mimikyusrealform

[mimikyusrealform]

dreamcatcher

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 1765.

Summary: Haunted and housed by the warmth of a paramedic who comforted him after the Anthrax incident.

Around her eyes there's traces of blue kohl. Spencer remembers the blue, from before. The light had been blue; there had been red, too, but it was indistinct and blurry. The blue had been clear; he could have held it in his hands. Deep down, he knows it’s just the ambulance's lights. The moment is gone.

She's skipping and skimming through his kitchen. In nothing but a Nirvana t-shirt and underwear. It's been a while now since the sight has flustered him. She's barefoot. He's told her many times not to be barefoot in the kitchen, but she never listens.

Spencer watches her. If he could, he would watch her every second. Even when he blinks, he is watching her. It's sweetly disgusting. It’s when you love someone, in a moment that is the blink of eternity—it’s living by a love trapped in that moment, even if it is gone. There's a 4/10 second delay in the brain. It takes 13 milliseconds for the information in the retinas to get to the brain. He lives in the past.

“You should put on shoes,” he says. For the pattern, the comfortable repetition.

She smiles at him. She skips and skims through his apartment like it's a compacted universe, balancing two heavy cups and a plate of cookies. He takes the plate from where it's lodged between her brachium and antebrachium, within her elbow. She settles both cups down; settles herself across him.

“I don't know how you do it.” She waves a hand at his cup of coffee, carelessly, a movement beyond logic. “Honestly, I would like to open up your stomach, to see if there's truly a black hole in there. Did you swallow that, too? How you do it. How can you drink this much sweetness and not die?”

There's a point when sweetness becomes spoiled. Vulgar, even, she finishes.

“I think you're being dramatic,” he says simply. He leans to peer at his coffee, the whipped cream swirling atop of it. It's pretty nice.

“I'm not being dramatic. I'm not dramatic.” She folds one of her legs against her chest after picking up her cup. “Explain our connection to monkeys,” she asks, because she's cradling her coffee and munching on a cookie and she likes hearing him talk. He complies.

“The common theory is that we descend from monkeys. But that is not it. Well, not quite it. What the theory actually defines is that humans share an ape ancestor with the chimpanzees. What you would say it's survival of the fittest is known as natural selection—the term associated with Charles Darwin and Alfred Russel Wallace. Roughly paraphrased, nature selects the mutations of a species that are best suited to survive in the current environment and this results in transformations coded in the DNA of the next life. That is the reason behind what we call a human.”

She is quiet, musing, for a while. He figures out it's because the chocolate from the cookie is melting on her tongue, and that's a religious experience. “Spencer,” she says suddenly, like she had an epiphany. “Why am I here?”

He falters. There's a crack when the cookie between his long and bony fingers snaps. “W-what do you mean?” He peels both parts of the cookie away from each other. It's for the best of them.

She purses her lips. Her beautiful mouth, twisted in distaste, or something wry. “There's something scary about the people who unknowingly use others.” There's a pause in time, like the world is submerged in resin. His eyes are static and his ears are full of static. She notices this. “I don't mean you. I was just—saying. Because I say a lot of things, you know that, you shouldn't pay attention to everything I say. It would be like drinking unfiltered water.”

“Of course,” he says faintly, tries to smile.

She means him. She wouldn't have made the clarification if she hadn't meant him. Of course, he couldn't blame her. She's here because he uses her to balm his loneliness. She's here because he's selfish, and his body is meager and sensible. He lives in a grave made by his bones pressing against his flesh and his nerves lightning stricken by the colors. And she's the flowers and vines that grow around his grave.

“You're here,” he says slowly, “because you needed an apartment, and I had an apartment in need of a roommate.”

“Right,” she smiles brightly, but that's because of the angle he sees her at. The overhead light makes her smile brilliant and dim at the same time, depending on the perspective. “Right. Uhm. How are the cookies?”

Stale. “Sweet. Good.”

Her eyes are framed with blue kohl, just like the night. That night, well, that day. The belief of God has never haunted him, nor has housed him. He thinks the blue around her eyes is the same as the one that drowned him at the edge of death. Before she fished him from it, still flapping and flailing like a real fish from the exposure to Anthrax.

He understands divinity, primitively as opposed to intellectually, as he convulses on a gurney. He sees her—divine—in flashes. “Stay with me,” her mouth says, over the shoulder of another paramedic. It's a perfect mouth, so he stays, because it's a terribly beautiful sight. He slips back into unconsciousness with the picture of her glistening teeth between her lips burned in his brain. It stays with him.

He's firm in forgetting about her for four months before he asks—pleads, begs—Garcia to find her, with nothing but a first name and a face. They've been texting for two months when she tells him she's searching for an apartment and he tells her you could live with me. No understanding what that would entail or intending to find out whatsoever. He said it because he liked her and wanted her and desired her; not because he knew her.

When she moved in with him, the first thing that should have alarmed him was Coronel. Her cat. Her cat was named Coronel, after the character in Gabriel García Márquez's book, El coronel no tiene quien le escriba. He had worriedly informed her that his building doesn't allow pets. She had smiled—that brilliant, radiant smile—and easily, so easily, resolved to just—give her cat up for adoption. Give her cat of three years up for adoption. Spencer has never had pets, but he imagines it should be heartbreaking to let one go. She hadn't seemed to mind. She doesn't seem to mind, or even think about Coronel anymore. It hadn't alarmed him, back then. Now, it sort of feels like it was a premonition.

Living with her is like tasting honey in a bitter tea. It's the small things with her.

She is the type of person that decants for the “red is the color of our blood” explanation as to why red is generally associated with danger. This is why all the important Post-it notes she sticks to the fridge are written in red. The self-centered notes to remind him of her amazingness are in blue. The fun comments are in orange. Random scientific facts are in pink. Small things that brighten up his days.

Whenever Spencer wakes up, however ungodly the hour it is, he finds his fridge restocked with a new note, sometimes two. He's never managed to catch her in the act. One time, he went to sleep at midnight and woke up at 2:00 a.m. to grab a glass of water and found tomorrow's note already set up. He woke up again later at 7:00 a.m. and found a different note on the fridge.

“What's the most beautiful part of the human body to you?” she asks him abruptly, as if nothing happened before. He takes the peace offering. The cookie between her teeth crunches when she bites it. She takes the rest of it in her hand. “As you've never watched porn, you're the only guy I trust enough to give a reasonable answer.”

His eyebrows pinch together. He clears his throat. “I've watched porn,” he says in a nasal voice, because that's the type of retort she would smile at. Lo and behold, she smiles. Satisfied, he rambles, “The Greeks were fixated on the human body, but it was mostly on the human male body. The female body was associated with fertility, but the male one was representative of glory, athleticism and health. As the fall of Rome gave way to medieval times, those ideas fell as well, and the human body was instead seen as nothing more than a frail container of the soul. Actually, it was seen as dirty and unholy. It wasn't until the Renaissance that the Greek values were reintegrated into art and science, and the human body was again exalted for its beauty. Fun fact: Leonardo da Vinci dissected corpses, and used them to both model his sculptures and make very, very detailed drawings of human anatomy.”

She is looking at him, swirling her cup of bitter dark coffee. He thinks she is beautiful in a way that couldn't be communicated, just admired. “My favorite part of the human body is the arms, up to the hands,” she tells him. “The forelimbs of all mammals are constructed from the same basic skeletal elements. That's fascinating to me.” She pauses to take a sip of her coffee; he waits patiently for her to finish. “It’s either that or the hair. I've never dated a guy I could imagine balding. But then, you didn't answer my question.”

After some careful thinking, he says, “The mouth.”

Instantly, she throws a napkin from the coffee table at his face. It lands perfectly; it hangs from the tip of his nose. “That’s such a man-answer!” she exclaims indignantly.

He stammers, “No, it's not!” And throws the napkin back at her, though unlike him, she catches it midair. “It’s not the eyes, but there's nothing inherently objectifying or sexual about my answer!”

“I would actually prefer it if you had said you like tits!” she replies brazenly, loudly. “The mouth is so obscene to me! Like, that's the organ from where words come out! It's practically public indecency!”

Spencer chokes on his sweet coffee. Then, he bursts out laughing, and she laughs with him, and their hearts must beat and bleed the same.

Still, he worries her love is just as flighty as she is.

He worries that she is ephemeral, like a dream, and he is the fool trying to catch her.

[mimikyusrealform]

amber you deserved to be more than just a plot point that served a male character's development. baby i'm so fucking sorry.

[mimikyusrealform]

hallucination amber is the sexiest house md character if you disagree i do not care you are wrong

[mimikyusrealform]

*cough* if you hate amber volakis i hate you *cough* (just kidding!) (i’m not.)

[mimikyusrealform]

It’s been a hot sec since we talked about why there are so many single-child pureblood families in HP. With the notable exceptions of the Weasleys, the Blacks, and the Gaunts, most of the families in the magical world have only one child. While I understand that upper class folks likely don’t want to split assets between their children, I do think it’s silly that they would complain about pureblood lineages dying out and then refuse to reproduce. (Then again, it does seem very privileged to declare that Muggleborns are the problem, not purebloods, which I suppose would make sense.)

I like to think that magical families struggle with infertility. It took years for the Potters to have James, and they’d almost given up when Mrs. Potter finally became pregnant. This, I think, would really propel a great fear amongst pure-blood families that they were dying out because they just weren’t reproducing quickly enough.

Two notable families, however were having children: The Blacks and the Weasleys. For the Blacks, this would definitely add to their superiority complex. While other pureblood families are struggling to produce children, they have plenty (but the wrong gender or they die before having children). Then you have the Weasleys—they’re spitting out child after child. I would imagine the pureblood community hates them because not only are they reproducing, they’re not the RIGHT type of pureblood.

This is partially why I see the Blacks fawning over their children and expecting the most out of them. And why Sirius’s “disloyalty” is a horrific betrayal—but also, this is why he is never fully disowned. They just cannot afford to lose him.

Yet I like to think that Muggle-borns and half-bloods can have children at a typical rate. This is why Ron and Hermione have their two and Harry and Ginny have their trio. Do I think this theory holds up in court? No. But I think it would add a layer to the pureblood panic.

[mimikyusrealform]

You think you can hurt me? I have unhealthy parasocial relationships with THEM:

You cannot hurt me more than I have already hurt myself.

[mimikyusrealform]

i just wanna go into the criminal minds hashtag and not be BOMBARDED with him plzplzplz🙏

[mimikyusrealform]

she’s so over-hated i’m sorry. look at her

[mimikyusrealform]

im honestly tired of all the criminal minds fans dismissing haleys death. like that woman is strong. she knew damn well in that moment she was going to die but her kid was right there so she held herself together until her last final moments, so idc if “she cheated” or whatever bullshit yall try and use to hate on her — she was such an understanding wife and an amazing mother and im tired of yall shitting on her when you wouldn’t be able to handle half the shit she went through.

and i can now breathe!

[mimikyusrealform]

aria da capo by Javier Pérez

2008, sculpture, polyester resin, horse manes dyed in red, carillon by Reuge Music (limited edition),, motorized mechanisms, mirror, 280 x 110 x 110 cm. View of the Javier Pérez exhibition “Objetos del deseo” at the Espai Quatre, Casal Sollerich, Palma de Mallorca, Spain, 2009

[mimikyusrealform]

the most annoying stage of burnout is when i want to write, and i have the urge to write, and somewhere in my skull are the words that want to be written, but they have to get through the cursed minotaur maze first and nobody remembered to bring string

[mimikyusrealform]

globalization

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 3703. Summary: Three times you leave Spencer speechless, and one time he leaves you speechless. Notes and Warnings: Set during S1 at the beginning, and then at S2. Mention of Somebody's Watching and North Mammon. There's a misogynistic comment, but it's quickly dealt with.

1.

The rivalry started innocuous enough. Three months after Dr. Spencer Reid joined the BAU, you were recruited as well. Fresh out of the academy and without a prebuilt rapport with the rest of the team, you felt out of place. They listened to your suggestions, but after a week and a half, it was like they were still teaching you the ropes, coddling you. Hotch didn’t even let you go out in the field. This piling dissatisfaction reached its culmination without warning.

“C’mon now,” Morgan said one day. You didn’t even remember what led to the following statement, but you remembered the phrase that started the domino effect. “Robberies have been declining since last year.”

“The robbery rate declined last year,” you corrected him as you skimmed through your oddly small workload for the day. They weren’t working on any cases. “It’s been declining since 1986, but it’s possible that the rate will increase this year in comparison to last year’s, which was at an all-time low, at 137.”

“136.7,” Dr. Reid corrected you from his own desk. He had already finished half of his work. “That is given a population of 293,656,842.” He looked at you and Morgan. “Did you know that the U.S Census Bureau estimates the population as of July 1 for each year? Except when it's a decennial census count, like 2000.”

It took Dr. Reid a whole minute to notice your glare. What a genius. He looked as if he was panicking a bit, and his gaze drifted between you and Morgan. He seemed to be begging with his eyes for Morgan to, somehow, reveal to him the secrets of the universe and what he should do to stop your glaring. But Morgan was not a pious entity, and he turned around, suddenly blind. It took Dr. Reid another minute to figure out why you were killing him in your head.

“I—I mean, you round up from 5, so 137 is accurate,” he rectified, staring back at you, like you were the abyss and he, the hero who needed to face it.

You stayed silent for a while. And then, you said, “That's dumb. The rate was 136.7. Sigh. I thought you were a genius, Dr. Reid, how could you even suggest that the rate was 137? Maybe you should check if you need to reinstall the eidetic memory package.”

Morgan made a sound that was between a dog barking out a laugh and a dog choking on its bone. But it was Dr. Reid's perplexed expression what you burned in your memory.

It wasn't your fault, really, that your antagonistic nature decided to pursue a war with the resident genius of the team. If you were to bluff in case of being questioned why you were so adamant in aggravating Dr. Spencer Reid in any way you could, you would say, “complacency is the enemy of natural selection and I'm truly benevolent—so I'm making the Doctor a favor by keeping him on his toes.” The truth was, Dr. Spencer Reid's geeky enthusiasm and nerdy rambles had charmed you. While you weren't on the same level as him when it came to intelligence—your latest IQ test had put you around 137, and that was knowing the common patterns the test tended to use—you had a knack for deconstructing things. When you were 8, you couldn't finish a Rubik cube for the life of you, but when you broke it down to its simpler parts, you found a way to solve it after learning how the core mechanism worked.

Antagonizing was how you dealt with your crushes. All the crushes you ever had, you actively treated them as if they were your mortal enemies. In a sense, they were. Understandably, none of them ever liked you, and you couldn't blame them. But, for some reason, the idea of Dr. Spencer Reid not returning your affections was—troubling, to say the least. And that only made you pricklier.

2.

Lila Archer was not an enemy but a victim with very poor timing. You draped a towel around her febrile shoulders, and patted her back in an ode to comfort. Then, you went out of the house to deal with your real foe. Dr. Spencer Reid was still trying to dry himself with a pathetically small cloth. In another occasion, it would have made you laugh. But you were, at loss of a better word, jealous. How shameful was that? You hadn’t been jealous since Nathaniel Sterling, your crush in tenth grade, started dating Rose Harding, the cloistered girl who ruined your straight-A-record in Math because you were paired with her during one assignment.

You had the bad habit of swallowing the acid that dripped from your own soul and regurgitating it when you were alone. For now, you compartmentalized. Weirdly enough, you found yourself feeling tired, instead of murderous. You understood, then, how having a crush on someone didn’t compare to being in love.

A crush was a candle in the wind; being in love was a fire in a forest.

The color of the night sky, that reflected on the blue water, covered the world of depth and beyond all bounds. Even the air was blue; it bit your skin. Or maybe it was your own feelings that prickled down your spine. If porcupines did mate for life, they would be the most tender lovers in the world, you thought. The prickliest beings loved carefully and purposefully.

Only after Elle left his side, did you approach. Though the look she gave you was too perceptive for your liking. “I didn’t know kissing with the girl you’re supposed to be protecting from her stalker was part of the protocol. Please, forward me the exact article that describes the effectiveness of French kisses as a method of protection against erotomaniacs.”

He tried to ignore your wording, but his ears were red, and so were his cheeks, despite the fact the air had cooled the water clinging to his clothes. “I, uh, I fell in,” was all he could muster given the fact you had a gun, a motive and a cold heart.

“I see,” you nodded. “That’s what tends to happen when you pool your women.”

“I don’t pool my women! I-I don’t even—I don’t even have women.”

“Relax, Doctor, you won’t drown. If you know how to two-stroke, two-timing should come naturally to you.”

Dr. Reid made a pitiful sound when he realized there was no winning against you.

“She kissed me first,” he said.

“Maybe you deserved it.”

“Don’t make it sound like a punishment.”

“I’m not.” You were sincere.

3.

You were pretty good at remaining unmovable, and you were proud of that. But—this guy. This guy.

“All I did was show them who they really are,” he was saying with that stupid self-satisfied smile. “What they were truly capable of. People pretending to be decent. When it came down to it, they… They reacted just the way I knew they would.”

“Is that so,” you couldn’t help but interrupt his little monologue. Gideon looked at you from the corner of his eye, but he didn’t try to stop you. “Congratulations. Be proud of discovering the sky is blue for the rest of your life, I commiserate you; it must have been so hard for you. Do you really think you’re a mastermind for this?” His smile slowly disappeared, replaced by a glare directed towards you. “If you starve a dog, are you a genius for knowing the dog will end up becoming aggressive? But then, that’s a Nobel-worthy dissertation for someone so simpleminded like you.”

He started to say something, voice shaking from barely contained rage, but you were already leaving the basement. He yelled after you. You couldn’t hear him over the buzzing in your ears.

In the plane, you were shutting down the world around you by pretending to read a Russian Copy of The Brothers Karamazov. You didn’t speak Russian. That was—until Reid sat in front of you. He didn’t speak for a moment, just observed you. You flipped five pages before he finally said,

“Are you okay?”

“What an unpleasant question,” you replied. He kept looking at you, which annoyed you because it made your stomach twist. “I suppose. That guy got on my nerves.”

“I thought you didn’t have nerves,” he said. “I mean… you always act as if you’re untouched by the world.”

“I try my utmost not to be perceived. The world is a scary place, after all.”

“It is scary,” he agreed. “But, scary—how? How does someone like you find the world to be scary?”

You put your book down on your lap. “Full of people.” You twirled a strand of hair around your index finger. “And what I hate most are the people who lie to themselves. That guy—lied to himself that he was right. He decided to believe other people were his enemies instead of realizing… realizing he was his own worst enemy.”

It wasn’t without tact—though it startled you all the same—when he said, “Sounds a bit like you.”

“Oh, right.” You supposed it was a fair assessment; you never gave him any indication that you actually didn’t see him as enemy. You acted like you did, after all. Maybe he really believed you hated him. So, “I don’t hate you. If I was smart, I would go as far as to say that I like you.”

You watched him freeze for a split of a second before his face turned red, like a M-class star. It gave you terrible ideas and horrible impulses. You couldn’t help but reach for his glasses, and—gently push them up the bridge of his nose. Your index finger brushed against his skin. His face went a class up in the Morgan-Keenan classification.

“But you are smart,” he managed to choke out. “Very smart.”

“What are you implying?”

He couldn’t answer, and you returned to your book, a bit disappointed, maybe. You had thought he was ready to give in. You still couldn’t read a single word. Reid must have noticed because he ended up prying the book from your hands, and began reading out loud, just for you, just for your enjoyment. It was enough.

+1.

“Kid,” Morgan called as he slid in the seat next to him. “Seriously, when are you gonna ask her out? Save the rest of us from her pining.”

Spencer frowned. “Ask who out?”

He was only half listening, but when Morgan said your name, he spluttered. “What?!” He lowered his tone after that voice break. “Morgan, are you crazy? She hates my guts.”

Morgan looked incredibly amused. “No, she doesn't. She's just pulling your hair. And, if she actually hated you, well, I don't think I need to remind you what happened to Officer Harrison. I really wish I had been there to see it.”

Spencer almost smiled at the memory. A few months back, a case had brought them to Texas when the local police discovered two independent pairs of hands scattered across their state line. The second in command, Officer Harrison, had been a flagrant misogynistic and a stereotypical macho-man.

“But what does cutting the hands-off mean?” Officer Harrison had asked.

JJ, you and him were the only ones from the team still in the bullpen.

Hotch did trust you with fieldwork, but he found that you and Spencer were an especially good match, so he mostly paired the two of you together. You bounced off each other’s ideas with an uncanny synergy.

Before he could ramble off, you beat him to it, “The ancient Greek sometimes mutilated the body of their victim. There's a theory that says that the mutilation of the body corresponded to the mutilation of the soul, so that the shade, without limbs, couldn't enact vengeance over the killer. Maybe the Unsub’s superstitious and believes that by cutting off their hands he’s saving himself from their ghosts.”

Officer Harrison had looked at you, before dragging his gaze up and down your body. He had mainly interacted with Morgan and Hotch, sometimes himself; and almost none with you, JJ and Emily. Then, he whistled sarcastically. “That's very impressive, darlin'. I didn't take you for the smart type. No offense, but you don't look like it.”

Rage was born in the pit of the stomach, Spencer found out that day. It rendered him immobile for a moment, and before he could tell the officer off, you beat him to it, again. Intelligence wasn’t quantifiable, he knew this. But you always managed to prove it to him. Some tests might say he was several points smarter than you, but you were two steps ahead of him, every single time.

From the corner of his eye, he could see JJ’s appalled expression. He wondered how his own face looked.

“Oh,” you had said. “Looks can be deceiving. It's alright. No offense taken. I myself was deceived by your looks—I thought you were a conventionally ugly man, maybe even a rare ugliness, but you're actually a piece of shit in human form. Tell me, did the doctor perform a colonoscopy on your mother to find out if she was pregnant, as opposed to an ultrasound?”

JJ's lips were pulled inwards in a tight, flat grimace, as if she was trying and failing to stifle her laughter, and Spencer found himself playing side-eye ping-pong between you and Officer Harrison.

“Why, you bit—” Officer Harrison stammered, face growing a tint of red and fists comically clenched.

“Jonathan,” Sheriff Mendoza had interjected then, sternly. “Why don't you take a walk? Go on, get some air.”

Officer Harrison looked as if he was going to self-combust from how ruddy his face was and how sweat accrued on his temple. His shoulders were trembling when he attempted to storm out. He seemed ready to shoulder-check you, but you put a hand on his chest and held him in place.

“Officer Harrison. Harrison. Jonathan? Johnny? Johnny, by all means, please underestimate me again,” you told him lowly. “It'll make the look on your face when I ruin your life funnier.”

With that, you finally let him go, and he bulldozed his way out of the bullpen. You could practically hear his teeth grinding.

“... I'm sorry for him,” Sheriff Mendoza had offered awkwardly, a deep sigh pulled out of his chest.

You had shrugged. “Natural selection will do its work.”

Spencer thought you had never looked lovelier than in that moment.

He shook his head to clear the memory away. “Maybe she doesn't hate my guts,” he admitted reluctantly. “But I'm still his least favorite person here.”

“Wow,” Morgan said exaggeratedly. “For a genius, you can be stupid sometimes. She clearly likes you, man. Look, tell you what, the next time she picks up a fight with you, tell her this: ‘you are hot when you're talking about statistics’.” He was laughing by the end of it while Spencer choked with his own saliva. “She'll love it, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?” he replied. “She's so emotionally repressed and so unapologetically herself, I don't think anything I do will ever get a real reaction out of her.”

“Trust me on this one, kid,” was all Morgan said with a pat to his back.

Spencer spent the rest of the day thinking about his words. When he first met you, you had offered him a handshake like most other people. He rambled his well-practiced explanation, “A study shows that the number of organisms, both pathogenic and non-pathogenic, that are passed during handshakes is staggering. Kissing is actually more sanitary than handshakes.” But instead of looking at him like he was a weirdo, you had stared at him, unshakeable, and replied,

“I can say ‘a study shows that shooting yourself in the head is an efficient way to de-stress’, but if I don't say what study it is, then does the study really exist?”

That was the first time his heart lurched in your presence. When he spoke again, his voice was a bit breathless, “Uh, it's a study published in The Public Health Journal, by H. W. Hill and Helen M. Matthews. Volume 17, number 7, July, 1927, I-I mean, 1926. It's titled Transfer of Infection by Handshakes. Pages 347 to 352. I-I can get you a copy of it.”

You blinked at him, but he didn't feel as if you thought he was a freak. He felt like you were amazed by him. It brought his heart to his throat.

“Is that so,” you had said. “Then, I expect it to be delivered at my doorstep at 5 o'clock sharp, tomorrow. Military time.”

He had been stunned into silence for a few seconds. “That's... unreasonable. I don't even know where you live.”

You said, “It's quite standard.”

“Then you have unreasonable standards.”

“I've been told.”

Spencer had thought you and him would become something like best friends. For the first week and a half, you had been quite friendly with him, and often listened to his rambles. But then, then he had made the terrible mistake of correcting an innocuous error you made regarding a statistic, and the look you had shot at him could have curled water. From that point on, you seemed to have made it your life mission to fight him at any chance.

And yet—he never got the feeling you did it out of malice. He thought you did hate him on some level, but when you argued against his points during a case, there was a glint in your eye. Like you were still amazed by him. Sometimes, you even finished his rambles when he couldn't land them. Sometimes, you were the only one who listened to him when he sidetracked. To him, you defined the wonder of globalization. When you were there, it was like talking to the stars, and having the stars answering him back in perplexing, secret ways. He kind of figured this out when you smiled at his existentialist joke. You told him it wasn't funny, but your eyes were bright.

Maybe trying Morgan's advice wouldn't go so bad.

If only you weren’t so prickly. And clever and quick, he added in his head, just in case you were hearing his thoughts. He wouldn’t put it past your abilities. For three weeks, Spencer hadn’t managed yet to seize a situation in which Morgan’s advice worked at his favor. It wasn’t until the team, you and him included, obviously, went out for drinks that he finally got his chance.

“You aren’t drinking?” he asked you. You were cradling a Virgin Margarita in your hands, and for a moment he wished your fingers were curled around his own instead of the glass.

“No,” you said. “You’re clearly the best in the profiling game. Take pride on this display of your observational skills for the rest of your life.”

He sighed. You were impossible. Still, he couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice when he said, “You don’t have to be so defensive with me.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, and he arched an eyebrow. “I have to be especially defensive with you.”

“That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Why do you have to, uh, be ‘especially’ defensive with me?”

You didn’t answer him. But he knew you couldn’t go without having the last word, so he patiently waited for you to gather a satisfactorily poignant response. In the meantime, he took the time to examine your face; there was a quality to it he would never find a perfect word to describe it. Maybe it was your supraorbital ridge, or your posterior zygomatic arch, or even the vertical length of your forehead. He just knew you were lovely. He had never been comfortable with not knowing something, but with you, he didn’t need to know. He would rather discover you, if you would let him. If you were full of secrets, he would work them out; if he only found hatred for him, he would press his mouth to it and relish in it.

“Because you have a BA in Psychology,” you ended up saying, stoic as ever, “and I’m a soft girl with mental health issues.”

He laughed. It took him a lot of time to figure out that—the more matter-of-factly you said something, the less serious you were. Your lips quirked up in a little smile, and you sipped your drink. The rest of the team—besides Hotch—hadn’t yet realized your tell-tale sign.

The words escaped him before he could think them over, “You’re cute when you pretend to be emotionless.”

Your facial expression didn’t change, and that was alright, because when you turned your head to the side—he could clearly see the faint blush on your cheekbones. “Fool.”

Ah, he realized. I won. You were at a loss of words. Because of him.

“You know, the word ‘fool’ comes from Old French fol, which means ‘madman, insane person’ and ‘idiot, jester’, and fol is from Medieval Latin follus, adjective for ‘foolish’. The evolution of its meaning can probably be attributed to the use of follis in a sense of ‘empty-headed person’. The word was also used in Middle English for ‘sinner, rascal, impious person’. It actually must have been passed to the English language via its borrowing in the Scandinavian language of the Vikings. And did you know that the association between April 1 and foolishness in Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales could have been a copying error and...”

You didn’t look at him as he continued going on his tangent, but he knew that you were listening intently. Because your body was angled towards him, even if you kept your face away from his gaze, and when he took a pause to breathe, you hummed in acknowledgment only for his ears.

Globalization was saying hello and someone answering hola from miles away.

But you didn’t need to answer him for Spencer to understand you were in love with him and he was in love with you.

[mimikyusrealform]

Writing a Spencer Reid x Unsub!Reader because I have no self-control, and I want to write but I can't put out a single sentence for the other 100 WIPs I have.

[mimikyusrealform]

Watching criminal minds for the first time- I’m still only halfway through S7 but I have some thoughts on both the characters and the fandom-

1. This fandom infantilizes the shit out of Reid and it’s wildly ironic considering how much he canonically hates that. Also, I am so sorry, but that man is not as hot as y’all insist he is-

2. I fully believe the only reason there’s like no Rossi love is because y’all don’t want to fuck him. As a resident lesbian, let me say that I love Hotch so much, but Rossi is so funny and his relationships with the team are severely underrated.

3. Whyyyy do they make Morgan so chill 90% of the time and then he just comes swinging out of the gate with wildly misogynistic shit?? It actually makes me angry. Like his whole thing with Elle, and the way he basically slut-shamed Emily when he was pissed at her about Doyle? Wild.

4. Y’all will call the female characters stuck-up/bitchy/entitled for doing the exact same things you praise the male characters for, and it’s so obvious it’s wild,,,

5. Actively disliking Garcia is such a red flag, end of discussion.

6. Elle lashing out at Hotch is not a valid reason to dislike her unless you also dislike literally every other main character. Seriously. They’ve pretty much all unfairly lashed out at other members of the team when under extreme stress (Dilaudid, Prince of Darkness, Doyle, etc.) and never apologized on-screen for it.

7. Hotch is genuinely a really good unit chief- mans is pretty much constantly killing it

8. Penelope & Hotch are such an underrated duo, every time they interact Hotch is so sweet to her, and it’s obvious how much they respect each other. 20/10 relationship

9. There’s no ship that I actually LOVE between the BAU members. Spencer/Elle and Emily/JJ are probably the two I like the most, but nothing I love

10. I really wish they had tried to give Seaver a personality beyond “replacement J.J.” but straight up hating her is wild to me.

[mimikyusrealform]

i don't think martha is actually in love with ten. he's just so insanely pathetic and she's so empathetic that she has a powerful instinct to save him from himself. and it's so strong and new that she thinks it's love. but actually it's just that she's never met someone that pathetic before.

[mimikyusrealform]

Nine would have thought Martha Jones was the coolest person in the world. Doesn’t even matter where in the timeline this was or what happened to Rose, he would have loved her leather jacket and her hairstyle. He would have loved that she was a DOCTOR! Her studying to be a doctor was so overlooked and he would have loved it. He would have thought she was the coolest person alive. Nine and Donna would have killed each other on sight

[mimikyusrealform]

six degrees of separation

Spencer Reid x Reader. Word Count: 1781. Summary: While circulating the photo of a serial killer around a bar in New York, Spencer gets distracted by the sight of someone who used to only exist in his memories. Notes and Warnings: Set around Season 2 before Revelations, because S2 Reid is the loveliest he's ever been. There's a bit of cussing, and mentions of bullying (not particularly explicit), so read at your own discretion.

The man in front of you is familiar. It's better to say that his face is familiar to you, but not the man himself.

He's asking something, “Have you seen this guy?” In a nervous way, his left hand's fingers, the ones not holding up a fairly young guy's picture, twist and untwist. It's like there's electricity under his skin, and a fuzz in his head. He can't stay still. “Ma'am?” he prompts at your silence.

“What did you say your name was again?” you are asking before you can think it over.

“Uh, I'm Doctor—but you don't have to call me that, it's optional, actually, forget that—Spencer Reid.” He is flustered. You can tell it's not because of you, but because you're a person. Still looking at him, you sip from your Gin and Tonic. His brown hair is smooth and carefully parted, no apparent use of gel, but brushed nicely so it shines, even under the bar's poor lighting. He wears professor clothes: a brown vest, a white button-up and low-rise slacks. He's sinewy and wiry, and you wonder if his bones are naturally thin or it's because he doesn't eat enough. You guess that it might be both.

“Are you from Las Vegas?” you ask him.

“Y-yeah.” He's changed the picture to his left hand, and his right one rubs at the back of his neck. “How did you know? Nevermind. I need to know if you've seen this man?”

It clicks, then. You think it's because of that gesture. You squint your eyes at the picture. “No, I haven't.” You stab him in the chest with your index finger. He recoils as if you had actually stabbed him. “Doesn't matter. It's you who I've seen before; I remember now. You're that kid that graduated from high-school at twelve years old. I was a freshman when that happened.”

He blinks owlishly; it's kind of cute. Then, he blinks again, and a third time. With a start, he miraculously says your name. “I didn't recognize you,” he admits shamefully; you wave your hand dismissively. “I-it's good to see you.”

It truly is—good to see you. Spencer doesn't have many fond memories of his time in high-school. But you're certainly one of the few. He never imagined you would remember him, though, he wasn't important to you the way you were, are to him.

You were short, once, this he can picture clearly, with round and rosy cheeks, and crowded teeth. You must have gone through braces, he notes. That, too, he can picture clearly; well, imagine it. You've grown up. Of course, you've grown up. It's such a menial observation that it makes him embarrassed, somehow. You're a good memory that he's kept dearly, close to his heart. After all, you saved him, twice. Twice! The first time from himself, and the second time from others. How he hadn't immediately recognized you, it was beyond him. You are just as pretty and impossible as an adult as when you were a kid.

The first time, he had been walking out of school with a dejected drag of the feet. Mary Clarkson had made fun of him in Math class because he stammered when answering a complex question, and that had been enough to dim the sun in the sky. He needed to cross the street, and he vaguely checked both ways, head still hung low, before attempting to cross. And then, a hand pulled him by the scruff, harshly and violently, almost throwing him over his back on the ground. He reacted accordingly, jolting out of the hold, thinking he was about to get beaten up. But what he came face-to-face with was your scowl at the same time that behind him, a car exceeding the speed limit whipped through the street.

You had said, in an extremely high-pitched voice while digging your index finger into his chest, “Are you actually dumb? They say you're a genius, but geniuses look both sides before crossing the street! You're just silly, after all!” Your intonation was kind of obnoxious, but then you grabbed his wrist, the right one, pried his fingers open and gently deposited a Hershey's Kiss from your backpack on his palm. “Get better,” you had said, and bolted away to join your own friends, who were all giggling at the display. He always looks both ways after that. And sometimes, he feels true warmth in his chest, where your fingertip had marked him an eternity ago.

The second time was just a month before senior graduation. His senior graduation. Mark Brown and his two friends-slash-lackeys had been throwing him around the lockers, and everyone else either ignored them or hid their smirks behind their hands. Brown was saying something like, “C'mon, I got to teach you. You like learning, don't you, freak? Hold him, you gu—” Brown was a senior, so he was about seventeen years old, almost eighteen. And you were just a freshman, freshly fourteen-years-old. And yet you had walked up behind Brown, gripping the straps of your backpack between your bony fingers, and hurled it at the back of his head, almost knocking him down. Spencer vividly remembers the tingle that ran up his spine at the sound of your shrill yet demanding voice telling Brown to, “Move out of the way, skank! You're crowding my goddamn locker! Filthy, stupid bitch, are you blind or did your junkie father finally beat all the braincells out of your head?”

Then, you forcefully hit the other two guys with your backpack as well until they dispersed. Years later, Spencer would come to know why Brown couldn't hit you. Why Brown would never hit a girl, and instead of fighting you, he scattered. You had placed your hands on your hips and glared at him, before saying, “If you like to learn so much, then why don't you learn how to throw a punch? How to kick a roundhouse. No school director is expelling you. Or, at least, learn how to talk back at stupid skanks. If you can not be stronger, then be smarter, silly.”

Silly, silly, silly. That was the second time you called him silly, the second time you saved him.

“Is that so,” you are saying now. “Then, I suppose it's nice seeing you, too. Who's that man, anyway?”

He glances down at the picture in his own hand, like he had forgotten it was there. “Oh, yeah. Um, this is a suspect in a case I—”

“Are you the police?” you interrupt.

“O-oh, no. No, I'm not. FBI,” he explains, pulling out his badge and showing it to you. 

There's a glint in your eyes. “FBI,” you repeat, voice a tiny bit as shrill as he remembered it being. “How old are you?”

“I'm twenty-four,” he tells you earnestly. Does that impress you? It embarrasses him how much he wants it to impress you. “I, uh, joined when I was twenty-two.”

“I'm twenty-six,” you tell him, expectantly.

He isn't sure how he knows what you want him to say, but he says, “Congratulations. You look younger.”

You don't preen at his words, but you smile at him, and it's the first time he's seen your smile, despite having daydreamed about what it would look like many times before. It's nothing like his imagination. It's not wide and smooth nor is it sweet. It's lopsided, crooked; and he can see your canines are a bit askew and sharp. When you turn your head to the side to take a sip from your white-night drink, he memorizes the planes of your profile. The valley of your cheek, the crest of the bone under your eye, the cliff of your nose bone. He sees the very naked neck, the precipice between your collarbones. Your face is lovely and curious, and so is the slope of your bare shoulders. He wants to run his fingers down the spaghetti-straps of your dress, that dig into your skin. He wonders if the straps are drawing red lines.

He wants to say something, maybe all he wants is for you to listen to him, but then he hears Morgan calling him.

You hear it, too; you don't know who's calling for him, but you know it's more important than you. So you tilt your head towards him in acknowledgement that he has to go. “Goodbye, Doctor,” you say, smiling again. “Goodbye, silly.”

“No, wait,” he stumbles. “We—I still have some time. Let me—”

“Time?” you interrupt him again. “Funny business, time. It delights frustrating your plans. Don't you know?”

His brain catches up to the reference before himself. “The Seventh Doctor,” he mutters. He sounds surprised to his own ears. “From Dragonfire; Season 24, Serial 4. Broadcasted from November 23 to December 7 of 1987. I was six years old when it came out. The Doctor said it to Mel at the end of the third part.”

You are looking at him with amusement at the same time Morgan calls for him again. “What, do you think I can't like Doctor Who?”

“No, not at all,” he recomposes himself, clears his throat, and almost trips back when you grab his wrist, the right one. “W-what are you doing?” His voice is a couple semitones higher.

You don't answer him. Instead, you take a pen from your dress' pocket and write something on his soft skin.

When he lifts his hand in front of his face, he blushes terribly at the sight of what he assumes—hopes—is your phone number.

“Call me,” you say. You pause, and then add, “Don't be silly and start overthinking it. Good night, Doctor.”

You leave after that.

He's left dazzled and dazed, standing there. He feels like a raw wire, and there's a pleasant flow of warmth spreading through his body from where your fingers curled around his joint.

He runs away when he sees Morgan's arched eyebrows and mirthful expression. Not before catching the mocking mimic of, “Good night, Doctor.” He groans a quick shut up in his haste to leave the establishment.

He's such a coward. But he's not coward enough not to call you later that night during the flight back to Quantico. He texts, “Who's your favorite Doctor?” And feels like kicking himself. Who starts a conversation like that? Before he can delete it and disappear, you reply, “I'm not sure, Dr. Reid. I don't think he exists yet. Why, did you want me to say you are my favorite Doctor?”

Morgan laughs the whole flight after reading over his shoulder.

Surprisingly, he finds he can't be embarrassed about it. Not when you spend the rest of the night texting him.