney damage. There’s a particular-“

“My bad,” he interjects, effectively stopping your rambling before it really took off, “I forgot whose girlfriend I was talking to.”

Groaning at your new vexation, you huff, “Oh, fuck off, Derek. Go kick down a door.”

Spencer quickly switches the phone back, “Thank you, angel.”

Squinting at the photos that were still on your laptop screen, a crude, disturbing thought came to mind, “You know, sparklers can cause alkali burns. It might be something to consider because of the diameter of the burns.”

Your boyfriend was silent on his end of the call for so long that you had to check and make sure the call hadn't dropped. “Did you say sparklers?”

“Yep,” you confirm, “like the ones you can get everywhere this time of year.”

He says something to Morgan, placing his hand over the receiver so you can’t hear, “There’s only one spot in this town, though. I’ve gotta go, see you soon.”

“Stay safe, please! I prefer your bones unburned,” you rattle off into the phone before it clicks, placing the phone back on the stand and deleting the crime scene photos from your inbox.

The front door to the apartment opens and shuts quietly, with Spencer under the assumption that you already went to bed, he was surprised to find you on the couch, nursing a cup of tea. “Hey, baby,” he chirps, unusually peppy for this time of night.

“Hey,” you say half-heartedly, threading your fingers through the handle of the mug.

Your somber tone gets Spencer’s attention, “What’s wrong?”

The slight panic in his voice causes your eyes to snap up to his, “Nothing,” you murmur. “It’s just… the woman who was in those pictures. There- the burns on her bones, they were signs of torture, weren’t they?”

You’d been thinking about the burns ever since Spencer showed them to you, “Yes,” he answers with a reciprocating softness, sitting down next to you on the couch. “The medical examiner concluded that she was burned antemortem.”

That woman had been burned alive by fireworks, sparklers had seared their way through skin and muscle until it finally met her bones. You blink a few tears from your eyes at the thought, “I like my lab, Spence.”

The confusion on his face was palpable, “I know you do.”

“I like my minimal human interaction and my chemicals, and I like knowing why certain things cause certain reactions. I like it when things make sense.” You take a deep, shaky breath, “Killing someone. Torturing someone with fireworks. That just doesn’t make sense to me.”

You had no interest in hearing the excuses that the killer had provided. You had no interest in hearing the psychological breakdown of that woman’s killer. Spencer knows that, “The photos got to you?”

Taking a sip from your mug, you nod solemnly, “I can’t stop thinking about the way it must have felt. Oh, the smell must have been horrible. That poor woman.” In theory, it was a ridiculous notion, killing someone with fireworks seemed neither probable nor possible. Yet here you are.

“But we got the person who killed her,” Spencer reassures you, resting his hand gently on your knee. “We couldn’t have done it without you,” he adds.

Your face warms at his compliment, “I wish I could have helped before she was killed.” You were grateful that Spencer hadn’t passed on any personal information about the woman, it was easier for you if you kept things in separate storage files in your mind.

Spencer hums, reaching out and sweeping a strand of hair behind your ear, “There’s always going to be another one. I’m sorry about the photos, I should’ve made sure Garcia only sent the necessary ones.”

Nodding absentmindedly, you look at him thoughtfully, “This will pass, but for tonight I just feel bad for the victim.”

“I can have Penelope share some of her favorite baby animal videos, if you’d like,” he offers softly, resting his head on your shoulder.

In return, you give him a small smile, “Well, I suppose it really can’t hurt.”

[minnesotafollower]

U.S. Should Release All Guantanamo Prisoners and Close Down

A New York Times editorial starts with the factual assertion that “30 men . . . [are] still imprisoned at the U.S. naval base whose name has become synonymous with American shame.” Although President Biden “said at the outset of his administration that he would seek to have the detention center closed . . . the moral imperative and the ethical case for doing so has only gotten stronger with…

[dustedmagazine]

D.C Cross — Wizrad: Adventures Into Ecstatic Guitar (No Drums)

Wizrad (sic; the spelling is unexplained) is the latest release of instrumental music by D.C Cross, who also records as singer-songwriter Darren Cross and is a veteran of the Australian music scene. The emphasis is on Takoma school guitar, though a few of the tracks feature field recordings and/or what is described as “madcap ambient” often comparable to the work of, e.g., Chihei Hatakeyama. The resulting adventure may or may not be ecstatic, as the subtitle suggests, but it is thoroughly enjoyable.

Cross’s compositions are sprightly and show some pop sensibilities in terms of dynamics and development. His playing is precise and inspired, fast without being showy, apparently all on six-string without a slide, and usually or always in open tunings. Like John Fahey (and Merle Travis before him), Cross makes the most of a three-finger style with a heavy emphasis on the thumb(pick). The compositions have a fresh-but-familiar feel reminiscent of those of Glenn Jones and Ragtime Ralph Johnston, to name two more recent contributors to the genre.

Standout tracks include the one-two punch of “Brumby Revisited” and “The Regicide of Daniel Ek,” which open the album (after a brief introductory track) and chug along like a mountain railroad, and the more meditative “No Trouble,” but all of the tracks are strong and distinctive. Thus, “Rotterdam Hussle” (sic; wordplay seems to be a recurrent theme) differs from the others in focusing on and driving home a fairly simple figure. The ambient and guitar tracks are generally separate, though “Nothing Ever Stops (On the Astral Plane)” starts as the former and ends as the latter. The ambient tracks are a bit more difficult to distinguish apart from those that feature found sounds (“Birdy Birdy” is self-explanatory), but they help to create and sustain the overall mood.

At less than 40 minutes, Wizrad zips by, likely leaving listeners wishing for a longer record and digging into Cross’s back catalog, which is well worth the effort. His approach to the guitar is tried and true, and his mastery of it is on display here, along with a knack for composing memorable tunes.

Jim Marks

[cerisereids]

𝗜’𝗹𝗹 𝗕𝗲 𝗪𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗬𝗼𝘂 (𝗘𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗧𝗮𝗸𝗲)- 𝗦.𝗥.

Pairing- Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

W/C- 6.5k (crazy shit)

Summary- You and Spencer have never gotten along. Yet, you can’t seem to ever take your eyes off each other.

Contains- 18+ MDNI, not super smutty but there is a sex scene (not super detailed) canon typical violence, enemies to lovers, Spencer losing all brain cells over a pretty girl, bitchy!Spencer, reader and Spencer are held captive by unsub, dramatic love confessions, kissing, some icky misogyny directed at reader from unsub but it's quite brief, guns, unsub death, honestly this reads a lot like a regular cm episode but with Spencer being down bad, this low-key turned into smut when I didn't plan on it but c'est la vie

A/N: I can’t find the OP of the divider but it is not mine!! This is a little proofread but not a lot of proofread, I am also thinking about making a part 2 w some actual smutty smut so lmk if you guys like this!

An itch of irritation crawls up your spine, a deep ache settling in your skull as you sit in the BAU conference room. You massage your temples as a rapid, grating voice nestles its way into your ears.

“The fact that this unsub feels comfortable targeted a densely populated area such as D.C. tells us he’s either impulsive or incredibly bold,” he remarks, arms crossed, a pensive look on his face as he studies the map in front of him.

Despite your annoyance, you keep your eyes trained on the profiler as he rattles on. Your eyes narrow just slightly, You’re seated directly across the table from him, and you watch the way he gets lost in the information, almost like it’s in control of him as he frantically circles different locations on the map. Spencer Reid speaks with his entire body, he always has, ever since you started at the BAU one year prior.

“Maybe it’s a comfort zone,” he stands back, leaning his weight on one leg. Your eyes drift down his lanky frame for the briefest moment, lingering on his popped hip. They furiously snap back up to his face once he starts speaking again, cheeks heating up.

“The lines of longitude and latitude at each murder sight are equivalent to the central area of the city,” he mumbles.

“Okay, so we need to know what’s there. Something clearly happened to our unsub that has made him choose these locations,” you cross your arms over your chest, “you really think our unsub measured all of the crime scenes on a map? That shows an incredible amount of organization that I don’t think he has.”

Your tone is a bit defensive, skeptical of his work. To you, profiling is a subjective art. Your best profiling comes from understanding emotions, trauma. Spencer works completely different.

While you do have to recognize his intelligence, the strict logic in which he operates in this job is not something you entirely agree with. He spouts rapid fire facts nearly robotically, like he’s reading straight from a textbook. It drives you batty.

You’re not typically someone who’s thrown off by a different approach. Normally, you accept and encourage a fresh set of eyes while you work. If it wasn’t for what Spencer said your first week…

Plus, you had an early acceptance to Harvard before you decided to go to the academy. His intelligence doesn’t impress you that much.

“Yes, as a matter of fact I do. He’s very clearly organized, it fits the profile,” he states, his irritated gaze pointed directly at you.

You stare back brazenly, in a silent competition with the man across from you.

“I’m really just unsure how that helps us right now when central D.C. is so big. How are we going to narrow down his tie to the city?” His eyes narrow to slits at your question.

“She’s got a point,” Hotch succinctly breaks through the tension, and you’re reminded that you’re in a room with the entire team. “Give the information you have to Garcia, have her narrow it down. Afterwards, I want you and Prentiss on victimology in the bullpen,” he says.

You puff your chest slightly, sliding out from your chair to get closer to the evidence board. You feel his eyes burning a hole into your back before he huffs an irritated sigh, exiting the conference room with a harsh slam of the door. You keep your gaze on him through the window as he walks to Penelope’s.

Spencer grumbles under his breath the whole way down to Penelope. Head down, brows furrowed, he barges in there with the map. Without so much as a hello, he posts it on her wall.

“Well, hello to you too, Doctor!” She chastises him as he keeps his gaze on the map, like she’s not even there.

He knows it’s mean, that she deserves more respect than that, his brain is just unable to process anything other than her. She makes him want to explode.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, continuing his previous work on the map.

“Spence, you gotta stop letting her get under your skin like that,” he hears the pity in her voice, which only makes his blood boil hotter.

“Nobody’s under my skin, I’m trying to solve the case,” he’s speaking too quickly, like that’s even possible for him.

“Yeah, okay,” she mumbles sarcastically. She begins picking up what he’s doing on the map, entering coordinates in her computer as he works.

“She just-” his pen clatters to her desk, a knowing smile growing on Penelope’s face as she types. He ignores it. “She has to question everything I do! If she doesn’t trust me, why are we on the same team together. You know?” He huffs a heavy breath.

Penelope turns to him, “Spencer, she trusts you. Hotch wouldn’t have either of you on the team if she didn’t. Just because she has a different approach doesn’t mean she’s undermining you.”

He rolls his eyes, he knows she’s just trying to help. The irritation crawling under his sweater, seeping into his skin, is suffocating. He tugs on his collar so he can breathe.

“Then why does everything she say feel like an attack?” He asks, scratching the back of his head.

“Have you ever thought that maybe you want to impress her?” Penelope asks, and it knocks the wind out of him. “I mean, she’s like, the only person in the world who isn’t totally blown away by your incredible mind. Probably because she’s so smart herself,” she remarks under her breath. He rolls his eyes at that. “Regardless, you want her to agree with you, right? You might just want to impress her.”

Spencer’s face heats up as she raises her brow at him. His gaze immediately drops to his shoes, fidgeting awkwardly before turning back to his map.

“We need to get back to work,” he mutters.

-

To Spencer’s dismay, she stands in his exact line of sight as he’s with Emily, working on victimology. He stands at her desk, and he really should be listening to what Emily is saying. Instead, he has a laser focus on her.

She’s leaning over the conference room table, her back to the window. There’s a slight arch in her back as she pops her hip out. The silky fabric of her black pencil skirt clings to her and Spencer almost forgets why he’s so mad at her all the time.

Emily follows his line of sight and he rolls his eyes, as if she’s the one being ridiculous. The deepest parts of him know it’s not fair, but he’s never done well with his feelings on display. He feels vulnerable, like a raw nerve.

He feels exposed at the low chuckle escaping Emily’s lips. His gaze shoots towards the case file, now in an iron grip in his hands, clearing the awkwardness that has crept up his throat.

“I’m not sure who either of you think you’re fooling,” she nonchalantly mumbles under her breath, viewing her own copy of the case file.

“I’m sorry?” He snaps, his eyes squeezing shut in a long blink, as if he’s trying to unsee her.

“Y’know, if you just talked to her, really got to the bottom of your disagreements, maybe you’d see that you two are a lot more alike than you think,” she raises her brow at him, and it feels as if his heart’s been slashed open, bleeding on display for everyone to see. He always feels this way when someone shines a light on his vulnerability, his natural instinct to run from it. If it’s not there, then he can’t get hurt.

“I’m just trying to catch a killer,” he squeaks, his high pitched voice giving him away almost immediately. Emily playfully rolls her eyes and chuckles once more. His heart rate picks up, cheeks heating to an alarming degree.

The door of the conference opens, then. As if the universe is playing a cruel, practical joke on him, the click of her heels get closer and closer, until her perfume has invaded his senses.

“So, we figured out that our unsub was recently released from a mental institution in the greater D.C. area. Garcia is working on which one, but is there anything in the victimology that points toward abandonment issues? Particularly from a motherly figure?” She rattles off, the sound of her voice like a knife to the chest. It’s sharp, infiltrating every piece of him, stripping him of his defenses even further.

He stares at her, unabashedly. His eyes trail from her pink button up, sleekly tucked into that godforsaken skirt. He studies her as if it’s the first time he’s seen her, memorizing the ways her curves ebb and flow around the fabric.

His heart picks up when she looks back, but he doesn’t look away. Their eye contact is tense, as always. There’s a fire in her eyes that’s always there when they’re in the middle of a case. Her passion burns through, heating him all over.

“I think our unsub is too organized for him to be abandoned,” he replies, “typically when we see people traumatized by abandonment are reckless, but he’s taken the time to clean up after himself, even starting the dishwasher and laundry machine in his victims’ homes.”

“You still think he’s organized?” she asks right back, not missing a beat.

“He loaded the dishwasher and the laundry machine, that’s not organized to you?” His skin crawls as he answers, the usual thrill of her challenge thrumming through him.

“But if you look at these pictures…” she trails, grabbing crime scene photos of the laundry and open dishwasher from her file, “this is not the doing of an organized person. The plates are mixed with cups, there’s bowls where the silverware would be. It’s very evident he just shoved everything in there. Same thing with the laundry, we have socks with jeans. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s a mix of both,” Emily suggests, “a sort of compensating? He was abandoned by his mother so now he’s completing what could be seen as motherly duties.”

“I could definitely see that,” the voice to his right mutters, and he watches as she chews the tip of her pen in concentration.

“We don’t normally see that in male serial killers…” he trails off, trying his best to appear nonchalant as he flips through the case file. The one he’s already memorized front to back.

“There’s a first time for everything,” she says, the slight uptick in her tone barely there, but he catches it. He always does, a telltale sign that he’s gotten under her skin. He seems to live there these days.

He takes her in again, the glint of irritation in her eyes. A hand on her hip, the other resting on a chair near Emily’s desk. Her stance is closed off, shutting him out. Even still, he sees the way her eyes drift toward his direction. Her gaze is facing the floor, but he can tell his shoes are in her line of sight, and a strange surge of pride rushes through his chest. He can’t repress the need for her to notice him, in any capacity.

You feel his eyes the second they hit you. It’s like a sixth sense, knowing exactly when he finds you. It’s become natural, almost instinctual, for his eyes to be on you. You’re no better, though, mirroring him as you watch each other.

He’s thin, sinking into his button up, a pair of slacks hanging low on his hips. You catch the way it pulls taut where it meets his belted waist, the slightest bit of skin peeking through at his hip.

Your heart races at the sight, even more so when your eyes snap back up to his, and you know he caught you. Your body heats all over, every bit of you on fire as his gaze pierces you. The heat spreads internally, acid bubbling in your stomach. It feels as if he sees right through you, looking into the deepest parts.

You shake your head, shedding the feeling of him like a snake. “What have you guys found?” You ask, doing your best to focus on the victimology.

“We think he’s finding these women from their social media accounts. He’s targeting women who post emotionally. The last few posts from each victim were about some hardship or another. Maybe there was a woman in his life who made her emotions his burden,” Emily suggests, and you cut your gaze to her, shaking Spencer out of your system.

Then, you hear it. It’s small. Under his breath. It infuriates you.

“Wonder what that’s like.”

Something inside you snaps, like a rubber band that’s been pulled too tight. It ricochets off your heart, piercing your stomach until you lose control over your response.

“I’m sorry, what is your problem?” It takes all the energy you have left to not absolutely screech. Your snappy tone still calls the attention of the people around you. You feel eyes on the two of you as you pierce him with a cruel gaze. You no longer have the capacity to care.

“My problem?” He retorts, knowing full well what she is talking about.

“You have been at odds with me this entire case. Actually, since I joined the bureau,” You scoff, your insides boiling over. All the frustration of bickering with Spencer for the past three years has finally come to a head. “If you don’t trust me if you don’t like what I have to say, then you need to be a man and do something about it,” the words drip off your tongue like acid.

“Like what?” He bites back, squaring his shoulders toward you, “take it to Hotch? You and I both know where that would get us. Why is it just on me? Because you’re never wrong, right? Our BAU princess is always correct-”

“Enough.”

Hotch’s stern tone cuts through the sarcasm falling from Spencer, and the two of you straighten up in record time.

“The rest of the team is going into the field to finish this case. You two are on paperwork duty until we get back. That’s an order,” he turns to collect the rest of the team, you and Spencer mirroring each other’s shock as you watch them go.

You deflate. The smack of your file hitting Emily’s desk is the only audible sound as you grab a box, hauling it to the conference room. Spencer follows suit, and the two of you begin to work in tense, angry silence.

You study him as he works, long, deft fingers moving in a rapid speed that nearly hypnotizes you. You catch his brown eyes, softer now, still focused as they flit through the endless pile of papers. You massage your heart, as if it’d ease the ever growing ache there.

“Do you remember this case?” Spencer asks softly, and you can’t recall a time he’s spoken to you in such a tone. It makes your heart flutter in a way that scares you, the giddiness warming your skin. You roll your shoulders, hoping it’d release the tension built up in your neck.

You lean a bit towards Spencer, glancing at the file that reads, ‘Plymouth Family.’ You can’t help the smile that spreads your lips, your cheeks bunching up around your eyes.

“Family of four, two girls, all kidnapped, all recovered safely,” you recite softly. You touch the pictures of the young girls, your eyes glassing over. “Four and six…” you whisper shakily, “they were just babies.”

You remember the way they clung to you when you found them in the shed they were kept in. They were dirty, smelly, and shaking. Their arms and legs were wrapped tight around you as you carried them to the medic. You sat with them the whole time the team looked for their parents. You were there when they woke up in the hospital.

“You were amazing on this case,” Spencer says. You feel the warm skin of his arm against yours, and you realize how close you’ve gotten. “You were empathetic, smart…” he trails off, eyes lifting to your face.

Your eyes dart up to meet his. “Thank you,” you mutter softly, your eyes scanning the length of his face.

“You’re welcome,” he replies in the same tone.

“Spencer,” you start, and he knows what you’re going to say before you go any further. His breath hitches, and you continue anyway.

“How did we get here?” You ask, shaking your head incredulously, “We’re two of the smartest minds on the team and we’re stuck here on paperwork duty.”

“I would argue it’s our inability to work together without high levels of conflict,” he responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Yeah, well, you made that bed, now we both have to lie in it, I guess,” you mutter under your breath.

“I’m sorry, how is that so?” He asks.

“Are you serious?” You respond, your blood starting to race through your veins. His brows raise, prompting you to continue. “Do you not remember one of our first conversations after I joined the bureau?”

His brows furrow in confusion. You keep going.

“We were in St. Louis. We were working on the case with that Jack the Ripper copycat. I was so focused on analyzing the unsub’s background, digging into everything I could. You told me that if I value emotion over logic I’m going to get tunnel vision. That I wouldn’t last long if I let myself stray from the facts.” The words still sting, all these years later. You avoid looking at him, turning your back to him so he can’t look at you either.

“We’ve been like this for three years because I told you that you value emotion over logic? I thought that was a known fact,” he states plainly, as he always does when he thinks something is obvious.

“We’ve been like this for three years because you were someone I looked up to. When I was scouted for the unit by Gideon, a big reason why I agreed to join was because I’d get to work with you. The great Dr. Spencer Reid. I read about you, when I was at Harvard. I was amazed. A little jealous, too, but amazed all the same. When you said that, it-it was belittling. Like you didn’t believe in my ability to do the job. I spent everyday since trying to prove you wrong,” you rattle off in one long breath.

Spencer is still as a statue, watching you intently. His eyes are blown wide, his mouth slightly parted.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters lowly. “I’ve always used logic. It’s gotten me where I am. You came in here with a completely different approach, and it worked. Really well. It threw me off, it intimidated me…” he trails off, his cheeks tinting red as his chin drops to his chest.

“Intimidated? By me?” You saunter closer to him, a wicked grin on your face. You plop down on the chair across from him, knees barely knocking.

Spencer’s heart beats faster as she leans closer to him, her knees now slotted between his. The contact makes him dizzy.

The beep of his cell phone jolts him away from her. Spencer fumbles with his phone for a minute, before opening it with a shaky, “Yes, Penelope?”

You can hear her screech over the phone. “You and Miss BAU Princess need to turn on the news. Now.”

His cheeks heat at the nickname. He chokes on his own breath, exhaling sharply before grabbing the remote to the big screen in the conference room.

What he sees makes his stomach drop.

Multiple black SUVs, driving at top speed on the tail of a dirty, beat up grey sedan.

At first, in the pent up anticipation of the moment, he hardly registered her grabbing his hand. Once he did, the feeling of her branded his skin. A white hot sensation that spreads to the tips of his toes all the way to the top of his head. He wraps his fingers around hers and squeezes.

He takes a glance at her, and he wishes he hadn’t. His heart aches at the look of sheer panic on her face. Her furrowed brows, glassy eyes, and parted lips squeeze at his heart from all sides. He pulls her into him, allowing her to take refuge in his chest.

It’s not long after that he hears it, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. It’s the creak of the door. The click of a loaded gun. She must feel his rigidity, because she lifts her head up to look him in the eye.

“What?” She questions, lifting her head from his chest. She feels it too, he can tell. The lingering sense that something’s not right.

“Someone’s here,” he mutters, “stay here,” he moves to arm himself. It’s muscle memory at this point, his body moving of his own accord.

He feels the scoff she emanates deep within him. A small smile forces its way on his lips at the sound.

“Yeah right,” she replies. He feels her behind him, her own gun peeking through his peripheral.

He’s flooded with adrenaline, his blood thrumming in his veins. He moves slowly, tactical steps as he opens the conference room door. He’s met with a sharp pain cracking down on his head, rendering him unconscious.

Your hands are bound behind your back, legs tied together. Your wrists and ankles chafe raw at your resistance. You bite down on the tape plastered over your mouth, desperate to claw your way out. Your heart races, adrenaline pumping through your veins as you try and maneuver through the conference room without being seen.

After Spencer was knocked unconscious, he was dragged out of the conference room. You’re not sure where he is, and the thought renders you dizzy. You attempt to peek out of the window, the bullpen now completely cleared, save for the agents that were caught in the crossfire.

You flinch at the sound of loud, hard footsteps nearing the door. Scrambling back into place, you avoid eye contact as the strange man drags an unconscious Spencer toward you. He props him up next to you, his chin hitting his chest.

Your eyes glass over as you take in the bruise coloring his right eye a deep blue. The split on his pouting, bloody lip is crusting over.

A pair of cold fingers dip under your chin, forcing your head up to look this man in the eye. His hard stare burns into you, but before he can do anything, his phone begins ringing.

“Saved by the bell…” a gruff voice spits out, letting go of your face with a shove.

Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for contact on the wall behind you. The blow stings for a moment, but you’re able to shake it off when Spencer starts to stir next to you. Your breath hitches as he grumbles, his eyes barely opening.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “what is going on?”

“It looks like a team,” he considers, maneuvering his body to sit up further.

"Where were you?" you hissed back, worry lacing every feature of your face.

"Hotch's office," he grumbles, "I kept...I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. But I spoke to him. He's fixated on the two of us, but he wanted a lot of information about you."

He adjusts, cracking his neck from where it rests against the wall. "Hotch is going to have to hire carpet cleaners when they get back," sarcasm laces his tone, and you can't help but roll your eyes.

"You just got beat within an inch of your life, and you're making jokes?" you scoff affectionately.

"How could you tell?" his voice shifts then, seriousness lacing his tone suddenly.

"How could I tell that you got hit?" you repeat, eyes scanning over his face and body. "You're bruised in multiple spots, a bloody lip, a black eye forming..."

"You're always looking at me. You think I've never noticed?" he mutters, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

"You're always looking at me!" you hiss, no choice but to deflect.

"I know."

It's the last thing that's said before the door opens again. You sit straight up, your back pressed against the wall as the man shuffles in. You immediately clock the gun in his hand, pointed directly at Spencer.

He stalks over to you, gun still pointed in Spencer's direction. His dry, cracked finger hooks under your chin, pulling your head up to face his.

"Do you want to know what he told me in there?" his head jerks back, gesturing towards Hotch's office. He stands up, moving towards Spencer again. "Wanna know what your pathetic, disgusting, deplorable coworker told me when you weren't here?" Each insult is matched with swift kicks to Spencer's stomach and chest. He groans, rolling on his back now as he tries not to succumb to the pain.

Your eyes don't leave him. You're not sure you could pull your gaze away if you tried. You don't have much of a choice, though, as the man yanks your head back to look at him.

"He told me..." the gun comes up under your chin now, holding your head in place once again, "that he has a little crush on you. Isn't that just pitiful?" he laughs sarcastically, shaking his head.

You study the man, recalling all the knowledge you gained about him over the course of this case. He's insecure, probably impotent. He hunts women because he could never get them any other way.

"Guys like us..." he yanks Spencer to sit up by his collar, "we don't get girls like that." He's nearly spitting in Spencer's face, and you know he's slowly dying inside.

"Spencer..." you breathe out, "is it true?" You do your best to appear completely turned off, though you know you never could be. Your brows furrow in disgust as your lips curl downward.

"See, look at her," he's got Spencer's hair in an iron grip, forcing you two to look at each other. "She's disgusted, she doesn't want you. How could you be so stupid?"

"I just got caught up in it," the words spill out of Spencer's mouth, "we spend so much time together, and you're so pretty, so witty, so smart. I just couldn't help but fall in love with you."

Those words knock the air right out of your chest. A crush is one thing, but in love? You shiver, his words unzipping down your spine.

"You see that?" he growls, yanking Spencer's hair even harder, "she doesn't want you."

"He's right," Spencer flinches at your words, and you continue despite the hurt in your heart, "I don't want you, Spencer. Because I want you."

You turn your gaze to the unsub, staring him straight in the eye.

"I just can't resist you. The way you've dominated us..." you breathe out a huffy laugh, "it's undoubtedly one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. Way more attractive than anything he has ever done," you nod towards Spencer as seduction laces each word, though it tastes like poison on your tongue.

You see Spencer in your peripheral. You can barely make out the look in his eye, but you swear you see the faintest tint of insecurity lacing his gaze. The fear that maybe you mean it. Your heart clutches at the thought, and you note to do something about that later.

He lets Spencer go, his attention is now fully on you. He saunters closer, a hand reaching for your tied up ankle. His hands feel like sandpaper on your skin, gritty and unwanted.

"You really think so?" he whispers, his grip now shifting to your bicep. "Then prove it. Come with me."

He yanks you up, helping you move with your tied up limbs. You glance at Spencer briefly before you're led out of the conference room into the bullpen.

It's not long before a gunshot rings out, and you prepare for the blow. You fall to the floor, though, suddenly unsupported by the man propping you up. You turn from your spot on the ground to find Spencer wielding his gun from the conference room, miraculously unbound.

"I had him!" you scoff, rolling your eyes as Spencer undoes your hands and ankles.

"He told me what he wanted you for when he had me in Hotch's office. Believe me, I did you a favor," his brows furrow in what looks like frustration, possessiveness, as he continues to free you from your bounds.

A shiver runs through you again, shaking the disgust at the thought. You let it pass, though, he's dead. He can't hurt you anymore. Once you're free, you fall back into his chest, letting him hold you from behind. Tears slip through your closed eyes as all of the emotions of the past two hours course through every part of your body.

Spencer tightens his hold around you, soothingly rubbing his large palms up and down. Your hand reaches up to the back of his scalp, gently massaging the spot where the man had pulled.

"Are you okay?" you whisper, your faces inches from each other.

"Better now," he replies.

"Me too," you smile.

Before you can manage anything else, Spencer's mouth is on yours. It's a small kiss at first, tentative, unsure. It deepens when you turn to face him, Spencer now resting on his knees. He opens his mouth further as the kiss envelops you both. He's desperate, as if he's trying to swallow you whole. The kiss is all consuming, the corners of your brain turning fuzzy as you let yourself fall further into his arms.

"Anyone wanna tell me why you two are making out next to our dead unsub?" you and Spencer break apart at the intruding voice, like two teenagers caught in bed.

It's just Derek, thankfully. A playful, supportive brow is cocked in Spencer's direction as the poor guy next to you flushes a shade of red you didn't think existed.

"I'm not against it," he says, moving to help you off the floor, "just maybe find a better setting next time."

Your face is on fire, probably just as bad as Spencer's. You see him move out of the corner of your eye, and you grab his hand. You run your thumb over the chafing on his wrist, your heart clutching when he hisses at the sensation.

"Hey, Spence?" you mumble, exhaling a shaky breath as your eyes lock on his red wrist.

"Yeah?" he mutters back, matching your intensity.

"How did you get out of those knots? I tried the whole time he had you, they wouldn't budge." You look up at him now, his big eyes tightening at the edges as a small smile spreads across his lips.

"It was a classic prusik knot. I just had to reverse it and I was out," he states like it's the simplest thing in the world.

"Right. Of course you did," you smile, no teasing in your words, just true affection. Maybe a little bit of shock as well. His mind always has amazed you, even when you were too proud to say it.

You give his hand a squeeze before separating to be checked out by the medics. The rest of your team engulfs the two of you with worried looks and comforting words. As always, you find Spencer in the chaos. As always, he's already looking at you by the time your eyes find him.

Spencer sits on the edge of his couch, a bag of frozen peas resting on his black eye. It never gets easier, the fear and adrenaline of being taken by a psychopath. No matter how hard he tries, he still has to fight that feeling at the end of each day. The feeling that, no matter how hard he tries, how good of a profiler he is, it'll never take away the visceral fear of having your life in someone else's hands.

A knock on his door snaps him out of his spiral, and he silently thanks whoever is here at 8:47 p.m. on a Tuesday. He swings open the door to find the last person he expected to see. Her. She's here, to see him, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt. Her hair is up, not an ounce of makeup on her face. She's perfect.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispers, and he's now registering the sleep mask that must've never left her forehead the whole way here. As his eyes trail down the rest of her frame, he takes into account the stuffed animal nestled in her right elbow, the fuzzy slippers on her feet.

"Me either," he responds, unable to help the smallest uptick of his lips at the sight of her. She looks so soft, and he has to fight the urge to reach out and grab her. He would never let go.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her eyes wide, and he's not religious, but God. How is he supposed to say no?

He nods simply, moving his body out of the way so she can enter his apartment. She looks around, taking in the intricate rug, the bookshelves lined from floor to ceiling. A bolt of self consciousness strikes him. The fear of her not liking what she sees runs through him for the briefest moment. The fear is gone, though, when she turns to him with a huge smile on her face.

"It's just as I assumed it would be."

He smiles at that, his tummy turning over her imagining what his apartment looks like, over her thinking about him that much in general.

"Are you oka-" He begins his question, but she barrels right through him.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" It bursts out of her, as though she couldn't control it. He knows exactly what she means, and she knows he knows. He plays dumb anyway.

"Which part?" he croaks. She rolls her eyes, though there's no malice in it.

"When you said you were in love with me. Did you mean it?" Her honesty burns right through him, exposing all of him to her without even trying.

"Yes," he whispers, "I just thought you never liked me. I thought it'd be easier to pretend I didn't like you too."

She smiles, a bit self-deprecating, a lot of adoration. "We need to get better at talking to each other," she remarks. She saunters closer to him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Her touch makes him feel like he's on fire, his blood thrumming through his veins right to his heart. It feels like it's burning to a crisp, yet he never wants her to let go.

"I love you, too, Spencer. I think I have since before I even knew you. I was so hurt when you made that comment all those months ago. I was more naive then, took things too personally. I thought that maybe if I just repressed the feelings, they would go away," she says, and his heart grows three sizes at the confession. "Of course I didn't mean what I said, either, I hope you know that."

He nods, feeling even more on display. How could she tell he took that to heart?

"Why do you think I always look at you?" she continues, "I couldn't ever take my eyes off you, even if I was paid to. You're too beautiful."

He blushes something fierce at that. Beautiful is a new one. He's been called a lot of things, nerdy, annoying, genius. But never beautiful. It burns him hotter, a white flash of light spreading through his entire body.

"You're beautiful," he replies, his arms finally coming up to pull her closer, his forehead resting against hers.

"You really think so?" she teases, a cheeky smile spreading her lips.

He nods, "Prettiest woman I've ever seen," it's a whisper, and it's true. No one has ever taken the wind from his sails the way she does.

"Can you kiss me again?" she breathes against his lips, desperation punching through each word.

He grabs her then, his hands coming up to cradle the back of her head as they desperately chase each other's lips. She plants short, staccato kisses all over him. She starts with his lips, kissing him once, twice, three times. She moves to his face, then, trailing her lips and tongue along his jaw, biting lightly behind his ear.

He feels her smile at the noise he emits, a whiny breath of air that would leave him embarrassed with anyone else. With her, though, with the way she's worshiping him, it doesn't even cross his mind.

He pulls her head back as she reaches his cheeks, feeling sorry for making her do all the work. He smashes his lips back into hers, lifting her legs so he can move her to his bed.

She cuddles into the soft mattress the second she's there, her eyes piercing his. He watches the way her gaze rakes down his body, a boost of confidence pumping him up. He takes his shirt off, a swift movement that surprises the both of you.

"Is this okay?" he whispers as he crawls on top of her, settling his long legs between her spread ones.

She nods sweetly, "Of course."

His heart stutters at that. Of course. Those words have the power to knock him off his feet. Her hands drift up to his hips, lightly squeezing the tiny bit of excess body fat there. He kisses her cheek. She rakes her hands up and down his back, nails scratching ever so slightly. He shivers.

It's not long until they're completely tangled in each other, breathy moans escaping her lips as he moves in and out of her. He wants to drink up every noise she makes, every low groan and high pitched whine that escapes her the most enticing elixir.

When they're finished, he's in a state of content and peace that he had never previously imagined possible. Peace and tranquility floats through the room as they take turns glancing at each other. Every time their eyes lock, they burst out giggling like children.

She's glued to him, whining high and long whenever he tries to move. She'd nearly strangled him with her grip when he went to get her a towel. She only relented when he- very thoughtfully, he might add- educated her on the risks of UTIs after sex.

They're laying in a light, airy silence now. One that drowns out the horrors of the day. He recounts the events of the past year, everything from meeting her to where they are now. His mind plays it over like a VCR tape stuck on rewind. He's desperate to find any evidence of her feelings before today, his mind whirring nonstop.

When she shifts in his arms, though, her heavy breathing indicating a deep sleep, it suddenly doesn't matter. He's here now, with the prettiest woman he's ever seen. He's so grateful he never took his eyes off of her.

[punkshort]

Christmas in the City

Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader

Summary: As if your holiday season couldn't get any worse, you get lost on your way to the first day of your new job. Lucky for you, a handsome and flirty stranger finds you on the verge of tears and walks you to your office building, turning your day around instantly.

Warnings: language, fluff, meet-cute, Narcos AU (I basically plucked out the character, stripped him of his DEA credentials, and gave him a different (but similar) job and home), cheesy hallmark vibes, flirting

WC: 2.8K

A/N: This story is inspired by a small thread I found on Twitter ages ago. A girl told a similar story, although there was no romantic element. If anyone recognizes this story can you send it to me so I can credit it?

Your day was turning out to be an absolute nightmare.

Washington, D.C. was still a big and foreign city to you, so it was hardly your fault. You mapped out the walk to work over the weekend, timed how long it would take you to get to your new job from your little apartment, but that was before the snow fell. Now, everything looked completely different and you lost your sense of direction almost immediately.

In the distance, through the mountains of snow pushed between the sidewalks and streets, you thought you saw the glow of a coffee shop you recognized, so you tucked your arms against your chest and pushed on, praying you were headed in the right direction.

It took a few minutes before the light changed and you were safe to cross the street. Seconds kept chipping away and you tried not to stress about the time. You had to resign yourself to the fact that you were going to make a horrible first impression on your boss and be late for your very first day of work at the F.B.I.

And although you knew it was out of your control at that point, you still felt tears sting your eyes when you approached the coffee shop and realized it was, in fact, not the one you recognized from your dry run over the weekend.

You wanted to blame it on the sharp winter wind that bit at your cheeks that made the first tears fall, but deep down you knew the truth. You were a stranger in a busy city about to start a job you had hoped you could make into a successful career, but with your poor planning and horrible sense of direction, you likely just ruined your chances at the position of a lifetime.

"Hey, are you okay?"

You whipped around at the deep voice behind you, but not before swiping quickly at the wet tears on your cheeks with your gloved hand.

"Oh," you breathed when you first laid eyes on the concerned bystander. For one brief moment, you forgot all your worries because the man was gorgeous. Tall and lean with beautiful, soft brown eyes and a prominent mustache decorating his lip, your handsome stranger had you temporarily forgetting your misery as you got lost in his eyes.

"Um, I'm fine," you insisted with a tremble to your voice once you blinked and snapped yourself out of your daydream.

"You sure? You look a little lost," he said with a furrow to his brow.

And maybe it was the stress from the morning that got to you, or maybe it was the looming cloud in the back of your mind reminding you this would be your first Christmas all alone without your family, but suddenly you couldn't stop the hot tears that streamed down your cheeks.

The man's eyes widened in surprise before he glanced around nervously. You buried your face in your hands, knowing you must have been smearing your makeup, but at that point you didn't care. Your day was already ruined.

"Come on, you're alright," he said soothingly. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and steered you in the direction of the coffee shop. "You need something to warm you up, let's go," he added before swinging the door open for you.

"I-I'm already going to be so late," you protested, but he shushed you and pressed a hand against your middle back, giving you a gentle push inside the cozy café.

"If you're already late, what's another ten minutes?" he replied before approaching the counter and taking his gloves off. It was at that point you noticed he was dressed very nicely in an expensive looking three piece suit with a long, black wool overcoat. The only thing out of place were his clunky winter boots, and the sight actually managed to make the corner of your mouth turn up a bit.

"Two hot chocolates, please," he said before fishing out his wallet. Then he glanced back at you before adding, "and a blueberry muffin."

"Oh, you don't have to, I can pay for mine," you said, fumbling for your purse. He shook his head and swiped his card before you could say another word.

"Not a chance."

You smiled up at him, eyes still glistening with tears. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he replied before handing you your drink and muffin. "Well worth the five bucks to see you smile."

Your face flushed with heat from his kind compliment. You looked around the shop for a place to sit, hoping to hide your embarrassment for just a moment. The pair of you sat down at a table by the window and you took a deep, steadying breath before bringing the cup to your lips and taking a grateful sip.

"I'm Javier," he said, and with a smirk, he stretched his arm across the small table. Your face warmed again when you realized you hadn't even remembered to introduce yourself. You took his hand and shook it, telling him your name while silently marveling at how warm his hands were, despite the weather. He must have very high quality gloves, you thought.

"Well, thank you again, Javier," you said before splitting the muffin and handing him half. He smiled and plucked it from your fingers with a nod.

"You're welcome. Now, what's got you so sad this beautiful morning?" he asked. You laughed, glancing out the window at the anything but beautiful morning waiting for you outside.

"I'm supposed to start my new job today and I'm completely lost," you explained while picking at the muffin. "I just moved here and I'm not familiar with the city. I thought I knew my way to work, but I got turned around and I'm pretty sure I'm going to get fired, now."

Javier huffed and took a sip from his cup. "Where do you work?"

"The F.B.I," you said. If it weren't D.C., you were sure there would have been a stronger reaction to your place of employment, but the city was filled with people who worked for the federal government, so it was far from uncommon.

"Ah, I know where that building is," he said before wiping his mouth with a napkin and crumpling it up. "Why don't I walk you over? It's not far."

"Oh, no," you said with a shake of your head. "You're probably late for work, too. And by the looks of it, you're someone important."

Javier grinned and leaned back in his chair. The café was decorated for Christmas, garland and twinkle lights were wound around every ledge and window. When he looked at you, his eyes sparkled with their reflection, and it was impossible to ignore the way your heart fluttered in your chest.

"I'll be alright. It's not too far. C'mon," he said, standing after you finished your muffin. He stretched out a hand for you after pulling his gloves back on and you smiled before taking it and joining him.

"What did you get hired to do for the F.B.I?" he asked once you were back out on the busy sidewalk. He kept a tight hold on your hand, each of you still clutching your hot chocolate with the other. Anybody walking by might guess you were a couple based on how easily you leaned into each other as you dodged pedestrians from the opposite direction and the thought made you giddy.

"Oh, nothing exciting. Just a secretary for a higher level agent," you said with a shrug.

"Yeah? Nice guy?" he asked curiously. When you came to a stop at the corner, waiting for the light to change, you took the opportunity to look up at him once again. His cheeks were slightly pink from the cold, as well as the tip of his angular nose, and you found it incredibly endearing for some reason.

"I haven't actually met him," you admitted. "I only interviewed with Human Resources and the woman I was replacing. Can't imagine being almost thirty minutes late is going to leave a positive impression, though."

"Don't sweat it. If he's a reasonable guy, he'd understand. Besides, he'd be stupid to let you go," he said, eyes scanning you up and down with a teasing lilt to his voice. Your mouth dropped open the slightest bit, giving away your surprise when it occurred to you for the first time this guy might have actually been flirting with you. It was loud on the streets, the sounds of people talking and laughing combined with the road noise made it impossible to hear him chuckle, but the foggy exhale from his nose when he smirked told you he found your reaction amusing and hopefully adorable.

"You're being too nice," you warned him, then the light changed and you let him lead you across the street, his hand still tightly clutching yours. "You don't even know me. I could be a terrible worker."

"I doubt that," he scoffed before tugging your hand around a corner, leading you back north. It was around then you realized you would have been walking for an hour before you found the right direction.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

Javier grinned but kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"You were crying in the street about being late for a job as a secretary, sweetheart. You can be a secretary anywhere, right? So only thing I can think is you hate to let people down, which, to me, is an important quality in a good worker."

You laughed and held onto his hand a little tighter, pausing to toss both of your empty cups in the trash before continuing your snowy walk.

"What is it that you do, Javier?" you asked, dreamily looking up at him. He opened his mouth to answer but he was cut short by a man's panicked voice.

"Whoa, watch out!"

A courier bike has been racing down the street, and at the last second, jumped the curb to avoid getting hit by a taxi. You hardly had time to register the messenger's warning when a sharp tug came from Javier, who had pulled you out of the way without hesitation. You stumbled to the side, narrowly missing getting knocked over, and fell right into Javier's arms. Due to your momentum, he spun you both around so you wouldn't fall and in the blink of an eye, your back was pressed against the frosty glass storefront of a bakery with Javier accidentally pinning you with his body.

"Are you alright?" he asked breathlessly. You nodded, heart racing in your chest.

"Yeah. Shit. Thank you," you mumbled.

"Sorry!" came the distant apology from the bike messenger, already halfway down the block. Javier lifted his chin to scowl in his direction, allowing your brain a chance to catch up, and you immediately grew flustered when you realized the compromising position you were in. His body was firm and broad underneath his suit and coat. You could feel his strength even underneath all the layers between you. Glancing up, you saw his one forearm was braced above your head while his other hand had found a home on your lower back.

Your gaze traveled slowly up his torso, noticing for the first time your hands were clutching at his coat for dear life, a fact that added to the many reasons your cheeks felt so warm.

When Javier turned to look down at you, you could see the moment he realized how close you had become, but instead of growing shy, his eyes darkened and he swallowed tightly.

"You got a little-"

Javier released your waist and pulled off his glove with his teeth so he could swipe his thumb gently under your eye, fixing your smeared mascara from your earlier bouts of tears. Your eyelids fluttered from his careful touch and your breath got caught in your throat when you noticed the way his hand lingered on your face for a moment longer than necessary before he pulled his hand away and stepped backwards.

He cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his thick, dark brown hair before shoving his hand back in his glove.

"Alright, trouble, we're almost there."

You blinked and nodded before forcing yourself off the window to join him. Your hand fidgeted at your side, wishing you had the guts to take his hand again, but much to your delight, Javier's fingers laced with yours after half a block, making you both smile shyly when you caught each other's eye.

"Any big plans for the holidays?" Javier asked you. You shook your head sadly.

"I just moved here and my family all lives in a small town outside of Albany," you explained. "If I do still have a job, I certainly couldn't ask for time off already. And if I don't, well," you laughed lightly and shook your head. "I don't exactly have the money to travel, so... quiet Christmas this year. What about you?"

"No big plans. I don't have much family, but the ones I do have are in Texas. Wasn't planning on traveling home this year, so... quiet Christmas for me, too."

You tried, you really did, to come up with the courage to ask for his number or give him yours. For the entirety of the walk to your building, you kept rehearsing things you could say: Maybe we can get together if we're both in town? I'd love to get you a hot chocolate to repay the favor... or something stronger. Ugh. Dumb. Hey, since I'm new around here and it sounds like we'll both have time on our hands, why don't you show me around? Nope. Too bold. Why don't you give me your number so I can let you know if I kept my job after all?

Yes. That was the one. Light hearted and kind of funny. But when you found yourselves standing outside the familiar looking building, moments away from saying your goodbyes, you chickened out.

"Well, thank you again," you said nervously. He dropped your hand and opened the front door to the lobby, holding it for you so you could walk inside. It was quiet in the expansive lobby due to the odd hour. Most employees had already arrived for the day and were somewhere in the depths of the building, along with a very likely irate HR recruiter wondering where you were.

"No problem, happy to help out," he said with a lopsided grin. You didn't even question why he was still walking with you towards the front desk, far too preoccupied with the fact you were going to lose your job before it even started. When you got close enough to the receptionist, she glanced up from her computer and gave you both a warm smile.

"Hi, good morning," you told her while clasping your hands on top of the tall counter. You gave her your name and the name of your HR recruiter, letting her know you were a little late and you had run into some trouble with the weather.

"Alrighty, give me one moment and I'll have Carly meet you to review your onboarding paperwork. I see you've already met Agent Peña - good morning, Javier," she added with a flirty smile in his direction. Your jaw dropped and you swiveled to your left but he was already calling the elevator a short distance away.

"Morning, Laura," he called, locking eyes with you for just a brief moment before the elevators dinged. You stood frozen in shock, unable to form a single thing to say when he added, "I better get upstairs. My new secretary's supposed to start today. It'd look terrible if I were late."

Javier stepped into the car and tapped a number along with a plastic ID card. His gaze found yours once more and she shot you a playful wink right before the doors slid shut, leaving you to your stunned silence.

"Is- is that..." you trailed off, still staring blankly at the closed elevator. "Is that the agent I'm assigned to?"

Laura had just set her phone down in the cradle. "Yeah," she said dreamily before glancing around the empty room and leaning forward. "Lucky girl. His other secretary was with him for ages. I heard when she announced her retirement, HR got, like, thirty internal resumes for the job," she giggled.

"Oh, wow," was all you could muster before the elevator reopened and out stepped Carly.

"Good morning!" she said cheerily. "Sorry to hear you ran into some tough weather but I'm glad you made it. Don't worry, Agent Peña just got here, too."

You still apologized profusely for your tardiness as you followed her onto the elevator, your mind and pulse racing at the sudden turn of events.

"He's very nice, I think you'll get along great," Carly added while watching the numbers above the elevator door.

"Yeah, I think so, too," you replied, trying to hide the excitement from your voice.

Maybe your first day wasn't going to be a complete nightmare, after all.

Please follow @punkshort-notifs and turn on notifications for fic updates ❤️

[luveline]

Hey Jade!!! I was just wondering if you could do a soulmate au with Spencer please? Maybe something along the lines of those cheesy ones like the first words are tattooed on or they have the same tattoo idk, whatever you u feel like 😊

—Spencer meets his soulmate. You’re as lovely as he’s always pictured. fem, 1.3k

Someone will love me one day.

Spencer must think it a thousand times. When he has to put his mom in the sanitarium and he feels more alone than he ever has in his life, he knows one day someone will love him anyways. When he gets called ugly, too skinny, nerd, dork, and a handful of words that are even worse, he knows one day someone will say the opposite. He won’t be alone forever.

He was two when they appeared, dark black cursive words tucked against his pulse. Spencer felt ugly nearly every day of his life, wrong and weird, but the words on his wrist have never changed, ‘You’re so handsome I can’t believe it’s you.’

One day someone’s gonna look at him and see handsome.

Today, he feels pretty good. He’s back home in Washington, D.C., the grocery store he loves is open again after a long reconstruction, and they had a bunch of fruit from South America that he’s never tried before. He carries a white plastic bag full of fruit, bread and cheese back to his apartment, each step in the sunshine, the kiss of it warming his cheeks. A busker plays music near the mouth of the subway station. Nobody has yet to scowl at him for being in the way.

He’s wondering what he forgot when he sees you. You’re smiling, the sun on your face and arms, which are strangely full. Books slide against your chest, but besides a little huff and a shift of your elbow, you don’t seem to notice the slim paperback working its way through the crowd in your arms. It drops down onto the sidewalk but you keep walking. You must be in a hurry.

Spencer darts forward to your dropped book, thumb under the title. Charlotte’s Web by E. B White. The spine is flaking and soft from use.

He should call out for you. You’re already getting too far away.

Spencer crosses the road and dives deeper into the city with you. Washington, D.C. isn’t without grandeur —it’s the capital of the USA— and so he finds himself surrounded by potted trees and stretches of well tended grass. School’s broken for the day, children weaving around on bikes and scooters or holding hands with their parents taking up altogether too much space. He loses you in the crowd.

Spencer stops in defeat.

Maybe if he puts the book back in your path you’ll see it on the way back.

He’s not sure why he doesn’t. Spencer keeps your book and starts to walk home. This isn’t how he’d usually get there, but he can manoeuvre around the park.

He keeps an eye out for you. Ridiculously, he’d thought about giving the book back to you and making you smile. He hasn’t talked to anyone who wasn’t a cashier in two days.

“Hi.”

Spencer looks down. “Hi,” he says, spooked by the little girl in front of him.

“Is that for the library?”

He shakes his head regretfully. “No, I– I found it. I’m trying to give it back.”

“Okie dokie. I never read that one before.”

“I’m sorry, it’s not my book to give away… Where’s your mom?”

The little girl points at a mom and a younger child playing on the grass near a circle of benches. There’s a huge dark cabinet with its doors skewed open in the middle, and when he squints he realises it’s full of books. “Oh, is that the library?” he asks.

“Yes!” the little girl insists.

“Okay, well, here’s what we’ll do,” he says, looking desperately for you, disappointed when he can’t see a sign of your nice blue shirt or your sunny smile, “let me go see if I can find the lady who dropped this book, and if she says it’s okay, I’ll keep it for you to have. But you can’t run off from your mom again. Deal?”

The girl grins, thick hair shiny in the sun. “Deal!” she says, running in a burst toward her mother, who startles when she realises she’d left in the first place.

Spencer creeps toward the library. He can’t leave the book here now, he’s promised he’ll try to find you.

You come around the back of the library cabinet with a smile. Free Library, the sign says. Take one if you want, leave one if you can.

You stop in your path when you see him. You smile again, you’re prettier for it, lovely with the sun on half your face, your slight squint. You open your mouth to speak.

Spencer beats you to it. “Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you,” he says, raising your copy of Charlotte’s Web to his chest. “You dropped one of your books.”

You take a half step back.

Spencer grimaces. “I promised a little girl I’d ask if she can have it, I’m so sorry. I get stuck and I don’t know how to say no.”

Your eyes flash down to your hands. “You’re so handsome,” you say, and Spencer’s heart stops dead in his chest, your lips shaping each word without measure and somehow the prettiest anyone’s ever looked as they move, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

His shoulders sag with a deep breath.

You raise your arm to show him the contrasting font laid against your pulse. Hi, I’ve been trying to catch up to you.

Spencer shows you his. You’re so handsome, I can’t believe it’s you.

“It’s you,” he says.

You press your hand to your mouth. “I was walking too fast, right? When I was a kid I thought if I made everybody chase me that eventually somebody would have to say it, but then it stuck, and I rush everywhere I go.” Your voice turns breathless. “But you’re the person who was supposed to catch up to me.”

He smiles softly. “I think so.”

“And I just told you you’re handsome. I’m sorry, I bet that was embarrassing to… carry around, all this time.”

“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me,” he says honestly.

“I didn’t think you’d be so pretty,” you explain.

“I knew you would be.”

You hold your hand out. He’s about to tell you he doesn’t shake but he finds he really wants to, and you’re not shaking his hand anyways, you’re holding it, looking at the cursive on his arm with a disbelief he echoes in his own smile. You rub the tip of your thumb over the word handsome.

“Do you like books?” he asks.

You nod distractedly. “I love them,” you murmur, looking up.

His entire arm is alive with tingles.

“Do you read much?” you ask.

Every word you trade with one another has this shy longing he’s never felt, like you’re desperate to know about one another but worried you aren’t allowed to ask. Spencer’s about to tell you all about it, how he’s always reading, how books have been with him through everything, but there’s a tug on his shirt that stops him.

“Hi,” the little girl says.

Spencer laughs. “Hi.”

“What did she say?” the little girl whispers.

Spencer looks to you for guidance.

“Of course you can have it. It’s an amazing book,” you say.

“Thank you!” she says, holding out her hands.

Spencer doesn’t mind handing it over. If she didn’t ask him for it earlier, he might’ve never had the courage to look for you. He could’ve left the book in the cabinet and turned around, but he didn’t. And now he’s met you.

You step into his side. “Did you– do you want to get coffee?” You peer down at the bag now slipped from his elbow down to his wrist. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Do you want to have a picnic with me?” he asks.

You nod for so long he has to laugh. “I’d love to,” you say, offering your open hand.

Spencer threads your fingers together. That one day he always dreamed of seems a lot closer than it did before.

[flowersforbucky]

magnetic field

erik lehnsherr x reader

word count: 2k

summary: takes place following the events of days of future past. reader is a mutant with elemental manipulation powers.

a/n: this goes out to the three erik/magneto fans that will read this 🤧 i don't have high hopes for this but i still thought i'd give sharing it a shot. very well may end up deleting it but we will see lol

warnings/tags: a little bit of angst but mostly fluff! kissing, suggestiveness, implied smut but nothing graphic

You just keep me coming back

Something about how opposites attract

You hold me down

I'm in it for real

Love me, leave me high and dry

I'm back in your arms and I don't know why

I can't get around your magnetic field

- magnetic field by lights

It's just past dusk on a Sunday evening when he shows up on your doorstep with drenched clothes and dripping wet hair.

You knew that you were bound to see him again one day. You just didn't expect it to be here, or quite this soon.

“What are you doing here, Erik?”

You cross your arms and lean against the frame of your small cabin's front door, wrapping your cardigan tighter around yourself as you take in his appearance.

It had only been a few months since you had last seen him in D.C., but those few months had taken their toll on him. Dark circles encase his eyes that appear almost hollow.

“It always seems to rain when you're feeling particularly nervous,” he says with a half smirk. Thunder booms from above as rain beats down harder on the tin roof of your porch.

“It's Oregon,” you shrug. You concentrate on keeping your voice even. “It's rained for the last five days.”

He's not wrong. You do tend to subconsciously make it rain when you're nervous.

He chuckles under his breath, taking a step closer to you. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Do you really have to ask why I'm here?”

Now it's you who avoids his question. You have your hopes as to why he's here, but you can't bring yourself to feed into them. Not after all this time - after years of trying to move on while he was imprisoned, followed by a brief reunion during the events of Paris and D.C. that left your heart shattered all over again just a few months ago.

Can you really let yourself believe that he's simply here for you?

You raise a single hand to the side of his neck, your palm caressing the wet skin of his throat. His eyes narrow but he doesn't flinch away, only watches you curiously.

A second later, his previously soaked clothes and sopping wet hair are completely dry. He glances down, realizing what you did as you reluctantly pull your hand away from his skin. You think maybe - just maybe - a hint of disappointment flashes through his eyes at the loss of contact.

“Can't have you dripping all over my carpet,” you sigh, turning to retreat back into the house. You hear the front door click shut and you know that he's followed your lead inside.

“So, why Oregon?” He asks hesitantly as he slips his coat off and hangs it on a hook in the foyer. You turn to find him taking in the appearance of the place you've been trying to call home for the last few months. His eyes skim over the piles of books scattered throughout the small living room, and then to the bouquet of wilted zinnias on your dining room table that you had picked in hopes of making the bland space feel more lively.

“I'll answer your questions if you answer mine,” you offer, leaning against the edge of your kitchen counter. He walks to the dining room table a few feet away from you and pulls out a chair, taking a seat in front of where you stand.

“That sounds fair enough to me, darling.”

Your heart skips a beat at the familiar pet name. It feels as if it's been a lifetime since you've heard him call you that.

“I came here once as a kid,” you answer simply. “After what happened a few months ago, I couldn't bring myself to go back to New York. Charles, the mansion.. everything reminded me of you. I just needed to get away for a while.

He looks down at his lap, unable to hold your gaze. “I have so many regre–”

“Your turn,” you interrupt as you turn to the cabinet behind you. You rummage through it, gathering a tea kettle and a mug.

You aren't ready to hear his apologies. As badly as your heart has wanted to hear that he's sorry for so long, to hear him say that he regrets ever doing anything to jeopardize what the two of you had - you don't trust yourself to not crumble into a million pieces at those words now that he's sitting in your kitchen.

“How did you find me?” You ask without looking back at him. You fill the kettle with water, and bring it to a boil in seconds with the snap of your fingers.

“I'll tell you,” he says over the sharp whistle of the kettle. “But you can't laugh at me.”

You snort, pouring the boiling water over an earl grey tea bag as you try to ignore the swell of bitterness in your chest at the nostalgia of it. Memories of this exact scenario in a different time and place flash through your mind - a happier, more innocent time and place. You carry the mug over to where he sits and place it in front of him before pulling out the chair next to him.

You hold out your pinky towards him, elbow on the dining room table. He cocks an eyebrow at you.

“I pinky promise that I won't laugh at you,” you say, little finger still extended. He leans forward, lips forming a smirk as he wraps his pinky around yours. His skin is every bit as soft and warm as you remember it being and you dread the moment that he pulls away.

“I went to the mansion,” he answers with his finger still secured around yours. “I snuck into Charles’ study when no one was home and found some letters you had written to him. I saw the return address on the envelope.”

“Huh,” you muse. “I guess I see why you made me promise not to laugh.” You're not sure what you were expecting his answer to be, but you didn’t think it would be quite so… human.

“Your turn to answer a question, darling.”

Your only response is a small nod.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” you answer, perhaps a bit too quickly. “I don’t.”

His posture slackens, relief taking over his features. He leans over to where your fingers are intertwined, and presses his lips to the side of your pinky finger. It has been years since his lips have touched your skin, but you melt at the familiar warmth all the same.

“Good,” he sighs in relief. His breath fans over your skin, leaving a visible trail of goosebumps over your hand. “I do not intend to leave unless you order me away.”

Your eyes burn with tears that threaten to spill over. His sudden appearance, his words, his mere presence after so much time apart is overwhelming. Despite it all, you can’t bring yourself to care about the reasons why you’ve had to spend so much time apart.

He’s here, and that’s enough for you. Everything else can be addressed in time.

You bring your free hand to his face, cupping his jawline in your palm. Your thumb skims over the stubble that graces his cheeks.

“What do we do now?” you wonder aloud. His pale eyes crinkle as he gives you the first smile that you’ve seen from him in years.

“We try to make up for lost time.”

••••••

You heat him some leftovers from the dinner you had made for yourself not long before his arrival, a bowl of chicken noodle soup and homemade bread. He scarfs the food and the tea that you'd made for him down within minutes, and then retreats to your cabin’s small bathroom to rinse off the last few days of cross-country travel. He had brought a singular duffel bag that now rests on the foot of your bed - which just so happens to be the only bed in the house, seeing as how it's a one bedroom and you live here alone.

Butterflies fill your belly at the implication. There was once a time where it never would have been a question - of course the two of you would have shared the only bed in the house. Now, doing so could very well mean diving back in too quickly and ending up broken all over again.

But then again, didn't that become a possibility the second that you opened your door to find him on your porch?

“What’s on your mind?” His soft voice sounds from behind you. You had been so lost in thought that you didn't hear him exit the bathroom and wander back down the hallway.

You turn to find him leaning against your bedroom door frame, wearing only a towel that hangs loosely from his hips. His chestnut hair still drips wet.

Your eyes flicker between him and the spare quilt that you have piled in your arms.

“You can sleep in here,” you tell him with a nod towards the bed that you'd just put a set of fresh sheets on. “I'll take the couch.”

He chuckles lowly, standing up straight as you walk towards the door, blocking your exit.

“Don't be silly. I'm not going to kick you out of your bed in your own home,” he tells you in a gentle but firm tone.

“You're not kicking me out of my bed,” you assure him. “I'm offering it to you.”

Your cheeks warm under his gaze that you struggle to hold - your eyes threatening to wander down the expanse of his chest with the rise and fall of each breath that he takes.

“It's loads comfier that whatever cot that you were sleeping on in prison, I promise,” you jab at him lightly when he doesn't respond.

He hums in consideration, taking a step closer to you.

“It's not the cot that I minded so much while I was in prison. It's the fact that any bed without you in it feels empty.”

A clap of thunder booms in the distance at the same time that your heart skips a beat.

“I'm not expecting anything to happen, darling,” he assures you lightly. “We don't even have to touch. After so much time apart, I just want to be next to you.”

You exhale a breath that you didn't realize you had been holding in, and place the quilt in your arms on the dresser right next to you.

“Don't be silly,” you repeat his sentiment from just moments ago. You take a step closer to him, now able to smell hints of Old Spice soap from his shower. “Of course you can touch me. If that's what you want.”

“If that's what I want?” He scoffs softly, inching towards you. You place your hands on his hips, walking backwards until your thighs brush against the edge of your mattress. You're lodged between him and the bed, his bare chest practically brushing against yours.

“As if I’d ever not want that.”

He raises his hands to each side of your face and tilts your head up to look at him. His thumb massages over the swell of your bottom lip, his eyes locked on your mouth.

“Erik,” you breathe, and before you can get out another word, his lips are slated over yours. You pull him flush against you by your hold on his waist.

When you close your eyes and focus solely on the feeling of his mouth moving in synchrony with yours, you forget where you're at and everything that's happened over the course of the last decade. In this moment, you're not in a run down cabin in the middle of nowhere Oregon - you're in the courtyard of the mansion and he's kissing you for the very first time.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers against your mouth when he pulls away. You raise up on your toes, pressing your lips against his one more time before pulling back to stare up at him with a smirk. You sit down on the edge of the mattress and scoot back, pulling him down with you.

“Then let's make up for lost time.”

You don’t notice it until you're drifting to sleep in each other's arms hours later, but the thunderstorm that had been raging upon his arrival had slowed to a silent, peaceful mist.

thank you for reading ♡ comments and reblogs are very much appreciated!!!

[brucestambaughsblog]

Street Photography in D.C.

Fishing under the first quarter moon during the Georgetown Glow holiday lighting. My wife and I recently enjoyed a few days in Washington, D.C., with our family. It was the first holiday gathering with everyone present since we moved from Ohio to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. When visiting our nation’s capital, expect to walk. Yes, the Metro network of trains and buses gets you to the general…

[saywhat-politics]

WASHINGTON, D.C. (AZFamily) — Arizona Sen. Mark Kelly and billionaire Elon Musk exchanged words on social media after Musk called the Democratic lawmaker a “traitor” for visiting Ukraine.

Sen. Kelly visited Ukraine over the weekend, marking his third visit to the country since 2023. He was briefed by Ukrainian military leaders, visited defense industry sites, heard from wounded service members, and met with the International Red Cross Committee.

However, Musk took to X on Monday, commenting, “You are a traitor” on Sen. Kelly’s photo of his Ukraine visit.

The senator quickly shot back, stating, “Traitor? Elon, if you don’t understand that defending freedom is a basic tenet of what makes America great and keeps us safe, maybe you should leave it to those of us who do.”