The Cage Is Open, You Can Walk Out Anytime You Want (Why Are You Still Here?),

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

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

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

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

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

w.c: 3.2k

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

────────────

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

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

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

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

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

Those with ASD have a doubled risk of substance use.

He never stood a chance. Did he?

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

He feels like an outlaw to his own team.

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

How did everyone else?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The aftermath of the Hankel case.

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

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

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

He always anticipates a flinch that never comes.

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

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

Will he ever live outside of his mind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

“That’s if they find out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even at his ugliest, you still stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re exhausted, lie down.”

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

“What are you gonna do? Tuck me in?”

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

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

“Then call someone else next time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why? Why would you do this—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know what you’re signing up for.

“Yeah. I’ll stay. Through it all.”

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

Tags

this is BEAUTIFUL spencer reid criminal minds spencer reid x reader spencer reid x you spencer reid x y/n spencer reid fluff spencer reid angst my jaw is on the floor criminal minds imagines criminal minds fan fiction

Reblog if you've ever cried over the death of a fictional character

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patrickispinky

1 month ago

I want one of those scenes in a dude bro film where “tomboy” chick has to wear a dress to go undercover or whatever, but instead of the guys drooling as she walks down the stairs, they’re like “k. U need to stop. Go put the cargo pants back on. You look super uncomfortable and awkward in that. Brutus, you go be the fake prostitute.”

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patrickispinky

1 year ago

Milan.

695 notes View Post

patrickispinky

2 months ago

Alphabet Soup

summary: prompt fill. the journey of a clandestine love affair at several stages because Wally Clark craves what he can't have and refuses to keep his hands to himself. and you live for it.

pairing: grey!Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: smut. AU - modern setting. romanticized toxic behavior. cheating. egregious use of the word 'baby'.

bon reading, frens

___________________________🧿

Alphabet Soup - U

U is for uh-oh, oops, and oh no. Even if it isn't Wally's fault, having become more and more unhinged as things between you and him unfold into something so perfect and permanent, Wally thinks he's died and gone to heaven.

He's caught with his head buried between your thighs, his chin and mouth shiny with your juices. He licks his lips, unbothered, raises a brow at Janet as she stands there wearing the ugliest scowl Wally has ever seen on her face, her body vibrating with unfettered rage. He sits back, naked and on display, lazily stroking his cock with pride in his eyes.

"Get out," He tells her calmly, and she closes door behind her because what the fuck else is she going to do? Watch? Wally slants his head toward you, smirking, crawling up your body to kiss you with unbridled passion, grinding his cock between your wet folds to coax you back into the right headspace. "Don't worry, baby," He coos, "She's gone." Since you can't see from under the blindfold, your wrists bound to his headboard.

You whimper, clearly unnerved by Janet's intrusion despite not having seen or heard her, the bitch wielding feline grace when it suits her. She isn't supposed to be at Wally's house, in his apartment above his family's garage. Janet was in the throes of organizing prom with the rest of the committee and wasn't due to meet him until tomorrow morning for another rundown of their court dance. Smile, wave, make a dumb speech thanking everyone for their votes. Blah blah blah, Wally doesn't care.

He's been on her shitlist since last week, anyway, so what's another nail in the coffin? He actually feels relieved that Janet discovered you and him. It gets him hotter, harder, more desperate for you, because now he isn't shackled to late nights and impromptu weekends alone. Wally can have you whenever he fucking wants. Which has steadily turned into always over the course of the year.

And, wow, has it really been that long?

He knows Janet hasn't left, doesn't hear her car pull out of the drive, so he greedily, selfishly, shamelessly eats your cunt like a Michelin Star meal. Tongue probing your pussy as he moans at how good you taste, his eyes rolling back in his head from it, and the whole time you're keening and crying out and begging him not to stop, oh fuck Wally, I'm so close, please please. Don't worry, baby, he loves this probably more than you do.

When you come, shouting his name for Janet to hear what she never had a chance in hell to get from him, Wally fucks you like reckoning. Paints your chest and belly like a Jackson Pollock before he releases your wrists and soothes you with affection. As you doze, he tucks you in, kisses your hair, vows to be back in five minutes, dons a pair of low-slung sweats and a smug grin as he lopes out of the room, down the stairs, and meets Janet outside the door.

"Something I can do for you?" He asks, obviously unruffled which just drives Janet fucking nuts.

She wants an apology.

Wally laughs in her face, "For what? It's not like I'm really cheating on you."

She wants an explanation.

Wally snorts, "I don't owe you shit." He doesn't. Janet was never his girlfriend. She was never anything. A pest at most, an inconvenience at least.

"You don't get to have her." Janet seethes as if she has some kind of say in it.

Again, Wally laughs, shakes his head, tells her where to go as impolitely as he can. "She's already mine," He states, breezy, sucking the fingers he fucked you with to stress the point. Janet has a prima donna meltdown right there on his parents' lawn, stomps her foot and positions herself to slap him. He catches her wrist easily, stares her dead in the eyes, "You jealous, Janet?"

He fondles himself, pushes her arm away and grins, "Is this what you wanted?" Then he glances to his window, slides his gaze back to her, chuckling darkly, "Or is it her?" She doesn't answer, her face flaming, brows knitted, jaw clenched, "Is that why you wanted me to stay away from her? Because you wanted her all to yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up, Clark," Janet growls.

Wally knows it's not true; he's merely enjoying himself. He knows that Janet is actually just jealous of you, not because she wants to be with you but because she wants to be you. It's been obvious since Day One of their stupid arrangement. Everything Janet did was an underhanded plot to shrink you down as small as Janet feels.

"I'll show her the video." Janet threatens, voice low and menacing, full of umbrage. "She'll never look at you again."

In an instant, Wally's in her space, fire in his eyes, "I fucking dare you."

He hasn't exactly planned for this, but he's tired of worrying about it. If you walk away, you walk away—Wally's heart stutters—at least he has enough spank bank material to last decades. A blessing since he doesn't think he could get it up for anyone else ever. Thank Christ he saved every picture and video and voice note you've ever sent him.

"I'll make sure you lose Prom King," Janet sneers and, again, he snorts.

"I don't think I could care less," and, taking stock of himself, Wally finds that to be true. "It's just high school, Janet. Get a fucking hobby."

He hears the stairs creak, your honeyed voice from behind him wondering, "What's going on?" and he turns and saunters toward you without a second thought, bundles you into his arms, reveling at how you drown in his football jersey.

"You should go back inside, baby," He says even as he kisses you, soft, warm; hands groping your ass through the polyester. "Don't want my neighbors getting a peek at what's mine," he pecks the tip of your nose and gives you a humble smile that still feels a bit unnatural on his face.

It's then that Janet does the dumbest thing she could think of. She lunges at you while you're still in Wally's arms. A rapid badger fueled by envy. Wally pivots you to safety, blocks Janet's feeble attempts to get at you with his body. She loses steam pretty quickly when Wally doesn't budge.

Janet drives into the sunset with a promise to rat you out. To your mom first and then your dad. You look confused, "Why should I care?" You ask her retreating back, inviting her to go ahead because you've wanted everything out in the open since you and Wally started fucking that fateful afternoon after Janet's pool party.

Later, between dinner with his parents and Avengers: Infinity War on the projector in his apartment, Wally feels a weight lift off his shoulders. No more Janet. No more sneaking around. No more yearning and missed opportunities and bullshit. Just you. Just him. Together for real.

He combs his fingers through your hair as you lounge, draped along his front between his legs, head on his chest, breathing deep in sleep, and Wally realizes for the first time that, despite being free to do whatever he wants now, he still chooses you.

What the hell have you done to me, baby?

Still, his arms tighten around you and he doesn't let you go until it's time to get ready for school.

🧿___________________________

MASTERLIST

also available on AO3!

A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Tags

school spirits wally clark milo manheim disney zombies zed necrodopolis wally clark x reader fem!reader alphabet soup prompt fill wally clark fanfiction milo manheim fanfiction wally clark smut im literally losing my mind alphabet challenge ABC challenge

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patrickispinky

9 months ago

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patrickispinky

1 year ago

Spencer: You're the love of my life, my best friend. I would do anything for you.

Y/n: I want you to eat three meals a day and have a descent sleeping schedule.

Spencer: Absolutely not.

Tags

fanfic fanfiction y/n pov aaron hotchner spencer reid criminal minds derek morgan aaron hotch hotchner aaron hotch x reader criminal minds x reader emily prentiss spencer reid x reader spencer reid x you spencer reid x y/n inccorect quotes emily prentiss x female reader emily prentiss x reader emily prentiss x you derek morgan x reader cm incorrect quotes

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patrickispinky

4 months ago

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

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patrickispinky

1 month ago

If I Open the Door To Heaven Or Hell 6/? [Wally Clark/Reader]

Summary: Wally's reunion brings past regrets and unwelcome visitors. Word Count: 2.7k Author's Note: So, I got sick and I got depressed and it took me a little while to get here, but thank you to everyone for being so patient with me waiting on the next update!

Read On AO3 // Fic Masterlist

The aftermath of visiting your scar still weighed heavily on your mind days later. Wally had done everything in his power to help you, but you knew there was only so much he could do for you. The only person who could help you come to terms with what you suffered was you.

And you just weren’t ready yet.

It didn't help that Mr. Martin had found a way to jump into a body and escape the school. Now, there was no way to know if he would ever be back or if he was going after Janet. Maddie was worried about her friends and if she would ever manage to get her body back. All of you were worried about Janet and Maddie, since Mr. Martin posed the greatest threat to both. Everyone had been trying to theorize what Mr. Martin wanted with the keys and the scars, but no one knew enough to try to fit all the puzzle pieces together yet.

Now, you were sitting at a table that had been set out for Wally's reunion. He was so psyched about it that you hated you were having a hard time pulling yourself out of your misery. Even though Wally had assured you over and over and showed you just how much he cared about you, you still couldn't shake the insecurity you felt every time you saw Wally and Maddie interact. It also didn't help that your mind was consumed with what happened in your scar.

The others had been careful around you. It wouldn't have been so weird if Rhonda hadn't been practically gentle with you. Rhonda was usually the type to not sugarcoat anything. The fact that she was trying to comfort you felt odd, but you didn't know how to tell Rhonda that she was freaking you out. She was a good friend, and you knew she would always have your back, but you didn't know how to handle a different side of her.

You had also managed to catch the end of an argument between Wally and Rhonda not long after you sought out the others once you were ready to leave the tech booth. Charley had pulled you aside, asking if everything was alright. Quinn had surprised you with a hug and Maddie had wondered why you went into your scar. You couldn't tell her it was because of how jealous you got seeing her with Wally, so you only shrugged your shoulders and returned the nod of solidarity Yuri aimed at you.

As you walked back towards Wally and Rhonda, you overheard what Rhonda was telling him.

"--you have any idea how that feels? She went into her scar because you ran after Maddie."

"I know, I know," Wally assured Rhonda. "Don't you think I feel terrible enough about that without you here busting my ass over it?"

Rhonda pulled the ever-present lollipop out of her mouth and pointed it at Wally. "Just think about what you're doing next time. Maybe instead of running off and playing around in the pool with another girl, you bring your girlfriend with you."

"Maddie and I were just blowing off steam," Wally defended himself. "I would never do anything to hurt Y/N."

"And yet you did," Rhonda pointed out with an arched brow. She brushed past Wally, leaving you to finally finish approaching him.

Wally's eyes lit up once he noticed you. "Hey, how about we get out of here, huh? I think we've earned some time just the two of us. They've had enough of us for now. I want you all to myself," he told you before he tugged you forward into a kiss.

It didn't take you long to realize that Rhonda's words must have struck a chord, because he was practically glued to your side after she spoke to him.

You thought maybe Rhonda was being a little too harsh on Wally. But once the adrenaline had faded, you found it hard to stay positive. Quinn said you were in a funk, but you just felt downright depressed. Reliving your death had been hard on you and you were having a difficult time shaking all the negative thoughts and feelings that had risen since confronting it.

Now, you were sitting in the library where the reunion was being held and trying to find the energy to be excited for Wally.

Rhonda and Quinn were off to the side, talking about something you couldn't overhear. Charley was sitting on the stairs leading up to where the DJ booth had been set up while Wally flipped through records that had been left in a crate. You didn't know where Yuri or Maddie were, but you figured they would show up eventually.

You listened to the others talking, not really paying enough attention to discern what they were speaking about and even managed to bring up a reluctant smile hearing Wally sass Rhonda after mentioning something about a girdle.

"Oh, shit!" You heard Wally exclaim, abruptly forcing you out of your thoughts as he pulled a record out of the crate. "No way," he breathed as he brought up the record to show it off. "David Bowie. Y'all! We are so back," he said before he bounded up the stairs towards the turntable.

You met Rhonda's gaze and caught her rolling her eyes, but you noticed the hint of a smile on her lips. Even when she was annoyed with Wally, she couldn't quite resist his infectious enthusiasm.

Wally put the record on, letting Bowie's 'Let's Dance' fill the room. Wally's routine was something you had grown accustomed to over the years. Usually, you joined in, finding joy in Wally's excitement and letting yourself get easily roped in to the dance. But this time, you just weren't feeling it and that only made you feel worse.

Still, Wally tried, pointing at you and pretending to try to reel you in, but you stayed in your seat, refusing to move. You felt a pang of guilt when you noticed his obvious disappointment, but he turned towards Charley, silently respecting your wish to be left alone. It didn't take long before Charley was going through the moves Wally had coached you all through years before, a delighted grin on his face as he danced.

While Wally worked through his routine, you noticed the way his attention kept straying back to you. It was like he was checking in on you and the thought brought a slight smile to your lips. Even when he was having the time of his life, he was still worried about you.

You were content to sit at the table, your chin propped up on your hand while you watched him dance. You weren’t surprised that it was lifting your spirits to see Wally so in his element. You couldn't help but think that if he hadn't been thrown into football, then maybe he would have enjoyed being a theater kid.

You watched Rhonda and then Quinn join the dance. Rhonda never missed a step, but while Quinn was new to the routine, her eagerness to be part of the group more than made up for it.

Any sense of lingering despair was swept away when you watched the way Wally spun away from the group. He was still moving to the music, but he had deviated from his usual routine. He threw in a slide where he usually had a hip thrust and a shoulder shimmy where he would have moonwalked. He threw a smirk and a wink in your direction, and it was then you realized that this year Wally wasn't dancing for himself.

He was dancing for you.

That more than anything had you finally getting out of your seat. You caught the delighted grin on Wally's face before he reached a hand out towards you. You let yourself put your hand in his, letting out a surprised laugh when he immediately reeled you in only to spin you out again. He kept his grip on your hand tight, like he was worried you would try to leave, before he pulled you back towards him.

His lips met yours, the kiss turning desperate and intense within a moment. All you could do was hold on, your fingers digging into his shoulders, as Wally poured everything he had into the kiss.

It was fear and despair and joy and want. It swept you along with everything Wally had been trying to show you for days now.

It was love.

"Fuck," you gasped when you turned your head to the side to break the kiss.

You felt his smirk against the side of your face. "Later," he promised, hiding a kiss against the skin beneath your ear.

"That was awesome!" Quinn exclaimed, drawing your attention. "You do that every year?" She directed at Rhonda, a grin on her face.

"Every year," Rhonda drawled, shooting a look at Wally that was equal parts annoyed and fond.

"We should go again," Quinn decided, already bounding towards the DJ setup to restart the song.

“Quinn,” Rhonda groaned, following her like she was thinking about stopping her.

Later, you dressed up for Wally's big night and met him at the doors of the library.

"Damn," Wally sighed, looking you up and down. "How'd I get so lucky?"

You rolled your eyes, resisting the urge to tell him that if anyone was lucky, it was you. "Sap," you accused, because you didn't know how else to respond.

Wally grinned at you and held his arm out, letting you hook your hand around his elbow. "Before I forget," he said, reaching out to open the door. "We're playing wingman for Charley."

"Charley?" You asked, surprised that he was finally making his move. "Yuri?" You guessed, thinking of all the times Charley blushed around Yuri and how he couldn't keep his eyes off him.

"Yup," Wally answered, leading you into the library. "Promised not to let him embarrass himself. So, I might need your help running interference later."

"Got it," you agreed, offering him a tentative smile. Wally's dance and the promise of a date night had gone a long way towards lifting your mood, but you were still trying to shake the last vestiges of sadness that still clung to you.

Wally leaned over to press a kiss to your temple before he led you into the library.

You let Wally get you a glass of punch and watched him reunite with some of his former classmates. He looked so happy to be remembered by the class of '84 that you almost didn't realize anything was wrong at first. You had been in the middle of talking Charley up to Yuri, even though you were sure from the way Yuri looked at Charley that it was completely unnecessary.

It took you entirely too long to realize what the two guys were saying about Wally. Wally's crestfallen expression was enough to get you at his side. You also didn't miss the way Charley was carefully not looking at Wally.

"Look, it's alright," Charley told Wally when he tried to apologize. "It was forty years ago. You don't have to be sorry."

"But--" Wally started, before Yuri placed a hand on Charley's shoulder.

"How about a dance?" He asked, nodding towards the couples who had taken over the space in front of the stage. A slow song was playing and the couples were all swaying along to the melody.

"Okay, yeah, I'd love that," Charley answered, handing you his drink before letting Yuri lead him towards the dance floor.

Wally kept glancing at Charley and Yuri, as if he was worried something bad would happen. You knew that Wally had been a different person when he was alive. But the Wally you knew now wasn't anything like him. He had grown and started to accept that he didn't have to only see himself as the guy he was before he died. The fact he was obviously so torn up over his past actions was testament to that.

You were briefly distracted by Mr. Anderson showing up to wreak havoc on a reunion full of people who couldn't even see him. When you glanced back at Charley and Yuri, it was to see Charley putting distance between them.

You weren't sure why Charley looked so distressed, but when he pulled away from Yuri and walked away, you tried to find out what was wrong.

"Hey," you called, turning to look at Charley as he passed you. "What's wrong?"

"It's just...," he sighed before he shook his head and walked away. His jaw was clenched, and you noticed how tensed his shoulders were. Yuri looked just as lost as you felt when you glanced back at him.

Wally watched Charley leave the library. He looked worried, but he stayed rooted to the spot, even though it was obvious he wanted to go after him.

"Wally," you whispered, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

Wally turned to look at you. "Babe, I'm not like that anymore," he promised, gesturing towards the guys who were now commenting on the woman who was announcing something onstage. "I would never hurt Charley. I would never let anyone hurt him. I'd beat the shit out of them for laying a finger on him."

"I know," you assured him, letting your hand find his to hold onto. "Charley knows that too."

"But, I guess," Wally continued, glancing again at the guys who had brought up Wally's past. "I guess I was that guy. And that's how they remember me. I was no better than the people who hurt Charley."

"You've changed," you reminded him. "You're one of the best people I've ever met and that's for a reason, Wally."

Wally nodded his head, but he still looked like he was struggling with himself.

"Go find Charley," you urged him. "I think you two need to talk this out." You knew that Charley would need a friend now more than anything and Wally needed to prove to himself that he could be that friend.

Wally looked unsure and still didn't budge.

"It'll be fine," you promised him. "Trust me," you added, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

Wally nodded his head, offering you an unsure smile, before he left in search of Charley.

"You're good for him," Yuri observed.

You startled, glancing at him over your shoulder. "You're good for Charley," you shot back. "He just gets a little nervous. Give him time."

Yuri nodded his head, looking thoughtful. "I've got time," he assured you before taking Charley's drink back from you.

You watched Yuri take a sip of the drink. "You know if you ever hurt him, though, I'll kill you. Forget that, Wally will kill you."

It wasn't much of a threat when you were all already dead. But Charley was your friend and you would do anything for him. He deserved happiness and if Yuri was the one who could provide it for him, then you wanted to make sure it stuck.

"I know," Yuri claimed, "but he won't have to. I only want what's best for Charley."

"Good," you told him. "Keep it that way."

You were going to ask Yuri if he wanted to see how Wally and Charley were doing when your attention was caught by someone across the room. She was leaving the library, slipping out of the room with a quick look over her shoulder.

It took you a moment to recognize her, but when you did, you felt like the whole world had stopped. Suddenly, your hands were shaking and you felt like everything was collapsing around you. It had been years since you saw her, but you knew you would never forget that face.

You felt your mind race in several different directions as you found yourself rushing to follow her. Yuri called your name, but you ignored him. You didn’t know why she was here, but all you could think about was figuring out the reason. You wanted her out, gone, but there wasn’t much you could do about that now that you were dead.

As you left the library in pursuit of her, there were really only three questions you desperately needed answered on your mind.

Why the hell would she come back?

How could she show her face here after what she did?

And lastly, did she feel any remorse for killing you?

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school spirits wally clark wally clark x reader ao3 reader insert fic imagine wally clark x you wally clark imagine school spirits x reader school spirits imagine heaven or hell verse

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patrickispinky

1 year ago

gonna try shifting to harry potter tonight so i can meet fred wish me luck

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help harry potter good luck shifting reality shift shiftinconsciousness harry potter oc

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