gideonlovescrack-blog

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

THE NEW AND SEXXY UNSUB IS 500 RATS

Honestly though we’ve been thinking about branching out of the criminal minds fandom and into some fresh CRACK like Sherlock/ Game of Thrones/ anything else you might request. 

Your dealers always, 

GideonlovesCRACK

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

He was there for me... 

                                             ...when no one else was

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

JJ x Reader: The Case of the Safeway Rotisserie Chicken™

JJ x Reader

Warning: NSFSTL (Not Safe For Shark Tank™ Lovers, especially Mark Cuban)

Synopsis: You are the unsub, but also the newest contestant on the hit TV show Shark Tank™. JJ, the Cheeto™ bag of the BAU, comes after you to offer you a deal like no other.

———————————————————————————————————

You wake up squatting in your brand new apartment. There are reams of paper surrounding you, filled with your Shark Tank™ pitches. You stole those reams from your nearest Office Max™, and have been on the run for 20 seconds. Thankfully, you are squatting in Mark Cuban’s™ home, so you have Seth Curry™, the Dallas Maverick’s™ point guard, carpool with you to the studio.

You walk into the room and instantly lock eyes with Mark Cuban™. You know that he’s the one… Your Shark™… the one to hammerhead you tonight. You start your pitch, about Bulletproof Baby Carriers™, since you need to find a way to protect your Safeway Rotisserie Chicken™ in your vest. “This will protect your chicken from dangerous Nerf™ technology.”

“Hold on, did you say Safeway Rotisserie Chicken™?” Mr. Wonderful™, the Great White Shark interrupted. “Because if so, I’m in. I want all your profits and all the royalties.”

“No DEAL,” you reply, holding your intense eye contact with Mark Cuban™. You know you wouldn’t mind choking his Safeway Rotisserie Chicken™ later behind the green screen.

Suddenly, the green screen is kicked down. “It was MY IDEA,” you hear. It smells familiar… like Cheetos™. JJ is in the House™. Scared and turned on at the same time, you clench your ass a little tighter. You look to Mark Cuban™ desperately, but he quickly glances away and sips his NBA Seth Curry™ approved Gatorade™, to catch up on electrolytes for tonight.

“Stay away from my home,” he Carelessly Whispers™ at you as JJ drags you by the hair down the hall.

“No DEAL,” you wink back, stroking your Safeway Rotisserie Chicken™ as you lose chunks of beautiful TRESemmé™ hair.

“How did you find me so fast?” You ask, looking up at JJ’s Flaming Hot Cheetos™ temperament. You can feel yourself climaxing 8 times, for each season of Shark Tank™ to date.

“I tracked you around Missouri™, using Verizon’s™ 4G unlimited data, a plan that fits my family’s needs,” she screams at you.

“Why not AT&T™?” you scream back.

“Verizon™ has more nationwide coverage than any other service provider in the nation!” she screeches into your ear.

You are now deaf in your left ear. Luckily, you are covered by State Farm™, which has the best premiums. Are you in good hands?™

“Thank you! I was looking to switch carriers!” You slur, as she dislocates your jawbone. You come 84 times for each time Mark Cuban™ has made a deal on Shark Tank™.

“You’re welcome!” she cheerily replies, while roundhouse kicking you in the face, causing you to lose all your front teeth. Now you will fit in with all the other Missourians™, including Mark Cuban™. You thank Jesus™ for this blessing.

She throws you out of the studio and into an alley full of old Shark Tank™ promotional material. Robert Herjavec™ sees you and quickly scurries away, looking for a DEAL to make. There’s no one to save you now. JJ picks you up by the armpits and begins throwing you against the floor. You come again, this time a total of 19.4 million times, once for every dollar Mark Cuban™ invested on Shark Tank™.

“It’s nap time, BITCH™,” she says, using her mom voice. She kicks you to the curb of Mark Cuban’s™ mansion. She then hurls you inside to his private Safeway™ sponsored rotisserie chicken bar, and presses your face against the grill. Your nose looks like a Slim Jim™ now, full of bursting Teriyaki™ flavor.

“Please…” you beg. “I’ll do anything… 40% royalties?”

“No DEAL.” she says, delivering her final burn.

...........

Meanwhile, Hotch sneaks into the Shark Tank™, briefcase in hand. The judges all sigh, knowing  that he used his FBI™ badge to get into the building…again. “I’ve got it this time guys, I’ve finally found a solution!,” he desperately announces, handing out his pamphlets. “Walking Dead™ in 30!”

“Aaron,” Mr. Wonderful™ says, stroking his WonderBread™ hands on Hotch’s cheeks. “This won’t bring her back.”

His wife is dead™.

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

Baby Boy x Reider

Derek Morgan/Shemar Franklin Moore x Reider 

Warning: NSFPB (Not safe for Pretty Boys)

Synopsis: You are the SILLY N SEXY unsub. SHEMAR FRANKLIN MOORE, buff bag and Baby Boy of the BAU, goes undercover as Derek Morgan to come after his BABY GIRL gone rogue.

Preface: Go check out SHEMAR FRANKLIN MOORE’S Instagram for some quality material: https://www.instagram.com/shemarfmoore/?hl=en ! We pulled some direct quotes from our favorite Baby Boy.  

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You wake up in a junkyard, surrounded by empty crack bags and old, crooked spaghetti strainers. You’ve been looking for the perfect Baby Boy, but all you’ve found are Pretty Boys. Frustrated, you remember that you killed 420 Pretty Boys last night by kicking down their doors and then tackling them into a ditch. You’ve been on the run for 15 minutes. Even more frustrating is the potential Baby Boy you spy from the corner of your eye. 

Crooked tie, giraffe neck, and unkempt hair: the tell-tale signs of a pretty boy, but your hope for your Baby Boy remains. He raises his neck to reveal moles, almost spots dotted across. Your gaze follows the curve of his neck and up into his long face, where his tongue slides seductively across to the highest branch. It’s an actual giraffe. It moves to graze at another tree and leaves another Pretty Boy in its wake.

Spencer Reid emerges from the herd of giraffes. He jogs over to you, winded from carrying his heavy gun. You know he’s not the Baby Boy you crave. You start backing up, getting ready to kick down your trailer door. He’s never going to see you coming. Literally.

Shovel in hand, you are ready to dig a ditch to tackle him into. You start sprinting, ready to give Reid a pounding. He looks for his giraffe family, but they have long since abandoned their young. You charge, but you feel a force tackle you to the ground. A chocolate thunder, if you will.

It’s the one. The BABY BOY.

You shudder from his touch. It’s so….. SILLY N SEXY. You instantly orgasm 46 times. Your eyes roll back in ecstasy, like you took a hit of crack. He cuffs you.

“Harder Daddy,” you moan, feeling his gun press up against you.

Behind you, Derek just rolls his eyes. Even undercover, he can never run away from his Baby Girls. At first, he thought that the young ones just wanted father figures, but soon he found out they wanted a different kind of daddy. He shudders. Why doesn’t anyone see him for the Baby Boy he is?

Back in the make shift interrogation room, you sit on a pile of garbage. “I want my lawyer,” you say. “He’s back at the junkyard. He always has a brown suit on. He’s tall and covered in spots. He may have left by stampede.” You realize you are talking about a giraffe. Again.

“Junkyard?” Derek questions. “We’re IN Missouri!”

                       It just made sense. 

“Stop it!” You demand, your voice cracking. “You sound like a Pretty Boy!”

“pretTY BOY? P R E T T Y B O Y?” Derek screams, slamming his hands on the cardboard box in front of you. You inadvertently moan, as your butt cheeks clench tighter and tighter.

“I am DEREK FRANKLIN MORGAN!!!! I am the HOTTEST member of the B A U!!!!1!!!!” He yells. “I KNOW that I did NOT just get called a PRETTY Boy by YOU, a Missourian.” He grabs you by the straps of your overalls. Your prostate jiggles, and you climax right as he throws you through the wall, into another interrogation room made of trash.

You land in a ditch.

“Awwwwwww sh*t.... Let the controversy begin!!!” He screams, kicking you onto your knees. “I love him.. I hate him.. He's straight.. He's gay... He's sweet.. He's arrogant...” He continues, undoing his belt. “Well, I would just like to say I LOVE women and life and people!!! I do not discriminate or allow people to feel small.... PERIOD!!! I love me EVERY inch of a WOMAN!!!” He smirks. “But don’t worry Babygirl, I’m NOT small!!!! Say what you want... I am SHEMAR FRANKLIN MOORE...er, I mean DEREK MORGAN!... PERIOD!!!” He fucks your armpit, using excess sweating as lube, since no one in Missouri uses deodorant. You spasm intensely, about 2.2 Million times, once for every BABY GIRL he has on Instagram.

“Let me be your BABY GIRL of the day DEREK!!!!” you moan. His eyes widen. No BABY GIRL has ever seen him undercover…and still recognized him for the BABY BOY he is. His eyes roll back and his tongue touches his nose as he rocks into an orgasm, leaving your overalls covered in his Hershey™ syrup.  

“KISSES n THANGS,” He whispers in your ear, slipping a signed headshot into your now sticky overalls. He struts away, leaving you to the wrath of Missouri. He walks back out to the team. “I haven’t seen anything. Y/N isn’t the unsub.”

“Really?” JJ says, confused. “I thought we were looking for a 40-year-old white male. We must have profiled him wrong then.”

"Well then, there’s a long list of Baby Girls that Need us to protect them", Hotch says. “Wheels up in 30!!"

The team heads out, but Hotch stays behind, stroking the Baby Girl nightie under his suit, his last gift from Hailey.

                       His wife is dead.

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

Hotch x Reader x Reid

Hotch x Reader x Reid

Warning: NSFJL (Not Safe for Jacks or LESBIANS)

Synopsis: You are an unsub, unsure of your own sexuality. Fortunately, Aaron Hotchner, the stern bag of the BAU, and Spencer Reid, the pretty bag of the BAU, are here to STRAIGHTen you out. ———————————————————————————————————

The dreamiest doctor of them all, Spencer Reid, daydreams while looking at Aaron HOTchner. He runs his fingers up and down the ridges of his tie, unable to STRAIGHTen it. Hotch marches into the bullpen, case in hand. “Wheels up in thirty, STRAIGHT up it’s about to get dirty,” he raps, failing to hide his falsetto. Try as he might, Rossi cannot manage to beatbox his way to a promotion.

Hotch's tie is as STRAIGHT as he is, a STRAIGHT man STRAIGHT up trying to lead a STRAIGHT life on the STRAIGHT and narrow path. Reid looks at his own tie. It is as crooked as you, the unsub.

You wake up in a dirty, one way road. You are in a dumpster of a gay bar. Another beautiful STRAIGHT day, you think. You’ve been on the road for 13 minutes now. You successfully killed 153 STRAIGHT men. You are in Missouri, the STRAIGHT capital of the universe. The STRAIGHTS were talking about football, labias, and Tom Brady. You hid in the closet until it was time. You knew right when to come out and end it.

Suddenly, you see a shadowy figure dash across the alleyway and jog towards you. You (STRAIGHT) panic and try to run, but you cannot even walk in a STRAIGHT line. This is why you didn’t make varsity in the only public high school in Missouri. After a hard tackle by a hard body whom you can hardly handle, you fall hard on the ground. Hard. HARD? WHO SAYS HARD? NO ONE IS HARD.

You are brought into a small, confined cell. Again, it is Missouri, so interrogation rooms are far too technologically advanced for this colony. The hard man walks in.

“Do you know who I am?” a careless whisper asks.

Before you can respond, he leans over. You see the curve of his tight ass. “I’m the doctor,” he seductively whispers into your ear. He’s so STRAIGHTforward. Your palms are sweaty. Your forehead is sweating. Your entirely body is drenched.

“Doctor? Where’s your stethoscope?” You snark.

He turns arounds and draws a deep sigh. You feel it deep, deep in the depths of your rectum. You sweat harder. Your tube socks are sopping wet.

“SONOFABITCHIAM D  O C  T O R SPENCERREIDIDIDNOTGETTHREEPHDSFORTHIS.” He slowly inhales. “I’m done with you shooting your pretty little mouth off. Wait until my partner gets in here. He’ll break you.”

69 seconds later, the door slams open.

“WHERE ARE THEY?!” the new man demands, slamming his hands down on the table in front of you. It is Aaron Hotchner, silver wolf of the BAU. Your shitoris tingles. You sweat harder. There is now a small puddle forming around your chair.

“I”M NOT GAY,” you reply, defenseless in the eyes of the law. You think of your victims, namely Donald Trump Jr. Oh if he could see you now.

“I’ll give it to you STRAIGHT then,” he continues. “We can’t waste any time.” But secretly, Hotch had begun sweating too. His jock strap grew tighter by the minute, but it *totally* wasn’t because he was gay. He was just having a long and hard day, and you only made it longer and harder. You look away, ashamed but surprisingly turned on.

“Oh, I’m sure you would love to give it to me STRAIGHT, considering I am a STRAIGHT man.” The sweat consumes you in the hot Missouri heat, and you find yourself dropping a sleeve off your shoulder. Looking back at Hotch, your gazes meet in a hard embrace, but no one is hard. He swallows the load in the back of his throat, trying to get his thoughts STRAIGHT, but he finds that he is unable to. He loosens his tie, excuses himself STRAIGHT back to the team, and sends Reid back into the room.

“Did you know that I can’t get this tie to STRAIGHTen?” He asks.

“Maybe I can help you with that,” you drawl. “Since I am a STRAIGHT man.”

“Do it then, Y/N”, he commands. With one swift motion he pulls you STRAIGHT to your feet. The sweat that has been collecting in your orifices is instantly released like a broken dam. The water is to your shins now.

He grimaces. “Did you know that 2.8% of the US population suffers from excessive sweating? You should see a doctor.” You roll your eyes. All the dermatologists in the world could not plug all your holes.

“Give me a second opinion then,” you seductively lisp. Soon your clothes are sliding off like a snake shedding its skin. He looks you up and down. Coming to a diagnosis, he confirms his suspicions. “Yup, just as I suspected. You are a flaming homosexual.”

Bewildered, you demand to know how he profiled you.

“You wear the same jock strap Hotch does,” he confesses. Hotch bursts into the room, breathless. Reid smirks. “Look who finally came out of the closet.”

Sinking into deeper confusion and more sweat, you watch as Hotch has a moment of contemplation. He puts on his stern, determined face and struts over to the younger man. In a flash, Hotch grabs Reid’s face and plants his hand around his neck in a moment of rage and passion. Their tongues battle for dominance, inviting you to join. The sweat is up to your necks. You have drowned the entire state of Missouri, and all the STRAIGHTs living in it. You are a hero to all.

Reid looks up, his pupils dilated and his tie more crooked than ever. He looks like he has rabies, a classic Missourian look. He wags his three PhDs at you. “What are you looking at Y/N?” You feel your prostate tingle within you, like a fairy has just climbed up your ass. You swim over, nearly drowning in sweat. You try to join them, but Reid stops you.

“First you have to call me Doctor.”

You instantly come 153 times, once for every STRAIGHT man you killed.

“Yes Doctor…”

“Louder. Sing for me, my angel of music” He commands in an alto 2, checking out that snout.

“YES DOCTOR” You scream.

Morgan walks by the interrogation room and shakes his head sadly. This is the third time this week. His Pretty Boy is slipping further and further away from him. He walks to Garcia’s lair, knowing that she’ll console her brown sugar.

Meanwhile, you are already being spit roasted. You come 6.064 million times, once for each Missourian resident you slaughtered with your salty excretions.

You yourself are ready to receive Reid’s salty excretions.

“Are you ready to Ph this DICK?” He huffs. It is hard to breathe underwater.

“Yes,” you beg. “I am ready to take this PhDICK. Please let me review your thesis.” You can barely speak, as Hotch is in your mouth and you are also underwater. You take turns coming up for air.

“I wish you would call me Daddy,” Hotch thought. But it was too late, as you were losing too much oxygen. The carbon dioxide was beginning to collect in your brain, and you are now on the second best high of your life, the only happy moment you will ever have as a Missourian. The first came from 73 bags of CRACK.

As you orgasm again, you belt out a series of arias. Rossi backstrokes into the room, weakly beatboxing in between winded breathes. He makes eye contact with Hotch, who shakes his head in a manner that could only mean one thing: no promotion. Again. Rossi drowns himself. In sorrow. He sadly whispers to himself “No one appreciates this Rossetti”. He butterfly pastas away, leaving no angel hair behind in his wake.

Suddenly, you hear Reid gurgle, “It’s Time.”

You both come 20,000 times, once for each word Reid can read in a minute. “And that’s why they call me the Doctor,” Reid smirks. The water is getting murky. He swims away, leaving you at Hotch’s mercy.

At the sight of Reid’s unraveling and the memory of Rossi’s disappointment, Hotch feels himself reaching his climax. “Comes up in 30,” he moans as he pulls out and covers all of you orifices. His eruption has finally plugged up all your holes.

Hotch, on the other hand, still has one gaping hole inside of him. Inside of his Heart.

His wife is dead.  

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

Rossi x Reader: All the Pastabilities

Rossi x Reader:

Warning: NSFS (not safe for spaghetti)

Synopsis: You are the unsubetti, the leader of the Italian free pasta movement. Rossetti, the Italian Stallion of the BAU, decides to farfallow you to crack the case.

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You lounge about your secret spaghetti factory lair followini your usual rotini. You hear a knockaroni and then a booming voice. You know who it is. It’s the Italian Stallion.

“I’ma busiate righta now!” you yell frantically, knowing that justini was about to be served… with meatballs on the side. Just thinking of his breadstick makes you quiver.

“FBI! Opini the doorini!” He continues. “You are underini arresterini!”

“You musta be tripolini if you thinkini I’ma gonna open that doorini!” You scream. You grabini your hostagozzi, Donald Trump Jr.

“I’ma gonna put a capellini in that assholini!” He retorts.

“Whata, is thata your fettucce?” you taunt back.

You knowini what’s to come. The man is builtini like a lasagna, drippini with meat. You can’t wait to globberini on his fat salami.  

He chases you throughtini the pasta factory. You knowa you can’t go farfallini. He’s coming for you. You decide to go seducini him instead, thinkini that he might filini your holes now to avoid lifini in prisoroni.

You falleni down on the conveyor belt. Rossi follows pursuitini, on your tail. There’s no fighting it now. The Italian Stallion had come for his appetizers. Any attempt to escapini would be sicily.

He pulls down the spaghetti straps on your dressolli.

“It’sa time,” he grunts under his espresso breath. He takes off his Kevlar vestini, exposing all 56 empty bottles of wine that instantly crash onto the floor. He frantically looks for a filini one.

“You gnocchi everything abouta me, Y/N,” he huffs sadly, knowini he will be soberini soon.

“Everything willa be bene,” you mutter, quickly taking his pepperoni slab into your mouth to comfort him. “You’re soa bigoli,” you moan. SWAT is nowhere to be found. Maybe you can get away with this.

“Oh bellisima,” he groans. He’s pumping in and out of you now, each in and out causing another orgasm. You are now covered in flour, eggs, and water, as you are on a pasta conveyor. He stuffs you like a cannoli. You come a total of 23062972012847 times. He turns you over and uses your ass like a fagioloni. You come an additional 103u46091837532589 times.

“UuuuUUuuuuuuuuuUUuuuuuUUUUUUuuuuPASTAuuuuUUUUUuuuUuu” he moans. You come together, in a spattering mess that can only be described as Missouri. You create your personal batch of pasta dough in that moment that tastes as good as CRACK.

You hear the cock of a gun. Rosseti smirks. “Thanks for the help Penelopetti,” he whispers into the earpiece. You realize he has betrayed you and his country, and you have fallen for his Italian tricks. The BAU comes out of the hiding, extremely confused by what they have just witnessed. They take you into custody.

As you walk out of the factory, you see SSA Aaron Hotchner. You hear him mutter under his breath.

“Hailey’s favorite food was pasta.”

His wife is dead.

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

My lover

ROSSI THE ITALIAN STALLION 

[gideonlovescrack-blog]

CRACK in my CRACK Gideon x Reader

Warning: NSFW

Synopsis: You are a crack addict and dealer. Jason Gideon, the sad bag of the BAU, CRACKs down on you with a fierce determination.

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You wake up in an alley, surrounded by CRACKed glass bottles and your hobo friends. You want breakfast, but you remember you are a CRACK addict. You wish you could buy some rice krispies, with some snap, CRACKle and pop! You also remember you killed Donald Trump Jr. and are on the run from all the governments, but you are CRACKasian so it’s okay.

CRACK! Your cardboard box studio collapsed, but because the BAU is CRACKing down on your case. You were found in 20 minutes because Spencer Reid CRACKed your drug code and also because you are a CRACK addict. You are brought in to Quantico and await for your interrogation.

CRACK! Jason Gideon slams down your files. “We know what you did, Y/N,” he sings, waiting for you to harmonize. You try, but your voice CRACKs, due to the fact that you are addicted to CRACK.

“I want a lawyer,” you say. “I also want some CRACK.”

“Not any time soon,” he growls. “Today I want to CRACK some sense into you and teach you a lesson.”

“Okay,” you say. You CRACK a sly smile and drop your sleeves, exposing your bare shoulders.

However, you sleep in a cardboard box and have not stretched in a long time, so your entire body CRACKs. Jason lets out a deep groan, as he has not touched a woman in seventy years.

His wrinkled fingers trace over the outline of your shoulders and you shiver from the thought of life in prison.

“So you smoked out my master plan,” you drawl. You are a Missourian. “It was a CRACK-a-lackin.”

He chuckles in response. Almost CRACKles. He removes his belt. “Usually we’re against interrogation techniques, but I’ll CRACK you open in no time…”

“Oh really,” you continue drawling. Remember you are still a Missourian. You CRACK open your legs a little to let the girls breathe. You named them Mary CRACK and CRACKley.

He gently pats your entire anus. You instantly orgasm 17 times. It feels good. Almost as good as smoking CRACK.

“OOOOoooooOOOoOoOOoOOoHHHHOHohOHOOOOHOhOHoHohohCRACKohoohOOOOOHHhohoOHOOh,” he moans in his 69 year old voice. He knows he’s CRACKed you now. He too, had climaxed 203967730 times. The room is overflowing with his semen, and you know you are now pregnant with CRACK baby Gideon, CRACKeon.

He slowly grabs your hand. And then your other hand. Soon, all your limbs are at his disposal, and he starts to CRACK them. You come again and again with each CRACK. Your eyes roll back in ecstasy, as if all the euphoria of you happiest childhood memories came back. Just kidding, you are a Missourian. You do not have happy childhood memories. You never had fireworks CRACKling in the hot summer heat, nor the joy of hearing popcorn CRACK in the fire stove in grandpa’s kitchen.

“AAAAAaaaAAAaaaAAAAaaaCRACKaaaaaAAAaAaAAaaaAAAaAA!!!!!!!!!!1!!!!!” You cry out, your entire body now disjointed.

“WHERE IS THE CRACK!!!???” He screams in your ears. “I want your CRACK!” He reaches into the CRACK of your ass and starts to pull out all the 10 ounce bags of CRACK you hid in your rectum. He pulls out 74. You come 74 times. One of the bags rip. You experience the high of your life on CRACK. You CRACK open your eyes. The walls start to melt and you can see the other side of the interrogation wall. The team looks mortified.

JJ tries covering Dr Reid’s eyes. Emily pulls her away and into her angelic vagina. Morgan doesn’t seem to care as Reid’s throbbing member is in his CRACK. They all meld into one sticky mess of blood, sweat, and semen. Garcia plays with herself from the screen she’s in. Rossi, the pizza delivery man CRACKs the door open and joins in as he does not receive a 15% tip. They smoke all remaining 73 bags of CRACK.

Hotch stands aside as he witnesses the sinning. A single tear trails down his cheek. His wife is dead.