#lying on my back in a gutter in the rain. metaphorically.

[orcelito]

Omfg. So I've long had a sensitivity to sugar. Can't eat too much of it w/o feeling nauseous. Etc etc. Just kinda the way of my life.

I was talking with family over the weekend tho and it came up and they were like. "Maybe you should get checked for pre-diabetes" 😅😅

& see the thing is. I have. So many family members who are/were diabetic. On both sides of the family. I really do have a genetic predisposition for it, maybe. Enough to make it worth getting checked out haha

[okimargarvez]

METEOROLOGY- Rain

Original title: Meteorology.

Prompt: climatic metaphors, phases of love.

Warning: none

Genre: drama, romantic, comedy, angst, family, friendship.

Characters: Luke Alvez, Penelope Garcia, BAU team, Phil (Luke’s partner), Phil’s wife, Roxy, Derek Morgan.

Pairing: Garvez, Phil x Lucille.

Note: Multichapter.

Legend: 💏😘😈👓🔦🐶❗👨‍👩‍👧‍👦💍🎈

Song mentioned: Via con me, Paolo Conte.

Meteorology- Masterlist

MY OTHER GARVEZ STORIES

RAIN

If the rain surprises you halfway, and you walk faster to find shelter, going under the gutters or in the uncovered places you will wet anyway. If, however, you admit from the beginning the possibility of wetting you, you don't bother from it, even if you wet yourself anyway. The same mood, by analogy, applies on other occasions. (Yamamoto Tsunetomo, Hagakure)

 Every time you repeat "I'm okay" you lied. Whenever you raise your shoulders or sketch a smile, start a play that you don't even notice yourself acting. You're actor and at the same time spectator of your actions. It's certainly easier to pretend it's all right for you, which she's still here and not just in spirit form. But everything that happens seems a pretext to bring her in the center of all your thoughts. You deny and cancellations so many thoughts as "I have to ask Mama for an opinion, she sure knows" since you lost count.

You get up every morning with the same neutral expression. Even when you're alone just giving yourself the luxury of a vent and by dint of repress it (you only notice it while you tie your shoes, it has been a year already) you're no longer able to feel such emotions. And gradually you cease to feel in general, isolate you from the outside because others let you do it.

And it's perfect so, nothing you'd like more. No one who stress you, who demand more than you can offer. No one who notices that you're not dying, because you're already dead. In general, no one. Except for that dog that's just looking at you now with its head tilted to one side. The only privileged creature who understood everything, which went beyond the mask. You caress it with gentle gestures and thrust your face into its fur. It would be nice to stay here forever.

Unfortunately, the reality waits for you and breaks the quiet through a phone ringing, abandoned on the bedside table. You sigh, to grant yourself another moment. Then you give up and answer.

-Alvez. What? Thank you for warning me, Rossi. Yes, I'll be there in twenty minutes. All right, you too.-.

Yours is a lonely job, you do not have a partner to compare yourself (no more in the last four years), you are simply entrusted a tot missions, every month, depending on the degree of difficulty assumed. They send you all the information you need to make it work the best. You study for hours those lines, trying to become the person who will go unnoticed in the environment that makes up the context, the habitat where you will live for a few days. You always camouflage yourself to perfection, you are, without modesty, because others say that, the strongest, the best in this kind of work.

Before Phil, you liked it too: hunting, wait, surveillance, setting the trap. The capture of the prey. But the whole game stopped when he was seriously injured. And you might be successful. You have discovered that you are not invulnerable or a superhero as you believed until shortly before.

You take a look at Roxy, lying on the bed with a sad expression. Scientists say that dogs do not realize the time pass, they don't have the ability to see if is spend an hour or a whole day and so suffer less of us. But it's not Disney's or Warner Bros cartoon style anthropomorphism and it's not about projecting emotions and human actions on animals. Your dog's eyes are sad, bigger and shiny than when you’re playing with it in the yard or in the evening while you’re watching a movie napping on the couch. You're ready to discuss with whoever of the question, to fighting with wholeheartedly. No one will ever convince you that Roxy doesn't know that you' won’t come back soon, or if the case that Rossi mentioned to you is as it seems, perhaps you'll be away for many days (you have already warned Jessica of this possibility).

The day hasn’t started yet and you're already tired. Once you couldn't wait the time to go to work. Also, to resume the conversation with Phil, left open the day before.  He always repeats the same thing: "When do you decide to find a girl? Lucille and I are tired of having you as a third wheels". And your answers, always elusory. The truth is that a woman able to put up with you is probably never born and Roxy is certainly the great consolation prize that the Tenant Upstairs has sent to you to overcome this lack. Not that you don't want to go home and find there a pretty girl just lying by your dog. But now you’re resigned not to reclaim more. You're incapable of settle for and all the women you have known aren't too good for you; they're never even remotely comparable to her.

This is the only thing that hasn’t changed, today like four years ago.

You must stop comparing all the girls you know with your mother. No one will ever win. Do you honestly not see it? The wise words of your best friend resound in your mind. Without any results.

You enter the subway, ignoring the infinite flow of humans that moves like a swarm of insects around you. Where will they be directed? Why are they in such a hurry? Do they know that those few seconds or minutes they save won't do anything when they will start vomiting blood or their body eat itself?

The train arrives, stops and vomits all passengers, a scene that reminds you of the Soviet films of the 1920s that so passionate your brother, documentarist. Yet many of the bystanders try to enter before all those who want it has come down. Someone pushes you, and right in front of you a blond woman stumble. You don't have time to think about trying to help her; you watch her to waver and then remaining standing, just because people around her drag her away with them.

The doors close behind the girl and the wagon leaves. You notice that she turns herself, but everything is blurry, you can only see a few traits of her face, especially a pair of glasses and sad eyes that lie behind the lenses, so big and absent. But not for apathy, like the others. You recognize that gaze. It's that greet you every morning reflecting your image in the mirror.

You stare her until she disappears; at no time she seems to realize that you exist, even if her head is turned in your direction.

You feel a bit upset, but then you forget it all. Another train arrives, you get aboard, and you try not to hear any speech. Soon liberation comes. You get down, looking at umbrellas and waterproof popping up like mushrooms among those who are waiting to take your place on board.

While you obliterate the ticket at the exit, you hear the warning. Someone committed suicide on the other line. Most people puffing, some like you have the smart idea of not saying anything. As soon as you reach the stairs that lead outside you notice the change.

Moisture permeates the air. You haven't prepared anything to repair yourself. So you enjoy all the caresses you receive in the rain which fits so well with your inner mood.

[supernaturally-writing]

Witches, Man.

A/N: So, ever since Regarding Dean, I have officially been run over by the Ship Train! I’ve lowkey shipped Rowena and Dean, and I’ve wanted to write something for them, but I simply had no motivation, ideas, or time. Soooo, I opened my blog to ideas for smut, and Dean x Rowena popped up! So, of course, I knew the universe had to be telling me something, so here it is! Requested by @apritelleorai, who shares my mindset with this ship! 

Word Count: 1985

Warnings: SMUT. It’s all smut, almost no plot. Like, at all. Rough smut, irritated Dean. 

Summary: A rowdy coven of witches brings together two polar opposites as Rowena and Dean steak out to bring them down. A formal party sets the scene for potions, spells, and fogged bathroom mirrors. Who knows what happened to the pair in that bar-- and who knows if they’ll regret the consequences, or if they’ll find a new, unmistakable chemistry. 

(I’m shit at summaries.) 

Masterlist 

It was no secret that I’ve never particularly liked Rowena. It’s no secret that the feeling was mutual, either. But damn, could that woman clean up well.

Those were the thoughts that ran through Dean’s head, lightning quick flashes of barely coherent thought, as Rowena stepped out of her temporary room in the Bunker. They’d grouped together for a hunt, using Rowena’s knowledge of the witch community to infiltrate a local hub of covens. It had taken several weeks to work their way into the trust of the community, at least enough to be invited to a Saturday night party in one of their underground (literally and metaphorically) bars. Sam hadn’t been too happy with the arrangement, though the older Winchester hadn’t seen much of him as of late. He’d been in and out, popping in every few days as he drove around on some much needed solo missions. The space had alleviated some of the tension between the brothers, but it had also left Dean alone with Rowena. Unsupervised. While Rowena strutted her stuff about the Bunker, as if the whole ordeal were nothing at all, and they weren’t trying to take out an entire coven of witches.

It was Saturday night, the night of their big infiltration, and the occasion called for formal attire. Initially, Dean had scowled in the mirror, pulling at the collar of his red button-up. The tie made the outfit pop; black silk with undertones of navy blue that shimmered and shifted between the colors in the light. Now, though, as he stood with his hands in the pockets of his slacks, he hated the situation even more. After all. . . It had brought him to this.

Rowena emerged from her room looking like a goddess incarnate. Womanly curves hugged by off-white silk, one shoulder bare while the other arm was hidden away under a thin sleeve that stretched all the way to her wrist. Dean’s eye caught on the low neckline; the fabrics pushed up and exaggerated the line of a woman’s cleavage. And oh, did it work. Still, he didn’t allow his gaze to linger too long; when he met Rowena’s eyes, she was smirking, red-swathed lips pulled into a devilish smile.

“Like what’cha see, Winchester?”

“Shut up,” he snapped, and turned on his heel to walk down the hall towards the garage. Still, despite his attitude, he had to reach down and adjust himself, ensuring that his hard-on wouldn’t be tenting his slacks the whole night.

The two sat in the Impala, watching the entrance to the location they’d been given via text the hour before. Rowena fixed her makeup in a compact while Dean ignored her; she wiped at her waterline, ensuring her eyeliner was perfect. She hadn’t put on any shadow today, and the simple swipe of kohl had made her look. . . Younger. Impossibly more attractive. It really wasn’t fair.

Dean twiddled his thumbs as he gripped the steering wheel, listening to the pitter-patter of the rain on the roof as he tried to ignore the heat of the woman beside him. She sighed softly, delicious lips parting to elicit an equally as delicious sound, and Dean ground his teeth. His head was in the gutter, and it would probably get them killed, or worse.

“Ready, Winchester?” Rowena asked, ire lacing her tone as she turned to watch him. Dean could feel her stare, as if it were a hot iron, burning through his core, pulling the truth out of him.

God, did he hate that woman. But man, given the chance. . . He wouldn’t say no to seeing what that impudent mouth could do.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he finally muttered, climbing out of the Impala. He remembered with a jolt that they were posing as a couple, the most cliche excuse ever, and sulked his way around to the passenger side of the car. Opening the door and holding out an umbrella for a woman had never been so difficult.

Getting inside was easy. They had the text, the clothes, the happy-couple-facade. Acting had always been second nature to him, just under hunting, and Rowena proved to be just as skilled at lying and smiling. The difficult part was working their way through the crowd and trying to stay as far off radar as possible. Still, to blend in, Dean slipped his arm around Rowena’s lower back, his hand resting on her hip; he growled when she giggled, her thin hand patting his clenched fingers. He was probably hurting her, with how hard he was gripping her hip. He decided he didn’t care.

They’d just made their way to the bar when a woman in a silver cocktail dress sidled up beside them. She leaned against the bar on Rowena’s side, a flirtatious smirk curling at her lips. Glitter sparkled every time she blinked; Dean found himself immediately drawn to her. He scolded himself, his consciousness reeling, when he finally realized he was relaxing, leaning in, pressing Rowena closer to the woman as he leaned forward.

Who knew what kind of spells and potions these people had mixed up. With that thought, he set down the whiskey he’d ordered, his tongue going dry.

The two witches conversed easily, talking some nonsense about business Dean had no place being in. So, to detach himself, he excused himself to the restroom.

Luckily for him, no one else was in the bathroom, and he was free to lean against the bank of sinks and rub his face. Being away from the crowd, away from the stench of cologne and perfumes and whatever witch bullshit they had out there, allowed him to breathe properly. He pulled in deep lungfuls of clean air, exhaling long and slow.

He flicked on the cool water, letting it run for three heartbeats, before he dipped his cupped hands under the flow and pressed his face into his palms. The cool felt sharp against his skin; his cock jumped in his trousers, still as hard as it had been when they’d left the Bunker. At this point, it was really beginning to ache; he winced when he adjusted himself again.

He mentally steeled himself to return to the crowd of witches.

He shut off the water and wiped his face before trudging back for the door-- only, he didn’t make it to the threshold before the door was swinging open, admitting a flushed Rowena. She pressed the door closed behind her, the lock audibly clicking home. Dean went rigid, hand drifting for the holster under his arm.

“Always so serious,” Rowena purred, pushing off of the door. She sashayed towards him, even as Dean retreated, her gaze raking up and down his form. The heat of her eyes, the weight of her stare as she finally met his own gaze, made Dean’s blood rush-- and it definitely didn’t help the situation downstairs. “Relax, Winchester. I’m not gonna hurt ‘ya. In fact. . . I wanna do the exact opposite.” The redhead allowed a small giggle, her smile only growing when Dean’s back hit the opposite wall.

Warning bells peeled through his brain. This wasn’t Rowena. Sure, it was her body, her accent, her insolent smile-- but it wasn’t her. Something was off. She was too. . . Flirty.

He’d just opened his mouth to tell her to shove off, that he’d shoot her with no regret whatsoever and leave her to rot in this bathroom, when her scent hit him. She smelled like roses and sugar and sex incarnate. The smells clashed, mingled, washed over him and muddled his senses, until she was all he could think about.

A memory pricked at his brain, a sentence or instinct or something, but Dean couldn’t place it. All that mattered was Rowena, in front of him, hands drifting all over her own body. Her fingers pressed and squeezed at one breast, the other hand drifting to her bare shoulder. She hooked her digits in the material of her dress and pulled it down in one leisurely tug. Dean’s eyes followed the slide of silk all the way down to her ankles, before his gaze tracked back up her body. She’d gone commando, and now she was as naked as the day she was born.

Dean didn’t know when he’d started shedding clothes. He registered shrugging off his suit coat, flinging it on the counter as a cushion before he stepped forward and swept Rowena off her feet, placing her bare ass on the material. She kicked off her heels and he unbuttoned his trousers, shimmying them down his hips until they were pooled at his ankles.

Rowena reached out and pushed Dean back before he would pin her and fuck her, her hands encircling his cock and giving one exploratory pump. Her fingers tightened, loosened, pulled and pushed, and Dean threw his head back, eyes fluttering closed as heat flared through his veins, centering in his abdomen.

He batted her hands away with a growl before he could cum.

“I’ll never last long enough to fuck you if you keep doin’ that, Princess,” he gasped, replacing her hand with his to squeeze the base of his cock.

“Queen. If you’re goin’ to give me nicknames, might as well be accurate about it,” Rowena snipped in response. She gave him a haughty smirk as he growled, low and feral, irritation sparking behind his sternum. He snapped his hands out, fingers digging into hipbones, and pulled the witch forward, until her legs were draped around his waist and his head was pressed to her entrance.

She was absolutely dripping.

“Fuck-- I really hate you sometimes, y’know that?” Still, Dean pushed into her, pulling her down onto his hips as he pistoned upwards in one sharp thrust. She gasped and clawed as his arms, now bare, his shirt and tie discarded some time ago. Her muscles fluttered around him, clenching and relaxing as she adjusted to his size, and he tipped his head forward to rest his forehead on her shoulder.

“The feelin’s mutual, love,” she finally drawled, rolling her hips. She’d relaxed enough around him for him to retract his hips and pump forward again. The sounds between them were outrageously pornographic; it only turned the pair on even more.

Dean set a brutal pace, plunging forward hard and fast, pressing against the resistance of her cervix with every thrust. There was no kissing, though Rowena bit all along Dean’s shoulder, and the Winchester left several dark hickies on Rowena’s. Before Dean could cum, he pulled out, much to Rowena’s displeasure, and pulled her off the counter. He bent her over the sink, so she was facing the mirror, and plunged into her depths again.

They watched each other as they took turns fucking; Dean thrusting quick and deep, Rowena rolling her hips long and shallow. By the time Dean finally pressed home with a grunt and a string of curses, twitching as deep within her as his hips could press, Rowena had came twice, shouting her ecstasy for all to hear, should anyone have been listening.

They cleaned up shakily, and in thick silence, Rowena wiping up the mess between her legs while Dean cleaned the slick from his member, which was still half hard and quickly twitching back to life. The stamina puzzled him; he didn’t feel winded, or tired, like he normally did. He felt like he was seventeen again, ready for another round. Nevertheless, he stuffed himself back into his trousers, adjusting himself so he wouldn’t be so obvious. When he turned around again, fully clothed and mostly intact, Rowena was standing by the door, looking very much like she hadn’t just been bent over the counter and fucked until she screamed.

Some small part of Dean hated her all the more for looking just as delectable as she had ten minutes beforehand.  

Dean plastered on a smile nevertheless, and followed Rowena back into the fray.

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