beepboopthesneepsnoop

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

Post canon klance pride 🏳️‍🌈 Imagine all of voltron shows up at the parade, and the red and black paladins are giving maximum effort.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

I will accept a lot of pairings for Keith and that is not ANY OF THEM!

The fic also had female pronouns for Pidge but of course I read tags bottom to top so I went from 'author is uninspired' to 'author is over inspired and needs to put the crack pipe down' in about three seconds flat

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

hotchreid boyfriends who argue over the tv because spencer needs to catch the next episode of star trek and aaron need to see the season finale of a cooking competition.

hotchreid boyfriends who crowd the bathroom, fighting for space, with aaron trying shave and spencer fixing his hair.

hotchreid boyfriends with aaron trying to keep the sock drawer organised by grouping the pairs together and spencer who can't have anything match.

hotchreid boyfriends with spencer who reads every draft of his papers out loud and aaron who lounges on the couch, tea in hand, listening to his arguments and helping him reconstruct them.

hotchreid boyfriends who lay awake at night whispering midnight thoughts about metaphysicality and the nature of the universe to each other.

hotchreid boyfriends with aaron coming home late from the office to find the kitchen smoking after one of spencer's physics magic experiments burning on the stove.

hotchreid boyfriends who laugh over silly science jokes, who debate what state of matter fire is, who spend their saturdays off browsing antique store, who snuggle on the couch watching old french films, who giggle endlessly, sway embraced to smooth jazz, who make pancakes for supper on friday nights, who have standing orders at the indian place down the street, who love each other so deeply it transcends the meta the physical and all of reality.

hotchreid boyfriends who treat each with gentleness, with kindness, sharing space, being goofy and silly and serious and loving.

just domestic hotchreid and all the sweet moments between them.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

late night train rides - spencer reid

spencer reid x gn! reader (smut, 18+)

summary: you and spencer both struggle with the cold, on the train ride back to spencer's apartment, you warm his body up in an interesting way

word count: 3.2k

content warnings: sub!spencer, dom!reader, exhibitionism (handjob in public space), slight overstimulation, degrading kink, praise kink, cum play

The Virginia winters use to swell a poignant feeling inside your chest.

The cold had easily found enjoyment in tempering with your spirit, bringing an accustomed sorrow that hung around for the months the temperatures plummeted. It froze over your heart for the solemn period, revoking any life in you, before it melted in the wake of the rising sun. You had spent countless days of your life begging for the penetrative heat to come back to you. 

The unfriendly chill in the air had just never seemed to leave you alone, insistent and irritable in its following like a thick-casted shadow. The season had made you angry, the beginning notions of light rain showers caused your eyebrows to furrow as you watched the clocks count down the minutes to the appalling season.   

You use to loathe the days you looked outside and saw specks of snow trickle from the sky. The soft murmurs of others around you applauded the aesthetic of the snow littered streets. You would roll your eyes, trying to imagine the same delight they bathed in. 

Squinting your eyes, a hazy imagination of the ground enveloped in a solid layer of sugar filled your brain, just enough to perhaps picture the season to be a miracle after all. 

The fantasy however, always broke when you once again were forced to step out and view it in its close up form. The sweet, addictive taste was swapped for a forceful bitterness. You had hated the way the thick layers of tightly packed snow submerged your heavy duty boots, kicking up frosty white and wetting the bottoms of your pants. You’d trudge your way to the train station, cursing all the cars enwrapped in their tightly knit warmth. 

You had accepted then winter to be your nemesis, that nothing would ever be able to rectify your utter disdain. 

You met Spencer Reid at the beginning of the aforementioned season. Your fleece gloved hands sent a wave to the awkward Doctor, who kept his own palms firmly well rested deep in his pockets, offering you a simple nod of his head instead. You remember his flushed cheeks, uncomfortably rocking on the balls of his feet at the unaccustomed silence. 

When he was finally spared of the small talk, ripped away from the social interaction, he took comfort in nestling into his new desk, slowly working away littering his space with the artefacts of himself. 

You grew a habit of watching him then, a juvenile crush developing on the new boy. His soft features and charming smile felt cosy in the arctic winds, as if by looking into honey brown eyes, you could taste the sweetness of a hot cocoa that crowded your body with a snugness.

You began to notice the ways in which he mirrored you as time went on. Spencer came to work notoriously doused in layers. A long sleeve button up was worn underneath a knitted sweater or cardigan, only to be covered by his bulkier outerwear. He came often swarmed in a coarse corduroy jacket or a breasted wool coat. A muted purple scarf was thrown lazily around his neck on the particularly cold days. 

The more observations you made, the more you realised Spencer Reid was too, a struggler of chillier weather. 

Spencer used coffee to cope with the insistent chill. A takeaway cup was tight in his hands as he walked through the doors in the morning with a face beet red. You had lost count of the hours taken away from his life by waiting for a coffee to brew. The sounds of his feet scattering against the carpeted floor of the office were customary by this point as he constantly rose from his desk to replenish his drink. You would eye him, taking his first sip from the warm cup, his Adam’s apple bopping as the hot liquid ran down his throat, heating his esophagus. A soft sigh of relief would fall from his lips as he cupped the mug in his palms, happy to take the chill off his body. 

You also couldn’t help but notice the way he outlasted every other person in the office at the end of the shift. You had never seen him flee before you. Even when the files had been thinned out on his desk into extinction, and yours had still been a gaping mess, he sat on his chair, legs kicked up, eyes scanning over his choice of literature for the day.

You had had no doubt in your mind that your theory was correct.

‘Do you take the train to work?’ You had abruptly spoken up on another chilly night a few years ago. Light rain had pattered against the large windows, the dimly lit office illuminated by the small lamps at your respective desks. 

‘Yeah,’ he softly spoke, looking up at you with a tinge of pink splatter tinting his cheeks. You had smiled at him, words rolling of your tongue without hesitation to ask him where he lived and what train had been his way home. 

Winters weren’t so bad now that you have Spencer Reid. 

Spencer’s presence made the winters a touch more comforting than they had been previously been. The cold air still finds leisure at picking at your face, but the feeling of Spencer’s large hands intertwined with your own made the thought of thick woven gloves dissipate from your mind. The walk to the train station came alive when you childishly challenged one another, belting padded balls of snow at one another and erupting into laughter both at the failed and successful attempts of sabotaging the other. 

You stand on the platform together now, Spencers’ body finding itself closing in on you. He holds your hand in his own, pressing chaste kisses to your forehead every few minutes, as if the absence of touch would make you flutter from his grip. Soft pecks from his albeit frozen lips still immersed a warm, cozy feeling, as if the chill began to melt away from his touch. You smile up at him, squeezing his palm as a large wind blows through the empty train station. He places his chin to rest on the top of your head, the sound of far away tracks rumbling building up, the sight of wheels turning coming into vision, as the train barrels forward, bringing the icy wind with it as it halts to a stop in front of you. 

Stepping onto the carriage, you pull Spencer towards the back, two closed off seats far away from the other habitants of the train. He slots himself against the window as you scoot in next to him, pinning his body into his seat. His satchel sits by his side, a barrier between the both of you as he fishes through the brown leather, pulling out an aged hard-covered book, falling into his lap as he opens it to its middle contents. 

You enjoy watching Spencer when he’s content. His head is tucked down, glasses sitting loosely on the tip of his nose. He quickly scans over the pages, his pointer finger strumming down the length of the book, over the worn pages as he follows the words quickly - too quickly. He flicks through the book in rapid succession. 

You stare in awe at your beautiful boy, his tongue perched slightly out of his mouth in concentration, the quirk of his eyebrow eliciting to you he’s in the midst of the tension in the novel, hungrily reading the next few pages with heightened anticipation. 

You cup your hands together, rubbing them to create a flash of heat as you breathe a shaky breath. Spencer’s love for novels often transports him into his own world. Completely zoning out on the sounds of the train beating against the tracks in clunks or the way our bodies rock from one side to another as the carriage makes a fast turn. Spencer basked in the moment of his delightful reading and your presence next to him.

But it wasn’t enough for you. You can’t help but ache for him further. His warmth to be even more firmly pressed against you, to laze in his scent as your head tucks into his neck. You imagine him extending his scarf to you, wrapping around your stiff neck as you twiddle with his fingers to pass the time. 

You extend your foot out, rubbing against the bottom of his leg, pulling up the bottom of his slacks to reveal the splash of colour decorated on his socks. Pressing around his ankle, you look up, eyes still met with his undivided attention not at you, but the book, seemingly glued to the dried-out pages. 

Your cold hands sneak over to him, your body shifting to be brought closer to his as you begin to toy with the fabric flush against his thighs. Slowly, your fingers begin to creep up, running against his hips.

‘W-What are you doing?’ He falters, looking over to you. You greet his looking with a wide grin, moving your hand to cup him through his pants, applying light pressure as he instinctively clamps his thighs together to grant himself more friction. His nostrils flare, eyes now trained on the way you press down on the fabric around his cock. He shakily holds the book in his hands, no longer entranced by the pages. A light moan slips from his pursed lips as you trace chilled fingers towards the button of his slacks. 

‘Wait, we can’t!’ He whines wished a hushed voice, realising the height of the current situation. He bites down on his bottom lip, sharp teeth piercing the thin skin. He grabs your lingering hands, holding them tightly in his, refraining you from eliciting anymore touch. The heavy book falls flat on his lap, a soft thud to be heard by only the two of you. His face is flushed, painted with a ruby red that stains his cheeks as dilated eyes scan over your smug expression. 

‘Nobody’s going to notice Spence,’ you reason, slipping your fingers from his grip to soothingly rub against his knuckles. ‘But if you really don’t want to, say the word and all of this will stop.’

You watch as he cocks his head to the side, looking down the long carriage, familiarising himself with every person’s location. It was largely quiet, scarcely plotted people huddled up into themselves to trap the fleeting warmth. Nobody was looking in your direction. 

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he looks back at you with slight apprehension. His dilemma was decorated brightly on his face, the nervous knit of his eyebrows highlighted his averse to the activity, but the way his tongue ran against the bottom of his now cut lip and the rounded puppy dog eyed expression he gave signalled nothing but submission.

‘Thats not an answer baby,’ you whisper. 

You lean over to rest your palm on his thigh. Squeezing his leg, you halt his anxious bouncing, steadying him in place. He stares at the placement of your hand, before looking up to you once again. A shy nod of his head brings a wide smirk to your face, his lips pressed together in anticipation of what you will coax out of him.

‘Good boy,’ you mutter. He nods again, as he goes to be-rid the book discarded on your lap. You interrupt, gripping his thigh harshly to alert him of his wrong-doings. 

‘Keep the book, it works as a good cover up.’ 

The words bring a heat to his cheeks and you can’t help but be filled with a comfort at how beautiful he looks painted with a red sheen. 

Your fingers gravitate back towards his clothed dick, playfully circling around the crotch of his pants to tease your boy. Softly running against the fabric, you watch the way the material goes taught from his arousal. His legs widen without the need for command, words of praise leaving your mouth at how well trained he is when it comes to his rules he must follow. His spread thighs give you heightened access as you dare to explore every sensitive spot located on Spencer Reid. 

Loving eyes glare at you, the hazel hue melts into your brain, emitting a warmth as he sinks into the pleasure absentmindedly, enthralled by the ghostly light touches against his covered cock. 

‘More please,’ he begs, fingers trembling as he holds the book. It’s pressed close to his face, covering his mouth that’s tipped open. Only you can revel in the current form of the beloved Doctor, putty in your hands, desperate for your touch. 

You oblige the polite boy, undoing his pants to reveal his hard dick pinned against the thin barrier of his boxers. Pulling down his underwear, his cock springs up at the release from its imprisonment, resting on his belly. You move the position of his bag to better shield the heinous activity happening between the two of you.

You grab the underside of his cock, holding it gently and watching the boy squirm underneath the light touch. He brings the book closer to his face, shading his lips that struggle to hold back the curses. He bucks into your hand, greedy rolls of his hips rutting into your palm to provide his pleading frame with some friction. 

‘What would people think if they found out an FBI agent was arrested for public indecency,’ you tease, your mouth pressed close against his ear, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up. Your thumb circles around his slit, feeling the small spurts of pre cum slick on your fingers. 

Spencer’s face is now marked with a fiery red, a deep burnt shade that perfectly coordinates with the flushed head of his dick. Your own arousal from watching the display coddled you with a radiating heat, the usual frost of your fingers absent as they curl around Spencer’s thick cock, as the warmth from your two bodies transfuses into one scorching atmosphere. 

You begin to stroke his length, watching as Spencer slowly begins to break down at the affection. His head tips to your shoulder, burying into your neck as he lets out small whimpers. The book is trembling in his hands, and he begs through high-pitched moans to discard of it and to touch you instead but you don’t relent. 

‘Why don’t you read something for me?’ You almost laugh at how evil the instruction is, he looks at you, eyes bulging ghastly at the notion that in his ruined state, you want him to read an excerpt of his novel. 

‘I-I can’t,’ he admits with a pout, legs shaking as you increase your speed, hand tightly wrapped around his cock. You look over his complexion, the way small beads of sweat glide down his forehead, or how his hair slicks back from being nestled in the crane of your neck. 

‘Yes you can,’ you say sweetly. You cross your legs together, rubbing your thighs on one another to seek some pleasure for yourself. Your hand feels ablaze at the touch. The adrenalin that pumps through your bloodstream eliminates all aspects of the cold, the thrill rushing through your body at the thought that at any second, someone could glance over and see the muddled boy and understand exactly what was going on. 

Spencer pulls the book back, and you watch how he struggles to piece together the words. The letters fail him, and the slight fog building up on his glasses does nothing to soothe the situation. He stutters out a simple sentence, and as you egg him to go on, you pay specific attention to the head of his penis, your fingers strumming against his slit causing him to break away from the book.

‘Fuck!’ He whines, much louder than he assumed it would be, causing him once again to fall onto your shoulder, and you can't help but deeply breath in his scent. He turns his head to completely muffle himself, his chest heaving as you slow your pace once again, giving the boy a needed second to regain his breath. 

‘Good boy, you did so well there,’ you praise, finally doing him the honours of with your free hand, taking away the book and dropping it in the lather satchel. He pours a multitude of thank yous, shifting once again to look at you, and you press a kiss to his nose. 

‘I’m going to let you cum okay, just muffle your noises into me hm?’ You say, and he nods along. 

You pick up your pace, stroking him quickly as his head tips back again. He brings the purple scarf twisted around his neck to his chapped lips, biting down on the fabric. You have to hold back your own noises watching the boy use his favourite scarf as a preventive measure. His whole body vibrates at the sensitive touch, and the clenching of his stomach tells you he’s close to letting go.

He digs his head into you once again, afraid the material hung around his neck will do nothing to silence his screams as his nails curl into your jumper, grasping at anything he can. His hips lose control as he lets go, spasming as hot streaks of cum coat your hand. 

'Such a messy boy aren’t you?’ You whisper. His body shakes, as you still keep stroking him through his orgasm. He whimpers and whines into your shoulder as you milk him for every last droplet of cum he has in him. His hands paw at your shirt like a true puppy dog, pleading you to take mercy on him. 

You let go of his cock, still twitching at the overstimulation. Spencer looks down at his soaked lap, thick spurts of cum resting on his pants and gliding down his cock. 

‘My filthy little slut loves being littered with his own cum doesn’t he?’ you say, running your fingers on his chin to soothe him. He looks over you with admiration, and you decide to pleasure the boy even more as you take your hand to your mouth, licking the sticky mess covering your fingers until it's clean. He moans at the sight, how your tongue curls to maintain every drop of his seed.

You lean in to kiss him, his arousal tasted on both of your tongues. When you pull apart, you tuck him back into his boxers before buttoning up his pants. He shifts uncomfortably at being sat in his own soaked pants, and you laugh sweetly at the sight of fucked out Spencer Reid.

The train comes to a stop and you stand up, watching the awkward display as he carefully places his satchel to cover up the messy stains decorated at the crotch of his pants, waddling off the train as he feels the cum seep further into his trousers.

The cold winds feel foreign, the heat unable to subside. You walk with his hand interlocked with your own, a warmth filling your chest and spreading to the rest of your body despite the thick cast of snow around you. You cuddle into his side as you continue to go down the street, burnt cheeks at staring at his adorable face.

Winters weren't so bad anymore.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

Holy crap. That rocked my shit on a cosmic level.

The cage is open, you can walk out anytime you want (Why are you still here?),

S2!Post!Hankel Spencer Reid x gn!BAU!reader

Angst (hurt/comfort). Autistic Spencer (you know the drill). Perhaps some traces of fluff if you’re like…. masochistic. Heavily implied happy ending.

— Explorations of Spencer’s (very glossed over) addiction. Love confessions? Half love confessions? Spencer admits it mentally, Reader implies it through actions. What am I saying? They’re sooooooo in love it pains me.

Warnings: *cracks knuckles,* okay…. —heavy depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide, previous mentions of being held hostage (Hankel). PACKED with Greek mythology references (sue me, i study classics as a degree), perhaps some light biblical imagery? Spencer being at rock-bottom. he’s kinda bitchy. he also disses hotlines (they do save lives, don’t listen to Spencer!!! he’s being a dick). mentions of childhood bullying.

w.c: 3.2k

a/n: title so long it’s basically a midwestern emo song.

────────────

There’s intimacy in being fragile. Spencer knows firsthand, has romanticised his Glass delusion. The fear of shattering, fragmenting on impact, like jagged, sliced glass. He thinks of Charles VI, (1380’s King of France), what he felt when he refused touch. When he reinforced himself, shielding behind excess clothing, in the fallacious fear of dismantling.

Spencer does the same, hides behind fabric, shies away from human contact. Because— because being careful is better than being impetuous. If he can make himself so small he no longer takes up space then maybe they’ll be kind to him.

Monachopis. Has he always been this out of place? Has it always felt this way? Will it ever stop?

12 years old. Curling inward to shield himself from the ache of cracked fists. You’re not here, you’re not here, you’re not here. He still feels like that kid, the one bleeding across the school yard, smashed glasses, bust lip, new bruises to hide from mom.

Perhaps he should blame genetics. Find something to point the finger at. Mentally distort the truth, until it’s no longer a paling face he sees, drawing the first needle into his arm, forcing him to take what he never asked for. No longer that, but a bigger issue, a concern that cannot be personified, a larger statistic in the minefield of human psychology.

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

So just like Charles, he covers his arms. Veils the track marks that penetrate skin. Pretend they’re not there, pretend you’re okay. Okay? Okay, nobody has stopped to ask him if he is ‘okay’ since ‘the incident.’ When the shock wore off, and attention strayed, everyone lost interest.

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

How do you move on from being bound, tied, degraded to something beneath human?

How did everyone else?

He understands now— the pull of addiction. The way it mimics, artificially replicates home. Something soft, in that one, life-ruinously warm moment between the first hit and the inevitable come down.

But just like everything good. It dies. Turns ugly. Disfiguring, decaying. What once was simple, a fleeting temptation, a way to starve off lonely withdrawal, has derailed into desperate, insatiable hunger. To reproduce the first time, to appease the way he palpates in the wake of something tiny—

Call it what it is. Not an analgesic agent, not a semi-synthetic, not a simple narcotic utilised in the medical field. It’s an opioid, two to eight times greater than that of morphine. Given to those dying, to help alleviate Cheyne-stokes breathing, to reduce pain before the end.

It binds to the opioid-receptions in the central nervous system.

He is no superior than those on the street. Begging for loose change to shoot up and placate the cold.

2AM. The phone connection is faint. Do you feel like killing yourself? Is the noose already tied, is the rope choking you? Do you need to breathe? Do you even want to? He wonders what it would be like, to call into those bullshit hotlines, to hear the detached, sharp-bladed sympathy of some stranger.

Instead, when the phone picks up, the blaring beep of a dial dissipating, he hears you instead.

“You know how it’s believed that Artemis killed Orion?” He starts. He cannot begin with hi, I’m scared of the dilaudid burning through my veins. Do you still love me? (Presumptuous of him to believe you loved him in the first place, he certainly wouldn’t.)

He doesn’t let you answer. Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he can try and satiate your concern by fact-dumping so extensively that you automatically revert back to oh yeah, boy genius is talking again. “Well— there’s this other interpretation, that she… y’know didn’t. Instead, they were hunting companions, and it was because of the animals he slaughtered on Crete, that Gaia. Mother ea— yeah, you know who I’m referencing. Okay.”

Even at his worst, he is conveniently a social disaster. They could poke holes in his brain, drag the sharp edge of a blade through the tissue lining of his stomach, and his mouth would still find a way to run:

‘You’re missing major arteries here, c’mon — I know you can push harder than that. Aim for my descending aorta, that will do the job correctly.’

It would be funny if he wasn’t the biggest screw up to ever exist. Social ineptitude has never looked worse.

“Anyway, um… so— disturbed by the blood-bath, and feeling repentant — she summoned this scorpion. Humans are no match for the gods, obviously. So any creation with intent will—“ he sighs, finding new ways to hate himself. “Basically he died. Yeah— dead. To… uh, sum it up?”

“And what?” Oh, there you are. He’s surprised you’re listening, that you didn’t hang up the moment his morbid rambling begun. He’s always surprised, surprised that you listen, that you stay, even when you shouldn’t. It would be romantic, if he wasn’t so flawed in believing you could never want someone like him.

“Well— Artemis gathered up the remnants of Orion and placed them in the sky. Yknow,… hence the constellation.”

There’s shuffling — a moment of uneasy silence. “Spencer—“

He keeps going. Shock-horror. “I’m not sure science would agree with that myth. It certainly counters the Big Bang theory. And the whole schtick regarding— look… it doesn’t,… it doesn’t hold any truth, of course. The gods aren’t real,” (if they are, they must spit at the flawed creation of him), “I just— it was on the forefront of my mind. Made me think of you.”

It’s innocent. If you don’t take into account the stored vials he keeps stashed in his cabinet sink. If you pretend you’re just two people, two old, weary friends, who are insomniac and restless. Then again, where Spencer is concerned, everything is innocent. He’ll bare the weight of existence with no expectation of a return favour. So willing to give give give. Always taken for granted. Tossed to the sidelines. You’ve watched the team ignore his plans, call rain check after rain check, incessant excuses for something so diminutive. Even now, they can’t see what’s right in front of them. The blunt of the truth.

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

“Bad night?” You ask. Like you don’t feel it in your ribs.

He sighs, head spilling back against the wall. Throat bared, it would be so easy for hands to wrap around the unmarred skin, to put him down. “Aren’t they all?”

You’ve both been trained to pinpoint human behaviour. Discern threat from over exaggeration. You don’t hesitate, he knows you don’t— he’s seen you behind the weight of a gun. Dominant hand curved around the grip, aligning the front and rear sight. Firing pin striking the primer of the cartridge, no recoil— he’s watched you no more than blink when the bullet penetrates.

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

Sometimes, he has this dream, where he’s got the same Hornady branded bullet, lodged through his chest. Sometimes he wakes up and still believes he’s bleeding out.

He can hear your keys, the clattering that fades into the grating, confirmative slam of a door. You’re out of the apartment complex, and what? He’s too busy thinking about some warped manifestation of his subconscious?

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

The call doesn’t end (5 dragging minutes of heavy breathing and awkward silence), until you’re standing right here, flesh and bone, in his kitchen.

He’s making himself small again. Sat against cold tile, he shields his face from view. As if that alone will incrimate him. He knows you know. And it’s scary; to be so raw in the face of someone you love.

When you drop to your knees, it feels like tending to a wounded animal.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, obstinate.

“So what?” You brush it off, ever the hero. Spencer thinks they should marbleise you in the Vatican. “I still did.”

You came. You called. Spencer fucking hates that cliche. Except, no.. no he doesn’t. Sometimes, he wants to make himself sicker, just so you have reason to touch him.

Reaching up, he feels your calloused palm, the way it cups his jaw, coaxing his face to lift. He thinks, knows, you’re disturbed by the sight. Red-rimmed eyes, and waxen features. Skinnier, hollow. If he is Leander, then he prays you don’t suffer the same fate as Hero.

‘Geniuses are never happy,’ they told him as a child. Detailing the cyanide found in Viktor Meyer’s stomach, Wallace Carother’s affinity for Potassium Cyanide. Hans Berger, Valero Legasov, Alan Turning. Some things hurt more than can be described.

Is it really so startling that he turned out the same? When that’s all he’s ever known?

Spencer stares. He tries to look through you, but it doesn’t work. Not when you’re warm, and real, and if the come down is configuring you into reality, and you’re not really here, then so be it. He’ll take what he can get. “You’ll find Dilaudid in my bathroom. Left turn from the hallway. I suggest you call 911. Report drug possession. They’ll take it more seriously if you say my name, emphasise the doctor in the title.”

“No.”

“Yes—“ indignantly, he huffs, “Yes. You will. Otherwise you’re guilty by association. The FBI will fire you, take away your credentials. You’ll be ruined.”

“That’s if they find out.”

He can’t comprehend why you’re covering for him. There’s decency, empathy, general human kindness, and then there’s this. “You’re supposed to be an upholder of the law.”

“Pft,” you scoff, brush it off. “Yknow, in Alabama, you can’t play cards on a Sunday. Alaska, no moose on sidewalks. There’s also a ban on wearing masks in Georgia. California has—“

“I get your point.” He cuts off, “Well— no, I actually don’t. Considering they’re dumb laws that waste time. Drug paraphernalia, in contrast, is not.”

“Even high, you’re a stickler. Guess old habits die hard?” you push up, and he chases your touch. “C’mon, golden boy. You’re getting a cold shower and some water. Gonna flush that shit out of you the old fashioned way.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a modern alternative…”

He doesn’t let you see him naked. Partially because, it’s his body. This vessel that feels so alienated from the better part of him. He’s never let someone undress him before, see behind the meticulous layers. But, mostly.. well, he has a firm belief that the first time you take off his clothes, it will be in better circumstances. If that ever transpires.

You’d probably think him deranged: hi, i’m saving myself for you, because any touch that isn’t yours makes me sick.

He’d rather rot alone than string someone along who could never fill the void of you.

The shower is methodical. Skin recoiling from the harsh rivulets of water. 3 minutes spent standing there, staring outwards not in. Complete disregard for the mirror, he’s all soft features and freshly-washed pyjamas when he pads into the bedroom. Corduroy pants, thermal-wear socks, some dumb science print embellished onto the front of his shirt. (‘Never trust an atom, they MAKE UP everything’ — yeah, he hates himself.)

You don’t talk. Not until he’s consumed his body weight in water. He fights off the urge to warn you about the dilution of sodium content in blood. Hyponatremia. Fatal, with a likelihood of seizuring and long-flight comatose. You’d probably just laugh at him, considering it was two glasses, a litre at best.

He’ll use his intellect to hurt. And you’ll counter him with little regard.

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

“I’m fine,” he protests— hating the way you look at him when he’s so raw.

It’s that gaze. That same sinking, pity-warped gaze he received when he talked about his mom, about the kids at school. Adolescent meat-heads who pushed him into lockers, and beat him between class. Its— suffocating sympathy that he no longer has room for.

“No you aren’t,” this might be the worst you’ve ever seen him.

Would you have known? If he didn’t make the call? Cassandra complex. Disambiguating. A psychological phenomenon where an accurate prediction of a crisis is dismissed. Silent concern, the intuitive awareness that he never recovered, it was only going to lead to this—

Oh fuck it. You knew. The entire team did. You’re just the only one who cared enough to help.

You’re not like the rest of them. Maybe they can blanket suspicion, play pretend, refuse to get their hands dirty. But, there’s a reason you’re better. You don’t sugar-coat reality. You act. You react.

He’ll see your name on a wall one day. An award adorning your efforts.

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

Spencer fights the urge to scowl. Since when were you in charge? Admittedly, he knows the answer to that: since you spitballed into his apartment, better yet, since you spitballed into his life. So, like the good, propitiated loser he is, he complies. Shock horror…

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

“You wish.” Instead, you force your way onto the right side of the mattress. “Get comfy, you’ve got your own, free of charge, narcotics anonymous sponsor tonight.”

“You’re not great at the whole ‘tough love’ thing.”

“Then call someone else next time.”

Vulnerability feels like being ripped open at the seams. Like some botched Pygmalion creation — stitched wrong, still breathing. He wants to fall asleep, to just… fade into himself. But— you have this uncanny, accursed ability to make him honest.

You, draped over his bed, does little to appease the sickness in his mind.

“I never asked for this,” he starts, “I didn’t— I didn’t even want it. How is that fair? I never got to decide, I wasn’t even given the anatomy to choose. Now—“

The words rip free like Prometheus’ daily punishment: inevitable, agonizing.

He laughs. Cold. Something ugly that doesn’t belong to him. “Now, if I’m not thinking about my next hit, I’m thinking about how you see me. How the team must see me. It’s— it’s the disappointment. I just— I don’t know why you stay.”

It’s all so tentative. The moments before, when you extend your hand, run it across the curvature of his jaw. All it takes is the touch and he’s crashing into you. Like there is no feasible option but to submit to the basic human need of contact. Face pressed into your shoulder, he feels like dead-weight. Something unworthy of labour.

Stop pushing that boulder up the hill, Sisyphus. Let it fall. Let him fall.

His hand knots tighter in the fabric of your top. Like if he lets go, he’ll spiral into Tartarus itself.

Why? Why would you do this—

���You think I’m going to cut and run just because you’re inconvenient? Pft, i’m too stubborn for that. And, well…” there’s a sigh,… “I care about you too much. Alright? So be inconvenient. Fuck, call at 3AM. Call at 5AM. Make me drop everything and come over. I don’t care. I want to carry the burden. I want to carry your burden.”

His touch lingers near your lower back. Drawing soft halos there, faint and uneven. “I hate you,” comes out muttered, something muffled by skin.

“No you don’t.” you counter, immediately.

“No I don’t,” just like that, he breaks. Cease-fire. How could he ever hate you? The statement was deflective, at best. Some way to make you ache the way he aches. At least then it would be a level paying field.

“I hate who I am when I’m like this. I hate— I hate my mind. It’s not… it’s not accurate, the way people romanticise it. I can’t be what they all expect of me.”

You’re doing that thing. The one where you don’t respond. Where you just listen, without interjecting, without cutting through his incessant monologues.

Sometimes, he feels like he dreamed you up. Like you don’t even exist, a stowaway in his brain, something to re-mantle whenever he’s lonely. Real people aren’t this good — this good to him.

“I don’t get to make mistakes. I need to have the answers every single second of the day. I can’t be me. You’re the only one, how are you the only one who notices? I’ve tried so hard, I’ve been so good—“

He’s tangled into you now, tethered like Daedalus’ forgotten son trying to stitch his broken wings back together mid-fall. If he could, he’d crawl into you. Find somewhere warm to safely exist. Without hurt.

“This isn’t just, I’m not like this just because I need you. Please— please remember that. I miss you always, even when I’m sober. Even before— before everything. I’m not in some—“

“What?” you finally (mercifully) interject. “Some drug-infused decline? Where you‘ll lean on anyone that will give you the time of day?”

Spencer flinches — not because you’re wrong, but because you’ve drawn blood from a wound he didn’t know he still had.

He hates that you’ve distinguished him as some mischaracterised energy vampire. Like you could ever be nothing. Like you’re just the closest fix he can find beyond a chemical high. Designer drugs, manufactured in a lab, they say Heroin feels like a hug from God.

Until your body becomes gluttonous for a hit that never appeases.

You— you are not a hollow high. You are slow and real and catastrophic.

Oh, you’re dependable, a want that morphed into all-encompassing devotion over slow dragging time. “Yes, to the former. No— no, definitely no to the latter. You’re not just some emotional crutch to me. You’re, I don’t know, you’re just… everything.”

Spencer swallows, pulls back, feigning composure. “I should be able to do this alone,” he mutters, “Normal people can. I should be—”

“C’mon, Spence. You’re not a machine. You were never built for that.”

Another sharp laugh. It pierces— you can almost taste the blood this time.

“I’m so tired,” he says in defeat. “I’m so tired of trying to be someone worth saving.”

Pressing your forehead to his, you’re kind to not mention the tears. To just let them occur, free fall. “You don’t have to be anything,” you murmur into his hair. “You just have to be. That’s enough. That’s enough for me, and i’ve got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Always.”

“Will you stay with me?” He doesn’t mean tonight, you know that well enough. “Will you stay with me through it all?”

You’re aware of the burden it would imply, the jagged, ugly reality of withdrawal. The toll, sweat-soaked skin and cold fevers. Irrational begging, pleading for god, just one more fix. The way it would change him, change your untainted perspective of him. When you agree, it is not misguided.

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

If this is love, true unvarnished love, reciprocal and real, then he’s sorry he found you at a bad time. Give it, give me, a few months, he thinks, and i’ll spend the rest of my life giving you everything.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

criminal minds: a comedy trailer

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

CM took a big athletic male model from the south side of Chicago and said "actually he calls his best friend sweetheart and everytime he goes home he mourns the death of a boy without a name bc he thinks someone should and he was molested as a child and now he empowers the kids in his community so it doesn't happen to them and he helps little old homeless ladies to be more comfortable and he claims to be a player but the only times we actually see him getting involved with women he falls head over heels. Oh and also he's a brilliant profiler."

CM looked at a big burly black guy with a hero complex and said "what if he cried in a church because god didn't stop the man who hurt him"

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

Well this got way more votes than I thought it would. I'm not gonna wait the full week now because I have enough votes to have a clear view of who the most people would like. When I post my next fic is when you can consider it over.

hello to the 12 people who read my fics, I'm writing a new one at the minute with Billie (male oc) and was wondering if I should pair him with Hotch, Morgan, or Reid. I like all three ideas so I'm having a hard time choosing lemme know your thoughts.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

hello to the 12 people who read my fics, I'm writing a new one at the minute with Billie (male oc) and was wondering if I should pair him with Hotch, Morgan, or Reid. I like all three ideas so I'm having a hard time choosing lemme know your thoughts.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

Day One

Billie's first day at the BAU, how will it go?

A/N: Hey so this is my first fic writing for an oc so I'm still ironing out some kinks. For those that haven't seen my pinned post my oc's name is Billie Robinson and he's a bit of a badass. If you wanna know more about him you'll just have to keep reading (or ask me a question about him because I have no one else to talk to about him and I am dying to info dump)

Word count: 2140 - I have no idea how it ended up this long, the words just kept coming.

The screech of his alarm pulled Billie out of his first nice dream in a month. With a groan he sat up and busied himself with getting ready for his first day at the BAU. He went through his morning routine and with a final deep breath he grabbed his leather jacket and helmet, slinging his bag over his shoulder and walked out the front door of his apartment. He opted to go down the stairs rather than taking the elevator, needing to work off some of the nervous energy. No matter how ridiculous he thought it was that he was this nervous over a new job while he risked a fate worse than death every day at the last one, his clicky hip was proof of that.

Finally he got to his motorbike, swinging his right leg over the body of it to not further aggravate his left hip. He just sat there for a moment breathing through his nerves and forcibly relaxing his body. Finally he deemed himself good enough to ride and put his helmet on and threading the chin strap through the loops then putting his gloves on, the familiar motions helping to further calm his frazzled nerves. He made sure his bag was properly secured and finally turned the engine on. He made sure it was in neutral then gently revved it and clicked it into first gear, taking off smoothly.

After swinging past a bakery that had become a fast favourite of his, Billie pulled into the underground parking lot of the FBI headquarters. He has replayed this moment over and over again in his head ever since he got the phone call that he'd gotten the job but that didn't hold a candle to the feeling of really being there. He barely remembered to kill the engine and put the kickstand down before he got off. Easily unstrapping his bag he took his gloves off and stuffed them into the side pocket, unzipped his jacket and took his helmet off, tucking it under his arm as he made his way to the large double doors that got him inside. He took the elevator this time, deciding not to brutalise his poor hip anymore for the time being. Eventually the elevator dinged and he took a deep breath, plastered a pleasant enough expression on his face and walked into the lobby area of the BAU. He remembered where to go from the interview he had with Hotch but beyond that he wasn't sure what to do. Thankfully before he had too much time to overthink it a blond woman walked over to him.

"Jenifer Jareau," she said sticking out a hand for him to shake, "but you're welcome to call me JJ."

He shook her hand, firm enough to show her some respect but not so hard as to accidentally hurt her. "Billie Robinson but my old team just called be Robin."

"Nice to meet you, my office Is down the hall that way," she gestured down the left of the hall, "the bullpen is this way, I'm actually heading there now so I can help introduce you to the team."

"Thanks, JJ, I appreciate it," he gave her easy smile as they started the short walk to the bullpen.

She stopped him just before they got to the glass doors. "Its all good, though I will warn you now that Spencer can be a bit full on when you first meet him but you'll get used to him quickly enough."

"JJ I grew up on a cattle property with two younger siblings who hated dirt, I reckon I can handle some rambling and the occasional case of physics magic." He gave her a lopsided grin and winked when a confused look crossed her face. He pushed open the doors wide enough for him to slip through then held open one of the doors for JJ.

"How do you know about-" JJ started only to get interrupted by Morgan turning around from where he was talking with Reid and walking over to the pair of them.

"Billie, my man," he clapped Billie's hand in his own and pulled him in for a half hug that Billie easily reciprocated.

"How've you been, Derek?"

"Yeah, same old, same old. The better question is how are you Mr. Hotshot Profiler?"

"Well I got this really cool new job, very hard to get I might add,"

Derek chuckled and pulled out of the hug to clap Billie on the shoulder. "Man I missed you, I can't get this anywhere else."

Billie turned back to a perplexed JJ with a kind grin plastered on his face. "That's how I know about physics magic."

JJ looked like she was about to open her mouth when Hotch appeared next to them.

"JJ, Morgan, I'm sure you have better things to be doing than bothering Agent Robinson," he said in his trademark 'Hotch' tone. Both agents rolled their eyes but nonetheless Derek went back to his desk with JJ following him, still chatting softly between them.

Hotch watched them walk away for a moment before turning back to Billie.

"I see you've already met JJ and Morgan."

"Yeah, I just met JJ but I've known Derek for a few years now, my Unit Chief and I were investigating a gang in Chicago and Derek was the officer I worked with most. We got on like a house on fire much to my Unit Chief's dismay," he chuckled to himself, remembering the look on his chief's face when she realised just how well they clicked, she still hasn't quite forgiven him to this day, "and ended up keeping in contact after the case was wrapped up, hell I'm pretty sure that was the second case I ever worked." Billie smiled slightly at the memory.

"Well I suppose that makes this slightly easier," Hotch mussed, "ready to meet the rest of the team?"

Billie nodded, all that practice at keeping a calm front was really paying off now. Hotch lead the way until they got to a desk where a scrawny guy with floppy brown hair was sat. Hotch gently tapped the back of his chair to get the guy's attention who quickly stood up next to them.

"Agent Robinson, this is Dr. Reid."

Billie gave Dr. Reid a slight smile and held out his hand to shake to which Reid curled his hands towards his chest with a strained smile.

"Sorry, I-uh, I don't shake. Some studies have actually shown that shaking hands can transmit as many germs as touching a toilet."

Billie paused for a moment then made a loose fist and held it out towards Reid.

"Did this study say that all forms of hand contact would spread that many germs or do you reckon that a fist bump would transfer less germs?" He asked with a thoughtful look as though he was now thinking of the logistics of germ transfer as well.

The question seemed to stump Reid for a moment much to the amusement of Hotch, it wasn't often he saw the resident genius left speechless.

"Well I guess in terms of surface area contact it would make sense for it to be more sanitary." Reid decided before extending a curled fist.

He gently bumped his fist again Reid's. "Also you're welcome to just call be Robin, so long as I don't have to call you doctor every time."

This seemed to have the opposite effect on Reid as Billie was hoping as the doctor went into a flurry of rushed words and waving hands. "No no, of course not, I don't actually expect anyone to call me doctor, Hotch just does it because I'm so young people tend to question my judgement so it saves time with convincing police chiefs to respect me."

Billie held out his hands as if he were trying to calm a spooked animal and chuckled softly. "Woah, its alright Doc, I was kidding, you don't seem nearly stuck up enough to believe that everyone should refer to you by your list of credentials. Besides I reckon Doc makes for pretty neat nickname, if its aright with you that is."

That made Reid pause for a moment, he's never been given a nickname so quickly. It took his bullies at least a week to come up with anything and he'd been working at the BAU for almost six months when Morgan first called him Pretty Boy.

After a half beat too long he finally responded. "Ah yeah, yeah that's alright."

Reid's extended silence made Billie frown slightly and glance at Hotch to see if he'd done anything wrong who made a placating motion with his hands. Finally when Reid responded Billie still wasn't quite convinced.

"Are you sure because you don't have to worry about me being offended or anything, if you don't like it I just won't use it."

This time it was Spencer's turn to hold his hands out and give Billie a slightly awkward smile. "I kinda like the idea of a nickname like that, actually did you know that friends or even colleagues who give each other nicknames or playfully insult each other are about four times as likely to be more honest and overall have a better relationship."

"Huh, I didn't know that, that's pretty cool actually."

Before Reid could continue on his tangent, Hotch cleared his throat and gave him a pointed look that Billie couldn't quite decipher the meaning of.

"Reid, Robin still has to be introduced to the rest of the team and I still need the last case's paperwork."

He sat back down in his chair and spoke as he was turning back to his desk. "Sure thing, I'll have it finished soon," he looked up at them for a moment, "it was nice to meet you Robin."

"Likewise Doc."

With that Hotch lead Billie to the last desk they needed to go to as he'd already met Rossi and Garcia. Where a dark haired woman who'd been pretending not to be paying very close attention to the newest addition to the team was sat.

"Agent Prentiss this is Agent Robinson."

Once again Billie held out his hand to shake. "Please, call me Robin."

Prentiss gave him a firm handshake. "So what brings you to the BAU, because its definitely not the coffee?"

This made him pause, he hadn't exactly expected to be asked that question so soon, with his last team it was about a week into the job when he got asked and his team back in the Australian Federal Police didn't give a shit why he was doing it so long as he did it well.

"Its not really anything too noble, at my last job I was essentially profiling without the certification so I figured it'd be a good use of my skill if I did do the courses and became a proper profiler."

Prentiss eyes widened slightly as Billie explained why he became a profiler. "I think that's the most honest answer I've ever gotten from that question."

He hummed to himself and nodded. "Fair enough, a lot of people tend to worry about whether they're really worthy of being here, if they're good enough at it to not make a critical mistake and for fear of sounding like an arrogant asshole with an overblown ego, I know that I can do this."

Prentiss' eye strayed over to where Hotch was standing not five minutes ago to find the space completely.

"He's been gone for the better part of three minutes."

Her voice was a half pitch higher when she spoke again. "I didn't even notice him leave."

"I've been told I have that effect on people." Billie tried to keep his face serious for as long as he could before his laugh won the fight which triggered Prentiss' own fit of giggle.

She finally spoke when she could breathe again. "Holy crap, you actually had me going for a second."

She turned around for a moment to check the status of her coffee mug and grinned to herself when she saw it empty. She grabbed it and faced Billie again. "I must've finished my coffee earlier, would you like me to show you the ropes of the coffee machine, it’s a temperamental beast."

Billie grinned but shook his head. "I appreciate the offer but I don't drink coffee, it messes with my kidneys, besides I'm pretty sure I was meant to meet Hotch in his office a few minutes ago." He added when Prentiss looked like she was about to come up with another offer.

She just gave him a sympathetic smile and nodded. "I see you later then."

He nodded and headed towards the stairs. "It was good to meet you." With that he walked up to Hotch's office where his day was really about to begin.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

"Soft Words in a Loud World"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff

Words: 2k

Warnings: Mentions of past trauma (vague, non-explicit), hurt/comfort

Summary: You don’t like shouting—haven’t for as long as you can remember. But Spencer knows. And Spencer never does.

a/n: requested by anon! Thank you, hope u like it! 💞

The first time Spencer saw you flinch at raised voices, he didn’t say anything.

He just noticed.

It was during a briefing, when Hotch had snapped out orders a little too sharply in response to a particularly frustrating case. It wasn’t directed at you, but that didn’t matter. The moment the tension spiked, you had gone quiet, your shoulders stiff, your gaze locked onto a fixed point on the table.

You hadn’t reacted too noticeably—probably not enough for most people to pick up on it.

But Spencer wasn’t most people.

And Spencer noticed everything.

After that, he made sure to be careful.

Not obviously, not in a way that would make you feel singled out. Just small things—lowering his voice when he spoke to you, never raising it even when he got passionate about a subject (which, let’s be honest, was often). If the team was in a heated discussion, he’d subtly shift his body so he was blocking you from the worst of it.

He never asked about it. Never pried.

But you knew he knew.

And you were grateful.

It wasn’t until months later that you brought it up.

You and Spencer were sitting on his couch, legs stretched out over a mess of books and case files. The TV was on, playing some old sci-fi movie that neither of you were really paying attention to.

“I don’t think I ever said thank you,” you murmured.

Spencer blinked, looking up from the book in his lap. “For what?”

You hesitated.

“For… never shouting,” you admitted, your voice softer than before.

Spencer frowned slightly. “I wouldn’t have a reason to shout at you.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “But I mean, even when things get intense. Or frustrating. You always…” You gestured vaguely. “You just don’t.”

His expression shifted—understanding settling in like it always did when he pieced things together.

“I just don’t like it,” you said, picking at the seam of your sleeve. “I never have.”

Spencer was quiet for a moment, considering his words.

Then, gently, “Did something happen?”

You shrugged, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. A long time ago.”

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t have to.

Spencer nodded, as if that was all he needed to know.

“I get it,” he said simply. “Loud voices can be overwhelming. They change the whole atmosphere of a room. Even if they’re not directed at you, it can still feel like a threat.”

Your breath caught slightly.

Because, yeah.

That was exactly it.

You glanced at him, and Spencer gave you a small, knowing smile. “It’s not the same thing,” he admitted, “but I don’t like shouting either. Growing up, I used to get overwhelmed in loud environments. Too much stimulation all at once.” He tapped his temple lightly. “My brain doesn’t filter external stimuli the way most people’s do. Everything just… comes in at the same volume.”

That made sense. You’d always known Spencer had a hard time with crowded spaces and loud noises.

“I just learned to cope with it,” he continued. “But I always preferred quiet.”

You studied him for a moment, warmth filling your chest. “Guess that’s why we get along so well.”

Spencer smiled. “Guess so.”

And that was it.

No prying. No pushing.

Just understanding.

Just Spencer.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt safe.

You never had to ask him to be gentle with his words.

He just was.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

I want to see something.

Reblog this if you believe in bi and autistic Hotch.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

no matter what your most embarrassing moment in life is, at least it’s not having fucking chat gpt write fanfic for you bc you’re too lazy to do it yourself

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

GET. AI. OUT. OF. FANDOM. Stop making headcanons with it, stop making fanfic with it, stop making fanart with it. If I see one more "asking chatgpt *blank* about *character/characters in a fandom* I'm going to lose my goddamn mind. Use your own fucking brain, stop asking AI to do everything. You could even ask other real people what they think. Just. Stop. Using. AI. In. Creative. Spaces.

[beepboopthesneepsnoop]

Hi I have no idea how to do this so if its shit that's why.

My name's Vic, I'm 19 years old and I'm from Australia. I have a couple other fandom blogs because I separate my fandom blogs and my main (unlike those psychos who throw it all in the one blog.) Bear in mind I'm not super consistent and tend to just write for whatever fandom that scratches my brain at the time

I'm happy to write reader insert so feel free to send in a request, I'll write for any gender

I also have an oc at the moment called Billie 'Robin' Robinson, he worked in the organised crime division before moving to the BAU. He's also Australian because I said so. I will reveal more about him in future fics I write just know that he's a badass that will get himself out of sticky situations if he can instead of waiting for someone else to come save him.

As it turns out I've recently fallen back into my Voltron hyperfixation so this will become my Criminal Minds AND Voltron blog because I already have five blogs and don't want a sixth.

I don't have many hard boundaries yet but I will probably come up with more as time goes on.

I'm not sure if I will write smut yet so feel free to send a request but no promises.