idk but i feel like this could be a good fic song
(thx spotify for making my mix something called "obscure mix" lmao)
It's Criminal Minds day but these two have me by the neck so.
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She's humming Here Comes the Sun, stretching her naked torso up in the morning light. It reminds him of something, of sometime in his past when he was bouncing between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, and a teenage crisis of identity surrounded by bad choices of women and college life.
Not that he was sure who he was now, here in his seventies (when did that happen?) - Dave knew he probably leaned more towards The Beatles now, a quieter life with a slight mix of psychedelia only his day job could bring.
But her - Prentiss, Emily, whatever name he chose in the moment - made him feel a little more Mick Jagger and less Paul McCartney. She was ageing too, he knew, but it was almost like he couldn't see anyone in front of him but that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed woman in her thirties trying her hardest in a field even he found too hard, sometimes.
She was a standard, a heartbeat in a dark room; her smile brighter than the song she was currently filling the room with, her brain a marvel. They always found a way to fall together, to take chances on each other without pushing the envelope too far - but suddenly he wants to try to pull rather than push for once and see where this took them.
It wasn't about settling down - he'd done that, restlessly, technically four times - it wasn't about forgetting Krystall or marriage or building a home. It was about taking chances - something he knew he was always taking in brief breaths and long thoughts, because he was trained to be soberly extroverted with words and actively introspective with thoughts.
She made him want to tell her his misunderstoods, to let her profile him; to open up and let her hold him without a single word said against winter nights and open fires.
It was a pipe dream, a red tape bureaucratic nightmare, and he runs a finger down the bare skin of her back, eliciting a "hey!" and a smile that could light a room. To light his life, and he reaches for her - fuck the red tape - kissing her with touches of the unknown and a gusto he knows surprises her from her reaction.
"Dave?"
"Move in with me," and it's out before he can consider it a mistake, hanging in the air in such a way he can't play it off as a joke. There's a silence, a waiting, the wild chance she could take that he just took himself almost visible in the room; her face is one of confusion and a dropped mouth, and he finds himself waving his hands and blustering a bunch of words to try and cover up what must have been a momentous fuck up on his end. Then -
"Okay."
"What?"
She shrugged. "The brass will hate it, but I'm pretty sure the BAU boss doesn't care, she told me -" he laughs at this - "and I like your bed better than mine." Emily leans forward, her hair caping around her shoulders, and kisses him meaningfully. "Don't bitch about Sergio."
"An old cat and an old man. You ready for that life?"
Here Comes the Sun plays in the back of his mind as she smiles at him, wholly.
"Sign me up."
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Taemin's 'Guilty'. It's in my head, do what you like I double dare you
/proceeds to take the “loving you’s a crime” line literally
John doesn’t feel guilty about it.
It’s cognitive dissonance, maybe, but the only people he knows in the military who aren’t operating under some form of cognitive dissonance are the ones who are dumb enough to be scary, no matter where they fall in the chain of command.
So, no, John doesn’t feel particularly guilty about his personal violations of the Uniform Code, never has.
It’s just—things are different, with Rodney.
It’s more than John’s ever had, more than he knows what to do with, and the fact that he’s sure Rodney feels the same way is both comforting and frightening.
They fall into Rodney’s bed together, late nights after whatever latest life-threatening disaster, and John can feel it in the way Rodney holds onto him, hands big and hot on John’s hips, the desperate way he whimpers John’s name against his neck. It’s slow, except when it’s fast; rough, except when it’s gentle, but what it always is, from both of them, is grasping, taking hold of something they’re not supposed to have and clinging hard.
And then, every time, John has to leave before the sun comes up. Every time, he dresses in the darkness and watches Rodney’s back, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
He thinks about what it might be like to see Rodney when he wakes up, to see the sun stream in from the window and light the soft curve of his profile in gold. He thinks about sharing kisses, touches, coffee, about two toothbrushes and a drawer with some of his clothes in it.
He shoves his feet into his boots, checks the hallway with the life signs detector Rodney leaves out on his desk.
John doesn’t feel guilty, but he’s not sure what he does feel is any better.
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men should look disheveled and be on the ground more often
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@thebroodinginsomniac your TAGS
from FLORIDA
who wrote michaels backstory. who's job was it to come up with a backstory for the wraith they were experimenting on
was it carson? was he sitting there writing notes like "progress is going well, patients name will be Michael Kenmore, maybe make him military, retrovirus seems to have run full course"
did he have to walk up to someone and say "we need a backstory for the wraith"
was it a focus group? did the senior staff get together and brainstorm?
i need answers
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